The Girl From Crimson Valley

Prologue

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. But as the ancient scrolls stated, there was a first time for everything. So, according to the Book of First Sightings, they began appearing after The Great Quakes of the Fourth Millenium.

According to myths and legends, people peacefully gathered one midday afternoon. Some enjoyed something called a picnic. Others frolicking near the bay. A star shot across the heavens and caused distant rumbles. Within minutes the earth tore open, and from the depths flew three mighty dragons.

The queen, Majadra, was steely-eyed and grey-scaled, with talons as sharp as carbonite and fangs to match. Her twelve-meter spanning wings blocked out the sun as she swooped down, scorching the area as if marking her territory.

Horned brow to spiky tail, the ancient ones claim she was the size of something called an aircraft carrier, whatever the agony that is.

Her children, Horrenticour the Terrible and Carnelian the Gentle, were flanked on either side. The former, a slightly smaller, brown-scaled version of his mother, spotted the innocents gathered, flew down, stabbed them with his horned brow, set them aflame, and swallowed its victims.

The latter, similar in size to his sibling, took mercy on his prey. It allowed the humans to scatter before spewing his blue flames and cutting them down. And unlike its sibling, the green-scaled Carnelian allowed its meals to cool off before wrapping its forked tongue around the charred bodies and sucking down fallen remains.

Within a year, skies across the planet were filled with these flying demons. By the end of that deca-cycle, dragons became the dominant species of our world.

Over time, humans took refuge wherever they could. The Voleri chose to burrow into the earth, while the vicious Trioxanes picked the caves as their homes. Finally, the foolish Mediterans risk their lives and dwell openly on the water.

“Easy pickins’ if you ask me.” My uncle, Fic, once said.

Ironically, he died fishing one afternoon by the bay. Witnesses said one moment, he tended his poles. The next, a brown-scaled beast lopped off his head and swallowed him whole. They said you could see him squirming down to the dragon’s stomach.

The very thought haunts me to this day.

My people were called the Tauken. We lived a quiet existence, fishing in the bay, and farming the land. My mother, Valentina, was the village elder. She was a solo mother, as she and my father Anders split up cycles ago, in my youth.

Father lives with the Trioxanes, about thirty-two moons north, in the mountain region. How he can live with those people is beyond me. And like Mother, he leads his colony.

Once a cycle, he and I meet and exchange gifts, as is the custom, usually somewhere between our respective villages. Three cycles ago, Father gifted me with Quentin, a golden-haired razor-backed wolfhound.

The moment we locked eyes, it was amour at first sight. Quentin snarled playfully, the way pups do, before marking my thigh with his claw, claiming me as a member of its pride.

He's been at my side ever since.

It had been many cycles since we’d seen dragon activity in our region. They seemingly preferred warmer climates than ours, which suited me just fine. I neared the Age of Maturity, which meant I would soon choose a mate and decide on a dwelling. The last thing I wanted to worry about was another vicious attack.

Unfortunately, my wishes meant nothing to the demon beasts that flew and disturbed our peace two cycles ago.

I was busy packing for my annual visit with Father when I heard the alarms. I thought it was another drill before listening to the screams.

I ran to my bedroom window and watched seven dragons, flying in a v-formation, swoop down from the sky, and pick off my neighbors one by one.

Some flambéed their victims, getting a nice char before flapping their mighty wings, blowing out the flames, and leaving behind a crispy morsel they snatched into their mouths and seemingly enjoyed.

Others grabbed their victims with their talons and bit the heads before gulping down the rest of their writhing meal.

No one stood a chance, not even Mother, one of their final victims.

I watched in horror as a grey-scaled dragon with a scar under its left eye flicked its mighty tail, knocking her off her feet. It then seized and set her ablaze. Mother’s blood-curdling cries echoed across my heart.

Quentin and I wanted to run out and slay the scarred beast but followed village safety protocols instead, sliding to the sanctuary tucked away in the basement of our dwelling.

We heard the firedrakes spew their deathly flames, massacring my village. Eventually, the screams faded, as did the putrid scent of barbecued flesh, and after what felt like a deca-cycle, we ventured outside. I hoped to find survivors, but instead, all I saw were blood-soaked shredded clothes and charred remains.

Even the infants were gone.

Before the attack, we had one hundred and twenty people living in our village.

Afterward, there was only one.

Me.

Darius.

Son of Anders and Valentina.

The last survivor of the Tauken.

Until this morning.

When she washed up on shore.

The girl from Crimson Valley.