The Dragon Thread

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley,” Daelon muttered. He crouched low to the ground, deep in the cover of the underbrush. His face twisted, and his voice lowered, mocking. “There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.”

Stupid Noor. No, there weren’t always dragons in the Valley, but there could still be damn dragons in the Valley. Letting himself be convinced to come here made him just as stupid as Noor. He bet that right now, that golden-eyed brat was sitting on a cliff somewhere staring down at him, laughing his damn ass off.

Because there was a dragon in the Valley. No, not a dragon, dragons. Many, many dragons.

He hadn’t noticed them, and lucky they hadn’t seen him (or eaten him) on his climb down into the vast cliff-rimmed basin. The massive sequoias that grew only in the Valley camouflaged a hell of a lot that lived there, but it seemed impossible to mask a whole flight of dragons.

Daelon’s heart hammered against his ribs as he stared out from the bush watching the slow rise and fall of the giant beast’s chest. Shimmery red scales glinted in the rays of sunlight that managed to permeate the canopy. The dancing array of colors was damn near hypnotic, and Daelon clenched his eyes shut before the urge to step out of the bush and touch the beast overtook him.

“Dammit,” Daelon whispered. If the kid hadn’t told him that Garrah had gone into the Valley to retrieve a piece of a sequoia tree in preparation for the Inquest, he wouldn’t be here. Really, he should be thanking Noor, but like hell, that was going to happen.

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry as a bone. How did the whole flight get here without anyone seeing them? Moonless night, his brain answered back in a clip, and he sneered at himself.

Daelon raked his hands over his face. He could just go back the way he came. He had managed to avoid every damn dragon on his trek to the center of the Valley. But if he went back empty-handed, he couldn’t prepare for the Inquest, and who knew when the beasts would leave. Noor would have a field day, and he could just imagine the look on Garrah’s face. Once again, that asshole would come out on top.

He took a deep breath and crouched lower, sliding beneath the brush, pausing when the leaves scraped his leather climbing harness, one of three tools he needed to reach the upper branches of the sequoia.

When the giant red dragon didn’t move, he slid lower and, with a deep inhale, stepped out beyond the bush. The branches snagged his sunkissed brown hair, jerking his head back as sunlight reflected off the dragon scales right into his face. Daelon bit back a swear.

He untangled his hair and tied it hastily at the nap of his neck. Unlike most people in his village who had an array of deep brown hair, his was light, nearing blonde. It stood out like a sore thumb and worked against him in every way. The Muinraoine, his people, lived among the trees, blended with nature. The greatest honor one could achieve was to become one with the forest.

It was damn hard to be one with the forest when your hair stood out like firelight in the sun.

Daelon tried to let the tension go and let out a long, slow, silent breath. That breath hitched, nearly making him cough as he looked past the dragons to the center of the Valley.

Growing at the valley's heart, like a weed amongst flowers, rose a glass tower. Its peak rose just above the sequoia trees announcing its presence and claiming its place among them. Its metal beams, black and twisted, emerged out of the earth, cementing its foundation. Some of the glass had long been broken away; others had long spiderweb-like cracks.

Daelon sneered at the atrocity; he hoped the trees would swallow it like everything else one day. He flexed his palm and glanced down at the long angry scar that etched its way along the skin. He had gotten it from playing in the damn tower as a child, something no child was supposed to do. Somewhere no person was supposed to go, period.

He’d never forget the disgust on his father’s face when he had gone home. It was the start of all the unfortunate events that would pervade his life.

Others said the monolith judged him and forever cursed him for his audacity. Those same people snuck into the valley in the dead of night to worship at its feet; Forbidden, grotesque acts that the Dunaire, their leader, chose to turn a blind eye to.

And now the dragons came to sleep at its feet as well?

Curse it all.

Daelon cleared his thoughts, avoiding looking at the structure, and scanned the ground. He avoided the fallen leaves and branches, and even as he minded his steps, a loud crack sounded in the distance. His heart bobbed in his throat, and he bolted towards the tree that rose in front of Red, diving behind it just in time to see a blue dragon wrap itself around another tree.

Its claws dug deep into the sequoia, scoring it. Daelon cringed, watching as the deep aquamarine eyes of the dragon fluttered, and it fell back into a slumber.

Damn beasts.

Daelon ran his hand against the cinnamon-brown bark of the tree and whispered, “One reaps what they sow when they disgrace the earth. Forgiveness Mother.” He paused. “Or not.”

He stayed still for several minutes, making sure none of the beasts moved. He shouldn’t risk this, but really, what was the risk? Dragons were nocturnal, and everything he heard about them said they were nearly impossible to wake unless someone stupid went rummaging around in their hoard. What was theirs was theirs, simple as that. Stupid got what they deserved for trying to steal from a freaking dragon.

When nothing else moved, Daelon tied off his rope and skirted the tree until he came full circle and tied the ends together. He ensured it wouldn’t come loose, adjusted his leather harness, and attached it to the rope.

From his belt, he unhooked two gloves, fanderes, each with four crude metal hooks running along the palm, and slid them on, strapping them in. Lastly, he secured his harness to the rope and leaned back, bracing against it.

With a slow exhale and a glance back at the sleeping red dragon, Daelon dug the hooks into the bark and slowly climbed upwards; his stomach tightened, and he focused on the bark before him, never looking up or down. His muscles burned and throbbed with each reach upwards. It was a challenging climb; sometimes, his fanderes would find purchase, but it would often be a struggle to remove it, or they would never take hold, making him skirt the tree to find another route.

It was his unfortunate nature that he didn’t have the build of the others in his village. They were thicker-set, with muscles developed to climb. Instead, he was lean, taller. It made him an excellent swimmer, which meant dick all in his village. Who gave a crap if you could swim when the livelihood of your people was in the trees?

Climbing the sequoia trees and retrieving a branch was the first step in beginning the Inquest. Most took it years from now. Daelon should be taking it years from now.

Damn Garrah.

He always had something to prove, always had to be better than him. He could imagine the pride radiating off their father as he watched Garrah, his eldest son, present the sequoia branch to the Dunaire.

And the disappointed look he would get when he presented nothing.

He was halfway up the tree when his muscles cramped, and sweat dripped into his eyes, causing them to sting and burn. Daelon stopped, wedged the rope against his butt, and lost his lunch.

Big Red huffed out a stream of air as the slop hit the ground, and Daelon prayed to the Mother that the dragon wouldn’t consider something like that a precursor to an actual meal.

Daelon heaved breath after breath, unable to fill his lungs; his vision began to tunnel. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the rapid breath from coming.

The tree stretched far above him, and the ground sunk below. This is what always happened when he tried to climb. What kind of Muinroaine was afraid of heights?

He scrambled to dig his claws into the bark and slipped. His fanged hand swung downwards and, in an act of incredible treachery, sliced his rope. Daelon tumbled backward and the air rushed by him; a scream tore from his throat.

Silence didn’t matter now.

Dead was dead, whether falling to death or getting eaten by dragons.

A laugh bubbled out of him to join the rushing air.

Because at that moment, his brain did the only thing his brain ever did for him. It told him how stupid he was. He wasn’t going to fall to his death or be eaten by a dragon. He would fall to his death and get eaten by a dragon.

Just his kind of luck.

The bone-crunching impact of the ground came all too soon, and his whole world exploded in a spray of red miasma. Daelon blinked rapidly, trying to rid himself of the red mist as he slowly lifted his hand. Every inch of him hurt, but every inch of him was discernible, not dead.

“Wha…what the hell?”

“Do you know what it means to owe a debt to a dragon?”

The red haze swirled around him until it formed a thread that pulled him to his feet. He stood on the outstretched palm of the dragon, weak knees with a pain that settled in his chest. Daelon’s throat squeezed tight; a chill ran the length of his body, followed by a flush of heat that he swore was going to set him ablaze.

It was the red one. Its eyes were the color of molten gold edged in lava.

“Do you…know what it means to owe a debt to a dragon?” It asked again.

It asked.

Daelon licked his lips with little success. His vision continued to tunnel, and his brain, his stupid, stupid brain, couldn’t get a thought out even if it wanted to.

The stark bone teeth came closer; they were double, triple his size. The dragon’s mouth barely moved as it spoke.

“It means…”

The swirling red thread of miasma tightened around him, cutting deep into his skin before disappearing. His chest burned, and he cried out, body arching off the ground as the thread reappeared. It snaked out of his chest, right over his heart, and swirled towards the beast entering the dragon’s chest.

The thread flared again, scalding his chest, burning him up. His vision eclipsed with crimson, and he could just make out the form of the dragon’s mouth, curving up into a smile.

“…you belong to me.”

Daelon crumbled into a heap, his fingers curling against the palm of the dragon. The metal of the fandere’s burned against his hands, and he ripped them free, tearing at his harness and shirt to free himself. He ran his hands over his chest, searching for the flames that threatened to swallow him whole.

What he found was a crimson circle with eight jagged arrows pointing from it burned into his chest, just above his heart.

“I’ve need of a Wyrmling,” the dragon said. Its hot breath smothered Daelon, and he scrambled back along its palm until he slipped between its digits. He landed with a heavy thump on the ground and continued to back up until his back hit the tree.

“Wha…What have you done?” Daelon gasped. Everything was tight and hot. He no longer felt like he fit into his skin.

“The question, young Wyrmling, is what must we do now? The Mother calls, and there is a power that wishes to silence her. This time for good.”