The night was long, perhaps the longest that Azrael could remember. There was fire, flames, darkness, shouting, screams and heat. So much heat. At some point his actions became rote memory, repeating themselves over and over again, as he struggled to continue in the seemingly eternal hellish loop.

Over and over he raised and ripped earth from the ground, building the firebreak. Occasionally, when he had gathered enough mana he would try to summon water to douse larger blazes, errant field fires or the occasional house that had dried out in the heat and caught alight. Once he even had to douse a villager who’s clothes were burning.

His lips dried and cracked, the saliva in his mouth dried out, making it harder to breath. Elena visited him twice, bringing water. As relieved as he was to see her, they didn’t have time to talk. There were more pressing problems.

At some point villagers began to falter, collapsing in exhaustion. Some shed tears seeing their crops and houses burn. Others were too dehydrated to even shed tears, staring lost into the flames. Even James faltered, his sword’s aura flickering, faltering and finally falling away. He continued on, working side by side with dwarves to try and alleviate the areas where exhausted villagers fell away.

On and on they worked. On and on the night went. On and on they despaired. And amidst it all Azrael felt an endless anger well up. When dawn came, Azrael looked at the charred and smouldering remnants of the forest and village.

The forest was smouldering, the ground cover was burnt away leaving ash covered ground. The trees were black, thin streamers of smoke rising from cracks in the charcoal. Tongues of flame still snapped at the air, here and there, as if tasting for more food. Some patches of trees still stood covered in green gold foliage, saved from the fire by some miracle. In the far distance Azrael could see billows of grey smoke, where the grass fires on the plain still burnt.

He turned his gaze to the village, taking in the damage. The crops were as good as gone, the bullas had knocked down fences in their frenzy to escape the flames. Some houses had sustained damage, either from animals ramming into them in frenzy, or from errant fires started from drifting sparks. The air itself was heavy with smoke, the sky red with the first morning light. And in the center of it all, his statue stood alone and aloof, one hand pointing to the sky, the other to the village, as if to proclaim that this was heaven had allotted to them – that this destruction was its gift to them. In the background the waterfall roared its displeasure.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

Azrael listened to its roar, feeling it answer something inside of him, something that burned deep within himself, something that had slumbered and had awoken now anew, called forth by the destruction and fire. In the far distance Azrael heard a roar from the mountains. He felt his face twist into a grimace. He strode towards the village and a few weary face turning to look at him, their eyes dull and their faces covered in soot, dust and ash. These were people who had lost everything and then lost everything again. These were his people.

He took one shuddering breath – steadying himself – and pushed his own weary and dust covered body onto a topped stone wall, because despite everything that had happened he saw these people still held onto something – hope. Hope in him. Hope in their Lord. It hurt. He felt he had done nothing for them, nothing to deserve this amount of trust in him. Perhaps it was time he started.

“People. MY PEOPLE!!”

A few heads turned.

“Tonight was long.” He paused, looking at the faces of the gathering crowd “We have lost much. Our village lies broken, our fields and forest burnt. Many of you came here with nothing. Many of you have already lost much before coming here. And once again the heavens have sought to rob you.”

Most of the village had gathered by now, dusty, tired, dehydrated and broken. Some were held by other, some supported each other. Others sat on the ground, too tired to even stand. Many eyes were blank, but in a few Azrael saw hope and in some he saw blossoming sparks of anger.

“All of you came here in the hopes of escape, of freedom, of safety. Others may claim that it is because you were weak, that you were running from the past.” He paused, watching eyes widen in realisation, turn to shame and then blaze with anger.

“But last night you have proven that you are not afraid! That you are not weak! Each and everyone of you have fought for your village against an unslayable foe. And! Against all odds – you have prevailed. This village stands, here and now, because of you! Because of your efforts, because of your friends’, your neighbours’.”

Azrael watched anger fade to pride. Heads lifted, blank faces had the corners of their mouths uplifted and eyes no longer blankly stared at the ground.

“WE will rebuild this village! Because it is our village! It is the village of survivors, of warriors. Beyond the plains they will spread stories. ‘Did you hear about that village?’ They will say. ‘What village?’ another might ask. ‘The village that fought against a dragon’s flames and SURVIVED!!!”

There was a loud cheer, from the crowd. Hope and pride shone from dusty faces in full force. Azrael smiled, watching a new life breath into the hearts of the villagers. They had direction again, a will. Now it was time for him to play his part, both as a player and a Lord.

“BUT” people stilled “As your Lord, I cannot allow this to happen again. So long as the dragon lives, we will live in its shadow – in fear that it will once again take what we have worked for.”

People stilled, mid jubilation.

“So…” Azrael smiled mirthlessly “I will SLAY THE DRAGON!!!”

The cheering redoubled, James’ roar drowning out all other.