When I was small my Father told me that I was a dragon, that our family line was ripe with dragons. One night he sat me down in his study, in an armchair beside the fire, and laid out a blanched scroll on the central table—an ancient scroll, so he told me—a family tree that went back generations. He took my hand in his and together we traced our roots back up to our earliest ancestors.

“This was your Grandfather, this his Mother, this his Uncle…”

Soft words in the gloom, as the fire crackled on across the room. I remember only a calm, cozy feeling aside from the roughness of his voice and hands. Together we drifted through the ages. With each notable member he told me stories I would forever cherish. My great-grandfather, who invented the steam-train, my great-great-great Aunt, who had served as hand of the Empress during her long reign. There has always been a certain pedigree in my line; enough rich blood to fill a fountain.

But as we went higher, the names became unreadable to me. Many were written in letters that I did not recognise or could not pronounce. The common names changed. Lestrim became Lestim, which became Lesir, Lazir, Laszier, and finally L’aszeth. By the time we reached the earliest names at the top of the parchment, even my Father who was well versed in the history of old could not pronounce them, and had to make the sounds one by one like a child learning to read. The higher we went the vaguer the stories became. He told me briefly about the origins on our line, how a great war had caused our ancestors to flee to the southern fathoms, out of the mountains, where the air was warmer and new alligiences were formed with the Hewing Tribes.

Then came one of the oldest names at the top of the tree, written in smudged ink that made me squint to try and read.

“This is a very special name,” said Father. “Can you say it?”

“Ah-” I began to sound it out. “Ah-ss-z-eer.”

“Aszir,” my Father echoed. “Do you have any idea who that might be?”

I scanned my memory but came up with nothing. I’d only just started to study world history, my tutor had started me off with simple things—the famous wars of history, the division of land through the course of time.

“No Father,” I said. I knew better than to lie. Lying could mean a deft hand to the back of the head. “I don’t know.”

“Aszir was a dragon,” he said, his finger pressed against the name. “A true dragon, from head to tail. From wing to wing.” As he spoke I saw such fire in his eyes, a fixed intensity towards the parchment that I’d only seen in him when he was deep in drink and foul-tempered. There was something alarming about it, something maddened in those eyes that looked ever-so much like mine. “Aszir had scales, wondrous scales. Teeth as sharp as rapiers, eyes that could see for a thousand miles. He was black as night. Magestic as a cloud once he took flight.”

“What about fire, Father?” I asked. “Could he breathe fire, too?”

“Oh yes. He could breathe fire. It is said that when Aszir took to the skies all those on the ground knew to run for cover. Farmers hurried their sheep into their pens, women coddled their children in the dark; armies floundered at the mere beat of his wings!”

He was looking out the window, standing erect like a statue. Sometimes that’s how I thought of him - a chisled man, carved out of stone, always looking to the distance. That evening all there was outside was rain, an endless veil that obscured the lowlands. He looked pleased with himself, somehow, no longer in the room, the sides of his mouth taut in some glorious vision of the past.

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“But Father,” I questered, knowing well enough to choose my words carefully. “How can it be that our ancestor is a dragon? We don’t look anything like dragons. We’re normal folk, like any other.”

The triumphant look on his face faded into a scowl and I cowered deeper into the back of the armchair. He knelt down beside me and for a moment I worried if he would change on me. ‘Changing’ was what I called it as a young boy whenever he snapped at me. In these moments he was not my Father but a demon who’d replaced him, or one who possesed him at random moments to get me. Thankfully his hands, although rough, did not strike me that evening. Instead he pressed one against my chest and made me look him deep in the eyes.

“Oh no, no, no, my sweet boy! I can’t have you believing what the others do out there. That’s just the same question they ask, don’t you see? We can’t have that. This is the greatest lie ever told. You must know this.”

I remember feeling uneasy, I caught a tenebrous flicker of shadow across the warm glow of the fireplace behind Father. He pushed his hands tighter to my chest.

“If there is one lesson you ever take from me, then know this: you are a dragon. I am a dragon. Though the bloodline has dwindled through the years, through misuse and treachery, we are dragons. The blood I gave for you is dragon blood, don’t you see? Wonderous dragon blood; potent as flame. You do see it, don’t you?”

And then he gripped me by the collar of my shirt and pulled me closer so that he could whisper in my ear. A low voice, a growl that reminded me an awful lot of a dragon from an old story.

“You are a dragon, aren’t you? I need to hear you say it. I am a dragon, Father. I am a dragon. Say it!”

“I am a dragon, Father!” I stammered, he was pushing up against my chest so hard that I thought my ribs might crack beneath the weight of him. “I am a dragon!”

He hesitated, then released me, and his face softened into the warm smile that I like to remember him by. A dragon is not only fierce. A dragon is also merciless and wise, and kind when the turn of the wind takes him.

“Yes you are, my boy,” he said. “A dragon indeed. A real dragon. One day we’ll shed these filthy human bodies, and then the whole world will know, won’t they?”

“Yes Father,” I said.

He and I had that same conversation more times than I could count. At least once a span I was taken to his study, where we would scour the map. In those days my Father neglected his land and title, preferring to spend long hours beside a lantern, reading old books. He’d often explain to me his ‘new discoveries’ and I knew well enough to be amazed by them. At the end of each session he would grip me by the shirt just as he’d done that first evening, and wouldn’t let go until I repeated the words tenfold.

“I am a dragon, Father! I am a dragon!”

In time I grew to believe that I truly was. I’d see wings in my reflection, at the wash house, in my Mother’s dresser. A great shadow enveloped my own, one with jagged angles and leafy scales that shed from my wingspan, a gaping maw that opened wide to yawn up at the night’s sky; sown as it was with stars.

As I grew I usually kept the dragon to myself. Other children laughed at me, my elders gave me funny looks whenever I asked about it. In their minds dragons had long faded from the world—a sentiment that always made me laugh. How could they be gone from the world, when I was one myself?

Sometimes I’d be forced to show my wings. When some boys at the academy threw stones at me I let them burst from my back! I hovered before them, roared in splendour, sent them crashing to the cobbles! After that they were all tears and apologies—and there was blood on my lips, on my tongue; the delicate taste of iron. But mostly I kept the secret all through the years, as I became a young man and my Father’s health faltered.

In his final days they had to lock him in a room. And there he sat, there he babbled on for days in a row about dragons; our family line, how the world had treated us so unfairly. Despite his withered face and body, still whenever I came to him he would grab me, press his ear to my lips, and make me say the words:

I am a dragon. I am a dragon.

It was our little secret, one that he kept with him until the grave. I made sure they put a dragon crest on his coffin, ignoring the disdain of my Mother. She couldn’t understand. She couldn’t possibly know anything—for she was of lesser blood. She should have been praising my feet every day. Few mortals have the good fortune to birth a dragon into the world. And I was just that, now my Father was dead. A dragon. The last living dragon.

And that night, with his body freshly buried, I decided that I would transcend the mortal skin I was riddled with. I would do what he could not. As I slept I said the words tenfold to the darkness of my room: I am a dragon. I am a dragon. Only this time I was surprised to hear a voice call back to me.

Yes, you are the dragon. But there is much work to be done.