A Day of Dragon Blood

TREALE



"Please let them fly away," she whispered, shivering on the ground. "Please, stars. Please."

The charred trees rose above her, their leaves burnt white, their branches like fingers groping at the sky. The rain pattered down, swaying in the wind. Beneath the clouds flew the wyverns, grunting and screaming like rutting beasts.

"Don't let them see me, stars," Treale whispered.

She huddled in the mud between the trees. Ash and rain covered her hair. A glob of acid sprayed down ahead and began eating through a tree. Burns spread across her thigh and she grimaced; she had not imagined any wound could hurt so much. Her lungs still ached with smoke, and she wanted nothing more than to cough, but forced herself to hold her breath. She pushed herself down into the mud under the trees.

The wyverns flew in formation above; there were eight. When Treale peered between the branches, she could see that their riders bore banners sporting a golden sun on a white field—Solina's personal guard. The lead wyvern carried a bundle in its claws, and Treale glimpsed flashes of muddy blue.

She gasped.

Despite the ache in her wound, and the fear in her breast, she pushed herself up against the bole. She peered between the charred branches and leaves.

"Stars," she whispered.

The beasts overshot her, but Treale had seen enough. The wyvern held a woman in its claws, her blue dress tattered and bloody, her limbs chained.

Blue fabric was rare in Requiem; it came all the way from the southern sea, where divers collected the mollusks which leaked the indigo dye. Even House Oldnale, the wealthiest family in Requiem after the royal Aeternums and noble Eleisons, owned no blue fabrics. That was the color of royalty. That was a gown of a princess.

"Mori," Treale whispered.

The wyverns vanished overhead, flying... Treale did not know which way. How could anyone tell north or south with these clouds and this rain? Gritting her teeth against the blazing pain, she clutched the tree and began to climb. Soot covered her hands. The tree was wet but still hot from the fire. She grimaced. Her wounds burned like ten thousand suns, shooting pain through her limbs, into her fingertips, even into her teeth. She groaned and kept climbing. When she reached the treetop, she straightened. So much mud and soot covered her, she imagined that she looked like yet another branch. Squinting, she stared after the retreating wyverns. The blue gown flapped in the leader's claws, and Treale thought she could hear a muffled cry—the cry of a young woman. The rain kept falling, and even the shrieks of the wyverns sounded dim.

It's her. It's Mori.

Treale trembled and nearly fell from the tree. She clutched its branches so tightly her fingers bled. Mori had been her dearest friend since childhood; the two had been born mere days apart. Treale had grown up yearning for every harvest, when she could travel to Nova Vita and spend several joyous days with Mori—reading books in the library, teasing the princes with giggles and secret words only she and Mori understood, and going to the warrens behind Castra Murus to feed the rabbits. Every winter, when the Aeternums visited Oldnale Manor for the Feast of Stars, Treale would let Mori sleep by her side in her great canopy bed; the two would stay up nearly all night, whispering of the knights they would marry someday, what new pups they would adopt, and all the other secrets of youth.

Lyana would often spend time with them too, but Lyana was two years older and so much wiser, so much stronger; the knight had always seemed closer to the adults, more like Prince Orin. But Mori and I were always as sisters—two young girls of great families with great older brothers.

Now none of that remained. No more canopy bed or farms or... maybe not even any more Vir Requis.

"But you live, Mori," Treale whispered, eyes damp.

Shame burned inside her, as cold as her wounds were hot. She had defected from King Elethor's army. She had fled from Nova Vita at the sight of its ruin. Tears burned in Treale's eyes. I am a coward. I wanted to be like Lady Lyana, a brave knight, but I fled from battle.

She growled low in her throat. She narrowed her eyes and watched the wyverns flee.

"I abandoned my king, my lady, and my kingdom," she whispered, a lump in her throat. "But I won't abandon you, Mori."

The wyverns were soon distant specks in the storm, and she could no longer hear their calls. Treale knew what fate awaited Mori if she could not save her: the princess would be imprisoned and tortured, and when her body was broken, she would be burned in the city of Irys among the dunes.

I won't let that happen.

In the treetop, Treale shifted and tested her wings. She rose into the storm, a black dragon with dented, charred scales. The wind and rain lashed her, and she could barely flap her wings, but she growled, she snorted fire, and she flew.

"I will find you, Mori." Smoke streamed between her teeth. "I will follow you to the desert itself if I must."

They had no home to return to. Requiem lay in ruins, her halls fallen like so many old stones. But so long as Mori lived, there was hope. Treale sniffed and realized that tears filled her eyes.

We will flee into the wilderness, Mori, you and I. We'll find a cave to live in, or a green forest that no fire has touched, and we'll whisper and laugh together again. If everyone else is fallen, we will still have each other.

The wyverns flew ahead, flecks on the horizon. Fire flickering in her mouth, her wings roiling the clouds, Treale Oldnale followed through the ash, rain, and ruin of the world.