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A long, long time ago, the world burned.

Burned happy and crisp. Somebody two cans short of a six-pack in the pantheon went and made dragons. A practical demonstration of why giving a being with the sensibilities of a 12-year-old the power of God is not a terrific idea.

Shortly after hatching, dragons looked at life on the planet and started thinking, hey, we’re kind of big and strong compared to everybody else, why shouldn’t we rule this place? Yeah, why the hell not? Law of the jungle, baby! And from those words followed a stormy 300-year reign of immortal, flying, magic-breathing dinosaurs—which does sound kind of rad, now that I think about it.

But I can only think that now because I wasn't alive there to see it.

The triumphant dragon conquest was followed by something of a problem with the global carbon dioxide levels.

First it was super hot, then it got super cold. A weeny nuclear winter.

People didn't have a great time, and neither did dragons. Nobody had ever taken a crack at this overlord business before. There were no role models to take notes from, and it’s not really an occupation where you can afford to wing it without a plan. It looks so simple on paper: you rule and everyone else is your slave. You have a blast and the others don't matter. But the slaves are going to need many things to willingly stay as slaves. Things like burgers, spring trips to Japan, and Masked Singer.

Dragons had to learn everything about business management the hard way, including this basic fact: the harder you kick others, the harder they'll want to kick you back.

What the formerly harmonious creation learned from the passionate reign of wyrms—was the art of war.

How brain can beat brawn, when you really rustle the jimmies. It never occurred to dragons all the rest of the creation could unite against them, with backup from the gods themselves, but that's precisely what happened. Even a great might stops being so great when you're all alone in a big world. The uplifting story of what the big books now call the War of the Sky.

I thought it was only a cheery bedtime story. The kind that keeps you awake all night.

But now...I see the epilogue of that story in front of my own two eyes.

By a coarse, salt-streaked shoreline passes a ridge of barren crags. I climb after Zandolph on top of the rugged hills and pause at the summit to take in the bleak view spreading downhill. Rust-red sand mounds and strips of volcanic rock cover the landscape all the way to the distant horizon, like we’ve suddenly popped over to Mars. Along the south side trails a series of apathetic, snowless mountains into the simmering distance.

It's quiet. Wind blows without a rustle, and the rush of waves rings distant and muffled behind our backs.

Captain Gideon kindly brought us within view of the island, so I could connect a Gate to the shore. Bringing a ship within fifty miles of the coastal cliffs is adventurous enough, docking is advised against. Teleporting deeper inland with a flashy magic show would be like tossing a hotdog to hungry hyenas. We’ll have to go the rest of the way on foot, with care.

So we climb down the cliffs, a pair of mismatched pilgrims, and boldly go where no man has ever gone before, into the dead, dry, forbidding realm of dragons. The leftovers of ancient Crulea, the first land the wyrms took over after leaving their birth nest in the South Pole, chasing the original inhabitants halfway around the globe into exile. An island group about the size of Madagascar in all, crossed out on all sea maps.

Once home to a thriving civilization of academia and craftsmanship, Crulea stands now a barren wasteland from coast to coast. Not one weed or shrub or thistle can endure in the acidic, magically sterilized soil, never mind proper trees, or large animals. Every rat has long since been eaten. You'd be lucky to find a cockroach. Apocalypse has settled here to remind unlucky visitors of the joys that await them in our far future—Or, at least I hope that day's still far.

Cruleans themselves have disowned their old homeland and refuse to call it by its original name anymore. Crulea of yore lives only in their folklore, and the memories of the surviving immortals who got to see it firsthand. The Jurassic Park in the South Sea is now better known by the name dragons gave it after settling in, as the foothold of their road to conquest:

Dali-thú-Dalinnéa—Or, Feather Fortress.

These few islands were all the dragons were left with after their dreams of world domination boiled down to nothing.

Beaten black and blue, mercilessly hunted everywhere around the planet, they flew and hid. Some were desperate enough to give up even their own identity, and put on a mask of magic to trick pursuers. Mimicking feeble humankind proved such a successful survival trick that later generations of dragons evolved to inherit the skill from their parents.

Despite the tricks, they were eventually all found out and either killed by champions to give bards something to sing about, or chased back here.

Can you imagine it?

Being imprisoned in the land you invaded, having to face your crimes and their consequences every day as you kick up from the bed in the morning…That's some Hammurabi-style justice. Both eyes at the price of one. But after whopping 90,000 years at it, wouldn’t you say they’ve been punished enough?

Who'd give dragons absolution now?

Even the gods themselves are gone.

We hike on through the lumpy, bumpy landscape that makes your throat burn and eyes sting. My boots sink a few cents into the soft mix of sand and ash at every step and it gets quickly tiresome. Having a solid rock to step on becomes a luxury.

There may not be plant life around, but amazingly enough, there are still ruins. Things that vaguely resemble buildings. Crulean architecture was made to last, employing the hardest of rock types. Over the eons, wind and sand erosion has polished off all the sharp edges and corners from the ancient temples, mansions, towers, bridges, and palaces, but still they stand. They rise like big termite nests from the earth, uneven piles of stone dotted by empty windows and gaping wide doorways. Sleepy ghosts of rust that crowd the round valleys and jagged canyons. And no sign of life anywhere.

“Keep close,” my tour guide gruffly reminds me.

Getting a funny sense of dejá vù here.

Hours fly by as we trek through the artsy rock formations, shadowy ravines, and over the sharp dunes, and I've no real idea where we're going. I'm not sure I want to know either. I’m putting a lot of faith in Ms Dragon, who can’t turn into a dragon, and whose idea of friendship might as well be to eat me for supper.

Who says I don’t trust my friends?

Zandolph has struck me as the type of gal who, if you tell her the world is burning, will just answer, “let the motherfucker burn,” but I'm betting everything on her familial love and lust for vengeance. Let's hope it pays off.

The sun glares down from a spotless blue sky. It's winter in the northern hemisphere, which makes it summer at its finest down here in the far south. The cool sea currents keep the air tolerable, but it's still toasty enough. I take a swig from my water bottle, but only a few disgustingly warm drops fall on my tongue. It's finished.

Since non-dragons used to live here, I took it for granted there’d be fresh water sources to get a refill. But we’ve seen none the whole day. No lakes, no rivers, or pretty waterfalls, or even little brooks. Come to think of it, it was a pretty long time ago when the others were here. Maybe the water has all dried up. Maybe there's nothing.

I look at Zandolph’s exposed lower back and want to lick the sweat that runs down the line of her spine. Though dragons don't sweat. It’s condensed moisture from the air. Then doesn’t that make it fair game? Less salt too. Ah, it looks so delicious...

Zandolph shudders spontaneously.

“What’s up?” I ask.

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“...I sensed something incredibly unpleasant just now.”

“Huh? Where?” I look around, alarmed, but see nobody.

“No…Must've imagined it...”

We walk on. I kill time trying to guess what the misshapen hills used to be in the past, but the deadness of the place soon starts to get to me. There aren't even any gulls, or other birds, though the sea is close by. But though nothing can be seen, I have this disturbing feeling like we're not alone. What is it? The ghosts of the ancient dead? After how many died here, I wouldn't be surprised if this was the world's number one ghost hotspot. Oh, I hate ghosts! Why did I come here! Am I an idiot?

“Where is everybody?” I finally ask. “They're not all dead, are they? Did they move out? How long were you away again?”

“Hm? Can't you see?” Zandolph stops and looks back over her shoulder with a doubtful frown.

“See what? Hey, don't do that! What am I not seeing? Where are they?”

“Everywhere around you.”

What is she talking about? Not fucking funny!

My eyes are wide open, but I see nobody. Is she messing with me, or have I gone cuckoo? I look around one more time. Nothing. I turn around, and almost stumble on a round rock on the path—and then look again. There wasn't a rock there a moment ago!

It’s not a boulder, it’s a dark, bald man's head sticking up from the earth!

The face is grim and hard like stone, but the almost black eyes follow my every move.

“EEEEK!” I shriek and stagger around the head.

From there my gaze lands on a young girl with dreadlocks and a red tunic, standing on the path where we just came from. When did she pop there!? I didn't notice at all. She’s got the same ominous stare as the head and you sure wouldn’t want to see somebody like her come out of your TV at night.

As I keep turning, more and more strange people emerge from their hiding places, stepping out from behind boulders uphill, squeezing out of little holes under rocks, or digging straight up through the mounds of dirt—a scene like from the Day of the Living Dead plays out in front of me. Not making a sound, not even blinking, the strangers slowly approach us.

I retreat in front of the eerie mob, stumble in panic, and crawl quickly over to Zaldolph, to grab around her waist.

“AAH! PLEASE DON’T EAT ME! I TASTE REALLY BAD AND I SWEAR, I’LL WET MYSELF IF YOU COME ANY CLOSER! I’LL DO IT! DON’T PUSH ME!”

They don't listen.

Soon a crowd of maybe sixty or seventy very scary people gathers in a quiet circle close around Zandolph and me. Men and women of varying sizes and shapes, and ages, even young children. Are they really dragons? The ethnicities are all over the place, but most of them look passably human. A few have trouble with their spell. They have a horn or two jutting out of their heads, or scales growing on their limbs. Some have tails, or stumps of wings on their backs. The only thing they all seem to have in common are the reddish clothes. Nobody wears another color. Some have even drawn decorative lines and patterns on their arms and faces with red paint.

They do nothing but stand there looking grim, and stare at us—at Zandolph. Nobody seems to even notice I’m there.

Then, without a separate sign, the mob takes the knee and bows their heads low.

For a moment, I wonder if it’s a local “thanks for the grub”-prayer, but no. It’s very much an expression of deep respect. Almost religious reverence.

“...Looks like they missed you,” I tell Zandolph.

She snorts. “Helpless alone, that's what they are.”

An old man then stands back up. It was the baldie I almost stepped on. He looks older than the others, brown as a coffee bean, with a tuft of white, curly goatee on his chin. He does have a body too, a pretty well-fed body, dressed in a Roman-style toga (crimson, of course).

“Lord Zandolph,” the old man greets the lady and touches a hand on a fist. “We of the Flame Tribe bid you welcome home from your travels.”

Right, Zan did mention something about being the boss of a tribe. I have no idea what these tribes are about, though.

“Does that make you local royalty or something?” I ask her.

Maybe I shouldn’t cling to her so pathetically in front of her followers? It's not a breach of etiquette worth the capital sentence, is it? Not that I dare to let go either. For the record, I’m not using my fear of the dragons as an excuse to rub my cheek on her warm, rock-hard abs, okay?

“I’m not,” Zandolph spits, not hiding her frustration.

The old man seems to think otherwise.

“You are the firstborn spawn and heir to the Elder Wyrm, and after your sire the sole surviving Prime Color, the mightiest of us. You carry the honor and pride of not only the Flame Tribe, but the whole race of dragons. Far we may have fallen, but you must never forget that, nor deny who you are.”

It's some collection of titles.

I feel anger rise in Zandolph’s body like magma again and have to pull my face a little further away.

“I am the mightiest only because none of you fools have yet mustered the strength to win against me! That doesn’t mean I want to be your lord, or take over after my father. Rule yourselves! Make your own choices! How many times must I tell you!”

“Then why have you come back?” the man asks, mystified. “If not to accept your duty to lead us.”

Zandolph grabs my collar and detaches me from her waist.

“Because this—thing says our people are in grave danger.”

“Hi,” I wave nervously at the audience, hovering as close to Zan as I can without making it too awkward. “The name’s Zero. Human, age seven. A hero of justice; not edible. Also, somehow still single.”

It’s the first time I introduce myself to a crowd of world-eating monsters! What next!

There's a long pause, everyone staring at me. Then the old man raises a brow.

“Zero, as in the number...?”

“It’s—it’s symbolic,” I tell the watchers as they exchange confused looks. “There’s a deeper meaning.”

“Like what?” he blankly asks.

I wring my hands embarrassedly.

“...Look, it doesn’t sound half as cool, if I have to explain it. It's really fabulous inside my head, don’t ask me to ruin it. Please?”

“Well, I am Muirn,” the old man—the old dragon—says. “Just Muirn, of the Flame Tribe. Then, what is this great danger you speak of?”

Zandolph’s face darkens at the question. Her knuckles crack loudly as she tightens her fists and the air of murder comes back thick on her. Better I handle the explaining.

“Okay.” How should I put this? “It’s a pretty long story, but there’s something on your island that a certain very, very bad man wants, and he will probably do very bad things to get it. And we should get ready for him when he does. Yeah.”

“...”

They wait patiently for me to go on, but I can’t think of anything to add to that, and shrug.

“That…was not so very long,” Muirn comments.

“No,” I have to admit. “But it took a very long time to get here.”

Muirn looks at Zandolph. “My lord, are you certain you can trust what this…’human’ says?”

“No,” Zandolph answers without missing a beat.

“I see. Do you think it’s possible that this human herself could be the danger she has supposedly come to warn us about, and is only seeking to deceive us through you? That this is some sort of contrived plot to win our trust and betray us when we least expect it?”

She doesn't think over it for long now either. “Yes.”

“Would it not be better in that case, if we disregarded everything she says, throw her in the sea to fatten the fish, and put this matter behind us?”

“Maybe.”

Uhh, this dialogue isn't going in a very favorable direction.

“Then we shall do just that,” Muirn concludes and turns away.

The dragonfolk rise to their feet, their hungry eyes on me, ready to fly me away. But Zandolph’s not finished yet.

“—However,” she resumes and they all freeze in their tracks.

Standing tall, her face hard and grim, the Great Red One looks at the crowd and tells them,

“I have come to owe this squirrel a great debt. Until I've repaid it in full, I will do as she says, her reasons be damned.”

Aww. I might've been a little touched, if she didn't look so thoroughly fed up with the arrangement.

The effect of her words is instant. The others retreat, while old Muirn turns slowly back, wearing a sour face, but doesn’t object.

“...Then the Flame Tribe shall be at her bidding. What can we do to help?”

Damn nice. Music to my big ears. As much as Zandolph hates it, I appreciate there's clear hierarchy.

The threat of a horrid death again postponed, my confidence greatly boosted for it, I take a step forward.

“I have a pretty good idea on where to get started,” I tell them—and then raise my empty water bottle.

“After someone gets me a refill of non-salty.”