The Dragon of Sungard

Sungard floats high above the clouds, but the magic that holds up the city is failing, and the world below is deadly. The new Queen of Sungard must find in herself the strength and guile to keep the city alive.

This story earned an Honorable Mention in the Writers of the Future contest.

***

By daring skill, your kingdom will

Be razed and not survive.

By wisdom will your power build

And see your scepter thrive.

— Queen Delia the Frail

The rising sun has chased every star from the horizon, though many still glitter in the midnight-blue sky overhead. I stand at the edge of our island, which is held by sorcery above the clouds, and look out over the sea below writhing under high winds. A salty gust chills me, and I pull the royal mantle tightly around my shoulders, my numb fingers intertwined in its golden fur. Whether I tremble from frost or fear, I cannot say. Fragments of land drift in midair before me like scattered dice, the treacherous pathway from the coastland up to our stronghold: Sungard, the City of Warriors. And I am her Queen. No longer am I Princess Delphine. I am Queen Delphine.

My father was still warm in his grave when I hired a band of mercenary brigands to loot the dragons. I’ll know today whether they succeeded. I chose the best mercenaries money could buy and offered to pay them, well, royally; but perhaps even the best are insufficient for such ambitious marks as dragons.

A guttural roar breaks the morning silence. Eyes narrowing, I search the coastal landscape below. The mountain, Inferno Pike, is the first to react: two dragons burst out, rise like arrows toward the sky, then extend their spiked wings and begin circling. Next is Hell’s Obelisk, that impenetrable stone tower, then Wyrms Barrow, then numerous others. Dragons swarm up from the earth like hornets. The morning chorus to greet today’s sunrise will silence the birds, for it is the roaring of dragons, and their flight is the morning dance. Despite my dread, I can’t help but smile at what I’ve orchestrated. There’s no turning back now. The dragons will be our salvation—or demise.

The pale spirit of a lion approaches, half walking, half drifting. He is Atlas, the totem of my ancestors. Glowing veins of sky-blue dance like lightning throughout his misty white body, the same hue as his eyes. Atlas was a minotaur before my father died, but with the addition of my father’s spirit, he became a lion. When I die, his shape will reflect my spirit, which I’m certain won’t be a lion, nor anything else so regal. A sprite or raven, perhaps. No past ruler of Sungard has been anything like me.

Atlas speaks without sound, thoughts flowing into my mind like rivers into an ocean, not always clear where his end and mine begin.

So, you’ve done it. You’ve ruined us.

He’s glaring at me with eyes of blue fire, so I’m confident these thoughts are his—mostly. I’m still not used to having another mind coinhabiting mine, an exposure far worse than mere nakedness. As his thoughts blend with mine, I feel already that I am losing myself to his vast, inexorable mind. It is a dreadful unity, but one I might as well get used to.

Though he holds centuries of ancestors, I direct my reply only to my father for now. It’s less overwhelming that way. As I recall, you brought Sungard to the edge of ruin long before I came of age. You leave me the broken shards of a kingdom and expect me to carry on as you did? No. ‘By wisdom will your power build and see your scepter thrive.’

A quote from my mother, the only great poet Sungard ever produced. Her moniker, Delia the Frail, is a misnomer I sorely despise. Granted, her body was sickly and perished before I even reached womanhood, but her mind... What words poured from that wild and stormy soul, what whirlwinds of wit and passion, what wisdom to shake the very foundations of reality! She, too, lives in me, her thoughts entangled with mine.

Do not quote that worm to me, growls Atlas, a reminder that he is not merely my father, whose adoration of his wife now drowns in a sea of spirits and could hardly surface. The reminder stings me with sorrow. Then anger rises.

Her blood has mingled with yours, I reply, not deigning to look at the lion. When I join you, to hate her will be to hate a part of yourself.

With a huff, Atlas falls silent.

The sun hangs low over the horizon, casting long shadows toward me from the trees and mountains. Tall and stately among them stands Insight, the Arcane City, our great adversary.

“Where are they?” I whisper, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and fidgeting with the silver sword-and-shield clasp that holds my mantle in place. “They should be here by now.”

There. Atlas nods toward the coastline.

I peer into the soft morning light, and yes, seven dark figures, cloaked and hooded, are speeding like wraiths toward the Stairway to Sungard. I hired ten, but a death or two seemed inevitable. Three is no surprise. They’ll seek full payment regardless, and they’ll have it.

The figures leap from islet to islet on their way to us, three dark elves, two dryads, and two indigo-skinned little imps with red eyes, covered in spines; changelings, I’m told, begging the question of why they prefer to look so grotesque by default. As they pad across the grassy islet nearest me, I catch my first glimpse of the expressions lurking in the shadows of their hoods: livid, every one of them. I worry that I may have to slaughter them—with the help of Atlas, of course. He can’t attack in the usual lion way, but an attack on the spirit is nothing to sneer at, and neither am I.

“Well?” I say as the mercenaries take their places before me, eyes glittering with murder.

Their leader, the dark elf, Kovai, steps forward. “We lost three comrades last night,” he snarls through pointed teeth.

“Three!” I cry, pressing my hands together in a supplicating gesture and allowing my eyes to moisten. Even I am somewhat convinced. “I am truly sorry, Kovai. I mourn the loss of your friends as though they were my own children.”

Atlas grumbles, The sword at your waist has slain warlocks, ogres ... giants! Yet here you are, cowering behind a veil of deceit. Because Atlas is my totem, only I can perceive his words. I can also ignore them.

Kovai narrows his eyes, and his fingers creep toward the black hilt of his dagger. “You will pay the share of my fallen comrades.”

With a slight upward tilt of the head, I peer down at him with a now imperious air. “Did you conceal the treasures where I instructed?”

He laughs bitterly. “We’ve never failed a job and did not begin today. At great cost, the work is done.”

My hand rises to stroke my chin. I feign thoughtfulness. Finally, I nod. “Fine. As a token of our goodwill, Sungard will pay the share of your fallen comrades—a little extra to boot. You have our sincerest gratitude.”

An especially thunderous roar echoes across the landscape below, and I know that Dagruin, the Lord of Dragons, has stirred. My heart leaps, and I wonder if I really could kill him. With a clenched jaw, I steel my nerves, for we’ve only just begun.

“I know what you’re doing,” Kovai remarks, studying my face.

A faint smile touches the edge of my mouth. “No. You don’t.”

#

The mercenaries are paid and sent on their way, after which I head for the palace, its gray spires jutting up into the bright cold sky. My destination, Mystic Hall, lies at the end of the cavernous East Wing. I stride through the open door of the hall, steps echoing off the stones, and find our three alchemists gathered beyond the crackling hearth, whispering urgently. The mages notice me immediately, for I am tall and powerfully built, and my armored boots land heavily. I approach, enjoying the warmth of the fire and smoky aroma. The alchemists’ whispering briefly intensifies before they fall silent and turn to me with nervous smiles.

I offer a cold smile in return. “Any improvement?” I ask.

“My Queen,” begins Archmage Thalia, hesitating. Dark pits beneath her eyes hint at the pressure and exhaustion crushing her daily. My subjects deserve better.

I sigh and cross my arms. “Out with it.”

“It’s worse,” she admits. “Our supply will be gone by spring at the current rate.”

“After which Sungard must descend? You’ve made no more crystals?—ascertained no alternate means of ascension?”

She nods wearily and bows, defeated. “All true, my Queen.”

My father would have taken one look at that bowed head and buried his knife in the top of it for such dire news. Our descent will be the end of Sungard. It’s easy to imagine how it would happen: pit spiders springing from their holes, dragging my wriggling subjects down into their subterranean dens to liquefy their insides; ogres boiling the flesh off our children; beds of venom grass sprouting in our courtyards, lulling us to sleep, dissolving our corpses. The world below will overrun us. Quickly. But Celestium Crystals are the fuel that keeps Sungard flying, and we’ve run dreadfully short.

Kill her, Atlas growls, and perhaps I should. But I am not my father.

I make a point of sounding fearsome when I tell Thalia and her fellow alchemists to get out of my sight and keep working. They scurry away, heads bowed, never suspecting that their meager fear would quail at the sight of mine. They fear simple death. I fear that my legacy will be the end of Sungard and the deaths of everyone I know and love. I would gladly trade my fear for theirs.

#

That evening, I’m sitting in King’s Hall when a flame-red reptilian with bright green eyes strolls in from the far side and starts down the crimson runway toward my throne. He wears dragon-scale armor, spiked at the joints, and his clawed hand grips a curved sword, serrated like teeth near the hilt. My pulse quickens, and the world seems to slow and grow vivid and clear—a warrior’s alertness. With a low growl, Atlas steps between me and the formidable intruder.

“Be calm,” I tell Atlas aloud, waving him down. “Nivalar the Dragonborn is always welcome in Sungard. Welcome, Prince of Dragons.”

“Too kind,” the reptilian croons as he strides forward, his serpentine eyes darting rapidly around the hall in search of stolen treasure. He nods toward Atlas. “Is it dangerous?”

“Yes,” I say, rising, then walk to the end of the platform and descend the stairs to greet him at the end of the runway. “I presume you’re here concerning the theft.”

The reptilian’s head whips toward me like a snagged anchor, eyes fierce and puzzled. I’m in control and must remain that way. “Yes,” he hisses with such force that anyone weaker than I would have winced. “You know something of it?”

“Perhaps,” I say. “Would you like some wine?”

“I would like our treasures.”

Nodding, I turn, ascend the stairs, and return to my throne. Nivalar follows and stands up on the platform a few strides ahead of me, well within striking distance. “Very well,” I continue. “I’ll tell you what I know.” For effect, I pause and study his scaly red face for a moment. “You know, of course, that we have spies in the Arcane City?”

Nivalar couldn’t know this, seeing that it’s not true, but what self-respecting leader will deny such knowledge when presumed to possess it? “Of course,” he answers. “And?”

“Well,” I begin, leaning back and waving my hands with professorial pomp, “earlier this year, when the first winter frost had only just coated the grass, my spies sent word to me of whispers, plans to pillage the dragons and conceal their treasures. I felt certain that it was nonsense, for who would be so foolish? Only ... the rumors persisted. This morning, when the dragons filled the skies below, I worried that Insight’s foolishness had become a reality.”

“The Arcane City...” Nivalar growls and falls into pensive silence. He knows what everyone knows, that Insight is unassailable, even for the dragons. Their high wall, their army of battlemages, the mysterious unknown arts by which they’ll leave one skittering in the shadows, frothing at the mouth like a demon—the Arcane City is a fortress of stone and sorcery.

I burst into harsh laughter. “Your fear is thick in the air!” Bold words to such a mighty and prideful creature. The thrill of it is like the thrill of standing in a lightning storm, knowing any bolt could scorch my bones and send me to the ancestors.

Eyes glittering, he takes a step toward me. “Would you like to see how afraid I am?”

I grip the edges of my throne and fix a hard glare on him as though prepared for battle. Atlas growls again, and Nivalar faintly recoils but stands his ground. If it comes to a fight, Nivalar will win—but he doesn’t know it.

“Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my allies?” I say, relaxing. Another axiom from Mother. “Your dragons cannot invade Insight alone. Your losses would be too great. Sungard is willing to assist you, however. Performed together, the task will not be so difficult. Send Lord Dagruin this message from the Queen of Sungard: The Arcane City has committed a vile act of greed against you, a testament to their belief that they stand indomitable, even before the almighty dragons. Sungard, the City of Warriors, will join you in retrieving your treasures ... for a price.”

“Ah, the catch,” Nivalar says, sneering. “And what is it that you want?”

“We are simple warriors,” I say, frowning as though confused. “Scheming is for those too weak to prevail by force. One rule in Sungard is indeed very simple: we will not risk the lives of our people without fair payment. Is this the ‘catch’ you speak of?”

Nivalar’s sneer fades. “As I said, what do you want?”

“Half.”

“Half!” he cries with a scornful laugh. “You expect us to relinquish half our treasures?”

My brow tightens, and I increase my air of confusion. “Give up your treasures? Certainly not! We go to retrieve them for you. They are yours. Even so, once you’ve taken the Arcane City, you will surely wish to pillage and collect more than your own treasures—yes?”

Nodding slowly, thoughtfully, Nivalar lets his gaze fall to the floor as he considers my words. Misleading him to think I sought a share of the dragons’ treasure was simply foreplay, a way of putting him in the mood to grant a request that now seems far smaller than it would have before. Now, he thinks not merely of retrieving the dragons’ treasures, but of gaining even more.

Cleverness in service to idiocy, grunts Atlas. Your mother would be proud.

It was you who first suggested challenging Insight, I reply, and what a beautifully audacious thought. Insight undoubtedly holds enough Celestium Crystals to keep Sungard safely in the sky for generations to come. A simple task, sacking Insight, and all but impossible.

I suggested nothing like this, Atlas growls.

Indeed, I answer. You suggested mere idiocy, and I found the way of wisdom.

A warrior's noble death is no mere idiocy, says Atlas with great bitterness. With every crooked trick, you shame us afresh.

The words of my ancestors burn me, fill me with sorrow. I hope my father doesn’t feel this way, but perhaps there is no Father anymore. Perhaps he is no more than a wisp or whisper in the vast mind of Atlas. I wish to honor my ancestors, truly—to be a Queen they adore, in whom they take pride—but my mother’s blood runs wild in my veins. I see beauty, moves and countermoves, poetry, possibilities—I see it all! Is the path to honoring my ancestors the path of willful blindness, the path of silencing the voice of my mother in me? If so, I will not do it. I’m not even certain I could. Can the giant will itself into a halfling?

Nivalar’s voice breaks me from my reflections. “I will bring your offer to the Lord of Dragons,” he says. “You will have our answer within a fortnight.”

“Very well,” I say. I bow and, upon rising, offer him one last morsel of bait: “Meantime, I will seek information from my spies concerning the location of your treasures. We shall eagerly await your return, Nivalar, Prince of Dragons. Farewell.”

#

A few nights later, the court fool enters my chambers unannounced. The crazed expression on his smooth, youthful face complements his colorful attire. “Catastrophe!” he cries, arms waving in the torchlight to make undulating shadows that sway back and forth across the wall.

Tense and expectant, I study the fool. “Speak plainly,” I say, rising to face him.

The fool studies me back, his dark eyes piercing mine. He crouches and creeps forward like a cat stalking its prey. “Queen Delia the Frightfully Clever would never have requested such assistance to understand the riddles of her—” he gives a deep bow, arms extended like wings—“humble fool.” When he rises from bowing, a grin has engulfed his wild face from ear to ear.

He is correct, but I’m not my mother. “You’re off to a poor start,” I answer dangerously. “Don’t be foolish.”

“A splendid pun!” he cries, clapping his soft little hands. He goes still and silent with a suddenness that startles me. “Archmage Thalia collapsed from exhaustion. You’ll kill her.” Before I can reply, he turns and bounds like a hare out of my chambers. I’m left gaping at the empty doorway.

I demanded that he speak plainly, and he did.

#

                   Archmage Thalia lives in a house built into the city wall. I find her there, lying in bed, glistening with sweat. Her husband stands beside her bed and glowers at me when I enter. Their child, a boy no more than seven years old, sits trembling at her feet. The room smells of sweat and incense and stale bread. Pale rays of moonlight fall diagonally across the room, igniting the dust drifting in its path with a glittering fairy-like glow.

Thalia’s husband turns toward me and plants his feet, a laughable attempt. “Move,” I say, striding toward him until we are face-to-face. “Now.”

Jaw clenching and unclenching frantically, tears filling his eyes, he relents and moves aside. Thalia looks up at me with an expression that is tranquil but full of sorrow. “You’re here to kill me,” she says. It’s not a question. She knows. To speak it aloud is to accept it. She is a true daughter of Sungard.

The little boy at her feet shrieks, “No!” He runs to me and starts pounding me with his little fists before his father grabs the brave child and hauls him, flailing and screaming, out of the room.

Do it, Atlas growls. She knows no weakness can be allowed to nest in Sungard. She’s prepared to join her ancestors with honor.

I kneel beside the alchemist and brush aside a damp clump of hair matted against her forehead. “I pushed you too hard,” I whisper. “Please forgive me.”

Her brow tightens, and she looks pleadingly into my eyes. It’s a silent plea for her life, for the mother of her child, the wife of her husband. I see in her eyes what my mother would have seen: that Thalia is one small person, but a person whose life is everything to her and to those who love her—and I am one of them.

“Take the time you need to heal,” I say, rising. “Then return to work.”

A shuddering breath bursts out of her, and she begins to weep softly. When I leave, her husband scrambles back in, expecting to find his wife lifeless, blood and warmth flowing out of her. I smile at the thought of their warm celebration, then harden at the thought of what I must still do.

Pathetic, Atlas growls. Give such frailty a foothold, and it will infect the entire kingdom.

Frailty would have seen me obey your antiquated laws, I reply, the same laws by which you brought Sungard so near its demise. When the mission is done, you can tell me if I’m frail.

Yes, he growls. I will.

#

When Nivalar returns, he tells me what I expected: the dragons will ally with Sungard and besiege the Arcane City. Our troops are foot soldiers in steel-plated armor, wielding swords, axes, and maces. They fear nothing and slaughter with great skill and ferocity. The dragons will carry us to the city and drop us into the middle of it. We will be surrounded from the start.

Before the assault, I instruct our alchemists to infuse wards into our soldiers’ armor, for the worst attacks will be sorcerous. If our soldiers can survive their spells from a distance, our brawn and steel will decimate them up close.

A true queen of Sungard, I will handle our deadliest mission. Indeed, Dagruin, the Lord of Dragons, and I, the Queen of Sungard, will seek out the Shaman King of Insight and destroy him. It will take us both to do it, for the great Shaman wields the dark and ancient powers of his forefathers. He does not kill his enemies; he buries them in torment—frays their minds like cloth, leaving enough threads to perceive the pain and horror, few enough that they can never steel themselves against it, for there is no longer any sense of self, only agony. He leaves his victims where they lie, howling and writhing as though engulfed in flames, the song and dance of Hell. Perhaps this will be my fate.

The evening of the assault, I stand outside the castle gate and watch the dragons arrive from a long way off, their wings beating slow and strong as they fill the night sky. Leading the swarm is Dagruin, who lands before me in a mighty gust of wind, stirring dust and grass all around me and my fellow warriors. Refusing to flinch, I look up at the creature towering over me, his scarlet scales glinting in the moonlight. Jagged spines run from his head to the end of his tail, and the end of his tail bunches into a ball of spikes like a morning star. His fierce golden eyes peer down and meet mine, and when he speaks, his voice is like the rumbling of a volcano before it erupts. “Queen Delphine, I presume?” he says.

“Yes,” I answer, doing my best not to recoil under the oppressive heat of his breath. “We are honored to welcome the Lord of Dragons.”

“A lovely sentiment,” he says, baring his jagged teeth into a grin. “Take your positions, and we will begin.”

I turn and nod to my troops. Without protest, they stream forward and begin clambering up the dragons. Striding to the side of Dagruin, I halt at the space behind his front shoulder, then reach overhead, grip a scale, and hoist myself up as though climbing a cliff wall. This wall expands and contracts as the dragon breathes, a strange sensation beneath my hands and feet. One hand- and foothold at a time, I climb and soon round the top of the dragon’s back, near the base of his neck. I hike my leg and mount him like a horse, wedging myself down between two spines.

Situated, I gaze out across the field of dragons, dense as a herd of mammoths, my troops mounted and ready—and I sit tall and strong atop the Lord of Dragons. Inhaling deeply, I whip my sword from its sheath, raise it, and cry, “To victory!” I don’t know that I believe my own words, but the time for hesitation has passed.

Dagruin tosses back his head and erupts into an ear-splitting roar, flame surging from his mouth. As the fire flashes hot and blinding and the sound thunders through my ears, driving all else from my mind, all courage flees briefly as well. But I’m given no time to arrest my alarm, for Dagruin leaps into the air, forcing me to sheathe my sword and lunge forward to grip his spines. My knees squeeze tightly against his body as he wheels sharply to the right and dives off the edge of Sungard. The wind rushes by, whistling through my armor, and the sea speeds up to greet us. The cries of my troops, cries of fear and exhilaration, reach me faintly from over my shoulder. At first, the breath is torn from my lungs and I can only gape, paralyzed, at the roiling waters rushing up to greet me, but then a surge of thrill bursts out of me in a shout of laughter.

A warrior’s laughter, remarks Atlas, drifting alongside us. I think that was his thought, anyway. I think he may even be proud of me. My courage grows.

#

We fly low over the mountains, lower still as the landscape flattens into fields and moonlit hills. The Arcane City approaches, and my face hardens. I have no use for fear, so set it aside. I will pursue the mission. There is nothing else.

As we reach the city wall, I see the dark figures of Insight’s battlemages scurrying into place like hooded phantoms and raising their glowing staffs toward us. There is a strange noise like the sound of a wet rag slapping against a stone. I turn in time to see the nearest dragon plummet lifelessly toward the wall like the payload from a catapult. My soldier slides off the beast, also dead. When the dragon strikes the wall, no damage is done to the wall. The dragon simply crumples against it like a doll then slides down to the ground. At rest, its head and wings lie unnaturally canted.

Shifting my gaze back toward the goal, I grip Dagruin’s spines, spring to my feet, and prepare to leap. We drift down toward the city square, a broad open space paved with dark stones. The dragon pauses, wings rising and falling in sweeping bursts along either side of me. I suck in a sharp, cold breath, then leap. The ground flies up to meet me, and I land in a roll beside a multicolored merchant’s tent. My sword is in my hand. Sungard warriors land all around me, and the dragons leap back into the air to continue the assault from above. Some drench our enemies with a vomit-green acid that dissolves everyone and everything it touches and leaves craters like pockmarks in the stones. Some breathe gusts of glittering smoke that leave the enemy motionless, paralyzed. Some launch bolts of lightning that crack with blinding flashes and burn steaming holes through their victims. Waves of heat and icy wind wash over me, strange tingles prickle my skin, strange smells fill my nose, and gargled cries of death agony reach my ears.

Dagruin circles overhead, staying near, for he and I seek the Shaman King. A cluster of black spikes stands high and ominous beyond the city square, and I set my gaze on it. The Shaman King is there. I can feel it like a sickly breath in my spirit.

Yes, Atlas confirms. He is there. Slithering in the dark like a coward.

I set off running at a rapid but controlled pace, each step rattling my armor and jolting my vision. One battlemage is foolish enough to cast a spell at me. From the corner of my eye, I see Atlas leap into the air, trailed by his glowing pale mist, and intercept it. The writhing violet light of the spell expands within Atlas like ink underwater as he flies in a wide arc and speeds toward my assailant. The lion surges straight through his target, but the spell explodes against the dark hooded mage with a sound like the crackling of firewood, and he is reduced to a heap of unnatural edges, as though every bone was snapped or thrown out of joint. The heap moans weakly, and I shudder. Was that a moan of pain? A noise simply pushed from his organs? Some mixture of the two?

You would have survived it, Atlas says, returning to my side. Mages impose from afar what they could never bear themselves. Hence their cowering king.

Cowering or not, he is deadly, I answer.

Atlas laughs. What is deadlier than one who evades peril by heaping it on others? What is deadlier than a coward?

I fix my eyes on the tower ahead and continue running. What you believe I am.

He gives no reply. My courage weakens.

#

I’m soon standing beneath the tower, a black silhouette against the night sky. The tall iron door before me undulates with magic that stings my nose and waters my eyes. Atlas drifts forward, presses his nose against the door, and extracts the ward—a foul, venomous spell. He turns and, with a lion’s kiss, infuses my armor with the ward. I wear the venom of Insight like a blanket and feel comforted. One more obstacle to my death. I think Atlas meant it as an insult.

Dagruin lands behind me with a whoosh, the wind from his wings whipping dust and debris up in little whirlwinds all around us. “Go,” he snarls at the back of my head, and his furnace breath chases away the icy night air before it comes creeping back.

I reach out and grip the door handle with my armored fist. Beyond this door lurks one who may engulf me in torment—ever drowning, never relieved with having drowned. I pull the handle, the iron groans loudly, and the door begins to open.

Then comes a shockwave. The door, three times my height, rushes toward my face and crack, an explosion of color behind my eyes. I’m tumbling backward. The world is blurred, chaotic. Then stillness. I’m on my back, staring up into the sky. It’s spinning. I taste blood in my mouth. There’s a flash of violet light, a pulse of strange power, and I’m floating. An orange glow follows, and with it comes heat—such terrible heat—heat enough to raise blisters on my skin—and I’m no longer floating. Or was I ever?

Get up! growls Atlas. He’s beside me, and I sense worry in him. My ancestors from long before history can remember, all the way up to my father … worried. What could so trouble those illustrious warriors?

With a groaning wince, I roll to the side, press a fist against the stones beneath me, spit out some blood, and stagger to my feet. The world seems to expand and contract, and there, at the center of my vision, is an explosion of color. Fire pours like a waterfall from the mouth of Dagruin. His eyes flash with bestial ferocity.

A tall, slender, black phantom in a jagged crown meets the fiery onslaught with pulse after pulse of pale violet spells, his robes fluttering like bats as he drifts from one vantage point to the next. He is unnaturally quick and evasive, like smoke, and every pulse of his sorcery makes my heart shudder and skip.

Dagruin’s fire dims; the sorcery intensifies. Though the dragon seeks to keep his fire trained on the Shaman King, he’s growing tired. One especially harsh spell makes him roar with pain, and bestial fear begins to replace the bestial anger in his eyes.

Slow his mind, I tell Atlas, snatching up my sword and springing forward.

His mind… Atlas begins, hesitating. It is mighty.

Be mightier, I say, gaining speed and gripping my sword tighter.

When Atlas roars and charges forward, I sense him mustering the force of every ancestor within him. I run beside him—beside all of them—and embrace the power of our alliance. We are one.

The Shaman King turns from Dagruin’s fire and prepares to meet our assault, but he does not anticipate my tactic. Mind slowed, he fails to evade the thrust of my sword. My blade tears through his right side, near the top of his ribcage, protruding from his back. He howls like a demon and clamps his pale fingers around my face, teeth bared in a grimace of rage and confusion. The eyes sunk into his gray, skeletal face are wild with malice, darting all around in search of some means of escape.

I grab the back of his neck and pull him almost nose-to-nose with me. I find that I am grinning.

“Wait,” the Shaman King hisses. “We can—”

I do not wait. I tear my sword free from his ribs, then thrust it up through the center of his stomach and into his heart. Mouth twisted open in a ghastly grimace, he falls, choking, to the stones, the crimson life fleeing his body. I wipe his blood and bile from my sword and stare down at the pale creature curled like a worm on the street. He looks pathetic. Was I really so afraid of this?

The sound of panting reaches my ears.

Sighing, I turn to the dragon. “Are you wounded?”

There, remarks Atlas. His chest.

Yes, on the dragon’s chest is a cluster of throbbing white veins—the remains of some vile spell. I step forward and reach out to touch the wound. The dragon grunts and recoils.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Can you heal such wounds?” Dagruin asks, his voice tight with pain and desperation. Sorrow floods my heart, and I nearly give in to it; but no, we’ve come too far, and I am not my mother.

“Yes,” I say, channeling all the maternal comfort I learned from her. “With the help of Atlas, this wound can be healed. Lie still. Let Atlas settle your mind. Rest.”

His mind is mighty too, Atlas observes. The rage in him burns hotter than any flame. We will be scorched.

We are scorched on any path, I answer. We must choose one nonetheless.

I choose nothing, says Atlas. I must obey my Queen.

Dagruin lowers himself weakly to the ground, then onto his side. The pained, rapid rising and falling of his scaled chest begins to slow as Atlas settles his mind. Soon, the dragon’s golden eyes drift shut.

The dark street is empty. Quiet. Scattered shouts and the clanging of sword and armor can be heard in the distance at the heart of the conflict, but here we are alone.

I examine Dagruin from nose to tail, this majestic spectacle of a creature, a power worthy of song and myth. Perhaps I will write songs of him. A tear slips down my cheek as I grip my sword tighter and step toward him.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

With all the force I can muster, I thrust the sword hilt-deep into Dagruin’s chest. The dragon bellows with a weak burst of flame and thrashes to his feet. Yanked off the ground, I find myself dangling from the sword. Dagruin glowers down at me with a wild look of dismay and confusion. Steaming red liquid gushes out around my sword, running over my gauntlets. Hands sizzling with pain, I place my feet along either side of the sword and pull it free, falling with a nauseating smack onto the stones below, dazed and breathless.

Dagruin staggers, red-hot liquid dripping like magma from his chest, as I rise to my feet. Atlas is staggering too, and shaking his head as though stunned or in pain. The pale veins throughout his body squirm frantically and pulsate like thunderclouds.

Steadily weakening, Dagruin fixes his eyes on me, and the look on his ancient face conveys the complexity of his feelings. He knows I harbor no malice toward him. He realizes what has happened and accepts it. He is a true king.

Striding forward, I grip my sword and grit my teeth. “May your ancestors greet and honor you in the next life,” I say, another tear sliding off my wet lashes. The next thrust is fatal. The ancient light in Dagruin’s eyes goes dim and the fire in him cools to embers as he crashes to the ground, cracking the stones at our feet, steam rising from his limp body. Even in death, he is mighty.

Before me lies the Shaman King of Insight and Dagruin, Lord of Dragons. With the aid of both, I slew them both—just as I planned.

#

Months later, I stand at the edge of our island and look out over the sea and land below. My burns have healed, though the rippled skin on my hands and face will always hold their memory. Spring is here, and with it, new life. The air smells of soil and flowers. Silvery-white mountain birds hop through the grass, fussing at each other with angry chirps. A warm south wind hints at coming storms. The peace washing through my body is such as I haven’t known since childhood.

With the loss of their mightiest defender, the dragons knew they would need us as allies. I was gracious to oblige their request. With great pomp and ceremony, I honored the sacrifices of so many brave and mighty dragons, and Dagruin the greatest of all, who fell defeating the Shaman King of Insight. In honor of the dragons, I even went so far as to rename our city. No longer are we Sungard. We are Dragonsgate.

Atlas drifts up beside me but says nothing. He hasn’t spoken to me since the sack of Insight—not in months. I hardly see him at all. Have my ancestors rejected me? I suspect I scorched them deeper than I know; but life is fleeting, and I’ll join them soon enough.

Why are you here? I wonder, certain he will remain steadfast in his silence.

To my surprise, he answers. When you die, we will be a dragon.

He turns and drifts back the way he came. I watch him go, then turn back to the vast landscape before me, my chest swelling with pride. Whether or not Atlas meant a compliment, I must embrace the queen I am becoming. What else can I do? My first royal act saved us, but a thriving kingdom does more than merely survive. To build such a kingdom, I must be strong enough to do what’s necessary, for the world is harsh. I must be cunning enough to adapt, for the world is ever-changing.

“A dragon,” I say to myself, smiling. “Strong and cunning. Yes. A dragon.”

I turn and stride with confidence toward the city. My city. Dragonsgate. There is work to do, and I will do it well, for I am not my father or mother. I am both—and more.