A Dragon's Smile

For a hundred centuries, stories flew through the lands of terrifying beasts that conquered the skies. Myths of Hell raining from above in pillars of heat, leaving nothing but destruction and fear in its remains. Those who were unfortunate to have looked death in the eye never lived to tell the story, and their heirs spread the tales in bouts of desperation—to warn others of the monstrosities that they had witnessed. Until twenty and six years ago, the village of Draketon was formed. The inhabitants did not fear the savage brutes that owned the air, but they honored them. Their knees bent, heads bowed at the anecdotes that spread the forests. Their only gods were the Dragons.

Thunderous clouds split down the middle from the velocity at which he flew. Zukorrax was an elderly dragon, but he still flew with the grace of his prime. Wings that protruded from his back, double the length of his body, flapped on a phantom wind and allowed him to move at speeds that the humans could never imagine. The rainclouds that threatened to release its holdings simply vanished at the movement of the massive wings, and the sun shone down against the vast forest that he flew above.

Snow could not compare to the whiteness of Zukorrax’s fur, and the sun gleamed off golden dragon scales that covered the vital parts of his body like armor—his head, his undercarriage, his legs. At the end of his lengthy tail, a rounded limb with dragon scales coming off like daggers. Zukorrax was the oldest, yet smallest, of his three other siblings—Ozarax, Irorax, and Zuleys.

With his home behind him—the Four-Peaked Mountain—Zukorrax patrolled the skies. His parent dragons, the Lord and Lady of the Skies, resided across the oceans in what the humans called the WarLands—a realm where dragons and humans were at war since the beginning of time. Zukorrax and his siblings, only days after they had hatched from their pristine eggs, were brought to the Newlands to keep the humans from revolting. Perhaps that was why the humans hated them—the dragons put a flame to any signs of revolt, any chances of the humans building armies to help their brothers across the ocean.

The village of Draketon came into view in the distance. Their cathedral—twin towers that jutted from the ground like a pair of fangs out of a dragon’s mouth—towered over the treetops. At each peak, a statue of a dragon, wings opened wide, carved from the blackest obsidian stone in the NewLands. In the statues’ mouths, a torch lit from Dragon Flame—so bright that it could be seen when the sun was at its highest in the sky. There were no villages within dozens of miles of Draketon, duly because the other humans feared that the villagers of the dragon town would summon the creatures and cause havoc in the skies.

Zukorrax flew towards an open field, wide enough to fit him and his siblings. Each morning after the night of a full moon, the inhabitants of Draketon would leave a single cow tied to a post in the center of the field. Zukorrax found it humorous, how the humans thought that the four dragons would be content with such a tiny sacrifice.

Instead of the usual sounds of a cow, a different noise echoed through the air and founds its way to the dragon’s attention. It was a harmony that would sound heavenly to a dragon, but the one that Zukorrax heard was different—a hint of despair flowed through. His mighty claws landed on the ground, sand rising into clouds of dust that covered the field in blindness. Once the dust settled, the beast’s eyed the sacrificing post—and saw a boy. He was no older than ten and two, with rivers of clear breaking through the dirt on his cheeks. His sobs were deafening, and Zukorrax wondered if his parent dragons could hear them from the WarLands, mistaking them for the cries of the wounded humans that they slaughtered. The young boy was dirtied, bloodied, and bruised. His hands were tied behind his back around the wooden post, and he had not an ounce of energy left within his muscles, for he sat on the ground with his back against the wood. He had a scar that ran from his hairline, down his nose, to the point of his chin—the sign of the royal family of Draketon. The boy’s eyes, full of dread, looked up at the dragon before him. Fear replaced the dread, and the cries grew louder, the tears thicker. He begged and pleaded for Zukorrax not to eat him.

Somehow, Zukorrax understood the foreign language in which he spoke. Not because of the words, but because of the look in the boy’s eye, behind the dread, behind the fear, behind the only remaining humanity left—Zukorrax saw himself. He saw how the both of them were abandoned by their parents, sent to a place where they did not belong. Zukorrax and the boy belonged beside their parents, ruling over the kingdoms that were rightfully theirs.

The dragon took a step towards the boy, and the human cowered in fear. Zukorrax stepped around to the back of the post, and the sacrifice closed his eyes tightly, creating creases in his forehead as he accepted death. But death never came. Zukorrax brought his gigantic claw up, and with the sharpness of it, he cut the rope that held the boy prisoner. A sigh of relief left the boy’s lips, but the tears still fell, the sound of his sobs still echoed within the field.

In an instant, Zukorrax took to the skies, creating a cloud of sand as tall as the treetops, leaving the boy in the dust. The dragon flew towards Draketon. The village was surrounded by stone walls as tall as Zukorrax himself, and when he landed in front of the entrance, two great gates creaked open. A group of men and women, all dressed in rags that draped over their shoulders and around their waists, walked out. The soldiers wore dragon heads made of wood and metal, chainmail armor that depicted dragon scales. The boy’s father stepped forward, and the scar down his face was painted with a deep red. Zukorrax wondered if it was blood or paint.

“Welcome, O’ Mighty One!” Zukorrax could not understand his language. “We have been praying for your presence for quite some time. We hope our sacrifices have been to your liking.”

The dragon laid his chin to the floor as a sign of peace, and the chief of Draketon slowly approached. With his hand, he gently put it against the dragon’s snout. Zukorrax’s mouth curved slightly upwards in a devious smirk for only a moment, and then he opened his jaw and dug his teeth into the chief’s midsection. Zukorrax stood, leaving the man’s lower body on the ground as he swallowed the upper half of him. A ray of dragon flame emitted from his mouth, burning the royals and the soldiers to nothing but a pile of smoldering ash.

Zukorrax took to the skies, spitting fire at the buildings that made up Draketon. In a constant, single ray of flame, the entire village was burning down within minutes. He flew up to the only remaining piece of architecture left—the cathedral—and with his mighty spiked tail, he knocked down the twin pillars.

When he got back to the open field, the clouds of dust had just begun to settle and was awoken again by his landing. Zukorrax stood in front of the boy, still sitting on the ground. As the smoke of the destruction of Draketon bellowed high into the sky behind them, the boys cries faded into nothing but laughter.