Chapter 156: Dragons

Chapter 156: Dragons

Days passed. The dragons' most skillful crafters came together, working on an item of power. The greatest smiths, to forge the metal, enchanters, to carve runes for channels of power, artificers, drawing out plans and plotting. Leatherworkers to prepare grips and wrappings, carvers to do the fine details, and so on and so forth.

Dozens of them, the best of the best, worked with a single spark, a bit of crystalline magic. It was so dense that it alone could have lit their forges for centuries, but that was not its purpose. It was not its purpose to heat, or to warm, or to glow, or to sparkle. This tiny bit of Zylnareth's flame could have done a hundred hundred things.

But it would destroy.

Zyl's mother, Trinyakorie, had made the request for the item. It wasn't a specific weapon shape, not a sword, not a spear, not even a staff. Just a weapon. An object of destruction. That was all it ever needed to be.

To Trinya, power was what mattered. Intimidation. This was the hard line she would use to get people on her side, the threat of extermination. Zyl's flame was outstanding, even among the dragons. Such a shame the boy refused to nourish it so often.

If he had properly grown his flame, the spark could have been bigger. Could have grown to consume so much further.

She shook the thought of, letting her gaze sweep across the artisans. Perhaps, if the thing had grown even further, they would have nothing to contain its power. Perhaps, if it had grown more, her son would have decided to properly rebel, instead of just run. All in maybe's.

What mattered to her was concrete power. The present. And presently, she was supposed to get ready to go to her son's gala. Her husband was still lazing about, barely crawling out of bed, and her daughter was already jumping in place, ready to go. Trinya hoped there would be no violence at the gathering.

She smiled. That was a lie to herself. If her daughter caused havoc, perhaps her fearful son would finally grow a spine. He'd need one if he wanted to properly bow to her, once she had the power of the artefact. And she would make him bow, as he had so often.

The fearful child was, after all, the most obedient. Her daughter was violent, easy to control with a simple outlet. Her husband was lazy, and it was a slog to make him do anything, but enough pestering and threats could coerce him into just about anything. Berthorn, though? He always listened, always so afraid.

Much unlike Zyl. If she had to give him a word, it would be longing. The young dragon had yearned for freedom, for more than his bloodline promised him, for more than thinly veiled threats and the glamour of a poorly disguised prison. She would not have granted it to him.

Unfortunately, the longing child was also the strongest, with a flame burning ever bright and ever hot. Somewhat like hers, she supposed, though his wanted to see rather than consume. To Zyl, anything he laid eyes upon was beautiful. To her? Anything she laid eyes upon was her property.

If she wished to sleep upon mountains of gold, it would be so. If she wished to be left alone for a dozen centuries, it would be so. And if she wanted to claim the power of her rebellious son, it would be so.

And it was.

The thought brought a smile to her face, wide and predatory, her mouth full of vicious fangs. She didn't bother to disguise properly as a human. So many of them paraded around like lowly peacocks. She was a dragon, and she would show it.

Her scales glistened as she walked, soon accentuated by a dress red as fire. She wore special shoes, more sandals than anything, to support the draconic, clawed feet. Her hair was done up by a handful of trusted servants, each and every one putting great care towards a single strand of hair. If they didn't, after all, she would've burned them alive.

Then, she kicked her lazy husband off the bed, and calmed her violent daughter down. They would go, now, to see the fearful son.

The hungry mother wore a predatory smile. This would be so very close to a family reunion.

- - - - - -

Mercury and Zyl stood at the foot of the mountains. They were humongous things, piercing far into the heavens, the tops disappearing into the clouds.

"You guys live up there?" he asked, turning to face Zyl.

"Sure do. Well, I used to, at least," the dragon replied.

He'd been somewhat morose for the last few days of their journey. Apparently, he didn't have the best memories of this area, and seeing all of it again made him remember things he would really rather not have. Mercury tried his best to be there for his lover, in whatever ways he could.

Which mainly meant lying on his lap and being good company.

The two chatted a lot about very minor things, partially about Mercury's old life back on Earth as well. It was kind of freeing, in a lot of ways. To Mercury, at least. Zyl's problems seemed… somewhat ongoing. Which is why they were there.

"So, anything special we need to watch out for?" Mercury asked.

Zyl nodded in reply. "Yeah. The clans like to host balls every now and then. Different people host each time. If we see it ongoing, we might want to avoid it. Lots of dragons tends to mean lots of enemies."

"But your family would be there?"

"Yes, they would." Zyl nodded again, slower and more carefully this time. "But we really, really shouldn't go there, Mercury."

Mercury hesitated. "I can see why. But, out of curiosity, how much have you recovered?"

The dragon just sighed in reply. "Quite a bit. I can probably keep going at a good… three quarters of my top form for a good ten minutes."

That was more than expected. Apparently, losing a spark could have permanent damage for dragons, yet Zyl was recovering remarkably quickly. As in, quicker than should be reasonable.

Berthorn wasn't even suspicious of him still being bedridden, and despite that, here he was, already out and about. It made Mercury curious about what these sparks actually were, but any questioning into that had proven fruitless. Apparently, to dragons, it was an existentially simple question.

A spark was just a part of them, like their wings, their arms or their legs. Something they had, and needed, for a certain purpose. It was what a lot of their magic hinged on. Well, at least on their fire, a spark was just what they generally called a core part of that flame.

Which is why losing them was so dangerous. Often, they could not simply be regrown. Zyl, apparently, almost could, maybe he would even be able to make a full recovery. It would be an incredible miracle, and Mercury had some suspicions as to why he would have been different.

But none of that was the point. Right now, he just wanted to prove to Zyl's family that he might be small but he sure as hell wouldn't go down easy. Was he probably once again overextending himself? Probably. Then again, this wasn't really about hurting them, but about sending a message.

Perhaps, one day, they would have a proper standoff, but for now, other things were more pressing.

Zyl thanked the carriage driver, one of many they'd had on the journey. They would swap their beasts of burden and carriages at checkpoints somewhat frequently, to have well rested animals for most of the journey. The coaches had been pulled by terrezays, horses, and various other things, such as large, jellyfish-like creatures, who pulled themselves forward with hooks on the tentacles.

Then, finally, once they were alone, the strange pair walked. Towards the heavens-piercing mountains where so many dragons resided.

- - - - - -

Scrying was a very wonderful tool, Berthorn thought. It let him know in advance when his family was coming. A simple tool that pinged whenever someone of his close bloodline approached his location. He heard the alarm a dozen minutes before his mother, father, and sister arrived.

So, when his door crashed open, and his younger sister blazed into the room, he was prepared, dodged her punch, and flashed her a bright smile. "Good evening, sister Nir."

She returned the grin, though hers was more feral than polite. "Evening, brother Ber," she returned the greeting in her gravelly voice. It was always strange hearing it, in comparison to her gaunt face, and thin, almost wiry figure. Despite it all, she boasted the same flaming hair her mother and Zylnareth did. He was almost a little jealous.

Before Berthorn had time to finish that thought, however, his mother entered, her name announced by the reader.

For a few seconds, he could hear all breathing in the room stop, focusing on her. On one of the most powerful dragons currently in existence. Someone who commanded respect.

Those gazes which should have been on him, now focused on his mother, and immediately, a hundred worries sprung into his head. Had she figured out any of his spies? Any of his ploys? Was she simply toying with him in this game for power?

The fear was familiar, and sank into his bones, where it grew into a gnawing chill, one that pulled him back into the moment. He bowed at the hip.

"Greetings, mother."

"Good evening, my son," she said, flashing him a smile of teeth. She reached out one of her claws, grasping a glass of wine from a passing waiter's tray. Slowly, she took a sip. "It is a lovely gathering you have managed, the atmosphere is quite pristine indeed."

He smiled sardonically. "I am happy to hear it pleases you, mother. Good evening, father." He bent at the waist again.

Compared to his mother, his father's entrance was almost unremarkable. His mother commanded presence. Flaming hair, burning red scales, and a dress that looked as though it was made of fire.

Yet, his father had none of that. His suit was messy at best, his dull, black and green hair hanging down in thick waves. The man had heavy, dull eyes, the green in them like the colour of a rotting swamp, and his willowy frame was thin as a few twigs. He looked so remarkably unimpressive that Berthorn would not have wondered if he saw him living under a bridge.

And despite all of that, he still bowed.

"Son," his father simply replied. The man's voice was deep and rumbly, and seemed to vibrate the entire room even when he barely spoke at a whisper.

There was a reason for Berthorn to bow to anyone. His father… well. Power alone was more than enough of a reason to bow to Thorythenior Voluminth.

A moment later, his sister demanded his attention again. The mischievous little devil had grabbed onto his shoulders and poked her head out beside his, her neck looking too long to be human.

"Hey. Brother. Who can I fight? Come on. Let me at someone. Come on," she begged, her sentences choppy between ragged breaths.

Berthorn gave a slow sigh. "Nirandia, must I remind you that this is a peaceful gathering?"

She chuckled, a horrible noise almost like nails on a chalkboard. "Tell me who. I know you have someone in mind. You always do. Tell me already!" Her pleading got louder, and the grip on his shoulders tightened enough for his bones to begin creaking.

Faintly, Berthorn felt that fear again. The fear that he would simply be snapped in half, that his sister would just kill him where he stood, even though he knew it was unfounded. His Skills rushed in his ears, blood throwing through his veins like fire.

Then he choked that fear in its place. Reminded himself of his powers, that his bones were not so weak. He laid a hand on that of his sister. "Come now, let us not ruin this reunion with bloodshed too early," he said out loud. Into her ear, he whispered instead. "Later. Scion of Bluewing clan. Snap him in half, but make him challenge you first, Nir."

A manic grin spread across the gaunt girl's face. "Yes. You are right as always brother. Would be a true shame. I shall try to be peaceful today."

Thus the arrangement was made. A target set for Nir to battle without consequences, to pick apart to her delight. Berthorn would have pitied the scion if he hadn't been such an arrogant, disgusting prick.

His father approached him next. "Lead me to a seat," the man rasped, as though every breath caused him great exhaustion. Perhaps they did. If his father were to truly draw breath, was there enough air on these mountains to fill his lungs?

Berthorn didn't know. Instead of worrying, he simply smiled and nodded along. His father was easy to please. Simply find a spot to rest, and stop people from bothering him too much. "Of course, father," the sleek son said, guiding his parents to a small lounging area.

Immediately, as the seating got within reach, his father sprawled out on the couch, his body draping over it as though there was not even a skeleton holding it together. There were even a few cracks and pops as the man settled into a comfortable position.

Then, Berthorn's mother joined his father at the table, sitting down gracefully. She gently crossed her legs, and took a long sip of wine. "Entertainment?" she simply asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course, mother," Berthorn said.

And so, the evening stretched on. Things passed by mostly well. Berthorn made alliances, and threatened enemies. It was all as it should be, when he heard a glass shatter.

His sister stood across the large ballroom, her dress drenched in liquid, shards of glass littering the floor before her.

The silence in the room was deafening, a hungry, predatory backdrop of nothing as all eyes turned.

"How dare you," a whisper cut through. "We are guests here just as you are. My clan's name will not be dragged through the dirt. Repeat what you said, and I shall kill you for your words."

Nir smiled. "I stand by what I said. Your clan? It's resting on past glory. That is what I believe."

"And you will die for it. I challenge you, Nirandia Friaminth, to an honorable duel."

In the silence, the hunger grew. There was blood in the air, and dragons were so very good at sniffing it out.

"As is customary, you may choose the date and location," the scion of Bluewing concluded.

"Right here. Right now. We fight. Go on. Fight me," the girl taunted, leaning forward and dropping her hands low in a mockery of a fighting stance.

The boy needed not be told twice. Prithar or Bluewing clan, a promising young talent, blasted forwards with an explosion of wind behind him. It took a fraction of a second until he reached Nir, then less than that until he punched her.

And he missed the wiry girl.

He punched forward again, faster than the blink of an eye, and missed another time.

A hail of punches followed, each and every one augmented by wind magic, and every single one failed to graze Nir. They brushed past her soundlessly.

Except that Berthorn looked closely and could see them land. They hit against her flesh, sent ripples across her skin, and then the force dissipated silently. Not a single speck of dust grazed Nir.

"Hey," she said, in the middle of a punch that landed on her face. "Hey. Scion. Is this it?"

The young man seemed to grow even more enraged at the look in her eyes, telling him she was serious. The hail redoubled, and there was enough wind that the servants had to retreat. Despite the howling air, Nir stood still, her clothes billowing slightly.

"Hey. Hey, Scion. Hey. Hey. You're not doing much. Come on. Do more. Please. I beg of you. Come on," she pleaded, but he did not listen. "Hey," she said again, calmly snatching one of his hands from the air. "Listen to me." She pulled the arm downwards so fast it snapped, forcing the scion to look her in the eyes.

"One more shot," she said. "Do better." At the end, she even shot Berthorn a glare, a small promise that there would be more violence to come if this was all he had prepared.

To his credit, the scion only winced for a moment when his arm broke. Then, before the battle could resume, he took some distance, and shifted a bit. His human face turned draconic, his hands into claws, and scales covered his skin until he looked like a dragonkin.

"I will not stand for this!" he yelled, slicing and sending blades of wind at Nir, but they broke against her skin.

Dozens and dozens of howling blades shattered within moments.

"Hey," she said, taking a step towards him. "Hey. Scion. Come on. Try a little harder."

Eyes widening, the young man redoubled his efforts, retreating back, slashing over and over again. It was an exercise in futility.

Nir grabbed him. Slowly, calmly, she had stepped forward, then took a hold of his shoulder, and Berthorn knew the battle was over.

A grin spread across the gaunt girl's features. An impossibly wide one, revealing rows upon rows of fangs.

Then, violence ensued.

Nir preferred to fight up close, with a strength that should have been impossible for her thin features. She would grab hold of someone, take anything they could throw at her, then simply hit them back, dragging them into a thick swamp.

It was as though one was submerged in mud. Any attack would break, would do nothing. There was an absolute futility that anyone fighting Nir would feel. The slow, dreadful knowledge that your attacks meant nothing, that all your attempts were futile.

That dread would grow into a paralyzing fear, and the battle was done.

Nir punched the scion, and his body gave in.

She hit his face first, breaking his snout, and sending a couple teeth flying. "Hey," she said calmly. Then she kicked his leg, breaking a shin. "Hey, hey." The other leg followed suit. "Hey, scion!" she yelled into his face.

"Fight back!" she cried, twisting his other arm and snapping it. "Come on! Hey! Fight me! Fight! Me!"

She broke a dozen more bones, before tossing the body aside like a child done playing with a toy. Then she took a deep breath, walked back to Berthorn and sat down across from him.

"Not enough," she demanded. "Give me another. This was not enough."

But Berthorn's mind had wandered elsewhere. His.. scrying equipment had activated. Sent out a single ping to his mind, letting him know something that seemed very, very wrong.

Another member of his family was almost here. Within only a few miles of the hall, in fact.