Even though he was magnificent, Praedax was no Duilahir. In fact, to one who daily saw Qorzillux for sixteen years, the Ice Champion’s bonded dragon was almost mundane. Qorzillux’s snowy white scales were more to Zyryxa’s liking than Praedax’s midnight blue. Further, Praedax bore a demonic resemblance with horns not just at top of his head but also running along the side of his body. He looked like a hundred-foot long, spiked mace. His tail swung behind him, unleashing blasts of frigid air that kicked up dustings of snow and flung them through the dragon’s sanctum. The mighty dragon perched on its haunches, its colossal, spiky head towering above them, its icy breath enveloping their faces in freezing mist that smelt just like Dryxl’s breath after he feasted on the blood of their fallen foes.
The Ice Champion vaulted off her dragon’s neck, at least thirty feet above the ground, and landed with slightly bent knees before rising to her full height. Vaztyma’s armor remained undented and unburnt after moons of war. Composed from the bones and scales of her predecessor Marazix’s dragon Thadillux, the shimmering ice-blue armor was as beautiful as it was effective.
The same could be said of the Ice Champion herself. Vaztyma was Zyryxa’s height, tall but not towering, and when she removed her horned helm, her features could succinctly be described as Qoryxa-blessed. The Champion was in her early thirties but her age and living amongst the ice of Monzqora only made her look sharper and more exquisite. Her long, slender head, high cheekbones, and expressive almond-shaped, azure-blue eyes were striking indeed.
Zyryxa grinned, spotting the imperfections: a jaw that could only be labeled as masculine, numerous subtle asymmetries, a slightly deviated septum, and various small blemishes. Her hair was also too short, “styled” in a cliched bun devoid of any semblance of creativity. As far as beauty went, the would-be successor eclipsed the predecessor. If people adored Vaztyma’s beauty, they would worship Zyryxa’s.
Praedax roared, blood-scented, ice-tinged breath blasting the three aspirants with the force mightier than any wind. Zyryxa grimaced, standing her ground. Beside her, Pelzyq was driven back, trying to shield himself with his arms. Lexyn was thrown into the air, her back colliding with the qoryxite. The girl stifled her cry and Zyryxa neither judged nor leered at the tears rimming Lexyn’s eyes.
“Present yourselves,” Vaztyma said, her voice like an icy void.
Pelzyq rushed ahead, standing closest to the Ice Champion. Zyryxa stood to his right and Lexyn slouched at the end of the line. Vaztyma carefully inspected them before lingering on Pelzyq. She ran her hand down his shoulder and squeezed his bulging bicep.
“I made them for you, my Champion,” Pelzyq said. “Do you like them?”
Vaztyma stepped back, his words rolling off her like a warm breeze drifting off the ocean and dying in the cold air of southern Volqor. She inspected him, Pelzyq not even attempting to hide his flexing. “Punch me.”
“What?”
Vaztyma sighed. She slowed down her speech to a husky drawl that mirrored Pelzyq’s. “Punch me. As hard as you can.”
“M…my champion?”
“You want to stand where I do? Your pride tells you that you will take my place? Take it then, boy. Knock. Me. Down.”
Pelzyq stammered more bewildered objections. Thus far, Vaztyma had been gentle as ice, now she became a dragon. “Don’t just stand there stuttering at me! Hit me with everything you have, son!”
The bare-chested brute stood tall, clenched his jaw, and narrowed his eyes. He stood rigid, veins popping in his neck, and glowered at the Ice Champion. The hatred writ upon his ugly face now made his previous angst toward Zyryxa seem kindhearted by contrast. He cocked his fist and roared as it flashed toward Vaztyma.
Bones cracked as the fist hammered into the face. Vaztyma stood there, unmoved, no mark upon her face, her lips a flat line of apathy. Pelzyq bent over, clutched his hand, and howled in agony.
Vaztyma sighed and shook her head. “You do not stand where I do, do you, Pelzyq son?”
Pelzyq kept his eyes on his broken hand, trying to hide the tears rolling down his face. Too stubborn and stupid and not strong enough to afford either, Pelzyq remained silent, refusing to even nod his head.
Vaztyma seized him, one-handed, by the throat and lifted him off the ground like the huge man was nothing to her. Her voice was pure ice, cold and uncaring, devoid of emotion. “Answer me, son. Are you as strong as I? Do you stand where I stand?”
“No,” he gasped.
Vaztyma threw him to the ground. “You are not my equal, no matter how much bigger you think you are than me. Is that clear, son?”
Pelzyq stumbled to his feet, slouching, he massaged his throat. “Yes!”
“Now that you understand our situation, it is time I help you become the best dragon warrior you can be. Tell me, Pelzyq, what is the best part of you?”
“My giant cock. It is the biggest any of you will ever see. I would be happy to introduce each of you to it.” Pelzyq grinned at Zyryxa.
Zyryxa rolled her eyes. Her stomach rolled over at the notion of sharing a tribe with this immature jackass who refused to learn any lesson. Her and Lexyn glanced at each other, shaking their heads. Even Vaztyma’s stoic stare devolved into an open-mouthed leer of utter bewilderment.
Vaztyma recovered her mask of ice. “Normally, I demand cocky men do this once, but since you have made your claim, three times will suffice.”
“If you don’t wanna share, I can give you three times. Besides,” Pelzyq cocked his head at Zyryxa, “I could use the practice before I am with her.”
Zyryxa’s veins bulged, her hands clenched. “You presumptuous oaf! I would not let you anywhere close even if we were the last Ice Tribe alive!”
Vaztyma silenced her, raising her hand at Zyryxa. “You misunderstand, son. You will strike yourself three times in your manhood. I want each strike to be delivered with the same power that you punched me with. If you pull any of your blows, you will have to start over until you get it right.”
The tension fled Zyryxa. She eased, a sudden relaxation settling over her as her fists came apart. She could learn much from Champion Vaztyma, before she took the woman’s place.
“Hit myself?”
“Three times in that proud penis of yours. As hard as you can.”
“If I refuse?”
“I will kill you or you will become Scaleless.”
Pelzyq trembled. He shut his eyes, then obeyed the Ice Champion. When he was finished, Pelzyq was a balled on the ground, bawling, his hands cradling his groin.
Zyryxa smirked. Vaztyma affirmed his readiness to obey even the most challenging commands, left him humbled in his rightful place at her feet, delivering a verdict commensurate and complimentary to his arrogance. Ice’s judgment had been rendered, and Zyryxa learned to do likewise when she had to punish the impudent and arrogant. But her smirk faltered as Vaztyma appraised her.
The Ice Champion’s gaze lingered on Zyryxa’s hair, recognizing the silvery-streaked sky-blue that marked her as kin to Zyrthalla. She knew Zyryxa’s lineage well, remembering Zyryxa relegated to the child’s table when Vaztyma called upon Zyrthalla and Abbaz in Loxzua. She would recall, having presided over the finals, the girl who won the junior tournaments at the Frostmelt for three years running, triumphing over Syraxyz in the ice versus fire finals six consecutive times.
Vaztyma’s hand traced Zyryxa’s hair, then slid down her face. The Champion’s eyes surveyed Zyryxa’s body, her lips never betraying a hint of feeling. “What do you think of yourself, daughter?” Vaztyma asked.
Zyryxa hesitated. “I try to live true to Qoryxa, to be beautiful, strong, and compassionate.”
“Your false humility does not fool me, girl. My children will speak to me directly, saying what they believe rather than what they hope pleases me. Answer the question with pride.”
Zyryxa stalled, not wanting to sound arrogant to the Champion.
“Now!”
“I am superior!” Zyryxa answered, the prideful truth flowing from her like drops of water off an ice sculpture melting in the heat. “I am stronger, faster, tougher, smarter, deadlier, prettier. I am supreme!”
“Supreme?” Vaztyma grinned. “Are you more beautiful than I am, daughter?”
Zyryxa hesitated, knowing there was no right answer to this question. When you could only lose, it was better to do so with integrity. “Yes.”
Vaztyma twirled Zyryxa’s hair. “If you are not the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, I am the ugliest.”
“You are not ugly,” Zyryxa said.
“I know that,” the Champion said. “I also know that you want to take my place. What kind of Ice Champion would you be, Zyryxa?”
“I would be like Qoryxa, a perfect balance of strength, beauty, and compassion. I will be the greatest champion Volqor has ever witnessed.”
“You think you are better than me? Superior? Supreme?”
Zyryxa’s stomach churned, keenly aware of the Champion’s fingers twirling her hair, unable to look away from the Champion’s flat-lipped gaze. “I will be.”
Vaztyma smiled. “And what about today? Does Zyryxa exceed Vaztyma today?”
“No,” she lied. The only advantage Vaztyma had over her was her dragon bond. Without Praedax’s mind and strength fused with hers, Zyryxa was better. Or so she believed.
Vaztyma seized Zyryxa’s hair and yanked. Zyryxa staggered, struggling to brace herself and maintain her footing. Vaztyma tugged harder, inflicting excruciating pain. Zyryxa clamped her throat shut, stifling the cry desperate to escape. Her choice was stark: sacrifice her hair or her pride. Hair would grow back; shattered pride could cripple her. Zyryxa held firm, grounding her legs beneath her as the Ice Champion dragged her into her toward the gaping maw of Praedax.
With the next tug, Zyryxa collapsed to her knees, her hands meeting the biting hoarfrost near the dragon’s gargantuan feet. Moisture gathered at the edges of her eyes, yet she clenched her jaw, refusing to yield her pride. An icy rage welled within her as Zyryxa battled the relentless pull. She summoned her strength, drawing on Zyrthalla’s training, on her faith in Divine Qoryxa, and in her own pride. Zyryxa surged back to her feet, standing tall despite her hair being held hostage.
“Even champions may fall,” Zyryxa groaned, pushing against Vaztyma’s relentless pull, “but what makes them champions is that they rise again.”
Vaztyma released her, and Zyryxa crashed backwards onto the ground. The pain of her scalp screamed as if she were engulfed in flames. Ignoring the agony, Zyryxa sprang to her feet. She assumed a defensive stance, determined to keep rising every time she fell.
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Vaztyma grinned. “Who was it that said that?”
“Alexia Leveria,” Zyryxa murmured, recalling the Leverian queen, a true champion of peace. Alexia Leveria was one of the few valuable lessons she gleaned from her fath… from Abbaz’s endless stories. Tears welled in her eyes, freezing on her cheeks, but she made no effort to wipe them away. Zyryxa stood resolute, prepared to defend herself if Vaztyma disparaged her for having a heart.
“You cling to your pride, my daughter. Pride will be either your greatest strength or your downfall.” Vaztyma smirked. “You aspire to soar above all that came before you, but first you must prove that you can fly. Mount Praedax.”
“Mount Praedax?” Zyryxa echoed.
The dark blue dragon roared, knocking Lexyn onto her back and forcing Pelzyq to a knee. Zyryxa shielded her face from the blast of. Vaztyma stood in the wrath of her bonded partner, roaring over the dragon. “Do not question me again, daughter! Obey!”
Zyryxa pushed through the roar. She fought for each step like it was a mile-long march up the slopes of Monzqora. Finally, she grasped a horn on Praedax’s magnificent body. The spikes were sharper than knives. Pride did not let that stop her from rising. The lighter blue of Zyryxa’s blood shimmered upon Praedax’s midnight-blue scales, dripping down his epic frame as she cut her palms and the soles of her feet with each step of her ascension.
Once she scrambled to the top, the dragon unfurled his massive wings. stirring up swirls of snow and gusts of icy wind within the dragon’s roost. Zyryxa dashed up his back and seized the central horn atop his head. Dragon flight was no new sensation for Zyryxa who was used to Qorzillux. Alas, Praedax tried to throw her, jerking his neck and twisting his torso as his wings flapped madly. Zyryxa held on. Soon, they soared fifty feet over the ground.
Whether driven by Vaztyma’s command or the independent manifestation of Praedax’s will, Zyryxa felt the dragon’s thoughts penetrate her mind. Leap.
The fall could shatter her legs … or worse. There was no soft snow to cushion her landing, only unforgiving hoarfrost upon the hard qoryxite ground. Yet, bound by the Ice Champion’s command and her own pride, Zyryxa refused to beg for reprieve.
She hit the ground hard, the shock reverberating through her legs. The leap held a fierce beauty in spirit, but the reality was ugly. Her arms caught the ground, shielding her face from the collision. She fell bloodied, cold, and utterly spent. Despite it all, Zyryxa forced herself to rise again.
Standing taller than the Ice Champion, Zyryxa let her actions resound in defiant silence.
Vaztyma ignored her. Like the others, the Ice Champion scrutinized Lexyn, her face a mask of deadened emotions. Unlike Pelzyq and Zyryxa, Lexyn cowered beneath the Ice Champion’s gaze, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stammered out apologies.
Vaztyma shed her armor, placing the bones and scales of Thadillux on the ground behind her. Pelzyq smirked, craning his neck to get a better view of the Ice Tribe leader’s nude figure. Zyryxa, too, did not avert her eyes. Vaztyma was chiseled and supreme, her muscles densely packed with Volqori might, sculpted and shredded beyond Zyryxa’s own impressive sinew. While Zyryxa’s skin bore neither blemish nor scar, while Vaztyma’s was host to many. While sculpted muscles were more important than ample breasts, at least Zyryxa surpassed Vaztyma on the latter. Given time, she could surpass Vaztyma in strength as well.
Zyryxa exhaled, letting go of her rage. Without the mantle of Champion, Zyryxa doubted anyone would choose to be Vaztyma’s consort instead of hers.
Unlike Pelzyq and Zyryxa, Lexyn kept her gaze fixed on the ground, trembling with fear, her fingers clenched on her longbow. “Fear me not, my daughter,” Vaztyma said. “Those two came to me in pride, needing the lessons I gave them. You come in fear. Fear that I will help you overcome.” Vaztyma pointed at her own heart. “Shoot me, my child. Know that your Champion will give you her heart until yours grows brave.”
Zyryxa fought the impulse to admire Vaztyma. Strong and beautiful were already demonstrated. For the first time, compassionate could join their ranks. Only to those who cannot rise to challenge her, she made sure to remember, lest she feel too much warmth for this cold bitch.
Lexyn’s fingers reached for her quiver, but they trembled, failing to lift an arrow. The poor girl sobbed and stammered through more apologies.
“You are capable of far more than you know, child,” Vaztyma said. “A year from now, you will look back on this moment with pride. You will see how far you have come and know that you made your shot.”
“B-b-but I’m w-w-weak.”
“No, daughter. The strength of a dragon lurks within you, waiting to roar. And when it does, what you fear now will fear you.”
Shoot the bitch, Lexyn! Zyryxa thought. “You’ve got this,” she said. “Make me proud, sister.”
Lexyn took a huge breath, steadied her fingers, and nocked an arrow to her string. She lifted her eyes and honed in on her target. The arrow slammed into Vaztyma’s chest, the gelubor shaft and stone tip shattering like ice against the Champion’s hardened hide.
Vaztyma beamed. “Very good, my child. Very good!”
Zyryxa froze, her gaze fixed on Vaztyma’s chest, struggling to fathom how tough the Champion’s draconic skin must be to shatter an arrow from five strides away. This, more than anything else, convinced her that she had far to climb to reach the summits Vaztyma achieved.
Such was her wonder that she barely heard Vaztyma command them to remain still while the ritemark was replaced with the warriormark.
“Rise up! Embrace Qoryxa’s ice!”
Praedax slammed to the ground, shaking the entire plateau. Zyryxa staggered but hastily regained her balance, digging her feet into the ground. She steadied a stumbling Lexyn before the girl collapsed. Pelzyq dropped to a knee before surging back to his hulking stance. Then, the ice was upon them.
Praedax assaulted them with the full force of his ice breath, unleashing a chill unlike any Zyryxa ever experienced. She shielded her face and stood firm, determined not to fall again. Her body urged her to stiffen, to yield to the torrential frost. Zyryxa refused to betray seventeen years of relentless training.
Days spent swimming the icy shores of Loxzua, riding Qorzillux through blizzards, battling beasts in five feet of snow wearing naught but her own skin, scaling Monzqora barefoot with a tattered yeti hide—all led to this moment, and to the next, and whatever came further up the ascent. Until she bonded Duilahir, until she claimed the mantle of Ice Champion from Vaztyma, until none surpassed her kinship with Qoryxa and her ice.
Praedax’s breath exceeded any cold she had ever faced, but Zyryxa was determined to succeed any challenge. She roared back at the dragon, letting the ice flow through her mouth, into her body, into her very soul.
At last, Praedax’s breath ceased. The blizzard dissipated, coating the ground in a thick layer of ice. Zyryxa’s yeti hide was further eroded, the remains blanketed in three inches of frost. Her hair was frozen into clumps, brows and lashes encased in ice. Yet, her numb feet stood proud beneath her.
Pelzyq hunched over, trembling, his fingers digging into the ground, his breath coming in rapid, visible puffs. On Zyryxa’s other side, Lexyn shivered, curled up on the icy ground, the warriormark now shimmering white on her forehead where the dull ritemark had been moments before. The mark of the warrior, a white dragon—Duilahir herself—glimmered freshly upon all of them. Zyryxa touched her forehead, sensing the new ice there. Thirteen years marked a warrior, the minimum service before one could settle in Loxzua or establish their homestead in the frontier. Neither path was hers. Zyryxa would be Champion within the next year, if the opportunity to bond the white dragon was granted to her.
Vaztyma nodded at her. “Duilahir adorns your pretty face, my child.”
Zyryxa nodded back. “And I will adorn her back before she fades from my face.”
Vaztyma folded her arms over her chest, her grin fading and falling further. Zyryxa hid her smirk, twisting away from the Champion to help Lexyn regain her footing. The pretty girl’s jaw rattled, but she rose like a champion herself.
“You did it,” Zyryxa told Lexyn, her smirk softening into a genuine smile.
Lexyn’s teeth chattered, but she managed a nod.
“What now?” Pelzyq barked.
“Now you are dragon warriors,” Vaztyma said. “Forget the broods of your past. You are now my children and you are brother and sisters. Serve your new family with pride and courage. War is upon us, my children, and you will be the dragon’s claws. Travel to Riverwatch and augment Hatrox’s swarm. Heed his command as if it were my own, and help us avenge our losses.”
Zyryxa reached for the only anchor she could find in this cold place—Lexyn’s hand. Her eyes dove to the ice, seeing naught but memories of fire and ice exploding over Loxzua.
Lexyn squeezed Zyryxa’s hand with surprising strength for such a delicate-looking dragon warrior. “Our losses?” Lexyn asked, stepping between Vaztyma and Zyryxa.
Zyryxa felt Vaztyma’s gaze on her, the cold edge softening and warming. The Champion remained silent, the sanctum filled only with the whistle of the wind. Silence had never been so loud. Zyryxa fought the tears. For once, she lost.
“Who fucking cares?” Pelzyq said. “I’m off to Riverwatch, my Champion, unless you have other purposes for Pelzyq in the Pridefort.”
Zyryxa clutched Lexyn’s hand to keep from knocking Pelzyq to the ground. Her moth… Zyrthalla could be… Her mind froze, unable to complete the thought. Lexyn stood closer to her, shoulders touching. Tears flowing down her face, Zyryxa promised herself to never forget this act of compassion from a sister who was almost a complete stranger to her.
“You have each endured a great trial this past year,” Vaztyma said. “Tonight, you may find shelter in the Pridefort and share the food of my table. In the morning, you will be given coin and Valinax will provide equipment suited to you.” Vaztyma cleared her throat, channeling more authority, “You are siblings now and this is an opportunity to form your own brood, just as Dezoq, Valinax, and I did when we arrived before Marazix years ago. A true dragon warrior does not go alone, but trusts in her brothers and sisters.”
“Pelzyq needs no sisters.” He snorted. “Only wives. I leave tonight.”
“Then you have yet to grasp the folly of your pride, Pelzyq son. May Qoryxa bless you with her enlightenment before that pride kills you.”
“Oh, Qoryxa has blessed me plenty, Vaztyma mother.”
Zyryxa’s throat burned with insults and threats. She despised this ugly, presumptuous, foolish, arrogant, brute. Her fist closed, itching to confront the jackass. Yet, the path of Qoryxa did not condone fratricide.
“Pelzyq!”
He turned from the sanctum’s gateway, arms opened wide. “Already you want to be my wife, Zyryxa? And here Pelzyq thought you were a just a stuck-up icy bitch who only wanted to play finger and tongue games with her sisters!”
Zyryxa’s fists tightened, and she pulled away from Lexyn before her fingers became collateral in her battle with the misogynist. “And I thought you were a man who insists on proving his strength through foolish deeds to cover up his vast insecurity!”
“Hah! Pelzyq is the most secure man in all of Volqor, perhaps in the entire damn world!”
“Yes, the man who begs for a rematch after he is buried in the snow like a little piss boy is extraordinarily secure!”
Pelzyq shifted into a boxing stance “We can settle this right here, Zyryxa!”
Zyryxa shook her head. “Travel with us, Pelzyq, and we will all grow stronger.”
Pelzyq grabbed at his crotch. “I’m already dragging along enough weight.”
May a wyrm take you! she thought. “Travel safely, brother.”
Pelzyq pointed at her. “If you make it to Riverwatch, Pelzyq will be waiting for a fair rematch, if you ever find your courage, sister.”
Zyryxa turned away as he stomped out of sight. She glared at Vaztyma, reproaching the woman for pushing her to make peace with that heartless jackass. Her anger was disarmed by Vaztyma’s softened face, her lightly furrowed brow, and sympathetic eyes.
Vaztyma met Lexyn’s eyes. “You asked about our losses. You three may be among the last to initiate the Rite of the Dragon Warrior before the war began.” She sighed. “Faxiq defeated Tantix and claimed the title of Fire Champion. His first act was to demand that Syrixza serve as his consort.”
“What!” Zyryxa seethed, wishing Faxiq’s throat was in range of her axe.
“Yes,” Vaztyma said. “Naturally, Syrixza, proud as she was and devoted to Qorrix, challenged Faxiq for the title of Fire Champion.”
“I saw Nitryx battling Duilahir,” Zyryxa said, her heart aching. Syrixza and Qorrix—her parents shared their table each Festival of Melding, and Zyryxa befriended their daughter, even though she and Syra inevitably faced each other in the junior tournament finals. She trembled, hoping that Syra wasn’t another casualty in this divinedamned war.
“Faxiq defeated Syrixza,” Vaztyma said. “She fought to the death.”
“So Qorrix challenged Faxiq,” Zyryxa said.
“Yes. He too,” Vaztyma’s voice faltered for several heartbeats, before emerging weak, “is no longer with us.”
“And the Ice Tribe had to avenge Qorrix.”
“Yes,” Vaztyma said. “I couldn’t let him kill one of our own. I couldn’t let him go unpunished for destroying the two people most responsible for our melding.”
“Faxiq deserves to die,” Zyryxa said. “Instead, others have paid the price.” Zyryxa shook her head. Her mother had to be safe. She decided then that she heard enough.
Vaztyma disagreed. “There was a battle over Loxzua, many moons ago.”
Zyryxa didn’t hide her tears. She couldn’t hide who she was—the silver streak in her hair, the face that mirrored Zyrthalla’s, the memories she and Vaztyma shared. Her voice cracked, “Who?”
Vaztyma’s eyes welled with tears. Suddenly, the thin air was hard to breathe. Suddenly, her warrior’s legs that withstood ascending a mountain, that rose from a fall from a flying dragon, that held their ground when Praedax blasted her with his icy breath, were weak. Her throat worked no longer. Her vision blurred, but it still saw the dragon falling from the sky and crashing into the sea. Yet, this time it was not Ohenix.
“Hatrox slew Gorxine and her dragon.”
Lexyn’s hand found Zyryxa’s. “Any others?” Lexyn asked.
Vaztyma nodded. “One more knight.”
Not Zyrthalla, Zyryxa prayed to Qoryxa. Let it be another Fire Tribe knight. Let it be Gaeliz. Let it be anyone else. Not Zyrthalla.
Zyryxa’s wails drowned out the name that left Vaztyma’s lips.
She could hear her mother’s voice, knowing that she would never truly hear her again. To feel is not weakness, my little champion. To feel is to be reminded of what matters. Let those feelings be your strength, so they guide you to fight for what you love.
Zyryxa would fight, even if what she loved was gone.