Orouboros 1

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. No, the Valley used to be a place of civility, of peace, for all who wandered through it. A distant, twisted dream it seems now, as the world splits in two under the searing tyranny of the Draco.

I still remember it, every second carved into my brain, there has not been one night of sleep since, only the memory of that day on loop. When fire rained down from the sky on crimson wings, and engulfed life as we knew it. Up until that day, the belief of dragons was comical, a fantasy tale passed on from the lips of one ancestor to the next. Settled at the base of the three massive peaks whose crests are always disguised by clouds, the Valley murmured about ancient winged creatures that perched as gaurdians at the top. They were rumored to be holders of Life’s Secrets; keepers of treasure unseen before by the human eye.

Great tales were weaved of them at the Hearth, the Elders would whisper the names of the Draco from their painted lips, back when fire still cast a friendly glow and hope bloomed in story circles shared by a village. In the tales, an incredible few humans were lucky enough to view the fabled beasts, perhaps a handful for a thousand sun cycles. They were said to have been carried on the wings of angels’ blessings to get there, as the peaks were far too steep for any living thing to scale.

As a child, I would hear these stories and try to wrap my silly little head around the great secrets of the scaled guardians, thinking it was dragons who must be the angels, somewhere their deliverance lost in translation to winged human-like creatures. And in a way, I was right. Though their deliverance of utter destruction was not one I could’ve fathomed.

So very little is still known, but on that dark, dismal day, words were uttered that changed the entire course of my destiny. Of our destiny. Ones I have devoted my life to studying and decoding, the last desperate attempt for salvation for a dying race. A lifetime ago, and the hair still raises on the back of my neck: Forma destructio est creationis, deglutimus et de novo incipitur sicut semper habemus. ‘Destruction is a form of creation, we swallow to begin anew as we always have.’

Silhouetted, the shape of the creature was choked by the smoke that billowed out from the wreckage beneath its feet. A towering blur of darkness, its length seemed to span for miles, it wasn’t until much later with the blessing of maturity I was able to fully dissect the memory and reminisce on its true brutality. The words echoing not from the mouth of this beast, but from inside my mind. Its jaws far too busy clamping brimstone covered fangs onto body after body, the air hissing out of each as an audible whisper, though the victims were a large height from where I crouched.

I have spent a lifetime decoding that memory, reading every tomb, every volume, every scrap of writing I could get my hands on. So very little is still known, but I know one thing. The dragons of the tales from my childhood were only half right. Not only are the dragons the keepers of Life’s Secrets, but also the collectors. The only way to collect is through their gaping jaws. The air I heard from the victims was not air at all, but knowledge.

I may not know much, but I know that there’s a reason these dragons were called down upon us. And I plan to find out why.