The Dread of Ascica’ara

“There weren't always dragons in the Valley, but they came when she called. Among fire and smoke and the searing screams of the dying, she stood in the midst of chaos, bleeding sword held high above her head, and shattered the world with her warcry.

“The ground before her ripped open, gaping like a giant maw and consuming hundreds who fell burning into the abyss. Not all were immediately aware of the shift, this tearing of the woven cloth of fate, so engrossed were they in the battle, and few turned their heads to see them emerge. But she saw them. Ae’illa Vancarian, The Dread of Ascica’ara, watched with fierce wonder as legends came to life to heed her cry.

“They tore their way out of the earth, black claws rending trenches wide as roads, muscle rippling underneath bright scales that reflected the firelight, throwing millions of deadly rainbows across a field of war. They roared with the fury of the ancient, the damned, the lost, and as they took flight, stretching their wings for the first time in centuries, every human on the battlefield remembered what it was like to fear.

“Ae’illa, however, had shaken the chains of mortality long ago, and stood tall as the draconic beasts descended on the field, feasting on everyone and everything in their path. They were driven by bloodlust, by a greedy hunger, and by a rage born from countless lifetimes of being forgotten. Ae’illa smiled as she listened to the agony of the dying. It is believed by many that when she chose the path of the Blund’uun all those years ago, the most vital parts of her humanity - her compassion, her honor, her penchant for empathy - withered away and were replaced with pure malice. They say this is why the great serpents heeded her call, why the world shook beneath her feet, and why she laughed as hundreds of thousands died that day.

“After The Valley Burning, she, along with her dragons, disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a battlefield of corpses. The only survivors were the great King Reinarad and his advisor, the honorable Eya d’un Maysia, who, thank the Divines, were able to slip away from the jaws of death to rule another day.

“They made many noble attempts to locate and rid the lands of The Dread of Ascica’ara and her scourge of monsters, but to no avail. Legends from different ends of the world make varying claims of where they went and when they may return: some say she perished with the dragons in the fires of their rage, consumed in and out by the hate that drove them all; others claim she left this world, borne on the wings of her great beasts to other lands that they may destroy; and still there are those who believe she never left at all, that she remains in hiding, waiting for the day she and the dragons may return to set fire to the earth once more.

“This is why we must remain ever-vigilant, ever-watchful. We are those who plan for The Dread should she rise once more. Never again will our king and our kingdom face the horrors, the untold death and destruction, of that fateful day. We train to protect our people, to protect our realm, and to protect our world from the evils that may befall it.

“I would like to welcome the new recruits to our ranks. Matthias Evergreen, Jelessia Yancin…”

As the general’s voice droned on, Mehsia’s gaze strayed to look out of the high windows of Battlehause Commons, where all formal ceremonies of the king’s armies took place. She’d heard the same words countless times before, and could recite them from memory. It was the same each year as General Huxart welcomed fresh faces, and it had come straight out of the books of study she’d been brought up with. And, if she’d allowed herself to think such things, it was getting old. It was wearing on her.

A spark within her heart was venturing dangerously close to treasonous lines of thought, and questions she’d had since she was a child were threatening to bubble to the surface. Why were King Reinarad and Eya the only ones to survive the tale? Records indicated that the two escaped through a hidden network of tunnels in the surrounding hills of the valley, but why were they the only two who’d managed to slip away from the keen eyes of dragons? Why were they saved when countless others were not? Why had Ae’illa not targeted them specifically, her greatest enemies?

Little was known of Ae’illa’s past. In Ascica’arain schools, scholars traced her origins only so far as her rise through the southern countries’ ranks, from common soldier to The Dark Hand of Queen Eyanna. It was unclear precisely when she’d turned to the path of the Blund’uun, a subset of the feared and well-hidden society of mages in the East, but it made the queen’s army nearly unstoppable. They’d gone on a rampage as they made their way to the northern kingdoms, leaving a wake of destruction and scorched earth behind them even before Ae’illa called her beasts forth from an ancient world.

No one knew why she’d burned them all: her enemies, her own troops, even her queen, for Queen Eyanna had always marched among her soldiers. Perhaps The Dread had lost her mind. Perhaps she was tired of being Eyanna’s shadow, or perhaps she thought Eyanna wasn’t fit to rule anymore. Perhaps she overestimated her ability to control the actions of wild creatures that wanted to consume the very sky itself. Or perhaps, just perhaps, everything Mehsia had been taught was wrong.

The treacherous thought sent a shiver down her spine. Mehsia knew better than to question her leaders, her betters, but, unfortunately for her, she did not always follow her better judgment.

Once the ceremony was over, Mehsia ducked out of the vast stone building, slipping between high arches and obsidian statues until she’d managed to evade anyone who might notice her. She needed to clear her head, needed to take a walk away from stifling formality and responsibility.

She walked for longer than she meant to, until she, Mehsia Ascadell, High Captain of the King’s Army, The Light of Arteloth, stood before a vast expanse of trees that she’d known all her life and was harshly reminded of everything she wasn’t supposed to question. She stood at the edge of Darkwoode Pass, where fresh claw marks had torn up the earth in rifts as large as roads. A woman waited for her at the edge of the splintered woods. She reached up a hand and beckoned.