An expanse of white loomed ahead, the dangers concealed within it as cold and endless as the snows. For most, death was all they would find in the ice. The ice was not for them.
Zyryxa inhaled the chill as blizzard winds battered the vast tundra with their wrath. Her fingers tensed around the haft of her moth… of her first broodmaster’s greataxe. In the past thirteen cycles of the moon, many dangers died on that edge, sundered and severed apart, broken and beaten into submission, believing that the ice was theirs. Beneath the fallen snows that covered their stripped remains, Zyryxa’s bare feet strode over the unforgiving terrain that had long since claimed the boots she set out with on her sixteenth birthday. Divine Qoryxa’s dust descended, revealing the frailty of those who were not strong while it made a crown of cold atop Zyryxa’s head for the ice was hers.
Yes, above all, beneath none, beside only Divine Qoryxa herself, the ice was hers.
Or it would be.
Zyryxa surveyed this beautiful domain of white and knew that she would be champion of it all. No beast nor monster, no man nor woman, no warrior nor knight, nor even the ice dragons themselves would hinder her ascent to the summit of Monzqora where she would take flight over her tribe and become Ice’s Champion.
Yes. All would adore her beauty, love her compassion, and respect her power. Zyryxa had no need for a mother, for she would become mother to all.
Then why did she feel this gaping hole in her chest? Why did these tears freeze upon her cheeks? Zyryxa forced a laugh that came out choked. She was too old for this, for thoughts of her fam… of her first brood. She was almost seventeen for Qoryxa’s sake! She needed to let them go three-hundred and thirty-five days ago when the ritemark was branded on her forehead, when she left Loxzua behind with only the clothes she wore and the greataxe in her hands, when Zyrthalla and Abbaz were no longer her parents. Alas, the ice had taken her clothes, but it had not claimed these childish feelings.
Zyryxa heaved, stomping through snow that went up to her knee, that soaked through the crude yeti fur that few would dare call clothing.
Let them go. Be ice, cold and deadly. Become a warrior, then a knight, and then Champion. Be the best there ever was.
Zyryxa breathed in the frigid air, letting it refresh her pride. She could live without Abbaz and his stupid songs and divinedamned history lessons. How he charmed her moth… Zyrthalla, she would never understand. The soft bard never charmed an ice dragon and for that he was a disappointment.
Zyryxa could let go of Zyrxine. Teeny Zeeny who always tried to pick fights with her that she could not win. That scrappy little bitch would probably be too stubborn to die during her rite, but she would not be missed if she did. At least not missed too much, nor was it hard to stop thinking of her as “family.” Abbacyx had several years until his rite and likely did not have any years after. Zyryxa remembered the sweet, bardish boy fondly. Long ago, she accepted that the ice was not his, and that it would claim him not long after his sixteenth birthday. He was too much of their father and none of their mother.
Her mother. She held to memories of Zyrthalla more strongly than the woman’s greataxe. For three-hundred and thirty-five days she had wept and she doubted that three more would see the end to it. No matter how hard she tried to let go, something in her refused. She was not just Zyrthalla, the dragon knight, the rider of mighty Qorzillux, the defender of Loxzua. She was mom.
But she wasn’t. Not anymore. No more rides atop Qorzillux, looking over the port city Loxzua and the vast domain of ice and snow beyond it. No more hunts where the thrill of the kill made Zyryxa more like her hero. No more training with every weapon and spending days sweating in the cold as she became as deadly as ice. No more wrestling or sparring matches that left her bruised but braver and better. No more braiding each other’s hair and conversing about the beauty of the world. No more warm hugs. No more “I love you.” No more “I am proud of you.” No more.
Zyryxa sobbed. She dashed through the snow, an icy rage flowing through her, empowering her, guiding her, controlling her. She crashed into a gelubor copse, took the greataxe in both hands, and slammed it into the nearest tree with all her wrath. The axe cut through the white tree in one blow. The gelubor timbered into a patch of fellow gelubor, got hung up, crystalline leaves shattering on impact and raining down into the copse. A pair of white-furred, red-eyed wolves emerged from the snow, blood on their maws from their morning meal, snarling like the ice was theirs.
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Zyryxa lifted the greataxe, roared at them, and chased them across the tundra. The slower one was not made for the ice. Her pelt would make a worthy blanket for the evening and maybe a fine cloak for a few days. The meat would make for a nice set of meals for Zyryxa and Dryxl.
Zyryxa’s darkscale drake pounced through the snow, skidding to a halt beside the fresh meat. Dryxl was content to eat the rocks and the vegetation that survived in the ice, but he drooled over her kill, thirsting for blood. Well, she would not judge him for that as long as he did not judge the tears frozen on her face.
Zyryxa successfully skinned the wolf while failing to forget about how much she loved her mother. She ripped the ribcage open with her bare hands, tore out the creature’s stomach, tossed Dryxl the wolf’s guts, and shook out the blood pooling inside the wolf’s vital cavity. Her bloody hand went to her face, wanting to wipe away this failure, this part of her that refused to be a true dragon warrior instead of a child.
Her hand shook with the sobs as she recalled what her mother told her many times and would tell her now. To feel is not weakness, my little champion. To feel is… “to be reminded of what matters. Let these tears be my strength.”
The frozen tears remained where they belonged, a memorial to what mattered. Zyryxa could never call Zyrthalla her mother again, nor could she be acknowledged as her daughter without violating a core tenet of the Ice Tribe. Yet, for all those rules, Zyryxa dreamt of a future where they could still be together. Zyryxa would ride her dragon, side-by-side with Zyrthalla, and they would survey their domain. They could go on great hunts, vying to determine who could kill the quarry and claim the glory. They could train together, maintaining their dominant edge. There would be sparring and wrestling and bruises galore. Zyrthalla would braid her hair and laugh at Zyryxa’s misadventures. Perhaps, just perhaps, they might share warm hugs, they might whisper “I love you” or “I am proud of you,” but even if Zyrthalla could not say those words anymore, Zyryxa would see them in her mother’s smile.
Zyryxa could not let go, for Zyrthalla would always be her mother, even if in secret. Divine Qoryxa. Champion Vaztyma. Whatever dragon knight or broodmaster she might yet have to serve on her way to the top. None would ever take the place in Zyryxa’s heart that Zyrthalla occupied. Thus, her voice might proudly declare, “I am Zyryxa. I am nobody’s child,” while her heart knew the score.
There were other ways of quiet rebellion too. She could not remember the last time she saw herself, out here in the wilderness away from the luxuries of Loxzua, away from even the most remote of homesteads where they might possess a treasured looking glass. Zyryxa gathered the gelubor leaf crystals that shattered when the tree got hung up, arraying them until they served as a poor facsimile of a broken mirror.
Zyryxa giggled like a giddy little girl, a few more tears escaping her hard shell, and a smile emerging as she imagined how Zyrthalla would scoff at the tangled, messy warren Zyryxa’s hair became over the past moons spent alone in the wilderness. Her mother used to dote on the airy blue tresses and the lone silver streak, saying that she was born to soar in the sky amongst the clouds atop a dragon worthy of her beauty.
She would need to wash her face and braid her hair. If she did that, she would feel like her mother was still here, beside her, telling her she was proud. The gelubor leaves might have been a pathetic shattered excuse for a mirror, but they did not lie. Zyryxa was beautiful, even more so than when she left Loxzua last year. Her eyes were a striking blue that made clear skies look dull and colorless. If her mother crafted her braids, it was Divine Qoryxa that sculpted her face to be perfectly symmetrical, with sharp and elegant features that spoke of the draconic power she wielded in her body and the beauty of the divine goddess that was the primordial mother of the Ice Tribe. Her icy porcelain skin was unblemished save for one critical mark on her forehead. The ritemark branded between her eyes was a dull blue, nearly faded to white, marking that her year of solitude was almost complete.
Zyryxa felt her mother’s pride, knowing that she spent this year well. Again, the reflection revealed the truth. Zyryxa’s year on the Rite of the Dragon Warrior saw her flourish beyond even what the comforts of Loxzua had given her. Her body reminded her of the ice sculptures in Loxzua. While her muscle tone had enhanced through her trials, she developed flesh in other ways that Qoryxa would approve of, as well as all who worshipped Qoryxa and appreciated beauty as she did.
Zyryxa lifted her chin and worked on the braid as Dryxl lapped up the wolf’s blood beside her. She would be like Qoryxa and she would be like Zyrthalla. Powerful. Compassionate. Beautiful.
On these three pillars, Zyryxa would climb high, farther than any since Qoryxa herself. Zyryxa breathed in the ice, for it was hers, and soon enough, she would be Ice’s Champion.