The War of Two Empires

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.  

That’s the last thing Orinda’s mama whispered to her before her hands fell away from her daughter’s face as she was slaughtered. 

Before the rising War of Two Empires, winged beasts snatching children from their beds were simple words of caution. Children were instilled with such terror, thinking they would become the creatures they feared if they were ever seized and compelled to drink the blood of a dragon.

Orinda so naively considered those warnings a tale, mindlessly crafted to terrify misbehaving children. But now, it was her reality. Fictional stories about creatures with talons sharper than the daggers blacksmiths forged, haunted her. None knew if they would be the next victim in this cruel play of war. And little did Orinda know that she’d quickly become a character within this narrative. A girl—now orphan—captured by the nightmares her parents once told her. 

“Orinda.” Regan’s rough voice sounded like jagged glass carved into stone. 

Orinda heaved in a small breath, hoping that the next fill of air allowed her the strength to survive another night. With slow footsteps, she walked the planks of wood towards the dragon Empire's first commander. “You called?”

“Well, if ye standing in front of me.” Eyes pierced amber looked down upon the small girl. The brute she came to as her captor snarled, his stained teeth visible behind cracked lips. “And best remember what ye call me. Thought ye learnt your lesson last time.”

Instinctively, Orinda touched her cheek that days before was tender skin and bursts of purple and blue. She remembered all too well what her disrespect had cost her. “Sorry. You called Commander Regan.”

He grunted his satisfaction. “The floors need scrubbin’ before the Crown comes.” 

Orinda bit back the surge of dread clouding her throat, not wanting to consider why her heart thundered through her chest so violently. In her time as captive, she’d never met the Crown which she was thankful for since the mere mention of her name forced shivers to wrack Orinda’s body. 

With a nod of acknowledgement, the girl turned on her heel, seeing to carry out the brute’s demand. A pinch of pain so sudden stopped her in her tracks though, the ache pulsing down her slender back. 

Regan’s familiar, heavy hand clenched around the collar of her shirt, causing her to splutter as the fabric tightened around her fragile throat. “When I say the floors need scrubbin, what do scum like you say?” he spat. 

“Yes,” Orinda hesitated, almost wanting to challenge him. But then, she remembered the lessons that followed after and knew that her moment of victory always followed with pain. “Yes, Commander Regan. The floors need scrubbing, and I’ll get onto that right away.” 

As she walked off with clenched teeth and a rigid pace, anger like a steaming kettle sweltered inside her. It reminded her of the flicker of flames that licked her body the last time she disobeyed. 

As Orinda scrubbed the floors from grime and whatever else she refused to put a name to, she allowed her thoughts to consume her. As time passed in a cruel manner, grease began to coat her hands until she struggled to hold her crouched position over the floor. Even though filth now varnished her hands, it seemed as if it did little to purge the wooden floors. 

She heard small grunts from beside her and laboured breathing moments after. She dared herself not to glance at the boy of similar age to her who seemed to be struggling with this tiring duty. He, along with a handful of other children was also captured the night Orinda was taken and most of her village massacred. Through another of Regan's lessons, Orinda had well and truly learnt that addressing the girls and boys also clothed in mangled fabric was another of his pet hates. 

Orinda looked to the sky, the final rays of sunlight winking out. She was glad day had surrendered to nightfall, winding up her duties for the night. A steady thud—similar to the rhythmic play of drums—pealed through the open air. The sound brought a twinge of pain to her, reminding her of the festivities held in her hometown with the lively drums. 

Forty-two. That was the number of times she had watched the moon bathe in the sky without her mama and papa. Forty-two was the number of days since witnessing her parent's execution. Since she felt the warm sun on her dark skin that only the Valley could provide.

Realising too late what the drumming toll was, Orinda didn’t have time to steel herself for the sight before her. With one last thunderous boom of wings, the howling sound of talons against splintered wood caused a cold sweat to form under her thin fabric despite the humid air. 

The temperature on the ship rose as the wild beast flanked with scaled armour, and a barbed tail hovered close to her. She could feel the uncomfortable warmth next to her like a furnace as the unimaginable creature puffed smoke from its long, dark snout. She dared herself not to move as the dragon's talons dragged against the wood, the vibrations piercing through her knelt position. 

Orinda could feel the stillness in the air from the prisoners alike, their bodies too frozen in utter fear. 

And just as quickly, the terror drained from her body as the dragon retracted and physically began to morph. Feet—the size of Orinda’s family dog—became steel boots, scaled armour became dark skin. A jagged scar scored through the dragon's smooth skin, forming across her sharp cheekbone and slicing down her throat. The damaged skin was an angry, darkened splotch across her otherwise flawless skin. It was an injury healed over long ago. 

Before the dragon's shift to mortal form was complete, Orinda looked into the eyes of the beast—eyes so calculating and deprived of any virtue—and the female stared right back. The liquid pools of amber were unchanged from beast to human, the only telltale sign that Orinda hadn’t just imagined the shifting. 

Orinda knew without having met the female before who she was. In her forty-two days of captivity, there were many things she had come to learn. 

Her mama and papa's stories each night were true to life. Another cruel shock was having learnt that the scales of a dragon weren't the only skin they wore—having the prowess to shift between forms. And last, from the whispers Orinda had heard while on the ship; to never stare at the female's jagged scar or else she'd paint them with one so similar. 

This female was the Crown and ruler of dragons, Lamia. 

“Rise.” One word enunciated from the dark-skinned Queen. Her voice hummed a deadly song of power. 

Orinda, along with the other girls and boys, rose. Albeit on wobbly legs as her heart thundered in her chest and she swore Lamia heard as a small smile framed her sculpted face. 

“Commander, explain what these children are doing?” Lamia’s icy stare turned towards Regan, her foot striking the floor the only telltale sign of her discontent. 

He visibly gulped, his throat working down a lump of fear. It gave Orinda a cruel satisfaction to witness him, so clearly terrified of the dragon Crown who waited with hands tucked behind her back and head knocked to the side. Oddly, it reminded Orinda of how a predator would examine its prey before striking. 

“Your Crown,” Regan’s voice wobbled as he knelt in a bow, his knees touching the grimy floor. “The children were preparing for ye visit.” 

“I see.” Lamia's eyes shifted over the children, identical with cheeks sunken from the little food eaten and some younglings flourishing bruises. “And Commander, would you care to explain the reason behind your lessons."

Orinda's ears perked, realising that the Crown was all too familiar with Regan's form of punishment. 

He took a noticeable step back, his eyes bright with terror as they flicked around the ship, no doubt seeking escape. 

“Ye see, they were speakin’ outta line and had to be disciplined…Highness,” he spluttered.  

Within moments, Lamia was in front of Regan, her graceful fingers clasped around his throat, too similar to the hold he had on Orinda hours before. Lamia whispered something to him, so low that she didn't make out what was said. He only responded with a slow nod before two men moved from the shadows and escorted him through a set of doors. 

“Regan has been dealt with, and you needn’t worry about him any longer.” Lamia looked to the children whose shoulders were tucked in and eyes wide. 

Orinda didn’t have the courage to thank the Crown, while also not knowing if she should be in gratitude to her. She also noticed that the female dragon didn’t refer to the brute as Commander anymore. 

Lamia’s fierce voice shredded through the girl’s thoughts. “Follow. It is time.” 

Before long, the girls and boys followed the Crown through a chamber down the length of the main corridor. 

Orinda looked towards a device she found rather odd, blades whirling as it spat out cool air throughout the lucrative space. Light filled the room despite the sun well and truly resting for the night. Instead, a single light encased in glass glowed from the ceiling casting shadows across the ivory walls. It seemed so bizarre to Orinda, who never had such luxuries and sometimes preferred sleep for dinner over the stale bread and cheese that frequented the dinner table. 

Lamia sat behind a thick plank of wood acting as a table. Her long fingers were clasped together, and her amber eyes scanned the children before her. She didn’t need much force to sway them to sit on the chairs across from her, and Orinda tried to prevent her legs from restlessly moving back and forth. 

“I suppose you would all like to know why you are here.” Lamia’s words were composed and unhurried.

“Yes.” Orinda’s small voice broke the silence held over the room when the other children didn’t dare speak. 

Lamia’s lips turned up as the amber pools in her eyes darkened. “I have realised that you younglings know little about dragons. Is that not true?” 

Orinda nodded her head, the others riddled with fear and unmoving. 

“I am sure there have been many stories spun about dragons,” the Crown continued. 

Curiosity sparked inside Orinda, her head snapping up to meet the female’s gaze. 

“Have you ever wondered how a dragon is formed?” She leaned in, her fingers now resting against the aged grain of the wood. “Ever wondered why dragons—with the threat of extinction—chose to usurp the Empire of the Valley?”

No one spoke. The only sound was from the whirring cooling device and the faint buzzing of the light above. 

“A dragon isn’t made as one would think. A human doesn’t drink blood from a dragon to become one themself. Born and never forged."

With wide eyes, Orinda clenched her seat in a tight grasp. 

“It is humorous and quite ignorant, really. Most citizens from the Valley never wondered why we’ve taken revolt against their empire. Why we’ve snatched children so to speak.” Lamia spat out the last string of words, her amber eyes hardening as they skimmed over the children. “Thirteen years ago, the Valley took something from us. And we finally took back what was ours…our youth. You all.” 

Orinda’s vision blurred, and she felt as if her heart stopped only to begin beating violently against her chest again. Clearing her throat, she asked, “What do you mean?” She was all but a whisper, yet somehow Lamia heard.

The Crown’s slender frame rose as she rounded the hardwood table. The few children in the chamber trained their eyes on her as she knelt beside them. “Thirteen years ago, the Valley offered a treaty since they wanted to make amends and forge two Empires into greatness. We foolishly agreed and shortly after realised we were deceived.”

Orinda struggled to catch up to Lamia’s words and what it meant. She had never heard her mama or papa mention a treaty between the dragons and themselves. Instead, they spun a tale that had haunted her dreams since she could remember.

“Our children were taken from us. Those from the Valley thought they could raise our younglings and revolt against us one day. We…” she paused, only now appearing at unease. “I haven’t seen my child since she was a babe. The only respect they had was to keep the title her mother gave,” Lamia settled her gaze on Orinda. "I gave you your name.” 

Orinda didn't hear much else. Everything sounded very similar to white noise, so loud yet deathly quiet. She was held prisoner inside her head, too many thoughts trying to overpower the one before. However, one fought through the cloud of disbelief. 

Orinda realised within that moment that her mama’s words held more significance than desperate last words.

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Until mama and many alike took what was never theirs.

Until now, Orinda never realised what role she portrayed in the War of Two Empires. She never realised how quickly her portrayal in this narrative altered from orphan to freed. 

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley and soon the War of Two Empires would become one while the other was left in ash.