Chapter One

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Before dragons, there were drakkides, as evidenced by numerous fossils preserved beneath the valley’s floor. Drakkides appear to be quite close to dragons, having similar necks, hind legs, wing structure, and horn placements. Based on the bone density and skeletal structure, however, it is speculated that drakkides were unable to fly, though many were likely able to leap high distances and glide downwards. The drakkides with the highest jumps and longest glides were most likely to eat better and mate better than the drakkides who could do neither. Eventually, drakkides selected for longer and longer flight, developing wings and legs strong enough to lift themselves off the ground. Physiologically, this meant that bones grew less dense but more importantly that drakkides developed a way of preserving some form of gas. Additionally, their horns, teeth, and claws continued to develop into stronger and stronger methods of attaining fresh meat. This all combined to make a sufficiently different animal: the dragon. From there, it was a long time until dragons appeared as we see them today…

Byor closed the boring book with a lazy flick. He couldn’t guess why he was required to read this material. Ujinacar’s University mandated such things for all enrolled students, but only those destined for breeding or managing dragons needed this kind of information.

Breeders were biologists and managers were glorified stable cleaners. Byor was tall, fit, and had the best eyes in his year; he was meant to be a rider.

The whole class wasn’t worth his time: Biological History of the Valley. Who needed these classes? Byor leaned back in his seat, eyes wandering towards the narrow window high in the wall. He was working himself up to leaving the library with most of his work unfinished, he realized, which brought with it a pang of guilt. He pictured his family a few blocks away, toiling with the same old plants and herbs. Coming from a long line of botanists, Byor knew he should respect the work more, but he had gotten out. His family had sacrificed so he could be at University, and it was up to him to provide a better life for the family.

Byor looked down at the closed book, wondering how much of it he actually needed to know. Guilt and familial obligation had brought him to the Library that day over the protests of his friends, hoping to chase girls or practice flying techniques, but as he looked out the window again, he realized it really was a shame to work too hard on the first beautiful spring day.

Moving from the cramped, poorly lit Library to the open air was exactly what he needed. He breathed deep as he stepped outside: the sun was shining, the air was warm, and the spring thaw was under way. Everything seemed to thrum with life, and when the wind blew a certain way, he could hear the mewling cries of baby dragons. Though he would never do something as dorkish and boring as breeding or managing, even he wasn’t immune to the joy of hearing a baby dragon crying.

The cobble stone path from the library meandered through the University’s campus in a lazy fashion, taking circuitous routes meant to relax the body and stimulate the mind. Beside the cobblestones was thick grass, and fruit trees were just beginning to bear, their leaves providing a dappled shade. The University rose around him: thick spires of glass rising out of a patchwork squat stone building marked the Alchemist’s Lab; the Library stood behind him as a windowless block, cut and shaped to look like a five-story boulder; the Greenhouses ran long and flat in a series of straight, translucent buildings, the inside covered in dew; the Grand Lecture Hall stood like a proud grandfather, dignified and ancient and solid in a way that Byor had always found comforting, even if he hated going into the building for classes.

Without any obligations now that he’d abandoned his work, Byor wandered aimlessly around campus. There was little to do at this stage in the spring term, except pointless reading, and he wondered if he could sweet talk a stable master into letting him go for a ride.

Just then, a dragon flew low overhead, roaring. Byor jumped; someone was either playing a joke, severely un-informed, or alarmingly incompetent. Dragons shouldn’t fly that low over a city. He watched the dragon continue on its way. Strange markings, he thought. Then the dragon reared its head back and opened its jaws, and Byor felt his stomach drop.

It spewed fire down on the Greenhouses, and suddenly the air was filled with screams, the smell of roasting vegetation and flesh, and a flash of heat Byor felt from fifty feet away. Byor watched as a few people ran from the buildings, completely afire. Attack, he thought numbly.

Byor couldn’t move. The Valley had enjoyed an uneasy peace for as long as he could remember. He’d heard old stories about battles, dragon fire, and he had even thought he wanted to be in one. He’d never felt more helpless, more useless, than watching the Greenhouses burn. Dragon attacks and war was something he read about, and reading about them had always involved endless series of dates, tedious speeches, forms of address, and lengthy treaties dealing with land and annual tributes of hatchlings. Byor had never read anything like what he saw now.

A second dragon appeared from the west, nosediving toward the Grand Hall at breakneck speed. It pulled up with a single, terrific beat of its wings and breathed fire. The old stones held, and Byor watched as the majestic building seemed to bask in that hottest of fires, unyielding. A few people managed to escape the building.

Then, all at once, the building collapsed. Byor could see the remains of people in the doorways, windows. The attacking dragon landed in the middle of the wreckage, it’s claws easily finding a perch on the unstable and awkward pile of rubble. It roared once in triumph.

The roar caused Byor to stagger backwards, the first time he’d moved since hearing the first dragon roar. With that, he couldn’t stop moving: he was running, running as fast as he could to home.

Father. Mother. Sister. Father. Mother. Sister. Father. Mother. Sister. Father. Mother. Sister. Father. Mother. Sister.

The words were a cadence he ran to, his feet hammering the ground, punishing the earth, as he rushed over to the hut that served as his family’s home. Running through campus, he saw students scattering wildly, either to their own parents or somewhere presumably safe. He saw faculty—his own teachers, so bookish yesterday—taking up long bows or donning riding gear. Faces a mask of competent control, the professors and lecturers called orders out to him, but he was already past. No declaration of war, no parlay, no war council, filtered through Byor’s chant.

Byor was out of campus and on the paved streets of Ujinacar, the city he had known his whole life. He recognized each building that was on fire, and some part of him rattled off their owners or proprietors as he passed. He couldn’t spare them any thought, much less his time.

Father. Mother. Sister. Father. Mother. Sister. Father. Mother. Sister.

His legs did not stop moving until he rounded a corner and saw what was left of his neighborhood. Smoke and ash and bone, though he couldn’t look too closely. He hated himself for turning away, but the smoke got in his eyes. He began coughing. There was nothing left: smoldering ruins of the wooden frame houses that lined the street. His had been one family of many families who made their living cultivating the feed that kept dragons healthy and flying. They all lived on this street, mixing and breeding their plants amongst each other to produce novel strains. The winter crop had been nearly ready for harvest, Byor thought, focusing on the most familiar. Just a few more days, his father had told him that morning.

A dragon roared overhead and swooped over the town. Byor tried to look up, but the thick smoke obscured everything except a shimmering haze from the sun and the flame below. He fell to his knees, head in his hands. He found himself crying, but the tears only served to help clear the ash and soot from his eyes. Byor had always hated crying, had found it useless, and some small part of him noted the usefulness of them now. He found this funny. Byor sat there laughing to himself, unable to stop, shaking with sobs and laughs.

The smoke was less thick nearer the ground, and he found himself lying on his side. He closed his eyes, but the screams of people nearby and roars of the dragons overhead kept him from being able to sleep. The devastation of the city meant little to him, suddenly. Father. Mother. Sister. Father. Mother. Sister. Father. Mother. Sister. Father. Mothe—

He felt a sharp pain in his side, a boot connecting with something soft in his body. A body fell over him, yelling, “what in the five senses?”

Gretheia, thought Byor. She was the only kid at the University who wouldn’t use a proper curse, even when they knocked over her stack of books or called her Gretta, a name she loathed.

“Byor, it’s you,” she said. “Are you okay? Where is everyone? Do you know where to go?”

“No,” Byor said, answering as many of the questions with as few words as possible. Gretheia’s face was covered in soot, making her barely recognizable. The whites of her eyes shone out brightly behind the dark mask her face had become. “They’re all gone.”

“I heard there was resistance in the University. People are making their way there. I was at the Baths when—”

“There isn’t any point,” Byor said without realizing he interrupted her.

Gretheia looked at Byor, seeing him for the first time. “Come on, Byor. You’re the toughest guy in our class.” It seemed impossible that Byor, of all people, would be falling to pieces. He practically screamed ‘military.’

Byor continued staring straight ahead, not hearing her.

“Byor.” She shook her classmate.

Gretheia wasn’t a tough kid, wasn’t friends with Byor or even tolerated in his social group. She was bookish, and she would never ride a dragon. She’d accepted that a long time ago, and she had devoted her studies—herself, really—to understanding the creatures better than anyone else in the Valley. She was mapping their vocal patterns, which she knew no one cared about except her and probably earned her ridicule from people like Byor. Now, though, she felt that she wasn’t any of that. She wasn’t even Gretheia anymore; she was just another person in a disaster, and she would do anything to get to that time which was after the disaster.

“Byor,” she said so forcefully that Byor finally looked up. “We’re going.” Gretheia was surprised at how commanding, how measured, her tone was. She had never spoken to Byor or anyone like this. When Byor didn’t move, she said again, “Byor. Now. Move” and gave him a tug. Byor came to his feet and stared at Gretheia.

“Gretheia,” he said as if just noticing her.

“Yes,” she said, tone firm and reassuring. “We’re moving now.”

Byor followed Gretheia by the hand through the smoking remains of Ujinacar. Occasionally, a dragon would fly low, roaring loudly but never breathing fire. The city was sufficiently destroyed, and any capable rider kept her dragon under control, Gretheia knew. Too much freedom meant the dragon grew too bold, breathing fire or eating without command from their rider.

Navigating the streets that she knew so well, Gretheia focused on the sounds of the roars, trying to determine any nuances she could. There was something slightly off about the dragons, though Gretheia couldn’t place it. Byor followed behind Gretheia. He stumbled occasionally and always flinched or ducked at the dragons’ roars, but he moved quickly and stepped nearly exactly where Gretheia stepped.

Eventually they made their way to the University, where refuge was.

It was a pen for prisoners.

Gretheia stopped suddenly, seeing unfamiliar men and women next to unfamiliar dragons, all with their backs to the Gretheia and Byor. Byor ran into Gretheia then stopped. Gretheia, at this moment, was glad for his silence. She was contemplating slipping away as a voice from the crowd rose up:

“Run, Gretheia!”

Gretheia looked for the source of her name, a reaction she couldn’t resist. By the time she saw Master Frethir being struck with the butt of a spear, one of the strangers had turned and begun making their way for Gretheia and Byor.

She felt Byor behind him, unaware of the burning city or the rapidly approaching foreign soldiers. How can I keep him safe out there? How can I keep myself safe? To Gretheia’s credit, it never once occurred to her to abandon Byor. Two disasters was one too much, though, and Gretheia found herself grabbed roughly by thick callused hands. Byor allowed his hands to be bound and chained to the other prisoners with perfect equanimity. Gretheia looked at Master Frethir and gave her a small smile, trying to convey that she understood. The Master Naturalist was like a mother to her, and Gretheia knew the older woman hadn’t been able to stop herself. She was connected to Byor, the two of them forming the last two links in a human chain bound together.

The attackers were in full view. They wore a silvery green material that fit them snugly. Many wore the helmets so common amongst riders: misborn or aborted dragon hatchlings’ skulls. Few wore their faces out in the open, and Gretheia couldn’t make sense of their facial features. Many of the Valley’s city-states had some general set of physical features, though there was often wild variation within that. These soldiers were tall and straight-backed like the Kuylier but had the straight noses and fierce brows of the Mingil. Their hair was uniformly black and straight, not unlike most inhabitants of Ujinacar. Their dragons… Gretheia blinked a few times, then sagged in disbelief. The horn placements were nothing like any dragons she had ever seen or read about. All the dragons of the city-states in the Valley sported crown-shaped horn formations, or at least horizontal-based placements. These dragons wore a line of horns from their brows down their spines. Gretheia reeled at how long ago these dragons must have diverged from the dragons in the Valley. Who were these people?

Byor felt a cold sharpness around his wrists and a stinging in his knees. Also, there was pain in his eyes. Each of these were distinct in his mind, fitting nicely into his current understanding of the world. He focused on little else except these physical sensations. Occasionally, three words would filter their way into his mind, but his mind recoiled and pushed them away until they did not appear again. He knew Gretheia was next to him, and he knew that some of his teachers were nearby. He had seen them.

There were also dragons nearby, though as he looked up, they flew away. He was grateful for that. He saw them snapping and rearing at each other, riled by the blood and destruction. They needed to be withdrawn from the town to secure their energy and their riders’ mastery. It felt good to focus on the dragons and riders; it was something he knew.

“Invaders, murderers, and thieves, hear me now.” The voice was booming, reverberating throughout the small entry courtyard of the University. Everyone looked up and towards it.

There was Headmaster Averil, his thick blond beard discernable beneath his glinting half-helm. He held a large spear comfortably by his side, with the University Sword strapped across his back. He was flanked by a dozen or so armored faculty members: teachers and guides prepared for battle. They waited for the dragons to leave, thought Byor. Standard procedure.

The foreigners pulled their bows off their backs and held them loosely. They made no move to form defensive positions or attack the faculty.

“You have wreaked havoc as your first act in this Valley, for you are unknown to any who hail from this land.” The Headmaster spoke with an archaic formality that resonated with Byor. It was easier to focus on, somehow, then regular speech.

“You have killed the innocent and destroyed our homes. You have crippled our dragons and stolen our hatchlings. These are acts of war. Soldiers, prepare yourselves.”

The foreigners looked at each other and grinned. Distantly, Byor realized the rules of war he had grown up with, been taught, mastered, were no more important than the ash filtering down upon him. Prepare yourselves, thought Byor, echoing the Headmaster, as he remembered the Greenhouses.

Gretheia’s stomach had dropped moments before. As she listened to the Headmaster give his absurd speech, Gretheia’s eyes had continued past the Headmaster to the horizon behind the armored faculty.

Swirling clouds moved unnaturally against the wind, and as she watched, an object appeared in the sky unlike anything she’d seen or imagined. Two—four?—massive, slender wings rotated in a wide circle, keeping a large craft afloat in the air. There was a central deck beneath the rotating wings, almost like the back of a dragon, and on either side were teams of soldiers pushing levers with their legs, continuously moving gears that magnified each of their leg-power to produce lift. They moved slowly but surely towards Averil and the faculty.

“Watch out!” yelled Gretheia again and again. “Above you!”

Byor looked up and saw the same thing, and after a moment, he joined in the shouts.

The attackers kept their bows loose and unnotched. The flying craft was nearly above Averil, who was sure that the aerial threat was gone. Gretheia and Byor both shouted themselves hoarse, only to succeed in being heard by their guards as the aircraft moved above the group of faculty members.

Large balloons fell from the gondola of the aircraft towards the faculty, a lit fuse on each. When they landed, they exploded, and whatever was inside sprayed out, sticking to what it landed on, and burned. Men and women—learned teachers from all over the Valley—scattered, each of them afire, their screams echoing into the burning city. Gretheia cried openly she watched those she admired burn to death. Byor stared unblinking.

When one of the faculty members ran towards the attackers and the prisoners, the foreigners shot them dead. The rest, they let burn.

On the other side of the courtyard, the aircraft landed gracefully. The prisoners were herded onto the gondola, and a few of the stronger men were selected to power the craft.

Byor was grabbed and shoved near a seat, each leg strapped into a lever he’d push with his legs. He looked up at Gretheia as they pulled them apart, both of them realizing in that moment that they needed to stick together. At her first chance, Gretheia moved nearer Byor. They could see each other, her standing above his seat.

One of the foreigners issued a piercing whistle, and every leg-rower except the ones from Ujinacar began to push against the pedals. The Ujinacar men understood quickly enough, though one or two suffered blows for not working hard enough. Gretheia watched Byor push against the levers with a ferocity that disquieted her. She saw him mouthing three words again and again to the rhythm of the pedals. Gretheia felt a swell of sympathy and—strangely—gratefulness. He lost everything, she knew, and she also knew her family was safe in the far-off city of Dueron at the foot of the mountains.

As the strange craft jerked into the air, Gretheia and Byor both surveyed the destruction of the town. Byor took one look, and then turned to his feet in front of him. Gretheia watched the city burn, reflecting on her four years calling it home, remembering each tea house and tavern and restaurant she’d gone to. There were tears from many on the gondola, and the victorious sounds of the foreigner’s laughter clashed harshly with what the Ujinacar prisoners felt. As the heat from the city began to fade and the cold air whipped against them, he two students—prisoners, now—knew this was only the beginning.