The Slaying of Azarkel

I dream of a memory.

Forged by experience, hammered in reality.

A memory trapped in a dream.

I remember…

…canopy birds greet the sun. The sparkling dew chills my feet.

…the dragon. Tail coiled around me, lustrous scales warm.

And shrouded, at the dream’s edge, there is more.

Something hidden; something it told me.

Something the dragon wants me to remember…

The market in the bailey was coming alive. The sound of heated bartering among the stalls peppered Rohan’s ears and the enticing aroma of spiced meats and grilled fish teased his nose.

He bent over a barrel of dark water, frustrated. Its occupants - several lightning eels - were well hidden. His hands, poised, remembered well the wicked sting of the eels’ barbs. It would be foolish to plunge in unheeded.

He glanced at his father Fredric, his filleting knife dancing as he removed the eel’s flesh. He’d be expecting another soon.

He studied the opaque surface of the liquid. For a moment, the sun broke through the morning cloud and off the barrelled water, revealing the face of the boy peering down. Nearly a man, fifteen summers, pale hair, the crystal blue eyes so at odds with his father’s. Unlike mother’s, too.

The reflected eyes seemed to shine, as if afire…they drew Rohan forward, until he felt he might fall into them. The water shook and rippled, mesmeric; the bustle of the market receded, the eels forgotten.

As he watched, the reflection coalesced, altering, warping. The water took on the red hue of blood, and his face…his face became both monstrous and breathtaking, both familiar and enigmatic: the dragon!

The sticky ooze of eel guts slapped into his cheek, breaking the spell. ‘Rohan! Cease your dreaming – fetch me another eel!’

Dizzied, Rohan blinked, trying to clear his head. He looked again in the barrel but the sun, hidden once more, had left the water’s surface dark and mundane.

There! An elongated fin kissed the skin of the water. Rohan’s hands moved on instinct, coming together underneath the eel’s slick serpentine body, lifting it and launching it out the barrel. Piercing it with his knife, he transferred it to his father’s bloodied chopping board, where it writhed in futile protest.

His father looked at him, eyebrow raised.

Ignoring the scrutiny, he turned back to the barrel, making to fish out another. His hands shook as he gripped the barrel’s edge. The dragon - it ever-haunted his psyche - an echo of an impression made…but from what, and when?

Above them, unannounced, the herald stepped onto the balcony of the gatehouse overlooking the hubbub of the fort’s innards. The radiant azure and silver of his House regalia shimmered as the sun revealed itself, as if the rich material had enticed it from its cloudy refuge. The iridescent garment drew the eyes of the townsfolk below as surely as moths to an evening flame. As busied faces stopped and stared, a silence descended.

Rohan, still perturbed, absentmindedly placed his knife down and removed the viscid residue off his cheeks, flicking it in the direction of one of the many dogs stalking the meat stalls. Following the stares of folk nearby, he caught sight of the herald. The herald’s colours allured his troubled mind…so familiar.

Besides him, his father remained focused on the fresh eel, a lifetime’s experience directing his knife. He was oblivious to the changed ambience.

‘Pa. Look.’

Glancing up and following Rohan’s gaze, Fredric saw the herald. And swore.

‘What is it, Pa? Do you know the House?’

His father did not answer. Standing briefly atop the barrel, he scanned the fort’s gatehouse. Climbing down, he cursed again.

‘Pa?’ Rohan pressed, with some anxiety. Looking toward the gatehouse, he saw the portcullis lowering. ‘What’s happening?’

A ripple of subdued panic spread outwards from the gatehouse through the crowded bailey as the heavy barrier slammed down. A line of archers in the same House colours marched out along the battlements. On some unseen cue, each archer notched an arrow, keeping their bows lowered. Comprehending the silent threat of violence, faces about him were writ with nervousness.

‘A House Majoris,’ said his father, low enough for his ears alone. ‘From the Far North. House Calder. That they are this far south can mean only one thing.’

Rohan turned to face his father, his features asking his further question.

‘A dragon hunt,’ replied Fredric.

The hint of the dragon surfaced in Rohan’s mind once more. Silver and blue…

The herald produced a slender horn and blew a long single note. The bellows and grunts of oxen herds grazing in the shadow of the fort’s protection wafted over the stone walls. Satisfied, the herald began to speak, his voice resounding throughout the enclosed space.

‘Hear thee well! House Majoris Calder duly proclaims notice. Hear thee well!’

‘A hunt is declared…’

Rohan peeked a furtive look at his father. His face was impassive.

‘…for the traitor dragon Azarkel. House Calder hereby claims all descendants of age for the hunt.’

A tone of unrest filtered through the townsfolk. Along the parapet, the archers drew back their bows.

‘Notice is given. Surrender your kin.’

Here and there in the gathered crowd, cries of shock and anguish reverberated. Cloaks were drawn around adolescents, hoods pulled low, obscuring juvenile faces. Yet, within the fort, there was no hiding place. And, no escape.

‘House Calder declares the hunt open. Hear thee well, and obey.’

~~~

House Calder had chosen their day well. The fort hosted the harvest fete market, drawing in the wares and produce of farmsteads and poachers for twenty leagues around. With them came roaming circus troupes, thieves, vagabonds. And, of late, orphans. As troll raids become more frequent and their targets more bold, waifs and the dispossessed trickled into the fort, seeking sanctuary, like so many ants returning to the nest.

The burly soldiers of House Calder took advantage of the crowd’s stupor, fanning out through the press. Near the gatehouse, a line of their number had formed, pushing the townsfolk back step-by-step with heavy shields. The soldiers first sought out the unaccompanied youths in the crowd, the impressed youngsters passed through the shield cordon, forced down and shackled together, their limbs complying in dazed obedience.

They then began claiming the townsfolk’s offspring. By rights, House Calder could claim any unwed descendant over fourteen summers. The soldiers were not particular - children with twelve summers or thereabouts were claimed – separated and dragged away before their kin could react.

Rohan stood frozen against the haven of his father’s body. The cloying aroma of eels’ guts on his tunic together with the press induced him to gag. His feet itched to run, hide. But there was nowhere to go.

The crowd began to lean to resistance as their children were taken. Shouts were taken up.

‘We owe this House no fealty!’

‘Damn your dragon hunt!’

Some fought. Rohan winced at the crack of bones snapping and breaking under mailed fists and shield bosses. He saw a man draw a blade, stepping in front of his child. Without warning, a loosed arrow struck with unnerving accuracy. The wailing youngster was whisked away, the lifeless eyes of their father watching them go.

The animus of the crowd teetered for a moment, tipping towards revolt.

And then, a presence was felt. A threatening, electric presence; the cusp of a great storm approaching, the air tingling with potent energies. It alone subdued the townsfolk.

The crowd ahead parted and the presence was given form. Rohan felt his father stiffen. Two figures on horseback, so at odds with one another as good is to evil. One - a fabled DragonKnight - noble and dignified. Adorned in resplendent plate armour, topped by an elaborate helmet fashioned in the likeness of a snarling dragon. About him, a large cloak fashioned of some material unknown to Rohan spilled around his steed’s flank. The knight sat unmoved, his aura inspiring uncompelled reverence.

It was the figure accompanying him that carried the threat of the storm. Cloaked in black robes entire, the folds of the rich material disguised his features. Though cloaked, the figure’s posture was crooked and bent, as if it had endured a prolonged agony that had moulded and sculpted its frame. Rohan was drawn to the robed figure as it moved left to right, scanning the crowd, looking with intent. Somehow, he knew what it sought would be found.

‘A mage,’ his father hissed. ‘Avert your gaze!’

But he could not. The hooded head swung to look directly at him. The unseen beholder held him fast, transfixing him as though run through by a spear.

The figure - the mage - inclined toward the knight. The knight considered a moment, before nodding in reply. He motioned to a House Calder soldier, who moved smartly to his side. The knight pointed toward Rohan and his father. The soldier saluted and strode toward them.

Without warning, the soldier stopped several paces away, looking about, bemused, as if just placed there by some mischievous god. He appeared to recover his composure, eyes refocused, whereupon they upturned fully into his skull. White orbs crisscrossed with lines of capillaries stared out. Townsfolk nearby inched away from the grotesque visage. The afflicted soldier jerked forward, limbs awkward and mechanical, the repulsive orbs facing Rohan.

His father whispered another warning: ‘beware! The mage speaks!’

Standing before them, the soldier-mage stared down at Rohan. ‘The boy. Where did you find him?’

Unnerved by his freak appearance, the oddness of the question still invoked surprise. Where did he find me!?

‘The boy is my son. My firstborn.’

‘That cannot be. He has eyes of the north.’

Eyes of the north?

‘From his mother,’ His father replied. ‘A daughter of a travelling moll.’

The soldier-mage wrinkled his nose and spat at his father’s feet.

Rohan scanned the other House Calder troops nearby: all blue-eyed, without fail. He looked up into his father’s face, lean and weathered; looked at the warm, chestnut eyes. Like those of the townsfolk nearby. Like mother’s…

‘Pa…?’ he stammered. Why the deceit?

The upturned eyes bore into him still. ‘How many summers have you?’ the soldier asked. His voice was monotone yet edged with the faint echo of another timbre, as if two speakers uttered the question, one slightly before the other.

‘Forty-five,’ replied his father.

‘And the boy’

‘He has ten.’ Another lie.

‘Ten?’ the bedevilled soldier laughed aloud. The laugh retained the monotone inflection, yet the shadow-voice sniggered with sardonic mirth.

His father went on: ‘the boy has aged beyond his time. The trolls have seen to that.’

The cruel laughter withered in its throat. ‘I see. His mother. She of the north. Where is she?’

‘She was taken. Soon after the Pact was broken. We had no word. When the trolls came, we…’

‘You…what?’

‘We thought the dragons would come.’

The soldier-mage throat rasped in reply. Its breathing was becoming irregular, coming in short gasps and growls, as though an afterthought. Its face began jerking with involuntary tics. Beyond, the mage was convulsing, as if in the throes of a fever.

‘You are too old, grandfather, and the boy too young’.

‘Aye, I am old. My wife and I, after many long summers, were blessed. The boy is mine.’

‘Perhaps. And perhaps the trolls’ seed has borne more fruit, eh?’ More of the hideous laughter.

Beyond, the DragonKnight turned to the mage. The trembling figure inclined in acquiescence.

‘I am remiss. House Calder regrets your loss. Perhaps the trolls, with your wife, also took your son. And perhaps, then, you gave home to this lost stray.’

Rohan recoiled. He barely registered the hands that gripped his shoulders, ignored the hint of immense strength they carried. Am I…an orphan?

‘No. He…’

The soldier-mage cut off his father: ‘hush. The matter is decided. The boy is experienced enough. Or, you lie.'

Rohan was pulled away. The man he had thought his father turned, grasping but too late to reach him. A sword hilt ceased Fredric’s protestations. He crumpled to the floor, temple stove in.

The soldier-mage stood over the prone figure.

‘Azarkel calls this child of the north home,’ it murmured. ‘He will hunt with us, and seek your avengement.’

~~~

I remember…

The dragon shifts its might about me. I feel its power.

Too, I feel its fear: it cannot protect me, here.

The rising sun catches its body, birthing a thousand silver mirrors.

In the reflections, I see without; I see within.

I see myself: I am but an infant, and yet.

…I see the dragon in my eyes of blue.

The hunt tracked ever further south. The settlements dwindled in frequency and stature. The terrain hardened and the vegetation thinned. The sun hung lower over the horizon, its warmth a distant memory.

Ahead, the sharp pinnacles of the Dragon’s Maw Mountains edged closer, their sharp peaks disappearing into the clouds. Behind, lay the bodies of the weak, and all that the townsfolk knew.

Rohan’s body moved without compulsion, his mind in turmoil. Numbed with loss, he struggled to reconcile who he was.

The regimen was relentless, leaving little time for his melancholy to fester. During the day, they worked in pairs – one with weighted net, one with pike. Over and over, the net was thrown, and then pinned down with the pike: tactics that seemed feeble to Rohan, but he was preoccupied enough not to care. As night fell, they marched, until, exhausted, they huddled around camp fires, shackled together, ate meagre rations and snatched a few hours’ sleep.

At the end of another arduous day, the encampment had collapsed to grasp what sleep they could. The wind howled about them, and Rohan huddled in to his partner, a youth of one or two summers older. His frame spoke of prolonged emaciation: the shoulders and elbows sharp, cheeks prominent beneath eyes that had long ago shed their tears. An orphan…like me?

They had not spoken beyond what was absolutely necessary. He did not even know his name. The question that came was a complete surprise.

‘What do you know of the dragons?’

Rohan was silent. The night’s cold encroached on his limbs: sleep was a distant respite. ‘I know they broke the Pact,’ he eventually replied.

The youth scoffed. ‘That is known.’

The wind sang around them and they instinctively inched further into the hard ground.

‘You are of the north.’ A statement. ‘I heard. When they took you. How is it that you are here?’

Rohan’s ire rose. ‘What is it to you?’

Several moments passed in silence. Despite the biting wind, his eyes began to lose the will to remain open.

When he next spoke, the youth’s voice had taken on a trance-like resonance. ‘The dragons – I know them. They were at the world’s birth. They have always been.’

The altered tone of the voice roused Rohan.

‘No two are alike; each unique. Some breathe fire. Some spit lightning. Some fumes that can wither an army entire. Some are gilded, some silver. Green; red; black, so black to make the night seem as day…’

Rohan’s trepidation grew. His body tried to edge away from the chanting voice.

‘…all are magical. I know too their magic.’

Rohan tried to turn but the wiry limbs of his partner held him fast.

‘…its whiff is on you, boy. I see its traces.’

Rohan squirmed in distress. Had he a blade, he would not have hesitated to strike backwards.

‘You know more than you say. Much more…You have seen him. Azarkel. Tell me what you know.’

The commotion had begun to attract the attention of those nearby. Rohan seized on this, desperate for aid. ‘Get away from me! Help! Somebody help me!’

He continued to writhe and kick against the other’s grip. It suddenly slackened and he spun around to face him, ready to strike. He stared into milky orbs, like echoes of the moon in the night sky. Aghast, he froze.

‘Azarkel…I sense him. He is close. What is he waiting for, boy?’ He spat. ‘Tell me! Or I will burn it from your mind!’

Rohan ceased struggling, his fear retreating: this creature would not hesitate to do him harm. ‘Your threat is empty,’ he whispered.

A strange, wet gargling noise rose in the youth’s throat, as if he were being throttled. His eyes began to rattle in their sockets. And then, it was over. Brown eyes looked out once more. ‘What…what happened…?’

Rohan ignored him, lost in thought.

The dragon that inhabits my mind…Azarkel.

I was with Azarkel!

And, like the mage, he yearned to know what it told him.

~~~

I sleep and seek the dragon and the memory it obscured.

I sift the layers of my mind, and I see…

The dragon has left me, yet I am not alone.

Wandering the path shown to him, a man finds me.

He pauses, cautious of the child before him.

He is right to be wary, for my eyes do betray…

The soul of the dragon that dwells within.

Rohan did not remember falling asleep. He watched the pale sun break the horizon, asserting the new day, the first fingers of dawn light caressing the hunt’s encampment.

As the light blossomed, House Calder soldiers moved towards him. They did not speak as they unhooked him from his partner. They dragged Rohan towards the encampment’s centre and bound him to a post, the harsh fibres cutting into his wrists.

Rohan heard heavy footfalls behind him. He caught the hint of sun on shining metal. The knight approached.

Up close, the plate armour was more ornate than it first appeared, intricately patterned to mimic dragon scale; artfully constructed it seemed to flow as the knight moved. Hanging at his side was a great broadsword, its hilt fashioned as a dragon’s head with a gaping maw, the scabbard in the likeness of flame streaming from its mouth. The snarling dragon-head helm was several hands above Rohan. About him, the unusual cloak swayed in the breeze.

The knight removed the ornate helm and held it by his side.

The face it revealed was old, its features weathered and etched by crashing waves of hardship and experience, each line and wrinkle whispered of battles fought and enemies vanquished. His freed hair hung back from his scalp, kissing the pauldrons of his armour, grey with hints of the midnight black it once was. The knight’s eyes burned with cold fire. Old though he may have become, age had not inhibited his vigour.

‘What is your name, boy?’ he questioned, his voice as gravelly as his visage.

‘Rohan, sire.’

‘Rohan. Good. I am Gadriel. We must speak, you and I.’

Rohan was silent.

‘You have seen Azarkel.’

A denial formed on Rohan’s tongue for a moment before melting away. He realised he could not deceive this knight – Gadriel – no more than he could deceive himself.

The knight continued: ‘I do not approve of the mage’s methods but understand this: the dragon is treacherous. Whatever it told you cannot be trusted. He must be destroyed. ’

Rohan’s head span. The dragon from his dreams was free from malice, as noble as the knight: it was manifestly good.

Gadriel scrutinised him. ‘We have that in common, Rohan. I have fought and bled with him. I would have died for him…’

Perhaps it was the sting of the dawn breeze, but Rohan saw the knight’s blue eyes moisten.

‘I will try to make you understand. The dragons are ancient Rohan, but even they die. They proposed the pact between men and the dragons. The first DragonKing - bestowed with their wisdom, their acumen and their longevity - ruled. The race of men prospered. The great Houses were founded. The trolls routed. It was a golden age.’

Rohan listened, entranced. The knight continued.

‘Every century, it was renewed. The DragonKing would bless the unions of the eminent houses – the Houses Majoris – and twins would be born. One male, one female. All with eyes of gold, Rohan. Eyes of the dragon. These neophytes would ride to the edge of the world - and beyond - and the pact would be renewed.’

Behind the knight, the encampment stirred, the House Calder soldiers corralling its occupants to ready their weapons and armour.

‘But one would return: the new DragonKing. Of the rest…But the dragons would be rejuvenated. Dragons would arise.’

Several archers had moved to flank the knight as he spoke, arrows notched.

‘House Calder – my house – rose and dominated the northern realms. The dragon Azarkel became our patron. The silver and azure of his hide inspired our colours. I wear a cloak of his scales. My helm is fashioned in his likeness.’

The knight’s eyes bored into Rohan.

‘Can you understand? They broke our pact, Rohan. Killed the DragonKing’s progeny. Most of my brethren, dead… Azarkel was there.’

Behind him, soldiers adjusted his bonds, forcing his legs wide apart, with his arms thrust outwards diagonally, so that he stood spread-eagled like the points of a distant star. Rohan felt naked and exposed, as if strung up in the town square as punishment for some heinous crime.

Unnoticed, the crooked, agony-stricken figure of the mage had shuffled to stand next to Gadriel.

Gadriel went on: ‘Azarkel has marked you, Rohan. In the end, the reason matters not.’

Sorrow was etched upon his regal features.

‘I must draw him out. I hope, if you cannot forgive, at the least, you understand.’

Rohan sensed the flight of the arrow tearing the air a fraction before it impacted. It thudded into the meat of his thigh, washing a flood of pain along his nerves. The shock of it made him scream in agony, both audibly, but also internally, a psychic protestation emanating out from his injured spirit.

A second arrow followed, penetrating the palm of his right hand, the bloodied barb emerging clear of his flesh. The pain multiplied, and again he screamed, tinged with something more: indignant rage.

Rohan closed his eyes, anticipating yet more barbed points invading his skin. Instead, his body was engulfed in violent convulsions; a sharper, richer agony traversing up and down his limbs and across his back and chest. Ethereal tendrils of an unnatural flame flickered across his body.

The mage had stepped in front of the knight, his hands alight with arcane fire. He began to raise them again toward Rohan…

Another fireball struck, and a bestial cry emerged from his mouth. Rohan would have collapsed then, his mind and body overcome. Would have, were it not for the sound that boomed over the encampment. His anguished shout echoed back, reverberating deeper and exponentially more baneful. A sound that portended naught but death. Yet encapsulated in it, he heard salvation.

About him, Rohan felt bodies rushing by, felt their panic. All around was the clatter of weapons being drawn and frantic orders and instructions. Something was coming, something of singular might.

A dragon hung in the sky, its shadow cloaking the bodies scurrying beneath him. Great swathes of air drove dust upwards in swirling eddies as its vast wings kept it aloft. Rohan’s suffering was forgotten as he made sense of the sight, recognised the incandescent scales. Azarkel!

The dragon roared again. Then it breathed death over those below.

Rohan watched as those touched shattered apart on the spot; bodies cracked and fractured, limbs broke clear away. The dragon swept up and away, belying its massive form. It circled around before suspending itself once more, directly above Rohan.

The archers had scattered but Gadriel stood defiant, drawing his great sword. The mage cowered behind his steadfast form. No, Rohan thought, not cowering…preparing, readying.

Azarkel’s nostrils flared as he sucked in great masses of air, before its freezing breath streamed forth, aimed at the Knight and mage. It met some barrier unseen, and like some great umbrella, it washed around and past them.

The archers began loosing arrows at the dragon, targeting the joints where the great wings joined its body, all but the most accurate deflected clear by its glittering scales. Roaring once more, Azarkel spurted a fresh jet towards them. Yet more frigid limbs shattered on the ground.

The mage stood ahead of the knight, his hands again aflame with eldritch fire. He launched fireball after fireball into the body of the dragon, bathing its massive torso in an unnatural conflagration. Azarkel howled its pain, beating its wings and climbing once more, away from the mage and the range of the archers.

The mage’s robes shifted a little and Rohan caught a first view of his face: hideous, waxen and scarred. He was panting heavily from his exertions.

Azarkel swooped in again, blasting the archers. Lifting clear of any counter, it returned and unleashed another deadly jet at Gadriel and the mage. As before, it was repelled but the mage sank to one knee, gasping hard and grabbing at the knight for support.

Sensing an advantage, Azarkel risked coming to a standstill. Flames still flickered along its body, the scales appearing blackened in spots: it had been more gravely injured than first appeared. It struggled to beat its wings, their motion hampered by arrow shafts.

The battle was reaching its apex, Rohan could feel it.

Azarkel was first to act, sucking in a breath to finish the weakened mage.

Acting in desperation, the mage shot a fireball at Rohan, setting him alight once more in unnatural flame. He writhed against his bonds, wracked with renewed pain.

Azarkel dropped down between Rohan and the mage, taloned feet making contact with the ground, its wings spread wide to hold it upright.

The knight did not hesitate, signalling to the soldiers that still stood. They barked at the net and trident teams, herding them toward the standing beast with slaps of their weapons. Azarkel swept its breath left and right, dealing icy death. Still, weighted nets were flung aloft, falling over the extended wings, stymieing their motion. The long pikes were forced into the ground, pinning the nets in place. For the moment, the great dragon was grounded.

Gadriel charged.

Azarkel responded, blasting the knight with its breath. The knight reacted with preternatural speed, ducking and swinging the dragon scale cloak around himself, deflecting the spray. Unharmed, he redoubled his effort and leapt at the dragon.

Time seemed to slow. Rohan watched as the knight defied the weight of his armour, leaping up towards Azarkel’s mighty head, his full weight pressed behind his sword. The razor edge of the weapon found a gap between the shimmering scales, and the Gadriel forced the blade hilt-deep, before he fell back, slamming into the hard ground.

Azarkel reared its head, and roared for the final time. In its death throes, it released a frozen blast at the stricken knight, catching Gadriel on one side. The plate armour contracted, crushing the bones and organs beneath.

The dragon fell back, crashing into the earth, to lie listless, fractions away from Rohan. Its mighty lungs stuttered and ceased, its chest becoming still, tongue lolling over dagger-like teeth. He felt the final breath on his face. He watched the light go out of its golden eyes.

Azarkel was slain.

Rohan’s slumped before the lifeless dragon, his head bowed. It had defended him to its death, and yet he did not know why.

He looked up, some lost feeling of affinity bubbling in his soul. The dragon’s silver and blue scales, almost metallic, glistened still. He could see his reflection in them, saw the cruel wounds inflicted upon him, body blackened and scorched. Looked into his face…

He gasped. His eyes. No longer the blue that had marked him out. Ophidian eyes of gold stared back. And the memory flooded in.

Azarkel was there.

My sisters and brothers slain, the race of men deceived.

Azarkel saved me…us. My twin. My sister.

The last of our line. Even now, the mages hunt us.

Disguised and separated, each forgets the other.

The remembrance is veiled, lost in our minds.

But now, I remember…

The boy who once was Rohan awoke.

The mage stood before him, his hood drawn back. The pallid features it revealed were riddled with tumorous growths and weeping sores. He too had seen, had found his true quarry. The lipless mouth contorted in a rictus grin, blackened gums and rotting teeth crowing in triumph. His fortitude recovered, hands were alight with spectral flame.

Blood, like spoiled red wine, spilled forth from the abhorrent mouth. Gadriel’s sword emerged from his chest, and the words of the spell drowned in his throat. The mage slid forward along the blade, collapsing to the ground, and lay still.

The knight dragged his crippled body to lie at his feet. ‘Forgive…I saw, my lord…I saw’. His rasping breath, shallow and pained, ceased.

Unmoved, he stared at his image in Azarkel’s scales. Watched as they lost their lustre, faded, became dull. Watched as his true self disappeared, hidden once more.

He looked to the north. He would be stalked and hunted.

He knew what he must do.

I must find her.

Inside, the dragon roared.