Draka

Sower of Embers, Reaper of Flame woke in a cavern she’d carved for herself. It was a slow, ponderous thing, waking up. Awareness came in a multitude of trickles; an ache here, a bothersome noise there, and the pleasant scent of cooling stone all around her. Then the many different connections, pulling her every which way: Her hoard, of course, safe deep beneath a mountain some few hundreds of miles to the north; the rifts, wellsprings of life and power, in every direction but nowhere as concentrated as where she was going; and her offspring, spread across the world and decreasing in number between her every period of wakefulness.

It occurred to her that it had been a long time, too long, since she laid a clutch of eggs. Unconsciously and by old habit she felt around her, finding two males within the thousand miles or so that her senses reached. It was a somewhat embarrassing Advancement that she’d taken in her younger, wilder days. It was not one that she’d readily admit to another dragon, but neither did she regret it. Life was for living, after all.

Ah, but she didn’t have time for that. Later, on the return trip, perhaps, but not now.

She stretched, and found the space too small to spread her wings. She’d carved it too quickly. With a rumble of displeasure she turned around, stepping out onto the mountainside and into the autumn sun. It was a beautifully clear day, and free of the cramped hole she spread her wings wide, basking there for a few long, glorious moments. She’d chosen the southern side of the mountain for just this reason; there was nothing to wake you up after a few days’ sleep like a good bask. She would have liked to have slept outside in the first place — nothing would have dared bother her, and sleeping in the sun and under the stars always brought such pleasant dreams. But it had been raining when she decided to rest, and she could abide neither flying nor sleeping in the rain.

Once she’d had her fill of the calm of the mountain and the morning sun she continued her journey. Embers rarely left her territory anymore, but this trip was special.

Months ago, in late spring, as her rivers ran wide and fast with melting snow and green filled her valleys, she’d felt something stir in the south-west. At first it had been so strange and so faint that she’d ignored it, and it had blinked out as quickly as it appeared. But as the weeks and months passed it had come back, again and again, for minutes or hours at a time, becoming stronger and more unmistakably familiar until she could ignore it no longer.

Embers knew where all her offspring were at all times. It wasn’t particularly useful now, but when you had a nest full of yearling whelps, crawling everywhere they could reach, getting into every crack and crevice and eager to take to the air, it was indispensable. She’d had the same sense for a few favored members of her flock too, though it had been some time now since she’d felt that connection with a human. What she had felt, far to the south-west, was unmistakably one of her children. But all of her surviving children were accounted for, and none of them had their territories in that direction. This one was new, and had come from nowhere. And it kept fading in and out. It made no sense, and Embers was going to investigate.

If her destination was the island that she thought it was, then it was a place she remembered well. She had spent some time there, long ago in her more adventurous days, cavorting with a delightful male. He Who Darkens the Night had been a bit small, perhaps, and not very strong of body, but he’d made up for it in cunning, interesting magical talents, and the size of the flock he’d gathered. His form and coloration had been particularly pleasing as well: lithe and black as the deepest night. None of that speckled stone gray that was so common these days. He’d been beautiful.

Their time together had resulted in a clutch of eggs, as such things were wont to do. She’d left them with him; she laid them in his territory, after all, and they’d both known that he’d be getting bitey soon. Never mind that she’d laid the things; old, stupid instincts die hard. She’d accidentally maimed a male or two herself when she was broody. So she’d returned to her hoard to rest and tend her flock for a few years, with a promise to return when the whelps had hatched.

She’d never seen them again. Over the centuries since, Embers had often wondered what happened to that male, and their clutch. Perhaps he’d perished in the cataclysm that woke her, and which had scoured the island, but she doubted it. Humans and other low creatures, certainly; there was only so much wild magic they could survive, after all, the poor things. But a dragon? A dragon, so close, would have feasted. Even if the whelps had not yet learned to feed on magic when it happened, they should have felt only a comforting warmth. Night would have glutted himself, and been all the stronger for it.

No, something else must have happened. When Embers had reached the island to investigate why she couldn’t feel any connection to either Night or their brood, her suspicion naturally fell on the multitude of humans who had populated the place. Only humans or another dragon could have killed Night, small though he was, and she doubted any dragon strong enough to defeat him would have been able to catch him or pursue him into the narrow tunnels of his mountain lair.

That left the humans.

The human population had been absolutely devastated. Even so, she’d considered venting her displeasure on the survivors. It was not the first clutch she’d lost, but it stung nonetheless, and it was an insult that demanded retribution. Worse, she’d liked Night, and had hoped to have a few more clutches with him, perhaps settling their young in territories that linked their own, like some other dragons did. It would have been a pleasant arrangement. Comfortable. She’d daydreamed about it, and now it was not to be. Someone needed to pay for taking her dreams away.

When she’d passed over the ruins that had been mighty cities, though, she’d changed her mind. The humans had been in such a pitiful state that she instead chose to leave them to their struggle. Their ships were all gone, either sunk or fled. They were beset by monsters, spawned from the bounty of rifts that had opened all over the island. Their fields and orchards were wilted and overgrown, their herds gone feral and ravaged by animals that had not only survived, but absorbed the unleashed magic, and had grown to impressive sizes and levels of power. She could have reduced their ruins to slag and their remaining crops to ash, but there was no point. They were already dying.

She’d eaten well of the empowered wildlife, glutted herself on rifts, and then abandoned the island and its inhabitants to the worst punishment she could imagine: life in a place that they no longer ruled.

Centuries later, she was returning. She flew high above the clouds, where the air was so delightfully cool and the sun bright, keeping a leisurely pace. She felt no rush, which was fortunate. She was large, even among others of her kind of similar age, and flying so far was strenuous. Flying quickly when she didn’t have to simply wasn’t worth it. She would save a day or three of flying, perhaps, but then she would have to choose between spending hours upon hours hunting or consuming rifts, possibly in another dragon’s territory, or spending those saved days and more resting, absorbing the ambient magic to restore herself. No, it was better to take it easy. She'd gotten a bit lazy over the centuries, and she was comfortable with that.

Still, it was good to feel that the concentration of rifts at her destination was as dense as it had been ever since that cataclysm. In her own territory she could only take one every so often, lest she ruin the delicate balance of the monster population. Fewer rifts led to fewer monsters, which led to fewer new rifts, and so on. Normally she only consumed the ones that caused her flock trouble, or if a petitioner came from farther afield, which didn’t add up to many in a year. Soon she would be able to truly have her fill of rifts for the first time in many years, and enjoy the strength and boundless energy that came with it. It would be fun, something that she’d lacked lately, and she looked forward to it greatly.

But it was the presence of her offspring that drew her. A mystery child whose thread she did not recognize, which flared and faded, on an island she hadn’t visited in centuries. She could only presume that an egg of hers had somehow been stolen by some intrepid human from a clutch she’d left with a male somewhere. Possibly even the one she had with Night. Preserved, timeless, it had now hatched. Stranger things had happened, and through magic many things were possible. That might also explain why the thread didn’t feel quite right.

However it had happened, she was going to find her child. She was going to take care of it until it could manage the journey home, and then she was going to raise it properly in her own territory until it could claim and hold a territory of its own. She only hoped that being alone without its parents hadn't been too hard on the poor thing. The fact that the whelp had survived these past months without either her or its father to look after it meant that it must be in the clutches of one group of humans or another, and the appropriate response to that would have to be decided once she knew more. She might reduce their cities to ashes and flowing stone, or grant them a boon, or anything in between. It depended entirely on how her child had been treated and how respectful the humans in question were.

She flew until the sun approached the western sea. At that point she descended beneath the lowest clouds. She remembered there being a chain of islands… Ah, there! On the horizon was a large island, the volcano that made up much of its bulk still giving off a thin plume of smoke, just as it had the last time she’d come this way, some decades before. She made her way over, and noted with some interest that a sizable human settlement had sprung up on its southern shore. Boats dotted the water and ships sat at anchor, and Embers imagined with some amusement how the little creatures must be looking up, gazing with amazement and terror at her magnificence.

Do not worry, little ones, she thought. You have nothing to fear. Even if she weren’t already on an errand, all the gold and silver and gems on this island couldn’t possibly make a difference to her hoard, and then there was the issue of transporting it. It wasn’t worth the bother.

She would rest here for a few days. Perhaps she’d find something to eat in the temperate forest that ran from the mountainside to the beaches — she remembered there being some colonies of seals last she’d been here, though the humans might have over hunted them, as they were wont to do. And then she would move on, and the humans would be left with a new appreciation for life and tales to tell their young.

Embers circled the fiery mountain slowly until she spotted what she was looking for. Far above the highest trees was an opening in the stone that shouldn’t be there, and she praised her own foresight. She’d made it intentionally large when she carved it, in case she returned later and larger. She settled, her talons gripping the ledge she’d made for just that purpose, and folded her wings. Ducking inside, she blew a small flame to light the space. Birds and bats had used it over the centuries and the floor was thick with their droppings, but that was easily dealt with. She was about to blow a stronger, hotter flame to cleanse the place when she saw something at the back.

Stepping inside to get a better look, she was delighted with what she found. The humans, in their courage and ingenuity, had made it to this cave, and for one purpose. At the back of the cave was a shrine: an effigy of a dragon, possibly herself, stood upon a pedestal with a stone bowl before it. And in the bowl, covered with bat shit and dust and tarnished by time, was a large number of silver coins. An offering to the rulers of the skies, the mightiest creatures of this world, bringers of flame and death and terror, or of peace and prosperity, depending on if you showed proper deference or not.

Embers cleansed the place. She was not going to sleep in a cave full of guano. But she was careful to keep her flames cool enough not to damage the stone. The silver coins ran together a little, but that was fine. The little altar was undamaged, and that was what mattered.

After appreciating the humans’ offering for a while longer she turned around and settled, her face resting on the ledge. She watched the little ships drift slowly across the water as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, enjoying the scents of the forest below as she drank in the ambient mana. It was strong here, as it always was around volcanoes. It was an altogether pleasant resting place, and she again praised her younger self for making it.

In the direction of the setting sun her child’s thread flared. She noted with satisfaction that it was still in exactly the direction she expected, before it faded again.

She would sleep here for a few days. She would wake refreshed and sated, and then she would continue her journey, covering another few hundred miles of the vast sea that separated her from that island from her past. She would continue like this, one day traveling, a few days resting and consuming ambient mana, until she reached that island, a few thousand miles to the south-west.

She would be reunited with her unexpected child. She would find why its thread was so strange. And if any human had harmed so much as a scale on her baby’s tail, that island would burn.

Embers liked humans, but they sometimes needed to be reminded of their place in the order of things, after all.