Prologue 1-3 Matthias
The world was a haze of muddy memories; the flickering images and moments impressed themselves on his mind as quickly as they left. He was warm and wet, like resting in a soothing bath after a long day. He sat swaddled and immobile near a roaring fireplace, or was it a sun? He drank the heat in deeply, feeling the warmth spread through him as it became a part of his flesh, as it congealed into a fire in his core, a second heart that crackled and boiled like a star. All the while the source of heat sang to him in a motherly voice of a deep and powerful sort, a voice that might be spoken by a mountain or the land itself, mighty, old, and enduring.
“We are the people of ancient days from when the world was warmer and young.
We remember the cold, dark years when snow clouds swallowed the sun.
We are the people of ancient days, the children of the five-headed queen.
Through strength, and cunning, and ruthlessness, our kind will reign supreme.”
The voice was joined by many more subtle ones; these ones told stories as he slumbered; they shared with him memories of hunting and stalking, knowledge of tongues, sorcery, and accounts of history orated to the listener by those who had lived and seen it themselves and further still into antiquity.
They hummed to him promises that he would grow vast and mighty; they promised that the big voice would protect him, that he could find shelter in its wings for a time until he was fully formed and ready to face the world.
Neither knew fate had other plans.
Prologue. 2-3 Helena
Helena Walker was dead; she was a dead woman walking. The wrathful Red roared far behind, spurring her to sprint harder; she was exhausted, her mind's reservoir was drained of magic, the gash on her side dripping down her robes and painting a thin trail of crimson droplets behind her as they ran the corridors and tunnels of the dead city.
It should have killed her; tears threatened to take her then. That swipe from the red bitch was meant to kill her; she was only alive because Bjorn had tackled her and got pinned instead. Her mind drifted to the terror of that moment; she hadn’t even tried to help him; she didn’t even look as she heard flesh tearing and blood splattering against hard stone like rain.
A coward. She was a coward. She had left her friend to die. She kept running, her footfalls growing sloppier and her grip on the stolen egg becoming more strained as Bernard ran close behind with Bjorn’s enchanted sword in hand.
We should have never taken this job; damn the duke, DAMN THE POMPOUS BASTARD!
She remembered his offer well enough, “Enough riches to live comfortably and study to your heart's content” he had said, his voice oozing with the slipperiness all nobles seemed to exude. “A paid scholarship to the college of your choice” he had promised, beady eyes glittering greedily, “All I ask is the egg of Narangerel brought before me, and it's yours.” He had made similar offers to her friends, but she couldn't remember them; the thought of such wealth enraptured her and muddied her mind that cursed day.
She agreed to the task then, along with her friends, and they traveled to the old fortress under the mountain and had gotten to the egg without detection, but then it had all gone wrong. Now Bjorn was dead, Harald and Merida hadn't been heard from since they tried to distract the dragon, her spellbook was lost in the dragon's hoard, and they were going to die; none of them would get to enjoy their rewards.
Her thoughts were interrupted by hot air rushing by from the tunnel behind them, its brutal heat growing with every step as the tunnel behind them grew bright. Suddenly Bjorn's sword clattered to the ground, and Bernard grabbed her. He threw his cloak over the both of them and their stolen cargo. He pulled her close to the tiled floor of the hallway and all but screamed the incantation to a defensive spell as blinding dragonfire washed through the tunnel. The flames were repulsed and weakened by the protective magic for only a few seconds before burning through and biting at their flesh and clothes, but it was enough to prevent their demise. The Red’s thundering voice followed soon after with sulfurous, bone-shaking words mangled indecipherably by hate and fury.
Her ears rang painfully from the red bitch’s cataclysmic voice, her mouth tasted iron, and her nose was choked with the scent of sulfur and burnt fabric. Bernard picked up the sword and helped Helena to her feet, his arm laid across her shoulders, and he beckoned her onward; they leaned on each other for balance and kept going. She could hardly recognize the handsome ranger; one eye was burned shut, and his once-tanned face was blackened, and what little remained of his brown, shaggy hair clung on in sparse patches clumped by blood.
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“We’re almost there.” he said, his voice a dry croak, “Just a little further and you can use that scroll of yours.”, Her throat tightened and her eyes watered then, “I—I don't know if I can. I'm only at the fifth circle; the scroll is one of the seventh, and”
“We'll make it work Hellena.” His rough voice interrupted the oncoming lecture. “We aren’t making it out of here any other way” He paused for a moment and spoke again, his hollow voice cracking with anger and grief. “We have to. For their sake, if nothing else.” He stood a little straighter then; a shadow crossed his now one-eyed expression and faded as soon as it came.
—-
They hobbled out of one of the dead city’s many doors and felt the mountain shake behind them; the thunderous noise of something smashing through an entrance too small came from further up the mountain, followed by a sound like sails suddenly catching a strong wind, both heralding the approaching dragon.
Bernard gently took the egg from Helena and set it upon the ground. “Stick to the plan. I'll keep her occupied; don’t listen to me or the lizard.” He breathed deeply as he held Bjorn’s blade above the egg, ready to stab and kill its occupant. Helena fished the scroll from its protective case before unfurling the old parchment and poring over its contents reverently.
Narangerel landed then, her scales the color of a bloody sunset, her eyes an orange-yellow like burning coals, the edges of her wings and frills an iridescent faint blue, like hot steel, and her horns were black like basalt. Her breath washed over them, smelling of charcoal, sulfur, and wildfire, and her steps were felt more than heard.
The beast before them was a grown red dragon, an angry one; her orange eyes burned with hate, and her muzzle contorted in a snarl, yet there was an air of fear or worry about her. She didn’t come any closer with Bernard standing over her only egg, sword raised and ready to kill her unborn hatchling.
The seconds held their breath as neither party moved. Narangerel broke the silence then, her voice like a far-off eruption and boiling water hissing on hot stone.
“Thieves.” She hissed, tail lashing, “Vermin. You have taken what is mine; return my offspring to me, and I will kill you quickly. I will offer this generosity to you only once.” Bernard stood resolute, an anger Helena had never seen in the man chiseled itself on what remained of his face. “Beg,” he said softly.
A confused expression crossed the dragon's face before it shifted to amusement. “Beg?” she cooed smoothly, slightly smiling, “Why would I beg to a—” Bernard brought the sword lower and scratched the surface of the egg. “BEG!” he cried out with his damaged voice.
Narangerel seemed unsettled; the demand alone was strange, but the fervor Bernard demanded it with made the dragon bristle in an offended manner.
Narangerel paused then and tasted the air. “You!” she gasped as Bernard grinned maniacally, his burned flesh cracked in places and his good eye filled with blood. “You made me beg.” SEVEN YEARS AGO YOU MADE ME BEG!” he shouted, blood mixing with spittle with each passing word.
The dragon then looked increasingly disturbed, reaching her forepaws and retracting, pacing several dozen yards away. Bernard hacked and coughed before he continued, softer this time, his voice pained from the exertion, “You tore their limbs. You ate them slowly, still screaming, demanding I beg; you laughed when I bloodied my hands against your hide; you laughed when you left me with no bodies to bury. You grinned as I wept while you set my home ablaze when I could weep no more, and when I asked that you kill me too, so that I might be united with them in death, you left me alone in the snow and ash.”
“But now the tables turn! Beg worm! Beg and pray I’ll spare your family even after you consumed mine.”
Helena struggled to keep focus. Bernard was never one to share his story, and of course the idiot had to start now. In hindsight, it was no surprise that he was the first of them to agree to the quest. She wrestled with the formula for the teleport spell; it had been frayed by her inattentiveness and now was likely to experience complications. There wasn’t any time to go over it again; it would have to do.
As Helena started reciting the incantation Narangerel’s spines shot up, and her wings swept outwards to grab the air and launch herself towards them.
“HELENA NOW!” Bernard shouted as Narangerel shot forward, but the two vanished with a thunderclap, leaving only a misty afterimage slipping through her claws and escaping with their plunder.
—--
Snarling with rage as flame licked her jaws and smoke rose from between her scales, the dragon slammed into the now vacant space and screamed a thunderous torrent of flame until the stone she stood on cracked and glowed. Her rage was not yet sated; she turned and leapt into the wind, catching it in her wings and riding it into the air, Andorel Keep was firmly set as the center of her rage now; she cared little that a mated pair of Silvers frequented the area; Andorel would burn, and she would dig her egg from that mewling Duke's ashes.
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Prologue 3-3 Nero
Duke Nero II played his Stradivarius in a safe house; his plan had taken a long time and four teams of dumb, dead mercenaries calling themselves “adventurers,” and it couldn't have happened at a better time. He had already received word that the adventurers had successfully removed the egg and angered Narangerel into a warpath; surely it could have gone better, though; those adventurers disappointed his executioner greatly when none of them showed up to take their reward; Nero assumed then that they had perished of their wounds after escaping the dragon.
Good. One less loose end to deal with.
He was unconcerned about the egg; it was never a goal to associate with dragon hatchlings, much less disagreeable Reds. If it was found, he would likely gift it to his court wizard; gods know the man had earned it.
He played his stradivarius in a somber tune for the destruction to follow, significant swaths of Andorel would burn, their position in the mountain valleys of Andor isolated them from other kingdoms trying to swoop in, and the naive pair of silver dragons, yes those who thought they could trick him to believe they were runaways from feuding houses, running from a land that didn’t exist, they would be roused to protect as their instinct demanded, and to protect for the sake of their little one who could barely keep up the human disguise Silvers were so fond of, and when Narangerel died from the two Silver dragons and the ballistas on his keep, he didn't need to be an oracle to predict the outcome.
“Two hundred and sixty-seven years of hoarded wealth straight into my coffers.” He giggled to himself, playing a series of cheery notes.
It was enough to rebuild and expand, and with the dragon threat gone, it was enough to buy mercenaries in spades, enough to crush the neighboring lands and fiefdoms and make his legacy.
And like an echo across time, Nero played as a city burned.