Page 6 of Whisper Woods

Usually water spills from the representations of the Gods, spouting fromtheir fingers, their breasts, their genitals. In the case of Kob, their many tentacles, and Luministrique, their great feathered wings. But the water has run dry—only the sacred flame, burning a bright green, remains in the centre of the Gods.

Watching the Orun lay out their offerings and raise their arms to the sky—now joined by a growing number of Tathissians presenting their own offerings to the Gods—my growing anxiety ruins my last sips of my rivosh, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Will there be anything else?” The voice of Bennison, the cafe’s proprietor, interrupts my thoughts. Looking up, I see he’s not even looking at me. He’s watching the devotions, his craggy face pinched into the same concern I feel deep within my instincts.

“No, Bennison. Thank you. I believe it’s time I visit my girls.”

Bennison humphs, disgruntled either by my girls, or more likely the tension brewing between the devotees at the fountain.

Prophecies are not known for their specificity and unfortunately, the ambiguity can lead to all manner of strife. Since the troubles began, and the whispers that the prophecy is coming to pass started to spread, Tathys has been torn.

There are those that believe we must have the utmost faith in the Gods, and they will protect us no matter what is to come. There are those just praying for a safe reunification and the return of our magic. There are those who believe it is all nonsense and we are simply experiencing a rough season and everything will return to normal soon enough.

Yet another group believes that we are being punished by the Gods, or perhaps an outside force, they are never quite clear, and our magic has been taken from us. And then there are those who are—out of arrogance, fear of the unknown or prejudice against the Mundane—insisting we deny the secondary prophecy and seek to re-fortify our boundaries and force the return of our magic. Though not a single being in Tathys seems to know the answer on how to do so.

The question of Tathys’s future has been much debated since the first sign of troubles. The Orun have poured over their records, the High Council has held meeting after meeting. Increasingly, it has become the sole topic of conversationamongst the citizens. In the two weeks I have been away visiting Ulydessia, the conflict has only become more inflamed.

“You’ll be safe, then, won’t you?” The double meaning of the sentiment isn’t lost on me. I clap the elder fae on the back, watching with him as the palace guards make their presence known to the gathered crowd, allowing the Orun to file away in peaceful silence. The guards, in their pearl-coloured breast plates and bronze feathered shoulder armour and double swords strapped to their backs, are an intimidating sight. Enough to quell the worst of the rabble at least.

“I always am.” I assure the elder fae, with another clap to the shoulder.

The unsettled feeling follows me as I leave the city, though the aching tension in my shoulders eases as I make my way through the fields and the farms to the very edge of the Tathissian borders, where my girls call home.

Bennison’s warning was not uncalled for. The gravel is rough and far too loud under the pads of my feet as I creep closer to the nest tucked somewhat precariously on the cliff face. Whilst the dragons are usually rather welcoming of me and my kind, hatching season is different.

Hatching season is dangerous.

I learned that particular lesson the painful way as a child. When you mix protective mothers and wild, untested babies, and protective bulls, accidents happen. And unfortunately, sometimes you lose an eye. Which makes caution even more important, because now I only have the one left, and it would be rather foolish to risk it.

Yet here I am, creeping closer and closer to the dragon's nest, having scaled the rocky cliffs to the outcrop she’s made home, the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks below, hoping to catch a glimpse, to make certain that the hatchlings are safe.

With things the way have been in Tathys these past weeks, I feel the need to be certain.

Especially when the dragon concerned is Estella, the favourite out of all my girls. When it’s not hatching season, she is a rather delightful beast, her size belying her playful spirit. When it is hatching season, however, she’s as temperamental as the rest of them.

Currently resting in a nest made of stone and grass, Estella lets out a huffing rumble as I approach. Well versed in her ways, I know the warning and ease my creeping steps. Looking up, I find her bright yellow eyes focused entirely on me, the pointed frills framing her face flared wide.

“Do not worry yourself, Estella. I am just here to ensure the babies are well.” Without the gift of communicating with creatures, she shouldn’t be able to understand me, but she seems to nonetheless. There is another warning huff and puff of smoke from her flared nostrils, and then she moves, shuffling her great red and orange wings from where they are protecting her precious babes.

The nest itself is taller than I am—all the better to protect the babies from the biting wind whipping the cliff face—so I use the sharp black points of my claws to haul myself high enough to peek over the edge. They are nestled together like jewel toned puppies. They are tiny little things, well, tiny for dragons anyway. All four of them are larger and heavier than me.

They must have hatched longer ago than I thought, as the shells have been cleared, which is rather unfortunate as dragon shells are one of the things us dragonkin collect from our creature brethren, along with the dragon glass formed by the fire of the dragon's breaths. With the last dragons in existence living on our lands, it is a fantastic and wonderful burden that falls to my brethren to care for them.

Dragonkin are just as rare as the dragons themselves. As far as we in Tathys are aware, we are the last of our race of beings. According to the stories in the vaults of the Orun, we are the original shapeshifters, the beings from which animal shifters originate. Though I have travelled enough of the world to have heard the same legends told of other shape shifting beings.

Unlike animal shifters, we do not share our existence with our beast. We dragonkin are our beast—it is only our physical selves that change shape into the dragon-human hybrid forms we are able to take. The ability to change is what allows us to complete our duties. Our scales, claws and talons—some dragonkin even have tails, though I myself do not—protect us and allow us to withstand the somewhat brutal nature of our dragon charges.

Not wanting to push my luck any further, especially should the little terrorsawaken, I jump down from the nest's edge and cautiously back away from the new mother.

There are only three other hatching mothers still sitting on their nests and I want to find them and check them too. But before I can leave the burrow on the cliff’s edge Estella has chosen, her tail, long and thin but amazingly strong, whips out, lashing towards me.

For a moment I flinch, ready to incur her wrath rather than risk hurting her to defend myself. However, rather than finding myself on the receiving end of a lethal blow, her tail wraps around my waist, holding me still. My instincts flair a warning, almost too late, distracted by my wariness of the dragon pups.

The midnight blue of the scales and leathery skin on my torso contrast against the fiery colours of Estella’s tale as she squeezes me tight, securing me just as the tremors begin.

An earthquake.

I stroke Estella’s tail as it squeezes against the hard plates of my abdomen.

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