Page 4 of Klauth
Syrax went into heat nearly a week ago. Her musk still clings to the cold stone walls of my keep. Each time I pass the corridor to her chamber, a faint, sour-sweet odor hits me. It makes my scaled hide bristle. I perform my drake duties to preserve my bloodline. The task is grim and methodical. My inner dragon hisses with anger. I resent being forced to take her. Even now, the memory of her soft scales against mine sets my teeth on edge. The thought of touching her wretched flesh again makesmy skin crawl. All she must do is follow the assignment: give me an heir. It is cut and dry.
I fly over the nest site a short while ago. The wind is bitterly cold and carries the scent of an impending spring storm. Below, jagged rocks and sparse, scraggly vegetation spread across the bleak landscape. Syrax laid seven eggs—only four are viable. The pit she dug in the earth is pathetic. It shelters nothing from the biting winds that rip through the valley each spring. I have ordered several young males in my army to hunt for her. I can almost taste the fresh blood in the air as they deliver food to her. She refuses to shift back to her human form until the eggs hatch. I cannot entirely blame her. She is weak in both forms. Yet her dragoness still bares its fangs and unleashes its ferocious breath when threatened.
Only two more months remain until I send her to the temple. The temple halls reek of incense and stern discipline. I have been inside only once, but the metallic tang of ceremonial blood offerings still clings to my memory. Once she is there, they will put a collar on her. It will bind her dragon, and she will live her days in that cold, echoing place. Then she will trouble me no more.
My eyes drift toward a distant mountain range, half-shrouded in low-hanging clouds. I wonder what my progeny will look like. Will they be strong and cunning? Will their scales gleam like mine or remain dull like hers? My nostrils flare at the thought of them inheriting her weakness. Perhaps only daughters should hatch. I could marry them off to forge alliances with more powerful dens.
A faint smile curves across my lips. The metallic taste of anticipation coats my tongue. I consider several potential alliances. Thauglor’s cousins have several unmated maleoffspring. Their den lies hidden in the black crags, where the smell of sulfur hangs over hot springs. That match would serve both dens well. I turn away from the window. The drafty corridor guides me back to the heart of my castle. Torches flicker in sconces along the stone walls. Their light casts long, dancing shadows as I ascend to the third floor to review the maps in my office.
The air in my office is stale. It smells of old parchment and leather-bound tomes. I push open the door. The hinges squeak in protest. I cross to my desk and pin four colored markers onto a large board on the wall. Each pin marks a different nest, each with its own strengths and resources. The Risedale nest has produced the strongest, most savage green dragons for generations. Their presence leaves behind a spicy, resinous odor. Their elite assassin squadron—the shadowblades—thrives in secrecy. I have heard they train in silent catacombs that reek of stale blood and damp moss. They have two unmated, unmatched sons.
Next is Blackhaven—Thauglor’s family. Their black dragons are ferocious. Their presence darkens the sky like a thunderhead. I hear they dwell in swampy lowlands, where decay and stagnant water saturate every breath. They have one unmated male.
Looking west, the Starlight nest houses the last of the iron dragons. I recall an earthen, metallic tang in the surrounding air. It clings to your nostrils for days. They have four unmated or unmatched males. Aside from the crystal dragons, the dens struggle to produce enough females. Lastly, Emberforge is home to the brass dragons. They are famed for their aerial combat and breathtaking artistry. Their peaks echo with the clang of metal and the hiss of forging fires. The very air shimmers with heat. Their clutch is due to hatch at the same time as mine.
I move to my desk. The old wooden boards groan under my weight. I carefully draft four missives addressed to the nests that interest me most. Dragonic law demands that each clutch be announced to at least four nests within half a day’s flight. All offers must be entertained. They cannot be refused unless the hatchlings die or are of the wrong gender. I finish writing. My quill scratches softly on the parchment. The smell of hot wax fills the air as I press my seal into each scroll. My house sigil glistens in the candlelight.
I reach up and pull the cord that rings the bell in the squires’ room. A dull clang echoes down the corridor. Moments later, David, my squire, appears at the door. His boots click on the stone floor. He bows deeply before approaching.
“You rang, sire?” he asks in a hushed tone.
“I have missives that need fast delivery,” I reply, handing him the scrolls. “Send your four fastest flyers.”
He nods, a flicker of torchlight dancing in his eyes. He tucks the missives under one arm and leaves without another word. A cool draft follows him out, rustling the parchment on my desk.
Now, all that remains is to wait. I hope that all the eggs hatch. Only then can I secure the alliances that will cement my den’s place at the top.
Chapter Four
Thauglor’s roarshatters the midday quiet. It echoes across the valley in a deep bass that makes the stone beneath my feet tremble. I step onto the sunlit balcony, squinting against the harsh daylight. Even from here, I see him circling in the distance—a massive black silhouette against an azure sky. His curved horns are chipped and scarred from countless battles. Each mark is a silent testament to wars past.
He roars again. Through our bond, I feel a flash of fury ripple from him. His display at the edge of our territory has been ruined by a rival den of shadow dragons. They have also hunted several of his prized herds. That insult burns in him.
I leap from the balcony’s edge. The bright sun glares off the copper gutter beside me. I plummet, my body twisting and stretching as scales erupt across my skin. My transformation is seamless from long practice. My wings snap open to catch the warm afternoon air. I rise in broad sweeps to catch up with Thauglor.
Where he is black, I am red—a deep, blood-hued crimson that glints under the sun. My scales bear scars from brutal battles.Every gash and ridge proves my ruthless reputation. As I fly, old wounds pull tight against the wind, reminding me of each fight I have survived.
Thauglor and I speak in low rumbles that vibrate through our chests. We strategize about the shadow dragons. They are malicious and cunning. They rely on treachery as much as brute force. Yet between his towering strength and my unyielding fury, we hold the advantage. Still, the age of their den gnaws at me. If they are ancient, this mission may be more dangerous than I thought.
The forest below darkens despite the bright sun overhead. Long, creeping shadows stretch beneath the canopy, as if something is siphoning away the light. This sign tells me we are nearing their territory. The shadow dragons bend daylight to their will. My heart pounds in anticipation. The midday heat bakes the scales along my back.
I swoop lower. I catch the acrid scent of decay and stale air clinging to the trees like a toxic film. This must be their hideout. My stomach churns with both excitement and disgust. I inhale deeply, feeling warmth build in my throat—my fire eager for release.
Together, Thauglor and I execute our plan. I climb high as sunlight glares off my crimson hide. Then I release a torrent of flame. Fire dances across the treetops, devouring dark pockets below. Thauglor circles in next. His massive wings stir hot gusts that buffet me. His acid breath spews forth, melting tree trunks and scorching the undergrowth. I hear it hiss and crackle. I catch the faint burn of chemical fumes in the back of my throat.
Below, I spot a cavern entrance where the acid drains into darkness. A guttural growl rattles in my chest. This must be theirstronghold. Thauglor rumbles in agreement, shaking the skies. I swoop closer as he unleashes another stream of acid that floods the cavern. Agonized roars echo from within, sending a dark thrill coursing through me.
The moment Thauglor retreats, I exhale a wave of flame onto the lingering acid. Sunlight flashes against the sudden inferno. An explosion roars into a blazing column. The impact sends me reeling. My claws scrabble at the heated air as a raw, acrid odor invades my nostrils. I exult in the discovery—his acid is highly flammable. We exchange excited rumbles. It is a tactic worth using again.
With the smoldering den behind us, Thauglor leads me to a rocky outcropping overlooking the chaos. The rock is hot beneath my claws. Thick plumes of black smoke twist skyward, staining the bright afternoon. Thauglor settles beside me. His dark scales gleam, and his curved horns cast jagged shadows on the stone. I fold my scarred wings and feel the dull ache of old wounds along my shoulders.
We discuss ideas for strengthening our bloodlines. We consider pairing with other dragon species to produce formidable offspring. Iron dragons come up, and my jaw tightens at the thought. They loathe red dragons almost as much as black ones. They would never consider an alliance. Thauglor rumbles a low laugh. He reminds me that iron dragons dislike blacks slightly less than reds, but that does not mean they would welcome him any more than me.
My gaze drifts back to the scorched forest and the haze rising from our victory. Even in the glare of day, lingering flames glow bright orange. They stand in stark contrast to Thauglor’s obsidian silhouette. A sense of triumph coils in my chest. We have driven off another threat and claimed a stronger hold onthese lands. For now, the valley is ours—claimed by the black brute and the crimson warlord. It will remain ours until we unleash our combined fury again.
I circlemy territory for hours, scanning every crag and crevice. I make sure no shadow dragon slips past my watch. The wind lashes my face and carries the sharp tang of pine along with the musk of melting snow. Sometimes I glimpse dark wings beating against the cloudy sky, but none come close enough to threaten me. Far to the north, near the Blackhaven nest of my kin, I spot a small flight of young wyverns. Their shrill screeches cut through the thin mountain air. They stand no chance. Our combined strength shatters their defenses. We end the threat in record time.
A thunderous roar echoes from Blackhaven. We exchange a glance and head toward the sound. The fortress looms against a stormy sky. Carved into the mountainside, its spires and parapets of black stone stab at the clouds like jagged teeth. Legend says the purest, most powerful black dragon bloodline calls this place home. Even from afar, I feel the weight of its ancient history.
