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Once every week, the locals gather in the ruins of the forgotten capital of Crulea for a traditional get-together. Their version of Sunday church, or along those lines. Not that there’s anything religious or formal about the occasion. No dress code, you can come as you are. No common agenda, or recurring rituals with a choir and wafers. No sermons of hellfire, no stoning of non-binaries, or witches burned, no blood sacrifices to the blood god either.

Sometimes they sing. Sometimes they dance, or do funny tricks, or maybe just talk.

Killing time is the goal. A weekly dose of healthy bonding across tribal barriers, as the doctor prescribed.

Participation is voluntary. Not everyone on the island could squeeze together into the city hall, anyway, not even in human form. Only those who happen to be free and in the hood pop in.

Our gang's probably the only one with a real reason to attend.

After double-checking and triple-checking that my ass won’t wind up on the menu, and nobody will frown on outsiders too much, I resolve to bite the bullet and follow along.

This is where the largest crulean city used to be, but having been built on flat land exposed to weather, its more worn down than the other settlements. There's hardly anything left of the buildings, only smooth hills and bumps. Like big igloos made of sand. With one exception.

Near the center of the ruins rises a flat hill larger than the others. I couldn't tell you what that building originally used to be. Any identifying features have been long shaved off the rounded walls. But under that mound is the dragons' city hall, or a community center, a common ground for all the twelve tribes that otherwise stick to their private zones.

There are no entryways left in the building itself, but a stone's throw apart, in an old street corner, is a covered mouth of a tunnel, like a sand-dressed subway entrance. That's where everyone’s going. As we approach that ominous descent into darkness, Zandolph suddenly stops.

“My father is there,” she says to me. “He will not take the news of my return gladly. It’s best he doesn’t see me at all. Go with Muirn and the others. I will wait for you at the clan house.”

“Not on the best of terms, are you?”

“My father's wishes regarding the path I should take and my own have—drifted apart. Irreconcilable.”

Relatable problems. I’m not so sure I want to split ways with the only person around who has any stake in my well-being, but what can you do. We have mysteries that want answers.

I entrust my wholesomeness to the Flame Tribe and we enter the unlit tunnel.

There may have been stairs here before, but the dragons have walked them off over the eons. All that’s left is a smooth stone slide diving into the desert's bowels. The descent is long, and then joins a series of clearly artificial tunnels. We follow one tube to the east, in the big building's general direction.

There are no lamps to show the way. The natives don’t carry torches or lanterns. They don’t need any. Their eyes glow in the dark like fiery buttons, able to see easily even in the total absence of light sources. But I’m the same way. The human in me is scared shitless, but there's also another part in me that feels mysteriously at home in that black underground hellscape in the company of monsters. At times, I scare myself.

Murin speaks as we walk,

“To tell you the truth, it is for lord Zandolph’s sire that we began this tradition of gathering. And it is his house where we are going.”

“Really? His own home?”

“As the sole survivor of the First Brood, the Elder Wyrm cannot change his form but may only appear as a true dragon. Moreover, he bears an old injury, which causes him great pain as he moves. That wound makes life above in the sun difficult for him. So we entertain him in his unhappy confinement underground and bring him gifts. To make his days a little easier on him.”

“Hey, that’s really nice of you.”

I have experience looking after elderly, so I know just how much even a little bit of help means to the other person. Though it’s not a person in this case, but the same sentiments apply.

“And that other person's here too?” I ask.

Muirn nods.

“It was two summers ago now when this human appeared, this woman. She washed ashore in a small boat, alone, and told us she had run away from her own people. I have not heard the full story, but she supposedly possesses certain powers, which made the other humans fear and envy her. An attempt was made on the human's life, after which she stole the boat, and was caught up in a storm that brought her to us.”

Sailed all the way here—from where? Noertia? Must’ve been one hell of a storm. The kind that ships little girls and dogs between Kansas and Oz.

“And you let her stay?” I ask, raising a brow.

“Why wouldn't we? As said, we don’t get very many visitors. The human doesn’t eat much, and watching her behavior became a popular source of entertainment for a time.”

“She's your pet now?” These are the first people to turn voyeurism into a national sport.

“Oh, nothing so crass,” Muirn argues. “We place no restrictions on her life here. The human was a bit wary of us at first, but she has settled down quite nicely by now. The boat is still there, but she hasn’t made an effort to leave, so I dare say she doesn't mind staying too much.”

It gets even weirder.

I've been here a day and if I weren't crazy to start with, I'd definitely be now.

“What do you know about her powers? What got her chased out of her own land?”

“Only what I heard from my acquaintances in the Night Tribe. I believe they said she has an unusual talent for healing magic. But it matters little to us. The intensity of our own life force unravels most forms of foreign magic, good or evil. Human rituals are far too feeble to work either way.”

“Right.”

So a magician...That doesn't put me at ease.

Muirn continues,

“But she does also have another talent, which many of us found more impressive.”

“What’s that…?”

I can hear the old dragon smile as he answers,

“She has a pretty nice voice.”

We step from the tunnel into a large cavern, or a hall. An amphitheater, a boss chamber, a public forum, a hockey arena, or whatever, built entirely underground. A piece of the ceiling has caved in near the center, creating a crack through which a wide blade of moonlight cuts in. It bathes the interior with its phantasmal glow and I can see a sea of flat stone seats rising in oval rings from the central floor to the exits.

In the middle is a round clearing, filled by an enormous statue.

At first my brain dismisses it only as a dark hill of debris, an irregular pile formed of collapsed stone. But as I stare at it longer, distinct shapes start to emerge: long, branching horns; vast, folded bundles of leathery wings; dark arms, massive hands, skeletal fingers with gigantic, curved claws; a long tail coiled around the resting, quadruped body…

My mind makes a last-ditch effort to keep its sanity by explaining the sight as an idol built by the dragons to honor their ancestors, a fancy sculpture to capture their national spirit, an icon of power and terror. Anything a mortal could still somehow tolerate as real. Because even for a dragon, that thing's already much too huge. The hall must be seventy, eighty meters high at its highest, and the head of the colossus still scrapes the ceiling, though it’s sitting down on all-fours.

Then I see the infernal, barbed contraption that I assume is the head turn, and almost faint on the spot.

That's not a statue.

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It’s a horror.

The hum and rumble I’ve been hearing since we came underground, like that of a passing underground train, is actually the sound of that monstrosity breathing. Its lungs pump air in and out like in the engine room of an old cruise ship. That thing there, seated like a resting dog, like a shadow of a devil ripped from the lowest depths of Cocytus—it’s entirely one hugeass dragon. The one lizard to rule them all. Zandolph’s old man.

My legs weak, I drop on the edge of the nearest bench and lean on my knees to steady myself. I can look away, but I can’t escape that horrid, metallic pumping of air. The rhythm of the breaths vibrates along the ground and creeps up along my bones. I cover my ears and wish I were anywhere but here.

Old Muirn’s voice speaks from somewhere nearby,

“Allow me to introduce to you, our ruler, the last of the greats, the sole survivor of the First Brood, and the chieftain of the Night Tribe: the Elder Wyrm; the Epitomic Black,

——Metathron.”

I force myself to look at it again, at that unhappy marriage of sharp edges and spikes, melted and twisted into this single, gigantic hunk of nightmares. And I grimace. Even while several times folded behind the back, its wings occupy space above the seats like a second ceiling. The whole body is covered in sleek scales darker than black. On both sides of the huge, hideous head, I see three pairs of eyes and one more in the middle of the forehead, all brightly glowing like car lights. Its wide maw is framed with a three-layer palisade of teeth that are like spears, each fang longer than a man stands tall, and harder than steel.

Don’t ask me to tell you more, because I can’t stand to look at it any longer.

It has to be the most grotesque thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on, right after Penlann’s hairy ass crack, when he was reaching for cognac on the stop shelf one night and his belt buckle snapped. Of course, I was seated at the counter when it had to happen. Oh, the things my retinas have endured.

Sweet Virgin Mother. There goes our PG-13.

I’d be okay with bowing out now, but Muirn and the others stroll casually down the stairs to get seats closer to the front row. Unable to bear sitting alone, I can only follow along, hiding in their shadow, and pray that godfather of Giger’s bad dreams won’t notice me.

Do all dragons look like that when they change shape?

We’re not the only guests tonight, which helps my efforts to blend in. There are people from all tribes coming in, as Muirn said they would, occupying their own regular sector of seats around the hall. You can tell the tribes apart by the colors they wear. Flame Tribe is crimson. Night Tribe is black. Storm is deep blue, Air a lighter cobalt. Earth a composed brown. Guess the rest. There must be hundreds, thousands of visitors, but the stone benches are still riddled with wide open gaps, speaking of the scale of the cavern.

The gathering begins at nine o'clock sharp. We sit and wait.

Wonder what the show is like tonight? Hope they’re not doing Requiem.

Then I see a vision that makes me forget my existential terror.

A woman in a light gray robe passes us by, on the way down the stairs.

A human woman. Even with a veil to cover her head, I can tell she's a 100% certified mortal, no illusions.

The lukewarm heat of her body, the tender beat of the soft heart in her chest is all you need to be sure.

Her airy robe sways and flows like a luminous afterimage at each unhurried step, her head piously bowed. Her hands are clasped in front of the chest and she goes calmly, undisturbed at being surrounded by hordes of apocalyptic monsters that follow her each step with twinkling eyes.

What little I see of her hair is blonde, sheared short. The face looks fairly young, near early twenties. But dayum that rack. The way the baggy clothes fold around her generously round shapes only seems to draw more attention to them. I get an almost irresistible urge to give her hems a good flip, but then she’s already out of reach.

The woman goes to the center of the hall and the giant dragon and lays her small hand on its claw. She looks up at the creature, without fear, compassion in her green eyes. Its one finger is the size of a school bus and could mash her like a fruit fly, but it doesn’t. The dragon lowers its freaky head and a low, resonant sound erupts from its long, steely throat, an uncannily cat-like purr. It’s almost like they care about each other, the human and the beast.

That feels—so illegal, on so many levels.

Muirn leans over to whisper,

“The sound of the human’s singing voice soothes the pain of our lord’s wounds. When the human learned this, she offered to come sing for him every night. Rather nice of her, wouldn’t you say?”

“She just sings?” I ask. “What else does she do around here?”

Muirn shrugs in answer. “Not much else there to do. She offered to cook and do laundry too. But we prefer our meat raw and our clothes are only illusions, and had no need for such favors. There was no need to do anything, really. But this was one thing she insisted on.”

“Okay.”

I didn’t think anyone would want to live in this Death Valley that badly, but to each their own, I guess.

There’s one more thing I want to know, but I’m reluctant to ask it.

It feels like I really shouldn't. But it could be important.

“You said the Elder Wyrm was injured? Can I ask how he was hurt?”

Strong regenerative abilities are par for the course when it comes to immortality. Dragons aren’t an exception to that. They should be able to recover from virtually any non-lethal injuries, given enough time. It’s weird for something as strong as a Prime Color to still be bothered by past nicks and scratches.

Muirn’s face sours and it takes a while for him to answer. As I thought, it’s not a happy topic.

Right as I’m about to pretend I never asked, he brings his voice down and explains,

“It happened when the last of our kind were banished to this island, near the end of the previous age. Lord Metathron was struck by a weapon bearing a curse the elves had created specifically to kill us. That curse prevents injuries from healing by natural means. Our abilities cannot lift it either.”

“Ow.”

Magic that prevents healing—in other words, a ritual that counteracts immortality. Developing techniques like that should be a strict taboo for emiri, who are no less susceptible to it themselves. It runs contrary to their naturalist principles. Real Black Magic. Forbidden dark arts.

“Did you at least get the bastard who did it?”

“No.” Muirn bitterly shakes his head at my question. “That man is still out there. We do not speak his name. But you should know it was to avenge her father’s pain that Lord Zandolph left to your realm.”

“……….”

Oh hell.

Standing between the front legs of the monster, the woman closes her eyes and starts to sing.

I forget myself listening. Muirn was right—she really has a nice voice. It rings light but firm in the emptiness of the hall, easily reaching even to the backmost rows. She sings in the Old Tongue, about air and about sea. About distant love, for someone you can’t remember. About old things that end and new things that rise from the shadows of receding winter.

I’m not a huge fan of tearjerker ballads, but I have to admit her use of voice is masterful. Every consonant is a pleasure to receive and every stretched vowel like a caressing hand, consoling. Caring. Lulling.

Then my Third Eye starts giving me pop-up notifications.

“What now...?”

It’s very subtle, almost too faint to recognize, but the sound waves themselves carry a charge of magical energy. The lyrics conceal ritual structures. Not the words themselves, but that specific order and rhythm of notes. The song fades from my ears as I read the shapeless strings of information. They don't seem to have any clear effect. No identifiable purpose.

Is she even aware of what she’s doing? I can't tell.

But I can see something else.

Dragons are famous for their magic immunity—but that’s not entirely true.

They're not immune, they simply have high resistance. The dragon heart works as a magic generator of sort, producing mana to support the giant creatures' heavy bodies. The internal mana flow works like a tight-knit hauberk that automatically buffers outside magical energy—anything weaker is blown away. And who could dish out enough mojo to overpower such a walking castle?

But there are other ways.

Every castle's weak point is its door.

It turns out sound waves can pass through the open ear canals into the brain, without making contact with the mana-loaded blood. Sound is generally used only to catalyze magic—like in incantations. It never occurred to me it could serve as a medium to store eidos on its own. But that's what I'm looking at now.

Being able to tinker with the properties of normally invisible radiation takes a very rare affinity for a certain element.

The element of pure information—that which mages have named “Dark”.

The Dark matter that fills the universe, acting unseen. The mass of knowledge.

The diva’s ability isn’t “healing”. Her magic sneaks into the Elder Wyrm’s headspace and switches off pain receptors, working much like magical painkillers. If you’re not particularly hurt, it’s only a nice hymn. But once the charm’s done its job, it doesn’t leave. The strings of data bond with the dragon’s own mana and enter circulation.

Little by little, she’s filling him with—love? Not likely.

What are those leftover data fragments supposed to do? I can't tell.

I look closer at the outward innocent dame. Soon enough, I pick out the faint, foreign energy reading, the hotspot of mana discreetly placed on the back of the neck. A brand.

The song comes to an end.

The audience all stands and starts applauding. As we do, I turn to Muirn and whisper,

“Real lovely, no lie. Does the star have a name?”

“Ah, yes,” Muirn nods, slapping his palms together. “A funny coincidence, now that you mention it. I heard she has a name a lot like yours.”

“Huh?”

“She calls herself ‘Three’.”