Kings

He stood Majestic, strong, magnificent of stature and regal in grace. King Mazzula's keen eyes survey the grassy knoll overlooking the serene valley of his kingdom. The scene is bathed in the warm, golden light of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the landscape. The king's eyes sparkle with intelligence and wisdom, reflecting the beauty and tranquility of the surroundings. In one's vivid and poetic imagination, this is a painter's canvas, a painting with meticulous attention to detail and a touch of whimsy. Soft, diffused lighting enhances the magical atmosphere, creating a sense of wonder and tranquility.

Yet - something disturbs, disquiets and perturbs our imposing King...For his brows are furrowed, casting a worrisome shadow upon his personable and striking demeanor. He peers off into the horizon, as if expecting the sky to offer him solace and advice...or maybe he expects danger from the golden, orange and restless clouds.

He does not have long to wait.

The air vibrates before the dragon even comes into view. A deep, resonant buzz fills the sky...a sound not quite like thunder, but something older, more primal. The wind shifts, carrying the scent of embers and earth, as the shadow of massive wings stretches across the landscape.

A giant dark form obscures the sun, as if an eclipse were in progress...Then, it appears. The great tartrazine-yellow and black dragon soars into view, its scales gleaming like molten gold in the sunlight. Each beat of its wings sends gusts of wind rushing over the trees, rustling the leaves in trembling applause. Its wingspan is impossibly vast, edged with ancient scars and jagged tips that slice through the air with effortless precision

As it descends, the ground shudders in anticipation of its arrival. The rush of air from its wings creates a swirling storm of dust and fallen leaves, whipping in circles before settling. A final, powerful downward thrust sends a rippling wave across the hilltop, flattening the grasses as it touches down with an earth-shaking impact.

Then comes the sound---a mix of stone grinding against stone and the reverberation of sheer, raw power. Its talons scrape against the rocky surface, sending sparks skittering, and its breath escapes in a long, simmering exhale that crackles with residual heat.

The Great Dragon king had arrived.

The mighty creature lifts its head, surveying its domain with luminous, ancient eyes---eyes that have seen centuries pass, and civilizations rise and fall. And as it folds its massive wings with slow, deliberate grace, the world itself seems to exhale, as if daring to breathe again in the presence of something so magnificent

..

The two Kings face each other across the wide expanse of the valley which divides their kingdoms.

"I see you have taken human form today, O Dragon King Mazzula. I must say the handsome stature becomes you, as much as humans can be called comely".

"Hello, Gatzbar my friend. I see you are as gracious as ever with your compliments". King Mazzula replied, a hint of a smile playing in shadows upon his chiseled face.

"What troubles you today, oh gracious King, for you must have great woes if you have summoned the dragon side of me".

"Ah, my dear friend Gatzbar, my problems multiply exponentially as each day goes by that Queen Magleana ignores my petition for peace". King Mazzula replied, his mind flashing back to the last time he saw the lovely queen.

Magleana had confronted him, standing proud, arrogant and defiant towards his overtures of peace with his neighboring kingdom.

She had no idea that he had loved her from the very first moment that they had met. Her facade of unreadable coldness towards him sent stinging chills of unrequited longing up the king's spine.

+

The queen, with skin like polished ebony, adorned in flowing robes of deep blues and purples, stands on a balcony overlooking her African city bathed in moonlight. The scene is filled with intricate details, from the delicate patterns on her garments to the ornate architecture of the buildings below. Dreamlike scenes where moonlight creates a soft, mysterious glow around her.

Magleana is lost in reverie, unaware of the conversation happening across the divide.

~~~

The wind swept across the valley, carrying with it the scent of dust, wild herbs, and the faint metallic tang of old magic. King Gatzbar’s wings fluttered behind him like a banner of storm clouds, his eyes narrowing as he studied his friend.

“Mazzula,” he said softly, “you are a dragon who has flown through centuries. You have seen empires rise and crumble into sand. Yet here you stand, undone by a single queen.”

Mazzula exhaled, and for a moment the air shimmered with heat - a reminder of the fire that lived beneath his borrowed human skin.

“She is no ordinary queen,” he murmured. “Magleana is… the moon carved into mortal form. Every time she turns her gaze away from me, it feels as though the night itself has abandoned its stars.”

Gatzbar raised a brow. “Poetry now? Truly, your suffering is grave.”

But Mazzula barely heard him. His mind had already drifted back to that night - the last time he had stood before Queen Magleana.

She had appeared on the balcony of her palace, framed by the ancient city of Zorathe beneath her. Moonlight spilled over her like liquid silver, softening the sharp lines of her regal posture...Her skin, dark as polished ebony, reflected the glow in a way that made her seem both earthly and divine. Her robes - deep blues, purples, and threads of gold - rippled in the night breeze like the wings of a celestial bird.

“Dragon King,” she had said, her voice cool as the desert night. “Your peace offerings are noted. But I do not trust your intentions.”

He had bowed, though dragons rarely bowed to anyone.

“My intentions,” he had replied, “are as sincere as the fire in my chest.”

Her eyes had flickered - just for a heartbeat - with something he could not decipher. Fear? Curiosity? Or perhaps the same unspoken pull that tormented him?

But then her expression hardened again, and she turned away, leaving him with nothing but the echo of her footsteps and the ache of longing that coiled around his ribs like chains.

Now, standing in the valley, Mazzula clenched his fists.

“I fear,” he confessed to Gatzbar, “that if she continues to reject peace, our kingdoms will be forced into war. And I… I cannot bear the thought of raising fire against the woman I love.”

Gatzbar sighed, rubbing his temples. “Then we must find another way. For if war comes, it will scorch more than land. It will burn your heart to ash.”

Mazzula looked toward the distant mountains where Magleana’s kingdom lay, bathed in the fading light of dusk.

“Then help me,” he said. “Help me reach her heart before the drums of war drown out all hope.”

Gatzbar nodded slowly. “Very well, old friend. But tread carefully. Queens forged from steel and moonlight do not yield easily - even to dragons.”

~~

Flashback: The First Meeting

The valley had not always been a place of tense diplomacy. Once, long ago, it had been a battlefield.

Mazzula remembered it with the clarity of a wound that never healed. He had been no more than twelve summers old, still learning to control the fire that flickered beneath his ribs. His father - the great Dragon King Razhul - had led the assault on the neighboring kingdom of Zorathe, claiming ancient rights to the land. The battle had been swift, brutal, and merciless.

And in the aftermath, amid the smoke and the cries of the wounded, young Mazzula had seen her.

A girl standing alone on the steps of a shattered palace. Her small fists clenched. Her chin lifted in defiance. Her eyes burning with a grief too vast for a child to bear.

Magleana.

Her father - King Zorath...lay fallen behind her, struck down by Razhul’s blade. The air still trembled with the echo of dragonfire.

Mazzula had approached her cautiously, unsure why his feet moved toward her instead of away. She was his enemy. She was the daughter of the man his father had slain. She should have feared him.

But she did not.

“You are the dragon prince,” she had said, her voice steady despite the tears streaking her cheeks. “One day, I will rebuild my kingdom. And I will never bow to your kind.”

He had expected hatred. He had not expected such fierce dignity.

“I… I am sorry,” he had whispered, though he knew the apology meant nothing in the face of such loss.

She had turned away from him, her small shoulders trembling. “Sorry does not bring back the dead.”

And then she walked past him, stepping over the rubble of her home with the poise of a queen not yet crowned.

That moment had carved itself into Mazzula’s heart like a rune of fire.

The Present: Old Wounds, New Wars

Gatzbar listened quietly as Mazzula recounted the memory, his expression softening with each word.

“No wonder she cannot trust you,” Gatzbar said gently. “Her vow of never marrying is not about you alone. It is a shield forged from childhood grief. A promise to herself that no man - no king - will ever have power over her heart.”

Mazzula stared toward the distant mountains where Magleana’s kingdom lay. “But I do not seek to rule her. I seek to stand beside her.”

“I know,” Gatzbar replied. “But she carries the ghosts of her father, her people, her past. And you carry the legacy of the one who destroyed them.”

The dragon king’s jaw tightened. “I am not my father.”

“No,” Gatzbar agreed. “But she must come to believe that on her own.”

He stepped closer, placing a steady hand on Mazzula’s shoulder.

“The old wars have bled both kingdoms dry. If peace is to come, it must begin with truth - not longing. Tell her what you told me. Tell her what you remember. Tell her what you regret.”

Mazzula’s breath caught. “And if she still refuses?”

Gatzbar’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the first stars were beginning to pierce the twilight.

“Then peace will come another way. But you must try, Mazzula. For the sake of both your kingdoms. And for the sake of the boy who once stood before a grieving girl and wished he could undo the sins of his father.”

Magleana’s Memory

She remembers the heat first.

It was not the heat of the sun - nor that familiar, generous warmth of her homeland - It was the searing breath of dragon-fire rolling across the palace stones. It had sounded like the sky itself was tearing open. She had been clutching her father’s cloak when the final blow fell, the weight of his body collapsing beside her like a toppled pillar of the world.

The shouts of soldiers blurred into a distant roar. Smoke stung her eyes, but she refused to cry. Queens did not cry, her father had told her. Even little ones.

So she stood.

A child with trembling legs, facing the conqueror’s army.

And then she saw him.

The dragon prince - barely older than she was, but already carrying the strange, ancient stillness of his kind. His eyes were not cruel. That almost made it worse. Cruelty she could have understood. Pity she could not bear.

“You are the dragon prince,” she had said, forcing her voice to hold steady. “One day, I will rebuild my kingdom. And I will never bow to your kind.”

She expected him to sneer, or boast, or turn away.

Instead, he whispered, “I am sorry.”

The words struck her harder than any blade. Sorry did nothing. Sorry did not lift her father from the ground. Sorry did not stop the smoke from swallowing her home.

She turned from him, not fearing him, but because she spurned the softness in his voice. Softness was dangerous. Softness made you forget your vows.

And she had made one that day - a vow forged in fire and grief.

Never to bow.

Never to yield.

Never to marry, lest her heart become a weapon in someone else’s war.

She walked away from the prince without looking back, carrying the weight of a kingdom on shoulders far too small.

But even now, years later, she can still feel the heat of that moment - the fire, the loss, and the strange, unwelcome warmth of a boy who should have been her enemy.

Gatzbar’s Meeting With Queen Magleana

The journey to Zorathe was not a long one. Gatzbar's powerful wings bore him through the valley at dawn, when the mist still clung to the earth like a veil, and the mountains of Magleana’s kingdom rose in the distance like ancient guardians. He carried no banners, no escort, no weapons. Only his staff and the weight of two kingdoms’ hopes.

The palace guards recognized him at once. Gatzbar, the king who had never raised a sword in anger, the man whose counsel was sought even by his enemies. They allowed him passage with wary respect.

Queen Magleana awaited him in the Hall of Echoes - a vast chamber of polished stone where every footstep whispered back centuries of history. She stood at the far end, framed by tall windows that poured moonlight into the room even in daylight, as if the moon itself bent its rules for her.

Her robes were deep violet today, embroidered with silver threads. Her expression was unreadable, carved from the same resolve she had worn since childhood.

“King Gatzbar,” she said, inclining her head. “You come without your dragon friend.”

“I come as a mediator,” he replied. “And as a man who has grown weary of graves.”

A flicker of something - perhaps sorrow, perhaps memory - crossed her face. “Speak, then.”

Gatzbar stepped closer, his voice low but steady. “Mazzula seeks peace. He seeks reconciliation. He seeks—”

“I know what he seeks,” she interrupted, her tone sharp but not cruel. “He seeks to mend a wound he did not inflict. He seeks to rewrite a history written in my father’s blood.”

Gatzbar bowed his head. “He was a child, Magleana. As were you.”

“And yet we grew into rulers shaped by that day,” she said. “He by guilt. I by loss.”

Silence settled between them, heavy as stone.

At last, Magleana turned toward the window, gazing out at her city - the city she rebuilt from ashes with her own hands, her own will.

“I will not marry,” she said quietly. “Not him. Not anyone. My vow stands.”

Gatzbar nodded. He had expected this.

“But,” she continued, “I will not wage another war. Not while I rule. My people have bled enough. His people have burned enough. Let the valley remain a boundary, not a battlefield.”

Gatzbar exhaled, relief and sadness mingling in his chest. “Then peace will hold.”

“As long as I live,” she said. “After that… the future must decide for itself.”

He bowed deeply. “I will bring him your words.”

When he turned to leave, she spoke again - softer, almost fragile.

“Tell him… tell him that I remember the boy who said he was sorry.”

Gatzbar paused, then nodded once. “He remembers the girl who stood unbroken.”

~~

Gatzbar’s Return to Mazzula

Mazzula waited in the valley, pacing like a caged storm. When Gatzbar approached, the dragon king’s eyes searched his friend’s face for hope.

“Well?” Mazzula asked.

Gatzbar placed a hand on his shoulder. “There will be no war.”

Mazzula’s breath left him in a rush. “And… reconciliation?”

Gatzbar’s silence was answer enough.

Mazzula looked away, jaw tightening. “She still refuses.”

“She rules alone,” Gatzbar said gently. “And she will keep peace as long as she draws breath.”

A long, aching pause.

“Did she say anything else?” Mazzula asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Gatzbar hesitated - then offered the only balm he had.

“She remembers the boy who said he was sorry.”

Mazzula closed his eyes. The valley wind stirred around him, carrying the faint scent of a long ago memory.

“It is enough,” he murmured. “For now.”