The Twilight Wood

There was only one reason for entering the Twilight Wood, and the reason behind Gilderoy’s pilgrimage was no exception. The forest stood like a great moat encircling the world. None knew what, if anything, stood on the other side. Now and then, there would be talk of someone surviving for more than a day in the mists, but these survivors somehow always disappeared swiftly. Some believed it was suicide, while others believed they simply faded from this world. By his reckoning, Gilderoy had now languished for three days in the endless fog, but time was thought to operate differently in the Twilight Wood. While unsure of how long he had survived, he was certain of one thing:

At any moment he would die.

He could feel the mist pulling on his scales like a school of gravelgrods at work dragging his corpse below to their den. A few times now, he had drawn it what he thought would prove to be his final breath only to next feel the pull slacken, releasing him to continue combing his way through the vast, unexplored wilderness seeking the force that could finally offer him rest, for Great Dragons of the Nine could not be undone by any other means.

The Twilight Wood was not featureless as he had expected, and he was surprised to find it riddled with rocks, glens, streams, fields, hills, and lakes. Most prominent of all were the trees, strand after strand of massive, grey trees. He had never seen trees like these—their tops invisible, their bark smooth as paper and glistening like marble, with not a leaf in sight—yet strangest of all was their pale glow, like the light of an oil lantern through a gossamer silk screen. Tendrils of mist swirled around them like snakes around vermin in an unnerving manner that intimated consciousness. Was this the same power that called him to oblivion beneath the mist? There was a time when Gilderoy would have sought understanding, but this was his aim no longer.

He merely wanted to fade. He wanted to die.

Following the pull, he stumbled heedlessly through the mist as sharp pains from his old wounds flared; the other Great Dragons told him that this might happen: a sword slash across his breast from over 300 years ago now stung as sharply as it did that day when he had crushed the Lectra Revolt, a burn on his neck in the shape of a circle from the Velrosi prince grew hotter by the second, but all of these paled in comparison to the agony from his back tooth, the one he had cracked in battle with a fellow Great Dragon. Panting raggedly, his steamy breath now felt as if it were charring the tooth every time he exhaled.

Why wouldn’t the mists take him and be done with it?

Just then, a memory seized him: years ago, when he was campaigning in the high country, he had tumbled from the sky and damaged his skull and mouth. Only cold water had dulled the pain. He sniffed the air in every direction, for dragons could detect the scent of a muddy puddle or a sputtering creek from 50 miles away.

Trusting his nose, he changed direction. He could have walked for 10 minutes or until the stars were blue and cold, he did not know which, until he now found himself at the shores of a large lake. The only light present was that which emanated from the trees. Like black glass, the water extended until it reached a wall of night through which no light passed. For all he knew, this was the end of the world.

He knelt by the water’s edge and drank greedily. The water was warm, almost hot, and thus did very little to numb his pain. Frustrated, he rose, great rivulets streaming down from his maw, and then continued along the shoreline, hoping the lake’s source would reveal itself to be a frigid spring.

There was a breeze here near the lake. The warm, humid air on his scales had brought him pleasure once. Closing his eyes, he remembered those long evenings spent gazing out over the Ocean of Spite while dreaming of a life lived differently and without bloodshed. Opening his eyes, only mist and water stretched before him, and in his mind were only the pains of forgotten wars and the pull of nothingness.

Approximately 300 feet before him, if distance could be trusted, Gilderoy noticed, for the first time since being sentenced to drift and decay in the Twilight Wood, the unmistakable movement of life. A tiny creature stirred near the water’s edge. Intrigued, Gilderoy found some low cover and observed. It appeared to be drinking, using its tiny hands to cup water to and from its mouth, stopping every so often to scan its surroundings, spreading ripples across the surface of the lake, transforming it from a mirror of mist into a wave of darkness. The creature continued to drink, unaware of his presence. Gilderoy inched closer, his body slung low, his belly scales mere inches above the rocks and gray sand of the lakeshore.

How by the light of Lenali was this thing alive?

As he moved closer, he could see more clearly. It was young, no more than a toddler, but that was as far as his understanding would permit, for everything else about the creature was new; it’s face was Velrosian in its features, with two flaring eyes, rounded ears, and wavy hair, but instead of flinty golden skin, this creature was pale, with smooth skin, almost white, and blue eyes, not orange. Also, it’s hair was soft and labile, fluttering with the breeze and partially matted with moisture, whereas Velrosian hair was sharp and straight like daggers.

Gilderoy froze. The child was gazing down into the water. It stared for some time, admiring its reflection, and then it made a sound that Gilderoy had never heard a Velrosian make. Laughter.

This was something new.

Just then, the child’s expression changed, and its laughter ceased. Ripples were spreading across the surface of the lake in an increasingly violent pattern, and the mist was parting in an advancing line.

It was heading for the child.

Gilderoy felt a quiver through his body—his muscles tensed, his claws unsheathed, ready. A familiar scent rolled through the mist and into his flaring nostrils: petrichor with a dash of smoke and just a hint of blood.

A dragon approached.

Cutting the stillness like a bolt of lightning, water erupted from the lake in a vertical torrent, obscuring the child and flinging silver water violently in all directions. Hovering above the lake, an enormous dragon scanned the beach fruitlessly, and then, nostrils flaring, it caught a scent and burst forward, wings and legs carrying it along the ground, the sound of churning earth and splintering wood behind it.

And Gilderoy followed.

The damp, close air clogged his lungs as he charged forth, his legs kicking off the roots and stumps of the glowing trees, his wings weaving through the glowing stalks. Ahead he could hear the painful roar of the dragon as the terrain shifted from soft sand to sharp rocks; the trees thinned as the landscape shifted from forest to badlands. Gilderoy hastened—the pangs of his old wounds multiplying with each breath. Rounding a corner, he slid to a halt. Before him stood a vertiginous wall of stone.

A dead end.

“You are supposed to be dead,” came a voice from the ridge above. The voice was musical, derisive, haughty—like the acoustic approximation of an enormous, well-deserved smirk—and it was unmistakably familiar.

“And you are supposed to be alive, and yet you are here in the forest of the dead.”

Coiled on the ledge like a hungry cat was Gravenlore, the Great Dragon of Destruction, the Spectral Slaughter, the Burning Blood, the Breaker, the Unreconciled. Where he went, civilizations were razed and forgotten, histories were vaporized and abandoned, and life clung to its host like the last leaf of autumn. They had been called brothers by some, others had called them enemies, some had even called them different aspects of the whole—it depended on both the one telling the story as well as during which specific era. Gilderoy’s mind, hazy as it was, could not remember the last time they had come face-to-face, but he was quite sure that it had not been a pleasant meeting. In his mouth, the broken tooth throbbed.

Gravenlore was motionless, but behind his eyes was a mind charting all possible attacks. He was almost twice the size of Gilderoy with black and red scales, a mouth like a black cavern filled with teeth like ancient stalagmites, talons of obsidian, and slanted eyes glowing like hot coals—black rimmed with red. He had changed the least of the Nine throughout the ages.

He could not win this fight, but maybe he could stall him.

“Let the child go.”

“You don’t know what that thing is,” Gravenlore hissed, “It must be destroyed.”

“You think everything must be destroyed.”

“At least I have a principle, something to serve. You alone among the Great Ones never knew purpose. Perhaps that’s why you’ve been sentenced here to die alone. Perhaps that’s why your Alcantara is dead—”

A stream of violet flame shot upwards and melted Gravenlore’s perch instantly. Above it, the Great Dragon of Destruction hovered, unscathed. He chuckled with a loathsome hiss. Next, he was on top of Gilderoy. Weak from his time in the Forest of Twilight, Gilderoy felt his back slam into the cold, dry rock. He tried to dislodge his aggressor, but it took only a single blow from Gravenlore for him to fall backwards, subdued entirely.

Gravenlore leaned forward, bringing his face so close that Gilderoy could smell the sulfurous fumes of the hottest fire to ever scorch Caldressa. “You were always too interested in the new, in change. You were always trying to help these tiny wretches build their castles and their libraries, only to watch them destroy what they had built in mockery of themselves. You never could trust in the eternal, in the Path. You served none but yourself. You are a failed guardian. I thought the mists would have gotten you by now, unprotected as you are,” he said, motioning to his own neck where there hung a gleaming amulet.

“While you were serving…did you also take up…thievery?” Gilderoy asked with difficulty, his vision narrowing, his breath shortening. Gravenlore’s talons dug into his hide. Blood pooled below. This had happened hundreds of times before, only this time, Gilderoy felt something different in the talons piercing his belly and in the cold stare from those burning eyes. This was no mere squabble over the factionalism of the Velrosi nor the relocation of the Sayshari nor the wars of the Izmaldarati.

This was destruction. This was his destruction, the destruction of Gilderoy, the 9th Great Dragon of Caldressa. Relief washed over him. The pull of the mist now grew—silver threads weaving their way up and over his body as if bracing him for the killing blow. Soon he would be pulled beneath. Soon he would be no more.

“Goodbye, brother,” Gravenlore said sharply. “Had you only held true to the Path, things may have been different.”

The great black and red wing fell with sickening force, sonic booms erupting from the air it cleaved, its gusts pulverizing the surrounding rock and stone. In his mind, there was only Alcantara, his love—her indigo scales in the moonlight, her marigold eyes peering from beneath her silver helm, her song—plaintive, slow, always arriving spontaneously without warning and without accompaniment whenever the world needed her to sing.

But Gilderoy was not dead.

He opened his eyes. A great mist swirled from beneath him and around his body like a suit of armor fashioned from a cloud. Gravenlore’s wing was frozen mid-blow, a vortex of mist encasing it like a spider spinning a web around its prey. On his face, the Great Dragon of Destruction flashed something Gidleroy had never seen before: fear.

Snarling at the mist, Gravenlore shredded the vortex from his wing and pulled himself off Gilderoy. The vortex regrouped and grew, drawing mist unto itself, swelling larger and larger. It appeared to be hardening. It was taking form.

“What are you?” asked Gravelore. The mist ceased its churning, as if in answer, and before the two Great Dragons, there now stood a great grey third.

At once, the grey dragon was upon Gravenlore, tearing into him savagely. The two bodies tumbled amongst the stone chasms, a tangled mass of rock and ash and mist and fire. Gilderoy struggled to his feet. He was in no shape to fight, but what did he have to lose? He surged forward and joined the fray.

They fought well together, anticipating each other’s movements expertly with coordinated assaults against Gravenlore until it appeared as if they were wearing him down. The grey dragon swung its tail in a wide arc forcing Gravenlore to buckle. Gilderoy added a swift headbutt that sent their foe sprawling. An enormous red flame burst from his mouth as his head slammed against the earth. The amulet hung limply from his neck. Gilderoy reached to remove it, but the grey dragon swatted his arm aside. They made eye contact for the first time, and Gilderoy felt a strange mix of elation, wonderment, and dread. Staring back at him was the phantom replica of his lady love Alcantara.

The grey dragon smiled at him just the way Alcantara used to when she had bested him in a duel, and then vanished into fine mist. Gravenlore hoisted himself up and took to the air with an ungainly leap, his body disappearing into the mist above. Red, thick droplets fell from the sky and formed a sizzling, dotted line below.

Gilderoy was older than Caldressa. He remembered the filling of the oceans, the raising of the Novacturn Mountains, the collapse of the great continent Platundra, the eruption of the Autumn Fires. He was there to help the Sayshari with their naming of the animals, plants, and minerals. He even remembered migrating across the Narrow Bridge to Caldressa, his eight brothers and sisters by his side. But he had never seen magic like that before, and it was not over, for as he stood amongst the fractured boulders and melted slabs, chest heaving, blood drying on his back, the mist before him began to part slowly, like an envelope seal, exposing a path through the rock, and as it did so, Gilderoy felt to his astonishment some pain abatement. Looking down to the bitumen that lined the narrow pass, he saw the faint outlines of tiny footprints.

He followed the footprints through the labyrinth of the rock for what seemed an eternity until the grey trees returned. As the mist parted before him, the trees along its edges shone brighter until they shimmered rather than glowed. They also emitted a soft buzzing sound as if each hosted a colony of insects. The further he went, the more his pain lifted. He was no longer limping, and even his tooth felt somewhat comfortable. He glanced behind and noticed the mist sealing tightly behind him as the immediate path before him opened, so that he travelled within a tight cloud towards what he did not know.

Something wished for an audience.

A crunching sound rose from where he tread, and from the texture, he knew exactly what it was without looking down.

Bones. Scores of them.

He wrenched a skull loose from one of the bodies and examined it up close.

This was not the skull of any creature that still walked the earth.

He set the skull down, reverently, and proceeded along the path, gingerly side-stepping the remains. Some bones were bleached, shrunken, and caked in dust, while others were blood-stained, glistening, and largely intact, but time did work differently in the Twilight Wood, and everywhere was the smell of smoke and ash and something else. Petrichor.

Gravenlore had been here.

Silhouetted ahead was a massive structure. It appeared to be some sort of fortification, only it had suffered severe damage. Its stone was so charred that it no longer resembled stone—more like coal. Above, battlements stood chipped and weathered, towers jutted upwards without their ceilings, outlines of thick claw and bite marks dotted the edifice, and everything everywhere was festooned with piles of smoking bones. The stench was horrendous. Gravenlore would always say that burning bones were his favorite smell. Gilderoy preferred the sea.

He reached the front entrance, a massive wooden door, large enough for a Great Dragon to fit through, with black steel running through and across it with strange markings in silver ore: the sun, the moon, a dragon, a flame, a drop of rain, all suspended within an enormous circle.

Before he could decide whether to knock or simply force his way in, a deep, low groan resonated from the door, and slowly it creaked open. Seconds later, Gilderoy was nearly face-to-face with a type of being he had not seen in nearly 2,000 years. And this one was gravely wounded.

The Sayshari, known simply as the Holy Ones, or the Dancers, were the first living things in Caldressa. They had existed before the arrival of the Great Dragons and before the Velrosi, their mortal enemies, who had sprung from the fiery, molten earth shortly after the dragons arrived. They averaged close to 10-feet-tall, with long white hair, slender builds, delicate cat-like faces, and smooth azure skin. Gilderoy considered them the most beautiful lifeform in existence, and for thousands of years, they had nourished Caldressa. Water was sacred to them, and they liked to dwell near rivers, lakes, streams, rainforests, glaciers, and tundra. It was said that they gave the kiss of life to the animals and together with the Velrosi, formed the face of the world.

2,000 years ago, they were wiped out by the Velrosi, though stories persisted of sightings near secluded springs and harbors. Gilderoy had spent the better part of 200 years scouring Caldressa for any signs of their continued existence, but he had found none. And since then, the world had forgotten the dances, songs, and beauty of water.

“I am Rashayana. Quickly, I do not have much time,” she said faintly, beckoning him inside. He had forgotten how graceful the Sayshari were, and as he watched her striding elegantly through the ruined halls despite her condition, he could not help but be amazed. On the walls were paintings of waterfalls, lakes, rivers, storms, and ocean sunsets. Everywhere was strewn the debris of what was once fine sculpture, furniture, and household items. A swimming channel had been carved into the floor and was now clogged with bones and bodies. Blood was flung on the walls, ceiling, and floor—Sayshari blood, beautiful silver serum.

Gilderoy did not have to ask to know that there were no others left alive. Gravenlore was thorough. A glittering silver stream extended backwards from his host, and her pace was slowing. They were now in a cavernous hall that appeared to be dedicated to the Velrosi Wars—along the walls hung exquisite paintings of the Burning of Bellralustra, the Great Deluge of the Year of Seven Sceptres, and even the Silence, a 60-year-stretch when The High Selabra excommunicated the ruling family for its Velrosi concessions.

With a jet of blue aura, Rashayana opened the door at the end of the hall.

“Quickly!” she shouted hoarsely over her shoulder to Gilderoy. They were now in what appeared to be a Sayshari throne room, something Gilderoy was certain he would never see the likes of again. Water fell in delicate ribbons from the ceiling, splashing against a multitude of surfaces until reduced to spray. Crystal and amethyst predominated amongst the various formations and crawling all the way up to the aperture of the ceiling was a great swirl of water that created the impression of a gigantic whirlpool. At the center of the great hall was a throne made of slowly twisting water, and upon the throne…

“No further!” said the Sayshari bluntly, but not unkindly, over her shoulder to Gilderoy.

“The..the.. child…” he stammered.

“Stay BACK!”

From her outstretched hand rushed a column of water, forming a transparent wall between herself and Gilderoy. Through it, Gilderoy could see the child perched atop the floating throne, serene, while the grey dragon paced to and fro before it, now opaque as polished steel and still bearing the visage of Alcantara.

“Gilderoy, of the Nine,” she began with a measured tone. “Through the ages, some have called you trickster, some have called you outcast, some have called you traitor, some have even called you…’the Ill-made’.” Gilderoy cringed at the sound of his most reviled sobriquet. Noticing this, the Sayshari softened in tone and countenance. “Whatever the charge or aspersions cast upon you, we Sayshari have considered you a friend since the beginning. Here in the Twilight Wood, our people have sought refuge, and for 2,000 years, we have persisted here, waiting and hoping for a way out. Behind me sits that hope.”

The child stiffened its posture. The grey dragon wore a neutral, but alert expression. Rashayana was bleeding profusely through her cerulean robes.

“What is it?” Gilderoy asked in wonder.

She stole a quick glance at the child and then smiled at Gilderoy, “Something new,” she said. With a flick of her hand, the wall of water fell silently. “And you already know what it is.”

He strained his eyes and focused. As he thought before, the child bore Velrosi features, but there was more…that soft skin, the long, straight hair, the grace, the tranquility…

“It cannot be…” he said with a gasp.

“It is. I bore it here in the Twilight Wood. Its father was the banished Velrosi prince—”

“But Velorsi and Sayshari cannot physically unite,” he said, “All past attempts ended in mutual destruction, just as fire melts ice!”

Rashayana looked to the dragon and then back at Gilderoy, “Here the laws work differently,” she said dreamily. “Here unthinkable things can persist, can change, can decay. There are powers at work here that you don’t understand, Great One. And so I have for you a request—”

But Gilderoy cut her off, “I will entertain no such thing until that thing skulking about the throne answers my questions.” The grey dragon turned its head, stopped, and then continued pacing.

“You will have your answers in time,” said Rashayana, “if you grant my request.”

Gilderoy eyed the grey dragon, and then Rashayana, “I will hear your request.”

“Gilderoy of the Nine, long have you sought purpose. I ask you now—” but that was all she could say before falling to her knees. Both Gilderoy and the grey dragon rushed forward, and together, they helped her regain her balance. She took a few moments to regain her breath, and then continued, “I would ask a favor from you, Gilderoy of the Nine. I would ask you to bear my child through the Twilight Wood to the rest of our people. I offer you in return a purpose, a principle.”

“And what would that be?” he asked while using his wing to brace Rashayana, who grew increasingly wobbly on her feet.

“Be the dragon of humanity.”

WHUMMMMMMMMM!

The grey dragon pulled Rashayana beneath its wing and sheltered her from the falling debris. The child scrambled loose from the floating throne and sought refuge alongside its mother. A pounding sound from the roof, like the stomping of dragon feet, filled the chamber. Water crashed around them.

“Gravenlore has returned!” Gilderoy shouted above the din.

“The Great Dragon of Destruction has never been here,” Rashayana said.

“But what about the bodies? The damage?” Gilderoy asked.

Rashayana winced, eyes closed, child at her side holding her hand, “There are worse things that visit the Twilight Wood than Gravenlore of the Nine.” She was pale now, a large puddle of silver growing beneath her. “Gilderoy,” she whispered, “You were summoned here because you alone among the Great Ones has the potential to understand growth and change. Will you bear my child across the Twilight Wood? Will you be the dragon of a new people? Will you—”

“I need to know what this is!” he bellowed, pointing to the grey dragon. “Why does it assume the form of Alcantara?”

A slab of stone fell to the floor of the chamber, flinging water and triggering thunderous echoes. Rashayana gripped her child’s hand firmly. The child was weeping silently beneath the wings of the grey dragon. Rashayana wiped away a tear and held the child close to her breast. She took one final deep breath and said, “This is the tenth Great Dragon. Your kindred. Brother to the Nine.”

The roof fell around them in a torrent of stone—great rocks deflecting off the outstretched wings of the dragons, shielding the Sayshari and the human.

Above them, a dark army descended, and the two dragons rose to meet them.

To be continued…