A Day of Dragon Blood

LYANA



No. Stars, no. Please stars, let this be a dream. Let me wake.

She saw Queen Solina rise over the ruins. She saw the queen smirk. She saw the bodies of her parents fall from the wyvern claws.

Mother. Father. Tears filled Lyana's eyes. Stars, please stars, no. They're dead. She killed them. Her body trembled and she could barely keep flying.

A roar sounded behind her, torn with pain. Bayrin howled and blew fire.

"Solina!" he cried, voice hoarse. He soared, slashing and biting, a wild beast wreathed in flame. Lyana had never seen her brother like this. Blood and cuts covered him, and everywhere wyverns flew around him.

"Scream for me, beast!" Solina called across the battle. The queen laughed. "Die screaming for the reptiles that spawned you!"

Lyana's head spun. The grief seemed too great to bear. She howled to the sky. Around her, so few dragons still flew—a mere scattering of survivors. There were almost none left to save. Lyana sounded her cry: the cry of a warrior, of a knight, of a daughter grieving.

You took everything from me, Solina, she thought, tears in her eyes. You took my city. You took my Orin. You took my parents.

Even her rage could not rise above this grief, this great cry of loss, this falling of a kingdom and race. She howled with her grief and she flew toward Queen Solina through fire, acid, and blood.

I will kill her. I will kill our nemesis, then fall dead upon the ruins of the city I loved. My bones will rest forever by my parents, and I will walk with them in our starlit halls.

She saw the queen ahead. She narrowed her eyes. She flew with an empty, cold shard in her chest. She flew to kill and die.

A storm of wyverns rose from the ruins below. Bolts flew. Acid sprayed. Solina's voice rang across the battle.

"She is yours, Mahrdor! Enjoy my gift to you."

Lyana snarled. She saw the lord there. Mahrdor flew upon his four-winged wyvern, leading five more beasts. He clutched a crossbow in one hand; the other hung scarred at his side. Disgust flooded Lyana to remember how she had lain with him in his villa upon the Pallan, letting him invade her among his trophies of flesh. She drove toward him and blew her fire.

Mahrdor banked, and her jet of flame hit a wyvern behind him. Lyana soared. Fire and acid exploded. Crossbow bolts slammed into her; she barely felt them. She shot toward the sky, then swooped with the sun at her back, claws outstretched and fire raining. Another wyvern fell. Lyana howled.

For Requiem. For my parents. For the souls of my ancestors who watch from above. For the glory of our fallen columns and our stars.

Her fire bathed the battle. Her fangs bit through armor. Her claws painted the city with blood. She was Lyana Eleison, a knight of Requiem, a broken woman. She was a girl running through glittering halls to her parents. She was a youth gasping in wonder under blankets at old books of adventure. She was a glowing woman, betrothed to her prince, a lady of the courts. She was a warrior. She was a killer. She was flame and fang, claw and blood. She was Lyana Eleison and she was the wrath and agony of an ancient, fallen kingdom, the shattered notes of a dying song.

The wyverns fell around her, torn and burnt. Only one rider and beast remained before her: Lord Mahrdor.

Around her, the battle for Nova Vita raged in a haze. Some dragons were still fleeing, others still fighting and dying. Wyverns still swarmed around them. But here, in this pocket of silence above the ruins of her temple, it was just her and her enemy, her and the man who had invaded her body, caged her, and destroyed her home. She drove toward him, howling and blowing her flame.

Dragon crashed against wyvern. Fangs bit. Acid and fire roared. They tumbled, clawing and biting, and crashed into the ruins below. A fallen column cracked beneath them, and the wrath of Tiranor shrieked above.

Pain exploded through Lyana. Her back leg blazed; she thought the bone might be broken. Growling, she pushed back, untangling herself from the wyvern that writhed and snapped its teeth. Mahrdor rose from the saddle and drew his sword. Bricks, corpses, and puddles of blood spread around them. The stub of a column rose twenty feet beside her, ending with a crown of jagged marble.

Her head swirled. Lyana flapped her wings once. She struggled to her feet. She summoned fire into her maw.

Mahrdor's crossbow fired.

The bolt slammed into Lyana's neck.

She fell back, gasping for breath. The pain tore her magic from her like claws pulling her heart from her chest. As she shifted, the bolt clanked bloody to the ground. She found herself gasping in human form, on her knees, clutching her neck. She looked up, wincing and dizzy, to see Mahrdor walk toward her. Ash covered his armor, and half his face was gone, burned into a mess of red and black clinging to his skull. Eyes blank, he raised his sabre above her.

Lyana could barely move. The pain twisted through her bones like a horde of demons. With clenched teeth, her gloved hand closed around the hilt of Levitas, her ancient sword. She drew the blade as Mahrdor's sabre drove down. Steel clanged against steel.

The battle still raged above, but its sounds seemed muffled to her, the beasts blurred. Vaguely she heard her brother howl, heard Elethor cry for Requiem, heard Solina scream—but their cries seemed to rise from beyond distant dreamscapes she could not grasp. Her world had become this stage: half a column, bricks, and a cruel desert lord.

His blade flashed down again. Lyana parried. She pushed herself up, parried again, and thrust her blade. Steel clanged.

They moved in a slow, lumbering dance of pain. His flesh sizzled, dripping off his cheekbone. No emotion filled his eyes; they were blue ice, the eyes of a corpse. He swung his blade. Sparks showered.

"I will twist you," he said, lips bloody. His voice was gravely, a sound like bones crushed under boots. "I will shape you into a treasure. You will be the jewel of my collection, and you will live." He swung his blade. "I will never let you die. I will never let your pain end."

His sabre slammed against her breastplate, knocking the breath out of her. She swung her sword down and cleaved his pauldron. Blood spilled down his shoulder. He snarled, revealing a mouth full of shattered teeth. Their blades clashed again.

"No, Mahrdor," she whispered; it was as loud as she could speak. She felt blood trickle down her neck into her breastplate. "You will never more hurt anyone. You destroyed us, but you will fall with us. The one you sought for a trophy will be your death."

Her blade flashed. Levitas was an ancient sword, borne by Terra Eleison himself, a knight of Requiem, the hero of the great war against Dies Irae. Today she, his descendant, was the last of the bellators—perhaps soon the last of all dragons.

I still swing your sword, Terra, as you did. I still wear the armor of our order. I still fight for the bellators, even as they have all fallen, and I still swing Levitas for Requiem, even as she lies in ruin. I will soon dine at your side among our celestial columns.

She howled as she swung that old blade. She howled for her ancestors and for her king—a last battle cry. Levitas shone with starlight. The ancient steel drove through Mahrdor's breastplate, into his heart, and crashed through his back. With light and blood and metal, she drove her fury through him. She screamed with the might of her stars.

He gasped. He stared at her, skewered on her blade. They froze, eyes locked.

"I am Lyana Eleison," she whispered, clutching the sword inside him. Her voice trembled. Tears and blood ran down her face; she tasted both on her lips. "I am a knight of Requiem. I am a daughter of starlight. May your lord burn your soul in his fiery halls."

With a scream, she pulled her sword back. The blade retreated from him with gushing blood. He remained standing for but a moment longer, then fell forward. He lay dead at her feet.

Lyana shifted into a dragon. She took flight. She soared above the ruins. Thousands of wyverns howled, flapped wings, and dived toward her.