The musty air whipped and whirled as Whisper folded their wings at their sides and dove for the open arena below. Their wind magic built, stirring loose dirt and debris into a cloud around them like the tail of a comet. The fae’s blood boiled beneath their scaled hide as hot as molten magma. The musty air felt cold in comparison. It stung the exposed flesh around Whisper’s eyes as they dropped.
Easy. A surge of cool magic flooded their veins, rendering their piping-hot fury to a warm simmer. Do not give it a hold.
It was the same lesson they’d reiterated time and time again to the little bird. A hot temper made one more susceptible to mistakes. Mistakes led to weaknesses, which was exactly what the enemy was counting on. Whisper had to stay centered, focused on the task ahead, and not fall prey to the nameless one’s siren song. Whisper could feel the beast’s magic working away at the edges of their mind, prodding, jabbing, searching for a way to burrow inside.
Reaching the colosseum, Whisper fanned out their leathery wings and swept over what remained of the circular stone wall and rows of broken stadium seating. Below, the arena floor had been torn asunder. The ground was split open and fractured, with the gaping mouth of a tunnel near its center. Whisper saw the creature responsible for the damage, an insectoid with plated armor scales, a long segmented body, and hundreds upon hundreds of sickle-like legs. The mortals scurried beneath its plated body, taking the beast out one piece at a time. It wouldn’t do any good, though. Not against a creature of such magnitude.
The air currents whipped harder as Whisper willed a wind spell into existence. Broken slabs of stadium seating lifted from the stands and joined the spinning whirlwind as the fae gathered their strength for a fatal attack. The mortals took note and scattered like roaches in the light. Lifting safely above the raging torrent, Whisper unleashed the full wrath of their spell. A torrent of raging air thundered across the arena. It rose up and slammed down over the unsuspecting insectoid, burying its body beneath a wave of rock and debris. The wind stirred a cloud of loose sediment into the air, cloaking the arena floor from sight.
The nameless one was still alive. Whisper could hear the creak of its leathery armor as it fought to dig free from the rubble. Blood still boiling, the fae repeated the spell twice more, until certain their quarry would not rise ever again.
The ground shook and shuddered as the last of the rubble slid to a still until, at last, a deathly silence descended over the broken arena. Whisper circled overhead, unable to see beyond the clouds of sediment hanging thick in the air. Warily, the dragon fae landed. They listened for the dying shrieks of their vanquished foe, but they heard nothing. No whimper, no screech, no final, rattling breath.
Something about the eerie quiet felt amiss.
Cautiously, Whisper crept through the gloom, their spines raised on end, prepared for ambush.
Oh stubborn, D’zeahr. A myriad of distant, whispered voices echoed within Whisper’s mind. You cannot kill what is already dead.
Whisper recognized the long-lost voices of their people. It was all a trick. A deception. The nameless one was still pulling from Whisper’s buried memories. The dragon fae crept deeper into the murky cloud of dust and debris, listening for the telltale creak of the scolependra’s insectoid armor. A wind spell may not have finished it off, but perhaps snapping the magical bug’s head from its body between their teeth would suffice. Whisper’s jaws opened and closed in anticipation.
Do not fear, wayward warrior. The voices grew louder as the fog closed in. At long last, you have found your way home.
This wasn’t right. Whisper’s clawed feet froze in place as they lifted their head higher, attempting to see over the gloom. The cloud of dust stretched on endlessly in all directions. The arena should not have been this big. Something else was at play and, judging from the way Whisper’s scaled hide tingled, they suspected it was the start of an enchantment. The fae unfurled their mighty wings and summoned the wind necessary for flight, but the air remained still.
Stifling a roar, Whisper attempted the spell again. There was no wind. No breeze. Nothing.
Your trials are over, old friend. Put down the burden you bear. Your people have forgiven you. We welcome you home.
Snapping their jaws, Whisper tried to dispel the disembodied voices with a violent shake of their head. It was all lies. Poor ones, at that! The beast intended to use Whisper’s deepest secrets against them, but it wasn’t getting it right. Whisper didn’t want forgiveness for what they’d done. They didn’t deserve forgiveness. They’d given up on the very notion long ago.
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Whisper only wanted to set things right. Return to the world to its rightful sense of balance. Then, and only then, could they unshoulder the burden they’d been carrying for so long.
You were our greatest warrior, D’zeahr. The blue dragon with a heart of fire. But you were stubborn, resistant to change. You saw our kindness and mistook it for weakness. When we refused to change, you left. You abandoned your post. And the world took advantage.
Whisper’s clawed feet stamped at the ground as the centuries of pent-up guilt flooded their senses. The memories came next — the dark moments the fae had kept locked away, hidden from the light, left to fester and rot in obscurity.
It was true. In a fit of rage, unable to convince their people to curb their generosity, to see mortal-kind for the leech it was, Whisper left. They had sworn an oath to protect the fae, but how could they? Their people needed to be protected from themselves. Whisper had warned that their unchecked generosity would be their undoing, but they wouldn’t listen. So Whisper left. They traveled the land for many centuries, waiting for their people to come to their senses and call Whisper home.
But the call never came.
Eventually, Whisper returned to their ancestral city, prepared to grovel and make amends. The time away had left them homesick. And although their opinion of the mortals had not softened, they were prepared to concede that perhaps they had been wrong. What was worse than being wrong, however, was being right. There was no one left when Whisper returned. Their people, their way of life, their home — all gone, taken by the greedy mortals.
I warned them! Whisper’s thoughts combated the foreign voices within their head. But they wouldn’t listen. They followed their hearts, not reason, and this is where it got them.
You left us.
I had no choice. You forced me out!
You swore to protect us.
How could I, when I couldn’t even protect you from yourselves? You did this! Not me!
We tried to call you home, but you couldn’t hear.
That wasn’t right. Whisper would have heard. They would have heeded the call from halfway across the world if necessary. That’s not true!
It is, D’zeahr. Just as we are calling now. Can you not hear us? The swirl of voice built to a scream. They whipped up, thundering and howling within Whisper’s mind. Have you truly lost your way? Are you so far gone that your ears refuse to hear what is all around you?
I don’t hear—
Then open your ears!
The growing clamor stopped as an eerie calm settled over Whisper’s thoughts. A long-forgotten melody began to play. It was faint at first, swallowed not by distance, but through space and time itself. It called to Whisper, each forlorn note battering away at the last of the fae’s resistance as the song sprang to life.
Be still, O Great One. Little by little, the pain subsided. With each melodic word, Whisper’s guilt and shame steadily slipped away. You need not fight anymore. Your trials are over. Your suffering is at its end.
That was all Whisper had ever truly wanted, wasn’t it? To be done. To return home and recover all that had been lost? There was an incessant sensation buzzing in the back of their head like an angry wasp. It was trying to tell Whisper something but the soothing words made it difficult to hear.
Open your eyes and see all that you have accomplished.
Whisper’s vision changed. The crumbling coliseum and upturned arena faded away before their eyes as a world painted anew shifted into focus. The land was flush with life and color. There was harmony and balance. The mortals had finally learned to be content — no more of their constant taking, taking, taking. The surviving fae no longer cowered within the shadows. They walked the land freely once more. And the wind shifter, the dying race from which Whisper claimed to be the last, was revived and awakened. The species lived on. Whisper wasn’t the last. They hadn’t doomed their people as they’d been led to believe. The species was alive and well and flourishing.
Whisper had done it. They’d brought them back. They’d righted the wrong they’d committed so many years before. All was forgiven and they could finally rest.
Their bones were weary and tired. They ached to be still, to return to the ground, and to surrender to the continuous cycle of life. Their magic would go to another. Their flesh to the ground. And maybe, just maybe, their knowledge would pass on to the next generation. Everything was as it was, as it should have been. At long last, the end had come. Whisper embraced it, ready to move on from the mortal plane into the next.
As Whisper’s mind faded, giving in to the lulling voices, a sudden searing pain lanced up their scaled arm. The pain was accompanied by a scream.
“For muck’s sake, wake up!”
The enchanting beauty came crashing down all around. Color bled from Whisper’s surroundings until all that remained was murky clouds of darkness. Something shifted in front of them, a dark shadow backlit by the faintest green-blue glow. Whisper squinted at it, trying to make out its shape. The shadow lurched without warning. The scolopendra’s head broke through the cloud of dust and sediment, mandibles held wide and closed around Whisper’s neck. The beast’s jaws cinched tight, cutting through scale and flesh as the pair tumbled over the broken ground.