Kairava sat atop the battlements, his legs dangling precariously over the side and the long drop below.

  He stared jealousy as dragons came flying out from the Aerie’s open top one by one, joining a growing chorus of shrieks and roars of delight as the Flight swirled and spun in the air above the palace, like a great flock of birds.

  Moving in utterly perfect synchronization, they let loose occasional blasts of multi-colored fire. The nervous discharges of younger and more excitable Wurms.

  The curled black form of Baksurra began to slowly uncoil itself from the aerie, letting its bulk fall limply from the rooftop to the flat cliff-face like a bundle of rope.

  The impact was such that the prince felt the tremor through the wall from several hundred feet below.

  The dragon’s vast wings spread wide, gesticulating while seeming to seek an optimum position for flight.

  Then it began to run in great thundering strides, gaining speed as its clawed toes left enormous scoring marks across the stone and launching it off the edge of the cliff and careening into the open sky like a thrown javelin.

  Rather than beginning to fall, sunken fatally to the earth by the dragon’s own gargantuan weight (as all natural philosophers of the time agreed it should), the dragon's wings suddenly went tight, as if a sail caught by a strong wind, yet there was no breeze.

  From Baksurras chest there seemed to glow a glorious light that burned from beneath the scales, like a white star of radiance hidden within its breast, its dragon-pearl.

  All dragons had a pearl, the source of a dragon’s incredible power. Low Wurms and High Wyrms alike, though no one had seen a High Wyrm in nearly six centuries.

  The pearl gleamed and swirled with color, each was unique.

  Despite the barbaric dragon-hunting trade being long outlawed in Guhran and punishable by death, the extraordinary troves of wealth many were willing to pay for pearls kept pirates and poachers employing the illicit trade everywhere in Arcturas.

  It made Kairava sick to think about.

  The wings splayed out and Baksurra dove.

  The momentum built from the fall combined with the force of the enchanted wind fueled a sharp rise as it shot into the sky like an arrow.

  A powerful blast of air slammed into the prince resting on the wall and he found himself flailing as the force reduced his balance to nothing, swaying as if unsure which direction he was going to fall.

  The firm hand of a soldier reached out and caught his shoulder from behind, steadying him.

  Kairava sighed with relief and turned to thank the helmeted man, seen only in his periphery.

  The man was silent as he dragged him back from the edge.

  Kairava was yanked like an impertinent kitten by the hem of his tunic and hauled into the air and off the wall. Dangling by the vice grip a few inches off the floor.

  Sir Slyke stared back at him through his iron mask, clearly unamused.

  Kairava went pale.

  Slyke’s jet black full-plate covered every inch of the man in nearly half an inch of steel.

  His helm was shaped something like a polished iron bucket connected at the base of the neck to the thick pauldrons adorning his shoulders, themselves dense with thorn-like metal spikes. The head covering was connected to the breastplate by a series of tight belt-like straps that ran through grooves in the helmet's bottom to keep it firmly in place.

  No visible openings for speaking or even breathing adorned Slyke’s iron face, and only the two small eye-slits denoted that anything living was beneath the armor at all.

  All in all it looked more to the prince like a torture device than a functional suit of armor.

  Slyke followed his lord father everywhere, it had been so since the regent had arrived at the palace some four years ago with the mysterious black knight in tow.

  A mute and masterless warrior from the northern kingdoms his father had said.

  A lie, Kairava believed.

  Why had he been left behind?

  Slyke threw the prince to the stones and without looking at him pointed to the west towards the palace grounds below.

  Following the gauntleted finger-tip Kairava could see the gesture clearly denoted the Guest Wing.

  Ygrain, he thought to himself, and nodded in understanding.

  Slyke turned and pointed then to the dragon aerie to the east, the Flight above was just beginning to depart, flying off to the far east.

  To mountains where war-fires burned.

  The prince lacked any deep understanding of the creature, but garnered it didn’t like wasting time.

  It behaved with a purposeful and directed sort of aggression in the completion of its tasks. Like a sheep dog.

  Its gestures and commands rarely conveyed much more than the simplest of meaning.

  Kairava often wondered just how intelligent it truly was.

  “You want me to take her to the Aerie?”

  Slyke simply pointed with more vigor in the clifftops direction, eyes narrowed to slits in annoyance.

  “Alright, I’ll...I’ll get her...”

  Slyke didn’t respond, merely watched unmoving from the battlements as he walked the entire length of the path to the Guest Wing.

  Kairava could still see him as he nervously glanced back.

  ...

  Ygrain and Alane were in the midst of an intense game of Gwyrc.

  A square board of wood was placed on a small round table, with individual circular pieces of bronze and silver splayed across a grid of squares.

  Ygrain’s brow was furrowed in deep concentration as she slowly slid a center bronze piece from its position at the core of the board. Her pieces were arrayed in a cross-shaped pattern, and Alane’s white pieces covered the outer edges.

  The piece slid across the board, crossing over one of Alane’s and knocking it from the board to the floor.

  Ygrain grinned smugly at Alane who merely rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth curled upward in vague amusement, and shifted one of her own pieces, tapping it across the board in quick succession as it knocked three of Ygrain’s pieces to the floor.

  Ygrain groaned, beginning to rub her temples in frustration.

  “You’re impossible at Gwyrc, it's not fair!”

  “Supposing y’need more practice then, eh?” The woman chuckled warmly.

  It was Ygrain’s turn to roll her eyes now, her handmaiden’s incessant smugness was decidedly not one of her best traits.

  “Can’t we play something else?”

  “This is a game of strategy, your highness,” heavy emphasis placed on the title,

  Alane only spoke “properly” when she was making a point.

  “It’s all about recognizing opportunity...and about exercising restraint.”

  “So this is another lesson then...grand.”

  Suddenly disinterested in the game, Ygrain rose from her seat.

  “Ygrain...” Alane’s eyes lost their warmth.

  “You are the crown-princess Ygrain, the heir to your mother’s throne and future monarch of all of Aold Eiren. Whatever’s left of it. The future of your people will be determined by the woman you choose to become. You must be strong, but you must also be cautious, and cunning. And this-”

  she gestured sweepingly at the Gwyrc board.

  “This is how your mother and I first practiced when I was her maid. Back when we were just girls ourselves.”

  Ygrain cocked an eyebrow curiously.

  “We played constantly as children, but when your grandmother, Rhiannan the Elder, grew ill she took a different countenance to the game. We didn’t laugh or joke anymore as we played. Her eyes were hard, and I could see the disappointment in her eyes every time she failed. Never satisfied with anything but perfection. That, is why I’m so good at Gwyrc my dear, and why your mother never plays anymore.”

  Ygrain was perplexed, imagining her mother as a girl like herself, caught up suddenly in power and responsibility. She slid back into the chair, and listened more intently.

  “I asked her once why she stopped playing, a week before her coronation. What had changed? She said, ‘Alane, everytime I make the wrong choice from now until the day I join my mother in the ground, people. will. die.’.”

  Alane absentmindedly touched the board, swimming in memory and melancholy.

  “...She had already learned all the lessons Gwyrc had to teach. It’s called the Royal Game for a reason.”

  Her eyes seemed heavy with the weight of years.

  Ygrain was silent for a time.

  “...and what lesson am I supposed to learn?”

  Alane nodded softly.

  “Gwyrc is about sacrifice...Victory in the face of insurmountable odds always requires sacrifice, Ygrain. And we are facing insurmountable odds, make no mistake. You need to be able to recognize which risks, which sacrifices, are more trouble than they’re worth...so you can see the opportunities for real change when they arrive.”

  “Why haven’t you ever told me this story before? About Gwyrc, and my mother.”

  Alane shrugged, and began to pack away the pieces in a small wooden box underneath the table.

  “You were a child, and not in line for the throne. Why would I or the queen wish to inflict on you your mother’s duty without just cause? No, we thought it best that you remain a child.”

  “I thought she was just...like that,” Ygrain mused, trying and failing to imagine her mother as anything but imposing.

  “Yes, I suppose that is rather her intention... Better than knowing your mother is just a woman, with a past all her own and an unfathomable burden to bear.”

  There was some strange bitterness in Alane’s words.

  “It will be your burden too, someday. Perhaps very soon...But I pray, Elder Fire willing, you need not worry for many years yet.”

  Ygrain stood by thoughtfully for a few moments, then carefully took the small wooden box out from under the table and began to place the white and bronze pieces on the Gwyrc board again.

  Alane smiled to herself.

  They played again.

  ...

  After a few rounds there came a knock at the door, and Ygrain with a heavy sigh unbolted the vestibule and threw it wide.

  She found Kairava standing in the doorway, sweating and heaving with effort.

  Ygrain cursed under her breath.

  “Hello.” she said cooly, hand remaining on the door handle, arm barring entry.

  Alane snorted with amusement from within.

  Kairava paused for a moment, staring at her as if unsure what to say.

  He glanced nervously back to the battlements, and Ygrain could swear she saw a speck of something dark and glinting in the distance.

  “...I’m to take you to the Dragon Aerie, princess, apologies.” startled, he turned back swiftly and bowed his head.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know princess, sorry.” He sounded genuine, and his eyes were full of worry.

  Ygrain frowned, brow heavy with suspicion.

  “If you don’t know then why are you so nervous, prince?”

  “It's Slyke, princess...my lord father’s…man? He’s not lenient when it comes to orders, not his and not mine.”

  He looked terrified at that moment, glancing back like a scared rabbit.

  He was almost mouse-like with his energetic sort of sheepishness.

  Ygrain shot back a questioning look to Alane who, with fingers pursed, looked deep in thought. She returned the girl’s look and shrugged apprehensively.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “Helpful” Ygrain growled under her breath.

  “What's that?” Kairava asked.

  “Nothing...The Aerie you said?”

  “Yes, ma’am,”

  “Don’t call me ma’am. Aren’t the dragons all gone?”

  “Yes, miss. Well...The adult specimens are gone, all those that are of fighting age. There’s still plenty of hatchlings, and juveniles, and a few-”

  Ygrain pushed past him, cutting him off.

  “Miss won’t do either. Can’t imagine there’s much danger to hatchlings is there?” She asked, only just masking her mounting terror and excitement.

  “Ah, no...princess?” The prince said nervously.

  Ygrain huffed in vague approval.

  “Princess-” he began again hesitantly, “-the hatchlings are nearly entirely safe,” the prince struggled to keep up as Ygrain’s much longer legs quickly outpaced him.

  “Nearly.”

  She rolled the word over her tongue.

  “So chances are low this is some awkward attempt to have me disposed of?”

  She laughed.

  “I- uh, don’t think so, princess,” he answered, quieter, his eyes low.

  Something in the way he spoke, weighed down by some unspoken anxiety, made Ygrain worry.

  They crested along the palace path until it reached the winding steps leading up to the battlements.

  They reached the top of the wall and found Slyke waiting for them along the path.

  Kairava blinked, sure he had seen the midnight warrior frozen in place only a moment before as they first began climbing the steps, about two hundred feet further down the wall.

  He was the one frozen in place now as the sinister warrior loomed over them both like a shadow.

  Ygrain took a confident step forward.

  “I’m sure you think you’re very frightening, but I and the prince haven’t all day. So, if you could kindly sod off, buckethead?”

  Kairava’s voice caught in his throat in a strangled groan.

  There was a long, silent moment where Slyke simply stared at the girl, meeting her gaze.

  Ygrain’s face hardened and she hoped the prince couldn’t see her trembling hands.

  Slyke’s eyes were hidden beneath the thin protective slits of the helmet, save when he looked you directly in the eyes.

  His were orbs of deep, dark bloodred floating in a fetid pool. The whites were a sickly gray and at the red orbs center little points of yellow-orange light seemed to almost glow in the shadowy confines of the black knight’s helm.

  And they were boring into her, with an inhuman and insane fury.

  Ygrain swallowed hard.

  Slyke turned aside without a sound, standing horizontal to them.

  They swept their arms out and bowed in an exaggerated gesture of mock etiquette, waiting for them to pass.

  Ygrain made no delay and strode past the warrior, her pace bordering on frantic. Kairava hesitated, but upon seeing Ygrain drifting further away to leave him alone with the knight, he hurriedly followed.

  He spared Slyke a single frightened glance back, but the thing was already gone.

  ...

  Inside the Aerie it had again quieted to the calmer day-to-day caring and rearing of the young.

  In the four months the matured dragons of the Flight had remained stabled eight apprentices had been killed. Eaten, gored, or incinerated by towering dragons well used to killing.

  It was always a dangerous time to be a Wurm-Catcher when the kingdom was at peace.

  Balachandra was waiting with Laurent standing obediently silent beside him.

  They both had the demeanor of hardened soldiers, faces unemotive, arms rigidly at their sides.

  This distinguished and respectable image was ruined by the hatchling which was twisting and slithering around Laurent’s torso; he wore the little dragon like a bandolier.

  Ygrain nearly snorted when she saw Laurent, covering her mouth quickly with her hand.

  Laurent grinned for a moment, sliding back to an impassive expression when Bala’s scrutinizing gaze turned his way.

  Bala’s face broke only once, staring a moment too long at the purple and black bruise that spread across the prince’s right cheek like mold on stale bread.

  His mask of military decorum fading to concern.

  “Bala? What is this?” The prince asked, eyebrows raised.

  It shook the older man from his stupor.

  “My prince, princess.” he said, turning cordially to each of them and bowing.

  “This is a momentous day, and one of great importance.” He began, more like the beginning to a rehearsed speech than an answer to his question,

  “Today you are both of age, fifteen and a half, and today it has been decided by the king-regent that you shall begin your initial training in the long and storied art of dragon mastery.”

  Kairava’s mouth was nearly to the floor and his face was awash with utter glee.

  Dragon mastery! It was finally happening!

  Ygrain frowned.

  “What do you mean, of age?”

  “Ah, of course. Apologies my princess. Laurent, explain.”

  He nudged the boy in the ribs, causing him to start, having stopped paying attention and begun tickling the dragons chin.

  “Uh, yes sir. In Guhran all nobles who are of age, fifteen and one half, and whose families have been blessed to have their own dragons are required to obtain lessons in dragon mastery from an experienced rider, or barring that a decent Wurm-Catcher,” he explained, giving a sweeping gesture at Balachandra and a more modest gesture at himself.

  “So that they may one day, possibly, serve as members of the Dragon Flight.”

  Bala bowed his head and kept it there in a gesture of honest reverence.

  “Is it mandatory?” Ygrain narrowed her eyes.

  “Yes, princess,” the master replied, quickly and courtly.

  “...what if you pass these lessons but don’t want to join the Flight? What if you just want to fly around and not kill anyone?” She asked, her question pronged with unspoken challenge.

  “If you can ride with the Flight, you must. It is the regent’s command. So that Guhran can maintain our aerial superiority and defend our borders.” He answered mechanically.

  “Will we get to ride one today Bala? Will we?”

  “Not today, my prince.”

  As Bala rose from his bow, and took the twisting hatchling from Laurent with a wrenching pull.

  The dragon hissed but he flicked it firmly under the throat, and it stilled in his grip like magic.

  “First you learn to care for the hatchling and get the dragon used to you and you to it. Laurent will handle this phase of your training. You both will raise this whelp to proper size. Should it die you will not be permitted to attempt such training again, not for the remainder of your lives. Not in any county in any province in all of Arcturas…” His words hung heavy over the room.

  “Then, should it live, we will learn to fly...”

  He dropped the sagging bundle of scales and drool into Ygrain and Kairava’s outstretched arms.

  It was monstrously heavy, having grown nearly twice the length it was last time the prince had seen the creature, and smelled like sulfur.

  Ygrain tried not to gag and held it away from her like the scent might catch.

  “How long uh, does it take to grow that big?” She asked absentmindedly, focusing frightfully on the thing as it tried slithering around her arms, constricting tightly like a serpent.

  “About a year, maybe two.” Kairava said before the aged teacher had time to open his mouth.

  This fool can’t wait to get in the sky, Ygrain thought, utterly baffled.

  Bala chuckled.

  “Just so, princess.”

  The princess had to admit, now that the formal part of the exercise was done, the speech concluded, the man seemed to be a downright cheerful sort.

  He reminded her of one of her fathers friends, fat and jolly lords who drank into the night playing cards and dice. He had that same steeliness to his smiling eyes, the eyes of a soldier who kept faith.

  “...you expect I’ll be here that long?”

  Her voice was flat, barely containing the worry that now washed over her.

  “I-...I do not know princess.”

  Bala hesitated.

  “I hope not, no offense meant.”

  “No offense taken.” she answered flatly.

  Laurent and Kairava exchanged glances.

  The pale colorless hatchling Kairava had seen before was no more.

  Already the nearly translucent and colorless scales had begun growing opaque, shifting to a solid silver color. The hairs atop its head remained thin, soft, and shining white. The little thing looked up at her, its lizard-like eyes blinking with slimy translucent lids uncomprehendingly.

  It let out a little hiccup that caused two tiny candle-sized flames to erupt from its nostrils. It shook its head in discomfort as the tiny smoke cleared.

  Ygrain had to admit, the creature was cute.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Hasn’t been named, hasn’t been claimed yet,” Bala answered, flashing Kairava a quick conspiratorial smile.

  “...what about...” her eyes narrowed in concentration, biting her lip.

  The dragon burbled softly as it nestled comfortably into her arms.

  “Uhtren.” She smiled, pleased with herself, and began stroking the little things head gently.

  It let out a prolonged hiss sigh of pleasure.

  “Uhtren?” Bala and Kairava said at once.

  “Not a...traditional name for a dragon? Certainly not a Guhran one.”

  “Well I’m not Guhran, am I?” Ygrain’s face flashed bright with anger for a moment and her words came out as a snarl.

  “...quite right, princess. Quite right. Uhtren it is.” Bala frowned.

  She whipped her head around, expecting some protest or look of apprehension from the prince.

  The boy was merely smiling to himself, looking at the dragon in their arms like it were a beautiful newborn babe.

  “Uhtren it is.”

  ...

  “-Now, dragons are always building their fire, their pearl draws ambient heat from the air. It's hot as all hell where dragons nest, which is good for their eggs, good against the cold. It builds in their chests until- ''

  As if to punctuate Laurent’s lecture, Uhtren let out a lazy gout of flame from the corners of his little fanged maw.

  “Yes, well, that. Dragons get better at gradually releasing their flame as they age, but you’ll have to teach little Uhtren some restraint before he has an inopportune sneeze and renders your flesh the color and texture of a nice braised lamb.”

  “I’m not afraid of a little fire,”

  Ygrain confidently leaned against one of the rounded walls of the Aerie.

  Kairava sat on the ground not far from her with the little wyrmling slithering up and around his body much as it had Laurent.

  Laurent stared at the princess like a farmer might stare at an extraordinarily stupid and stubborn mule.

  “It might be little now princess, but this dragon will grow, and before you know it this kitten will be an apex predator. You do not want him thinking he can attack whenever he pleases. Easy way to get eaten, or worse.”

  “There’s something worse than being eaten?” Ygrain was deeply unconvinced.

  Laurent narrowed his eyes slightly in annoyance.

  “-Dragons aren’t immune to their own flame-“ he began again, ignoring her. “-so when they set their prey alight they don’t kill them outright. They let them burn out first and eat the charred meat once it's safe. And enchanted fire burns hot, but slow. It can take minutes for someone to die.”

  The prince balked, horrified.

  Ygrain sniggered.

  “This is why today we are learning some of your first commands.”

  Laurent went over to rows and rows of shelving, all metal and hammered into the walls.

  “We’re to command the dragon like a hound? What’s first, sit or stay?”

  Laurent let out a deep bellied laugh as he rummaged through boxes and crates, even the prince grinned.

  “No, my princess. For one thing, a dragon is a lot smarter than a hound.”

  Laurent returned holding a series of leather straps that looked something like a small harness and he held it out to Ygrain who took it hesitantly. She stared at Laurent, uncertain what to do with it.

  The prince rose from his seat, taking the infant dragon in one hand and with the other took the harness and began pulling the creature through it.

  Laurent gave him a hand while Ygrain watched.

  By the end Uhtren had strips of leather running underneath both sets of legs, securing a larger piece of leather into place on his back and stomach, with a small lead of thin long chain dangling from it ending in a cloth grip.

  Little Uhtren hissed as they worked, and squirmed to escape the leather prison.

  Once it had been all latched and secured the leather strips pulled taught into place, it seemed escape was hardly possible. And besides, the dragon seemed to hardly notice the harness once it was secure.

  “This here is to get him used to you. Once he’s properly bonded he won’t need it, he’ll instinctively stay close, but for now this will keep him from running or flying off.”

  “Can’t imagine it's going to do much for the fire though,” she tsked.

  “You are an extraordinarily impatient one, princess. I’ll try to more quickly instruct you in the care of this extremely lethal reptile.” Laurent said, rolling his eyes.

  Ygrain frowned, but the boy didn’t seem to mean any harm. In ways he reminded her of her brother Trahern, an overly charismatic fool.

  “Please, continue.” Laurent nodded his head in appreciation.

  “These are Guhran dragons. We’re trained to speak around them only in the native Chandra so they get a taste for the language, and so the buggers’ll more easily recognize the commands. The word for stop, which will be a big one, is daruk. As practice, use daruk when he acts out, breathes fire, anything counter to his training.”

  “What’s the command for making him breathe fire?”

  “We won’t be getting into that until I feel confident you can get him to stop breathing fire first-”

  “-It’s kyyagis.” Kaiarava whispered, almost apologetically.

  “My prince, we train you slowly, over time, for a reason.” Laurent groaned. The apprentice’s tone becoming hard, firm.

  “But I-”.

  “Wurm-Catchers keep a tally in their Aeries, it’s a fairly common practice so I’m told,” Laurent casually gestured with a finger at a nearby wall, where a series of over a dozen deep scratches were carved into the stonework.

  “It’s all the noble lords and ladies who died in training because they didn’t follow simple instructions.”

  The prince promptly shut his mouth, nodded, and turned back to his scroll. Blotting down a few fresh notes.

  Ygrain saw him write down, “Don’t be hasty” with heavy lines underneath, and couldn’t help but snort.

  ...

  The Carnelian Compartment of the Guest Wing was ablaze. Smoke poured out the open windows as the inferno within crackled and spat sparks.

  Outside, Rava and Ygrain stood soot covered, with the hatchling, not so little now, curled napping at their feet.

  It had grown to the size of a hound in a mere six weeks and was utterly uninterested in the spectacle.

  “Bad Uhtren, daruk.” Ygrain chuckled, nudging the lazy dragon with her foot.

  It hissed in its sleep, and a little tuft of smoke curled from its flaring nostrils.

  “Gadhar is going to kill us...that’s it, we’re dead.” Rava looked utterly crestfallen. His face in his hands.

  Ygrain snorted with renewed laughter.

  “Kill you maybe. Can’t seem to find the spooky sod anywhere myself, seems to be avoiding me.” She nudged Rava in the ribs highly.

  “Maybe he’s afraid he’ll catch a sense of humor,” she snorted again, but the prince didn’t laugh at the joke.

  He remained transfixed on the flames, his hands fell and misery and defeat were heavy on his downcast eyes and slumped shoulders.

  “They’ll take away Uhtren, I’ll never ride. Never fly...”

  The words came out more pained with each syllable, and Ygrain thought he might have started crying a little, his eyes hidden beneath dark locks.

  Ygrain rolled her eyes, and silently cursed.

  He was right of course, burning down the Guest Compartments might well be enough that Balachandra, who she had come to learn was a firm but kind teacher.

  He would have no choice but to end their training immediately at such a mistake. Not that Ygrain much minded, being terrified of heights herself, though losing little Uhtren did put a dampener on her moment of levity.

  She turned away from the prince, and knelt as if to pet the slumbering dragon.

  When she was sure he couldn't see her face, she closed her eyes and began to concentrate.

  When she closed her eyes there was only darkness, and silence.

  The world beyond her lids had gone from sight and sound, and even the scant light that would have penetrated the soft tissues of her eyelids was nowhere to be seen.

  There was a hollow sort of feeling to the space, like she was being held in some great cavern deep below the earth.

  Within the cave a fire flickered to life, consuming her vision utterly in its brilliance. She saw the fire in the compartment, flowing, leaping, sparking.

  Consuming and growing in a violent orgy of birth and destruction.

  Fire merely acts true to its most fundamental nature, to reduce the complex to the simple, to allow new shape to be found in old essentia. Destruction is a lie. Fire only builds.

  An old mantra.

  A trigger to allow her to understand, and when the time was right, to command.

  A long time ago now, Uhtren, her Uhtren, had taught her how to speak the words and to believe them.

  She saw the faintest of trails, lines of light and heat emanating from the great mass of fire. Its fiery limbs whipped madly about like the tentacles of some deep sea horror.

  The line she followed was like a string to a puppet, it jerked and pulled the flame beneath and jumped in a delighted and uncomprehending mimicry of dance. So slight and delicate was the line that she nearly missed it amongst the explosive haze of red fury.

  The trail flowed out of the building.

  Through the air, and the sky, and even into the freezing depths of the stars above where all things embraced stillness.

  There in the cold dark she could feel the trail ending, the line grew thick and brilliant with white-hot light before plunging deep into a molten, shifting seas of power and brilliance like a glowing eye in space.

  The Sun, Rava called it.

  The Elder Fire was its true name.

  The brilliant flame, source of all heat and life, seemed to hum in her mind.

  It sang of primordial seas, lakes of flame and boiling gas from which the first life on Arcturas sprang.

  It sang of the first hunger.

  She breathed slowly and began to imagine she was plucking at the line, focusing on severing the link between the burning chambers and its true source.

  The Elder Fire Above.

  She pulled, and with a great release the line snapped.

  She began to pull back towards herself and out of the dark but the line suddenly seemed to lash about her, whipping about like a panicked serpent.

  Reaching out for her.

  She felt its heat surround her, and knew the joy of the inferno, to feed and grow and never stop.

  It seemed to beg, a voice that was her and was not her.

  And she did. Gods save her, she did.

  To be the breaker and the builder.

  To command the flame and remake the world in her image.

  “Destruction is a lie,” she said the mantra with power, believing the words, and commanding the flame to still.

  The spirits of the flames screamed in her mind as they died, the line of their power falling loose.

  Slipping free, Ygrain descended.

  “Fire builds.”

  Normally the severance of such bonds sent the energies and heat bursting out harmlessly across the starlit void.

  She had never had to silence the spirits so...personally before.

  The experience had not been a pleasant one, and the screams still echoed in her head.

  Growing quieter and quieter.

  Her eyes opened cautiously and she turned to see Kairava looking directly at her, eyes narrowed in thought.

  She felt her heart nearly leap out her throat.

  The fire had died, a freak wind ripped through the palace grounds and struck the compartment and the inferno, suffocating it in a blast of damp cold air. Now it had fallen to merely crackling embers.

  The room at large could likely be salvaged.

  “Oh, it's gone out...that’s a lucky break.”

  She tried to force a genuine smile.

  He didn’t reply to the words nor the smile, but merely shrugged and turned back to look at the now ash-covered room.

  She stood to join him, and Uhtren roused enough to roll over and begin drooling steaming acid bile across a different patch of stones.

  When the prince was sure that Ygrain wasn’t looking he glanced back down to the place she had just lain unmoving for at least the last three minutes.

  The only sign she was still alive at all had been her strained breathing, raspy. That is until she spoke those words in Eirenic.

  Then she began to shake and for a moment he worried she might topple over.

  He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder until it passed and she opened her eyes, dazed and confused.

  He removed his hand before she noticed.

  His eyes passed over the spot Ygrain had been kneeling, a single handprint perfectly preserved against the cobbles.

  Black ash scorched into the stones.

  Gadhar’s furious yells echoed from some ways down the path.

  “Ah, right on cue.” Ygrain said, turning to face the oncoming tirade with a snort of amusement.

  Kairava turned with her. Casually he swept his sandaled foot across the tiles, wiping it clean.