The Queen, The Thane, and The Missing

Under the relentless morning sun, the training grounds baked, filling the air with the mingled scents of kicked-up dust and earnest exertion. A symphony of clashing steel provided a constant rhythm, punctuated by the grunts, sharp breaths, and occasional cries of pain from seasoned warriors and raw recruits alike as they honed their deadly craft.

On the hard-packed earth, booted feet traced intricate patterns. Flitterwing lunged, his sword describing a swift, rising arc meant to catch his opponent off guard. With fluid grace, Queen Dawnstrider met the assault not with a simple block, but with a lethal parry, her battle-axe swinging up to deflect the blow. The heavy axe head hissed past Flitterwing's ear, the wind of its passage a whispered threat. He ducked and leaped back, creating a precious few feet of space to recompose, to breathe, to plot his next move.

Queen and commoner faced each other, seemingly oblivious to the stunned and curious gazes they attracted from the guards posted around the perimeter. The source of their astonishment was twofold. It was not merely that the Fey Queen was sparring with a commoner—though that alone was a significant breach of protocol—but that the commoner was matching her, blow for blow. The fact that this individual, who fought the queen to a standstill, was a Feyan made the scene all the more shocking.

Ever since the era of the traitor Gloomfang, no Feyan had been permitted to study the arts of war or to wield any magic beyond the most rudimentary cantrips. Gloomfang, it was said, was the most formidable Feyan mage of his age, wielding a power that was without peer. Yet, in a fit of rage or madness, he had turned that very power against his own kin, annihilating his entire tribe with devastating sorcery. The sole survivor of the massacre was a young woman who managed to escape, staggering to a nearby settlement to gasp out the horrific account before she, too, perished. What became of Gloomfang after that day was lost to history, but his dark legacy endured. Henceforth, it was strictly forbidden for any Feyan to learn the skills that could make them so dangerous.

At last, Queen Dawnstrider lowered her axe, planting its heavy blade in the dirt and leaning against the haft. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened on her brow, and she wiped it away with her sleeve. A chuckle escaped her, her voice carrying the lilting, rapid cadence of the Fey tongue. "I believe that is enough for one day. It would be most unseemly of me to arrive for my meeting with the Council smelling of the yard and covered in grime."

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Flitterwing sheathed his own sword, his body relaxing from its combat-ready posture. A playful smile touched his lips, and he arched an eyebrow quizzically. "Are you certain it is the sensibilities of your council you are concerned for, my queen? Or is it the prospect of being bested by a mere Feyan?"

Dawnstrider inclined her head, her own eyebrows rising in a regal challenge. "Repeat that, if you dare, Feyan."

Instantly, Flitterwing composed his features into a mask of wide-eyed innocence. "I said nothing, my lady." He held the expression for a moment before his composure broke, a sly grin spreading across his face as he gave her a conspiratorial wink. "Nothing at all."

With a sigh of good-natured exasperation, the queen turned and made her way toward the castle's entrance. Flitterwing, whose station did not grant him the privilege of entering the palace reeking of dust and sweat, headed for a nearby trough, rough towel in hand, to wash away the worst of the morning’s filth.

Though sparring with Queen Dawnstrider was a thrilling diversion, it distracted him from his true purpose. His goal upon arriving in Kaur-Koram had been simple: to find other Feyan. He needed to see how his people managed to survive outside the rigid confines of the tribes. Whenever he had questioned the elders of his own tribe about the fate of Feyan born as males, they had always gestured vaguely toward the wider world, often mentioning Kaur-Koram by name. Yet, he had not found a single one. His days had fallen into a monotonous cycle: training with the queen, wandering the castle’s labyrinthine corridors, and then venturing into the bustling city to continue his fruitless search. From every guard, merchant, and artisan he asked, the answer was the same, unsettling refrain: he was either the first Feyan they had ever met, or the first they had seen in a great many years.

The news was, to put it mildly, discouraging.

Six powerful limbs moved in a ferocious, ceaseless rhythm, propelling Malakor up the sheer rock face. He climbed with an efficient speed born of a desire to conclude this business as quickly as possible. He loathed dealing with these creatures. Things, he thought with contempt, giant reptiles with delusions of grandeur. So they were large. So what? That just meant they consumed more resources that could have sustained infinitely more interesting, more reasonably sized beings. Like himself, for instance. So they were long-lived. He was long-lived too, but did the Council ever say, "Malakor, old friend, might we have your assistance? Your ancient wisdom would be invaluable in this war." No. It was always, "Malakor, go deliver this message." Oh, and try not to get eaten. Fah. As if the Powers That Be would permit it. No, Malakor's end was preordained: to fall in glorious, honorable battle, or to be gently put to sleep when old age finally claimed him.

Fah. Again. He was older than half of these arrogant beasts and knew more than they could ever hope to absorb in their long, tedious lives, yet the Council still craved their allegiance more than his. Not that they didn't want him. Oh no, they needed their messenger boy. Their obedient little demon, bound by the Returned’s Sentence to do their bidding. Fah. He needed a new word for disgust; this one was growing stale. Oh, no. Yes, that felt better. Oh, no.

A sudden, violent force sought to tear him from the cliffside. Malakor reacted instantly, flattening his body against the rough-hewn surface and digging his long, sharp fingers deeper into the rock’s narrow crevices. A tremendous gale lashed past him, whipping his dark hair about his face and threatening to rip the very clothes from his body. He squeezed his large eyes shut against the storm of dust and grit. He felt a buffet of displaced air—the sound of vast, leathery wings folding—and then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

The unearthly silence that descended in the wake of the tumult was jarring. Malakor opened his eyes cautiously, scanning the sky for the source of the disturbance. There was nothing. Even the birds in the distant trees were silent. He let out a rasping sigh of irritation. He hated it when the show-offs did that.

With another sigh and a roll of his eyes, he coughed out the last of the dust and resumed his ascent. Why did they have to sequester themselves in such a damnable place? Oh, no.

At last, Malakor’s hands found the lip of a wide ledge. He hauled himself up onto it, stretching the aching muscles in his back and limbs. Skittering through the canopy of a forest was one thing; this two-hundred-foot vertical climb was quite another. He stood before the gaping maw of a colossal cave, the angle of the sun illuminating the interior with perfect clarity.

The opening itself was immense, stretching high above his head and far to either side. Within, the smooth granite walls were encrusted with a thousand glittering jewels of every conceivable cut and color. They were set into the stone in a breathtaking mosaic, forming shimmering pictographs that caught the sun and threw it back in nearly blinding, kaleidoscopic patterns. Malakor knew from previous visits that these glittering veins were mere decoration, extending through the entire network of tunnels within the cliff. Forcing his gaze away from the casual opulence, he had to suppress a smirk. It appeared a welcoming party had been assembled.

The eldest of the immense creatures stood so tall its horned head nearly brushed the cavern’s high ceiling. Four sets of slitted, reptilian eyes regarded him from atop four long, wedge-shaped snouts. Their lithe, powerful bodies rested on long legs ending in razor-sharp talons, and their serpentine necks rippled with coiled muscle. Behind them, tails as long and quick as bullwhips cracked the air with impatient energy. Only then did Malakor register the sharp, biting scent of nitric acid that pierced the clean mountain air.

With a display of pure, cynical pragmatism, Malakor offered a low bow, according the Drakes the same formal respect he would the Council.

The largest of the four spoke. Its voice was a deep, resonant rumble, like thunder rolling through distant mountains, yet it was layered with a sibilant hiss, like acid dropped on hot stone. "What is your business here, Daemon?"

The archaic title grated, unused since before Malakor's own time. "The Council o' Kaur-Koram has sent me," he said, his own voice a gravelly rasp that stood in stark contrast to the Drake's. "They believe Lady Zovira’s forces will march soon. They must know if you will stand with them, or against them."

A low, rumbling sound filled the chamber. Had he not known better, Malakor might have mistaken it for a collective snarl. But the great beasts made no overt move of aggression, so he held his ground. "And what would we gain," the great one, the Thane of the Drakes, growled, "should we pledge our might to thy Council's cause?"

Malakor was momentarily nonplussed but recovered swiftly. "The Council is prepared to offer payment, if you demand it. They had hoped, however, that you would act out of a shared interest in survival. It is all our homes that are threatened, after all."

The Thane’s large, slitted eyes narrowed halfway in contemplation, a "hhrrrmmm" sound vibrating deep in his throat. Then, in a final gesture of dismissive contempt, he dipped his horned head and closed them the rest of the way. "It is of no consequence."

"What do you mean, 'no consequence'?" Malakor snarled, his carefully maintained composure cracking. He had not come all this way, climbed this entire damnable cliff, and suffered the presence of these arrogant, over-glorified reptiles only to be turned away so easily. "Zovira is a sorceress of immense power! We need all the help we can muster!"

"It is of no consequence to us," the Thane added with a tone of utter disdain. "We Drakes have existed long before your kind, and we shall exist long after your cities have turned to dust. It matters not who wins this war—your Council or this Lady Zovira. The Drakes will remain. We will not be touched."

Nonsense, Malakor thought, his mind racing. He knew Zovira's kind. Her ambition was to rule all, and she would not be content with merely defeating the Light Alliance. The Drakes, physically and magically potent, were either a powerful asset to be courted or a formidable obstacle to be eliminated. Her ambition would never allow such a power to remain independent. But before he could voice this argument, the Thane and the other elder Drakes had already turned their massive backs on him, their silent dismissal more insulting than any roar could have been. With ponderous grace, they began to move deeper into the cave.

A war raged within him—between his sworn duty and his screaming instinct for self-preservation. He watched them go, and as the tail of the last Drake vanished around a bend in the tunnel, something in him snapped. A new, desperate argument already forming on his lips, he surged forward.