Bhorovane flew in languid circles just above Castrum Ustarius, eyes scanning the ground for a landing spot. Normally he would just use fire to clear the trees in his way, but he had faced criticism before for his pugnacious behavior and tendency to frighten his supposed allies and he wasn’t in any mood that night to receive a scolding.
When he looped around again, a sudden hailstorm thundered into existence, pelting his red scales with ice. His senses tingled. This was no ordinary storm, he knew, it must be one of them. He snorted black smoke, nettled by the presence of the demon. So barely in control of their power, it was miraculous that they could conceal themselves from the lesser beings as they did.
Bhorovane’s suspicions were confirmed when he spotted a dark mist fleeing into the skies. So the experiment with Lucretia had indeed failed, but why had the creature vacated its vessel? Without a tether, it was dooming itself to being swept away back into the Abyss. Perhaps it had sensed him and decided to cut its losses by returning home at full strength instead of having the bulk of its energy eaten. They weren’t particularly noted for using foresight or making wise decisions, though.
As Bhorovane debated his options, a flash of light pierced the clouds and pursued the shadowy mist into the storm. An intense rage gripped him, erasing all other thoughts from his mind.
Upstart!
Whelp!
Zmaj!
The demon’s oppressive magic dissipated and the sky cleared. So the creature has robbed him of his meal after all. Fire welled up in Bhorovane’s stomach and churned into his throat. He breathed out a jet of flame just as the zmaj vanished back into the depths of the castrum, but it did nothing to vent his rage. Whether through incompetence or outright treachery, the Irkallu had allowed a thrice-damned zmaj right into their midst. Whichever sin they were guilty of, it made no difference—heads would roll and, by all the gods, Bhorovane would be the one to set them rolling.
All attempts at decorum forgotten, Bhorovane folded his wings and dived. Even in free-fall he felt his patience fraying. Rage built within him, boiling over into insensate fury. Memories of past injustices, left to fester for far too long, strangled out what was left of his sense, driving him downward toward the castle. Nothing would stop him from removing this threat, this rival.
He crashed down on the ramparts, shaking the ruined castrum like an earthquake. His tail collided with one of the guard towers and the ancient stone crumbled under the force of the impact. As he smashed the parapet under his talons, he watched in satisfaction as Irkallu agents fled like ants scattering from a burning log. Their terror excited him. It was a thrill he had been too long denied.
“Alistair! Face me you cowering worm! Answer for your treachery!” he bellowed, and the very earth seemed to shake from his voice. The skin under his scales glowed white hot, flames seeping between his fangs and licking up the sides of his lips, and he bathed Castrum Ustarius in dragonfire.
*
*
Alistair was at his desk when he heard the news that the guards posted at the records room had had an unusual encounter that night. There was only one possibility in his mind—the Ordo Draconis must have discovered their location. He ordered an agent to check on Lucretia immediately. The door of his chamber had barely clicked shut when an ear-piercing shriek split the night air. Alistair sucked in a breath and rose swiftly to his feet, a mixture of dread and anger creating a bitter taste in his mouth. An impact shook the building to its very core and Alistair pitched forward with a curse. Bhorovane! The damned dragon was going to destroy everything he had worked for. Hurriedly tying his sword belt around his hip, he surveyed the damage from the tower window.
Bhorovane rampaged through the inner circle, rending open the stone walls as easily as a knife through parchment. Alistair had witnessed Bhorovane in the throes of wanton destruction before and this wasn’t it. He moved with purpose, as if he were searching for something. But what? He should know that they were going to simply hand Lucretia over to him—Alistair paused.
Lucretia.
He was now more certain than ever that something had happened to Lucretia. What that something was and how damaging it would be to his operation remained to be seen.
Alistair stormed down the staircase, yelling orders to panicked agents as he passed them by. He was relieved when he came across Gorza. The orc priestess was immediately at his side.
“Any word on Lucretia?”
“No,” Gorza said quickly, “the caverns are collapsing. We don’t even know if she survived the cave-in.”
“Damn it all! And Hester?”
“She wasn’t in her chamber.”
Alistair cursed under his breath. He pushed through his fleeing agents and emerged into the central keep. Everything that could burn, was burning. Embers hissed angrily among molten cobblestones as dark smoke billowed into the air. Cloaked in the smog was a hulking shadow. Alistair swallowed. He had forgotten how massive Bhorovane was.
The dragon was coated in fine crimson scales. Their pattern was interrupted in dozens of places by scars, breaks, slashes, and old burns. His mane was long and scraggly, tangled in knots and frayed from damage. Black horns emerged from his head, the tips gleaming in orange firelight.
As Bhorovane fixed Alistair with his gaze, they both froze. Alistair’s heart pounded. The pure instinct of a small creature facing a mighty predator threatened to overwhelm him. Bhorovane knew this—relished it—and kept his glittering eyes trained on Alistair. There would be no relief from their piercing glare.
Alistair spoke, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “What is the meaning of this, Lord Bhorovane?”
The dragon sneered, revealing ranks of fangs—some razor sharp, some horrifically broken. “Where is it? Where is that little sneak-thief?”
“I don’t know whom you speak of, Lord.”
Bhorovane snarled, darting his head forward as quick as lightning. Alistair didn’t so much as flinch as Bhorovane’s great snout stopped close enough for him to feel the heat of his breath and smell its foul order. “You let a zmaj into your very keep,” the dragon said. “I saw it.”
Alistair took a deep breath to fight down the adrenaline surging through his body. A zmaj? Anger mixed with fear. He flexed his fists, careful to keep his emotions hidden. He couldn’t afford to look weak, not in front of his men and not in front of this dragon. “I didn’t let anyone in.”
“Then your sin is incompetence and idiocy! Every bit as dangerous as treachery.” Bhorovane reared back, his lips curling to reveal every one of his ragged teeth. He inhaled deeply, his chest glowed. Alistair placed a hand on the pommel of his sword.
An abrupt sound, like a great tree snapping, echoed into the night as a huge trap door opened up beneath Bhorovane. The dragon thrashed in confusion as the ground swallowed him in a cloud of dust and smoke. Alistair turned his head to see Gorza still holding on to the lever that had released the trap. She breathed heavily, having put all her strength into pulling down the rusted, nearly inoperable mechanism.
Spring-loaded chains shot out from the walls, locking around Bhorovane’s body, his neck, his ankles, even his tail. Though they were rusted and pitted with time, the magic forged into the metal was still strong. Bhorovane had fallen into a two thousand year old trap that the ancient Aurelians who had built Castrum Ustarius had set for his ancestors.
Alistair didn’t know if it was going to be enough to hold the dragon, but he hoped that it would at least buy him some time. He and Gorza raced back into the castrum and down the stairs to the dungeon level where the dragon was being held. A gust of hot, dusty wind billowed back Alistair’s cloak and stung his face. The scene was utter chaos. Bhorovane raged against his bindings, roaring in fury and bathing the stones of his prison in roiling flames. Irkallu took cover behind whatever they could find; the lucky ones managed to escape through open doorways when the dragon’s back was turned. Jezzail, who was taking shelter behind a shard of fallen wall, saw Alistair and struggled to her feet.
“I can’t get close enough,” she rasped. “I only need one shot.”
“Be ready then,” Alistair ordered. He stepped out into the ruins of the inner castrum, now open to the stars and moon above. “Bhorovane!” he shouted. The dragon whipped his head around, fixating on Alistair, bloodthirsty hatred pulsating in his glowing ember eyes. Just this would be enough to strike a lesser man down, but Alistair was unwavering. “This has gone too far. Stop this at once!”
Bhorovane bared his fangs. The gall of this human. This puny, insignificant creature. He could crush him beneath one foot, swallow him in one bite, burn him to ashes on a whim. How dare he give him orders? He wanted nothing more than to claw his way out of the pit and crush Alistair between his jaws, but chains constricted his flesh whenever he tried to move his legs. Flames welled up in his throat, glowing bright orange and yellow, and he unleashed a blast of fire.
The air between Alistair and Bhorovane sparkled, then twisted and warped. The dragonfire collided with the vortex and exited a different tear in reality, shooting harmlessly into the sky. Hester stood silently amidst the burning ruins, focusing on her arcane symbols, her black and red robe fluttering against her tall, thin frame. She drew another symbol and reality shifted again, bending the space around her into a dizzying fractal.
With Hester acting as a diversion, Alistair unsheathed his sword and held it at attention. It coursed with Abyssal energy like fell lightning that crackled down into his arms. He relished the flow of power through his body and focused his attention on how best to direct his god’s might.
Then something happened that not even Alistair could have anticipated.
A sabercat, the kind one would see on the faraway plains of Acathia, burst forth into the yard. The beast was gigantic, the biggest such cat Alistair had ever seen, but even more surprising was the fact that it carried two riders on its back. One was an elven wizard and the other appeared to be a child. The wizard held the child steady, but her head lolled, her white hair streaming down from beneath a tattered hood. Alistair’s eyes widened. The zmaj! So it was true!
Suddenly everything that had happened in the past few minutes clicked into place. The Ordo Draconis had found the child and sent her to kill Lucretia’s demon. Alistair grinded his teeth. The old Ordo crone had outwitted him and now between her and Bhorovane’s tantrum, all of the ground he had gained in Aurelia over the past year was slipping through his fingers. As much as it pained him to admit, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t possibly focus on capturing the zmaj child now, not when Bhorovane was set to kill them all, and with her under Anya and the Ordo’s watch, he would need to regroup and rethink his strategy.
Alistair and the elven wizard made eye contact as they passed by, so close to one another that they could make out each other’s features. A lycaeon and a man, the latter bogged down in chainmail and a heavy pack, followed. So these were the people who had brought this ruination upon him. Alistair tensed as he allowed them to go. There was no other choice. He needed the zmaj alive. The Master of Hounds, who also sought out the girl, was more demon than Irkallu at this point. If he found her, he wouldn’t be able to resist killing her. But if she knew where the other zmaj were hiding, then her capture would allow Alistair to prove himself the more worthy servant to their mutual master.
Yet Alistair was not the only one who had noticed the zmaj’s presence. Bhorovane’s nostrils flared as he picked up the tantalizing scent.
“There you are, you little whelp!” he growled. Wheeling his great head around, he craned his neck forward to snatch up his prize.
“Jo!” the man in chainmail cried, breathless with fear and exhaustion. The sabercat and the elf turned to see Bhorovane’s open jaws nearly upon them.
“Jezzail!” Alistair commanded sharply. “Now!”
A brilliant flash of green smoke exploded against the side of Bhorovane’s face, halting his assault. He reared back with a snarl, shaking his head from the acidic sting. Jezzail, supported by Gorza, lobbed another bomb then shattered a small vial on the ground. A smokescreen hissed to life, cloaking her and Gorza and the sabercat riders. Seizing the opportunity, the sabercat disappeared through a molten hole in the wall, her companions following at her heels.
With sight in one eye obscured by acid and the battlefield quickly becoming consumed in smoke, Bhorovane was growing increasingly angry. He inhaled, his neck and chest glowing, and let loose another blast of dragonfire. Hester warped reality again but by the time she caught on to Bhorovane’s feint, his jaws were already closing in around her. He could feel the hem of her robes brushing past his lips and anticipated the warm, wet squelch of her life extinguishing on his fangs, but that satisfaction would never come.
Spindly hands reached out from the Abyss and grabbed Bhorovane’s shadow, paralyzing the dragon midstrike. Alistair smiled triumphantly, straining to channel all of his faith and power into holding Bhorovane captive. Using the last of his strength, he spun his sword around and drove it into the dragon’s shadow. Bhorovane’s head slammed down, his jaws rattling, as if some invisible force were holding him from above. Unable to move the rest of his body, he let out one last, defiant blast of fire, tearing through a wall of the castrum. The strangling grip of the abyssal hands only tightened in response.
Now it was Alistair’s turn to fix Bhorovane with his gaze. The dragon breathed heavily under the weight of the abyssal hands, his face twisted in anger. Yet now there was something more, Alistair was sure of it. Could it be revulsion? Humiliation?
Perhaps even fear?
Seizing the opportunity, Jezzail cracked a clay bomb under Bhorovane’s nose. He inhaled the fumes helplessly, his vision blurring with each breath. A sleeping draught. It might dull his rage for a time but he was a dragon who held centuries long grudges and he would not soon forget this mistreatment.
Bhorovane blinked. The ruins of Castrum Ustarius were just shadows dancing in the starlight now. Or were those the embers from the fires he had started? His eyes closed and he entered a dreamless sleep.
*
*
Sakrattars’ heart pounded, the chilling look on the face of the one called Alistair seared into his memory. He knew that they only escaped the encounter alive because Alistair had willed it. Something about the man shook Sakrattars deep to his core, scaring him even more than the dragon had. He clutched Kaja closer to his chest and tightened his grip on Jo’s fur.
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Behind them, they could still hear the battle raging—the roars of the dragon punctuated by unsettling noises that could only be the casting of spells. Jo dove through a collapsed wall into the outer castrum, bounding through the narrow corridor. The partially burned and crushed bodies of Irkallu agents lined the passage, briefly visible between clouds of dust and smoke. Sakrattars heaved at the sight. He was thankful that Kaja was unconscious for it.
Behind them, Amale slowed his pace, offering the struggling Leif a supportive paw. Leif gasped for air, a combination of his armor, the smoke, and his own panic weighing him down. Jo paused, waiting for them to catch up.
“Go! Go!” Leif yelled hoarsely, waving them forward.
Jo hesitated. They were almost out. If they could just find their way to the gates, they would be able to vanish into the surrounding hills. If they got separated, the chances of everyone making it out diminished. She deliberated for the briefest of moments when a deafening shriek froze her heart.
A screen of flames, rubble, and smoke erupted through the wall, swallowing Amale and Leif faster than anyone could react.
Sakrattars willed himself to want to jump down and plow heroically through the crumbled ruins to pull them to safety but, to his shame, he was far too afraid. In the face of certain death, he was only concerned with saving his own life. “We need to go!” he cried, desperately grasping at reasons to run. “We need to get Kaja out of here!” Jo’s ears twitched at that and she spun around after another moment’s hesitation, leaving Leif and Amale behind.
Just as Sakrattars thought they would succumb to the suffocating air, they reached the gates. The rolling hills teemed with confused and injured Irkallu agents. Fortunately, they were too concerned with their own survival to notice or care about the companions. Even still, Jo didn’t stop running until they were hidden in a grove of dark trees.
Sakrattars slid off Jo’s back, carrying Kaja’s small body in his arms. He never noticed how thin and light she was. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful. If it weren’t for all the soot and dust covering her, she would look like a child in a deep, tranquil sleep. He fought back tears as he laid her down on the grass.
She had saved him from the shadow creature. She had saved all of them. When the dragon struck, Kaja used her magic to break the fall of the rubble with a protective wall of ice. The strain had been too much for her though and she collapsed, but not before they were able to get away. Sakrattars felt a light breath pass through her parted lips and the tears began to flow freely down his cheeks.
“She’s alive,” he confirmed. Jo bowed her head, her shoulders relaxing. They both glanced back at the castrum. It was eerily quiet. Had the Irkallu succeeded at quelling the raging dragon? Jo looked meaningfully at Sakrattars. He didn’t need words to understand what she wanted to do: she was going back to look for Leif and Amale.
A familiar, gruff voice stopped her.
“We’re here.” Amale emerged limping from the shadows, Leif supporting him with an arm around his shoulders. Jo rushed forward, her transformation hardly breaking her stride, and scooped them both up in a relieved embrace.
Sakrattars almost laughed in disbelief, his head spinning. “We all made it.”
“The dragon made an exit for us,” Leif said, turning over his palms. His gloves were scorched and ragged and the skin underneath bright red. Then he noticed that Amale’s legs were shaking. His paw pads were burned so badly from walking on hot embers that just the act of standing sent waves of pain shooting up his spine. Leif forced a smile. “Christina will have her hands full with us, eh, old friend?”
Before Amale could answer, several riders on horseback broke over the ridge wearing the familiar navy blue of the Ordo Draconis, Linnea among them. Once she spotted the companions, she wheeled her horse around.
“There you are,” she said. “I’m glad to find you safe.”
Jo, dressed only in a loin cloth and an undershirt, saw red. She grabbed Linnea off of her shying horse and slammed her up against a tree. Two agents unsheathed their weapons but Linnea signaled them to back down.
“You knew!” Jo snarled, pressing on Linnea’s chest harder. “You knew that Lucretia couldn’t be saved.”
Linnea winced but didn’t defend herself.
“‘Can’t spare the agents?’ ‘Kaja is safest with us?’” Jo continued, her eyes flashing dangerously. “You made us do your dirty work and to the Abyss with us if we died while doing it!” She slammed Linnea back again.
“Jo.” Sakrattars placed a hand on her arm. “That’s enough.” Jo grunted, waited a moment longer, then released Linnea, who fell to the ground with a thud.
“I had—I had my doubts,” Linnea wheezed. “That’s why I came here.”
“We agreed to a rescue, not an execution. We were almost killed! And for what?”
“The Grandmistress can explain—”
“Oh, she will,” Jo said. “She better.”
*
*
When Bhorovane awoke, the first kiss of sunrise had just graced the dark horizon and Castrum Ustarius lay as abandoned as it had been for the last one thousand years. The magic in the ancient chains had finally given out and he was able to tear through them like they were made of twine. He looked around. The damned Irkallu had been thorough, even the bodies of their dead hadn’t been left behind.
He spread his great wings and leapt into the air, banking himself toward the west and placing the rising sun at his back. For the first time that night, Bhorovane realized the situation he was in. No Lucretia, no demon, no Irkallu, and no zmaj.
His Master was not going to be pleased.
*
*
Jo ripped a banner down as she marched into the Grandmistress’s private hall, followed closely by her companions as well as Linnea. Grandmistress Anya was standing alone at the far side of the room, her gnarled hands clasped gently behind her. Though she must have heard Jo’s raucous entry, still she stared at a large, golden egg-shaped statue as if lost in thought.
“You!” Jo’s voice echoed through the hollow room, reverberating off of the high stone arches.
The Grandmistress turned to face her guests. “Aren’t you going to hear my explanation?” she asked.
Jo retaliated in her native natiuhan. Sakrattars knew enough of the language to recognize that what she said was extremely rude. “Hear why you almost had us killed for a lie?” Jo flexed her fist, adjusting her grip on her cestus. “Tell me instead why I shouldn’t strike you down where you stand.” Linnea lunged forward at this, blocking Jo’s path. Both braced to attack.
“That is quite enough!” Anya boomed, her voice unusually deep and unnaturally loud. Her shape grew and changed before their eyes, her limbs becoming long and thick, her neck extending out from her enlarging chest. A golden tail as wide as Jo’s torso slammed down, stopping her in her tracks. Jo fought the urge to flee with every fiber of her being as a gigantic dragon’s head snaked forward.
“You’re one of them too,” she said, a wry smile parting her trembling lips.
“I am.” Anya craned her head towards Kaja. Kaja stared awestruck into Anya’s dark red eyes. “I’m sorry, little one. I see now that we should have had this conversation earlier. Still, will you listen to what I have to tell you?”
Kaja, frozen in place, nodded slowly. She didn’t fear Anya the way she had feared Bhorovane but being in the presence of a great dragon was overwhelming all the same.
“It is the Ordo’s sworn duty to protect the Empire from its many enemies,” Anya started. “We operate out of sight, in the shadows, and it is there we found the Irkallu.
“The Irkallu claim to be following the will of a god they call Norsivex. They say he is a god of justice, one who has passed judgment on the world and deemed it wicked.
“There’s much we still do not fully understand, but we do know that they are in league with malevolent entities. Those who exist outside our physical realm—what you may call ‘demons’. The Irkallu who prove themselves worthy are chosen to be vessels for these demons and become the so-called Fallen. These dark entities are immortal. We can slay the Fallen but the demon returns to the Abyss to await their next chance to breach into our world.”
“But a zmaj can kill them,” Sakrattars said quietly. The pieces were falling into place.
Anya nodded. “Not just kill them. Destroy them. Forever. You know that now too don’t you, little one?”
Kaja swallowed nervously. “Yes, I. . . I killed it.”
The companions exchanged glances. Kaja hadn’t told them any details about what had happened while she was unconscious; they knew only that the demon had fled after she shielded Sakrattars from its attack.
“Your kind continues to amaze me,” Anya said. “In the stories, zmaj are our protectors—those who fight against the demons that thrive on our suffering and threaten our world. But it’s for this reason that the Irkallu are hunting you, are hunting your people. You’re the only ones who can stand in their way.”
“Do you know where my people are?” Kaja asked.
Anya shook her head. “I hoped that you would be able to tell us that, so that we could join forces. If the zmaj unite, the demons will fall and the Irkallu will perish.”
Kaja’s eyes went wide. “We can do that?”
“Yes, little one,” Anya said with a good-natured chuff. “Zmaj and dragons share a deep and powerful connection. It is my hope that we can be friends and allies once more.”
“The dragon at Castrum Ustarius didn’t seem to think they shared a ‘deep and powerful connection’,” Jo said, crossing her arms.
Anya looked to Linnea for an explanation. “Bhorovane, Grandmistress,” she said.
Anya’s expression became grave. “Bhorovane and his ilk have fallen far from where we once were. We are supposed to be guardians of this world, its greatest defenders, and perhaps in their own twisted way they still believe they are fulfilling their duty. But they have become consumed by hatred, arrogance, and fear—so much so, they have actually found common cause with these demons and their Irkallu allies.”
“But why couldn’t you have come with us?” Jo said, her anger returning. “You could have faced Bhorovane as Kaja faced the demon. Why did you let us—let her—do it alone?”
Anya closed her eyes. “Look at me,” she said. Long, jagged scars ran the length of her body, her teeth and claws were blunt from age, and her gold scales lacked luster. She moved slowly and deliberately, as if it pained her. “My fighting days ended centuries ago. Bhorovane would have killed me and then what would happen? The Ordo would be without their leader and the Emperor without his advisor. No, we all have our parts to play and my place now is here in Aurea, as it was my mother’s before me.” Anya looked wistfully at the Imperial banner, at the gold dragon emblem that was the symbol of the Aurean Empire. “That design is meant to represent my mother, who was present at the foundation. It was she who advised the first Emperor, Ignatius I, after his election and it was I who patrolled the skies.”
She turned to the dais and gently nuzzled the golden egg. “Had my daughter been born when she was meant to,” she said, “she would be strong enough now to stand up against our enemies. She would be the Empire’s shining champion. The Irkallu wouldn’t dare settle in Aurelia, knowing that she could rain fire down upon them.”
In the wonder of meeting the first dragon who wasn’t actively trying to kill him, Sakrattars had not thought of Anya as threatening. But seeing the menacing look in her eyes now, he was reminded that, for as elderly and kind as she appeared to be, she was still a dragon and she had not gotten all of her scars attending meetings and filing paperwork. Like most Imperials, he always believed that the dragons of Aurelia died out long ago and that was why, while distant lands like Stjornugaard or Akalia were plagued by them, Aurelia remained safe. But now he knew the truth: Aurelia was Anya’s territory and she had defended it fiercely. It was only now in her old age that younger, fitter dragons like Bhorovane felt emboldened to encroach on it.
Jo looked at the egg and her face softened. “I’m sorry you lost her,” she murmured. She was still angry at Anya but her sympathy was genuine.
“It happened so long ago,” Anya sighed heavily. “An Irkallu operative infiltrated the nesting chamber and got to her before we could. By the time I arrived, her egg had gone cold. I tried everything to get her back, but whatever spell they cast refuses to let her go. She exists like this now: neither living nor dead.”
Jo clenched a fist. No one deserved such a fate, to be forever out of Melcuni’s reach. Was there no low that the Irkallu wouldn’t strive for? But any scathing words she had were immediately swallowed up by a gentle movement in the corner of her eye.
Kaja approached the dais. She climbed the steps and kneeled on the cushions. If anyone thought they should stop her, no one acted on it. Perhaps they could sense that something beyond their understanding was at work.
Emaciated tendrils of magic flowed into the egg, stifled by a powerful aura of malice. It reminded Kaja of the stagnant miasma that had shrouded Lucretia. There was no doubt—a demon was feeding off of the dragon child, keeping its host alive while eating its magic. Spindly, shadowy hands gripped at the tiny soul inside the egg, forever trapping it midway between the world of the living and the cold darkness of the Abyss. Kaja placed a hand on the cool, smooth shell.
The next thing she knew, she was in her spirit body, the one of a white dragon. Before her, cloaked by a massive plume of pulsating demonic energy, was the curled, slumbering form of the dragon child. A chill welled up in Kaja’s throat and she let loose a blast of icy magic, splitting the miasma asunder and scattering it into thousands of glittering, frozen shards. The veins of magic feeding the egg swelled and glowed, infusing new life into the child within. The baby dragon’s eyes cracked open.
Kaja.
Did it speak to her?
“Kaja!”
Kaja opened her eyes to Jo’s concerned face. Sakrattars, Leif, and Amale were gathered behind her.
“It’s okay,” Kaja smiled weakly. “I’m okay.”
“My daughter . . .” Anya’s voice trailed off, as if she couldn’t fully believe what she was seeing. “She’s . . . alive . . .” Linnea now joined the companions around the dais. The egg, formerly dull and lifeless, was now shining and warm. A glow like the soothing heat of a summer’s day suffused the formerly cold chamber. “How. . . how did you. . .” Anya gasped, her golden quills bristling with a decidedly youthful excitement. “Oh, Kaja! You’ve saved her!”
Sakrattars and Leif exchanged shocked glances. Jo, her arms falling limp, watched in stunned silence as Kaja rose and met Anya’s great snout in a warm embrace.
Kaja stayed with Anya until late into the night, talking in her native Draconic, learning about dragons and about zmaj. It had been so long since she was around her own kind and she yearned for someone she could connect to, someone who would understand her and what she was going through in a way that her companions could not.
The companions all retired for the night one by one, until it was just Kaja and Anya left alone in the grand room. And when Kaja fell asleep, leaned up against the egg, Anya wrapped her tail protectively around them and watched over their dreams.
*
*
Bartholomew stared at the quill’s frenzied movement, slowly blinking one vacant eye then the other. Sakrattars was determined to document all that he had learned about zmaj that night. Many of his questions had been answered yet those same answers had opened up a way forward into seemingly infinite branching paths of knowledge. He was right to think that the zmaj and the demons were connected, but what was the nature of their history? Why were zmaj so uniquely suited to slaying them? It was almost as if they were intentionally designed that way. . . and he couldn’t ignore the look of contempt Bhorovane had when he saw what Kaja was. Why did one dragon despise zmaj, while another was eager to welcome them?
An unexpected knock on the door startled him from his thoughts. He got up to investigate and found Jo standing outside.
“Can I help you?” he asked awkwardly.
“Can we talk?” Jo didn't wait for an answer and ducked into the room. He bustled past her and casually closed his spellbook over the parchment. He was quite certain that Jo couldn’t read Elven but he didn’t want to risk questions. Luckily, Jo paid it no mind. She sat on the edge of his bed; her hair was mussed and dark circles blotted the skin under her eyes. It was clear that she hadn’t slept but for very different reasons than he hadn’t.
“Is it about tonight?” Sakrattars probed, his voice quiet and measured.
Jo sucked in a sharp breath. “I'm still angry that the Ordo would lie to us like that. Anya had no guarantee that Kaja could do that dragon thing.” She shook her head. “I don't like this, any of it. They don’t actually care about her, they’re just using her. I can feel it.”
Sakrattars turned his chair around and sat down. “They didn't have a choice. You heard what Anya said. Zmaj are the only ones who can fight these demons and Kaja is the only zmaj they know.”
“She could have told us.”
“Would you have let Kaja go if you knew the truth?”
“I don’t believe—you agree with them.” It was an accusation, not a question.
Sakrattars didn't answer right away. “It’s not about what I think,” he said. “The Irkallu tortured Lucretia, killed Saara’s parents, maybe even destroyed Kaja’s own village. They’re slaughtering her people, Jo. Don’t you think they should be stopped? Don’t you think that Kaja would want to stop them?” A long silence followed.
“She’s just a child,” Jo said softly.
“I think she wants to protect others just as much as you want to protect her.”
“I'm not so sure I can protect her from this,” Jo murmured. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “You know, you’re really bad at making someone feel better,” she joked behind a forced smile.
“You asked to speak with me, remember? Maybe you’re just really bad at picking a listening ear.”
Jo laughed wryly, her eyes unfocusing. “Yeah, you got me there.” She stood. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
Sakrattars opened his door to let her out. “In all seriousness, Kaja’s stronger than all of us. She doesn’t need us worrying about her.”
Jo stopped in the doorway. “What exactly did she say earlier? To the dragon—to Anya.”
“She was describing the battle between her and the demon.”
“Did she sound frightened?”
“No.”
A brief pause. “Good. That’s. . . good.” Then Jo was gone.
Sakrattars closed the door and walked back to the desk. He ran his fingers over the cover of his spellbook and flipped it open to his notes—the notes that could turn his career around.
“She doesn't need us,” he repeated to Bartholomew. “I’d say that we all need her a lot more.”
STORY ARC 1: ORDO DRACONIS
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