Blood-Born: A Dragon's Tale

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Although dragons used to reign freely, they eventually died off and fell into the endless well of memory like all others, falling deeper down the black well until the existence of dragons felt more like folk tale than history. However, even after new settlers came into the valley, replacing the dragons, the memory of the epic beasts lived on. Dragons could not always stay in the valley.

When the dragons first moved into Dragon Valley, displacing whoever lived there before them in long-forgotten times, the valley was abundant. Water from the surrounding mountains fell into creeks and inlets along the valley and rain fell often, nourishing lush greenery. Dragons made their homes in the tops of trees and in cavities in the mountain as the mountains descended into paradise. They had plenty to eat, as other animals often found themselves lured to the lush beauty of Dragon Valley.

Dragons were the accepted rulers of the valley. Nobody dared challenge them. The disparity between these beasts and every other creature was too vast to even consider trying to fight, so the only time any dragon ever came to harm was during fights among their own kind.

However, they lived simply. It was a small clan of dragons, a couple of dozen at most. The dragons of Dragon Valley had no hoards because there were no resources to possess; why hoard something when there’s an unlimited supply of everything? With plenty of room and plenty of game, the dragons lived lives of idle contentment. They didn’t like visitors (except as snacks), but life was good in their valley. Above all reigned an old dragon, the eldest of all, a great descendant of the fabled dragon who had led the way into Dragon Valley millennia ago.

Humans avoided Dragon Valley. No paradise was worth being devoured on sight. The remains of rare travelers with a bad sense of direction littered the entrance to the valley, though the only things left were typically the garments left by the dragons. Most travelers were safe upon the mountains, but wandering too close to the valley was as good as a death sentence.

There was, as always, an exception. One day in autumn a slight, blonde woman climbed down the mountain. pack on her back, right into the valley. The pack was almost as large as the woman herself, sticking up slightly past her head and falling down to right above the back of her knees. It hung stiffly, as if stuffed full of something heavy. The woman, however, moved with easy grace. Taking a satisfied look, as if she had finally found her proper destination (final destination, some might say), she stood and waited, dropping the pack off her back with a loud thud.

The thud was enough. Wings beat the sky like thunder as the clan of dragons flew, slithered, or ran to the new scent. The eldest dragon, a mottled white-gray like ash from a fire, led the way, mouth extended in a shriek. The woman waved her hand in an extended motion, bending with her body to make a long line as the air began to shimmer in front of her. The dragons froze as if bound in ice, watching motionlessly.

With a smirk, the woman reached into her pack and grabbed a handful of small objects, tossing them into the midst of the dragons. The air appeared to shatter as the coins hit, almost like breaking a barricade. The dragons proceeded, seemingly freed. The coins scattered in the midst of the crowd, and the woman began throwing more, distracting them. The objects were small, round and hard, but caught the sunlight like magic, shining yellow in a way that flowers or the sun never did, coming closest to dragon fire above anything else.

The eldest dragon half-dashed, half-flew to the largest pile of gold coins, prodding it with a massive claw, glancing warily toward where the woman had been, but she had fled. Not too far—her scent still lingered—but somewhere beyond sight of the dragons. He inspected the coins further, using each sense. Nothing seemed wrong about it but the allure. The eldest knew that he must have it, though he didn’t know why. Sheltering the pile with his massive, gray wings the dragon huddled over his treasure. And then the fight began.

The other dragons had been attracted in the same way, and each held their own little stock of coins with a new glimmer in their eyes and defensive posturing. No thoughts of the strange gift-giver remained in any dragon’s mind as all strove to get the gold. Meanwhile, the woman sat huddled behind a large boulder, mouthing something to herself as the coins seemed to glow even brighter and the dragons began to become aggressive. She risked one glance as the massive beasts tore into each other, ripping through wings and scales, bleeding bright crimson over everything, spattering the coveted treasure with blood and patches of dragon-skin. The eldest dragon, still trying to protect his large stash, felt a rip through his left flank as a young wyrm sunk sharp fangs into the aged king. Desperately he tried kicking backward, attempting to dislodge his assailant. But realizing what the wyrm was after, others joined the attack. Unwilling to release even a single coin, the aged dragon tried to shake off the swarm to no avail, his mighty body being torn apart little by little. Blood lust crowded out any thoughts of respect.

Others suffered similar fates, ripped apart by their brothers in a desperate struggle for treasure until one dragon remained, panting on top of a pile of gold as he began to bleed out. His wounds were grievous, and the woman finally emerged from her hiding place. Approaching the dragon, she pulled a dagger from a pouch on her leg. The dragon weakly tried to roar, the sound choking in his throat as blood pooled in his lungs. With a look of satisfaction, the woman stabbed her dagger through the dragon’s eye into his brain, ending the reign of the dragons of Dragon Valley.

The woman then descended into the midst of the valley. But in the middle of the valley, in a low hollow, a nest of eggs remained, gleaming opalescent in the autumn sunlight. Picking up the largest egg, the woman smashed the rest with her foot, leaving half-formed wyrms dying in the open air. She then carefully wiped one side of her bloody dagger across her chosen egg and licked the other side slowly, from the hilt to the end of the blade. Sheathing the blade, she left the valley. She’d take the egg with her, keeping it safe until it hatched. And then, long after the old dragons’ corpses had decayed and humans had claimed the valley, making their homes in the skeletons of mighty beasts, she’d be back. And so, too, would the new Queen of the Dragons, bonded to her by blood.