It couldn’t be, and yet…there was no doubt about it: there was a water dragon lurking just outside her cell. The dragons never lived this far north. It was too cold. The thermals from the underwater volcanos around Lorne made it the perfect home for dragons. What in the blazes was one doing here? In a dungeon. Facing the Princess of the Dragon Isles.
In the near-pitch-darkness, the dragon seemed to glow faintly in the water in an enthralling, luminous manner. Wren knew some dragons lit up like that to attract prey into the deepest depths of the sea; for Wren to witness it first-hand was nothing short of astounding.
Going by what she could see of its head and face, she knew the dragon was bigger than Aurora, though it seemed just as sleek as her. The spines that protruded from the water were tall and thin, however, making the dragon perhaps more suited to water-dwelling than sky-flying.
From the neon blue light the dragon emitted, Wren concluded that its scales were a rich blue-black, like spilled oil. The beast’s spines flared, and she held her ground at the sign of aggression. At the first sign of weakness, the creature would attack.
She exhaled slowly and tried to calm her racing heart. The dragon rumbled softly, its gaze focused completely on her. Wren was staring death in the face. She was unable to tear her eyes away from the feline gaze of the beast. It hissed and bared its long, pointed teeth. Dark humor seized her and she had to stifle her laughter. After everything that had happened, it would be ironic if the creature killed her.
In some ways, Wren found it fitting. Almost welcome, in a twisted kind of way. To be so far away from home, a prisoner no less, but to die under circumstances the people of Lorne were accustomed to, was far preferable than any other method—tiny fish with razor teeth included.
You’re not going to die today. At least not without a fight.
Not while she still had a kingdom to save and a sister to protect.
What would her mother have told her to do? How could she work the situation in her favor? The dragon was different from those of the isles. Did it communicate in the same way?
Wren gave a small chirrup, but the beast didn’t respond in kind.
She frowned, worry churning in her gut. Did the Verlantians know that the dragon was in their dungeon? Was it put there to eat her?
Regardless, Wren was a daughter of the isles, and she wouldn’t idly sit by while there was the smallest hope of the dragon helping her.
She swallowed hard, opened her mouth, and began to sing. Her dragon song started off softly, just testing the waters. The beast didn’t attack, but neither did it retreat.
Her lips trembled in nervousness, causing her hums to vibrate off-key. The dragon shifted in front of her, a low growl emitting from its throat.
Come on, Wren. You can do this. Think of everything your mother taught you.
Her mother. Her mother had taught her everything she knew about dragons, even though the woman had not been a native of the Dragon Isles. She had loved the creatures as fiercely as Wren had and ensured her daughter knew everything there was to know about communicating and befriending the beasts. And yet she had been sure to instill in Wren a reverence and a fear of the creatures.
Dragons were not to be trifled with. Even the naval officers of Lorne did not escape injuries and death at the hands of the dragons.
They weren’t pets. They were partners.
Emotion saturated her song, and added depth to her humming and power to her voice where, before, there had been none. Her pitch leveled out, and, though the dragon growled louder when she paused to consider what to say or sing, Wren’s resolve stood firm.
In the end, she sang a sorrowful, haunting tune that her mother taught her when she was but a small child. It was for calming the most tempestuous of hearts, her mother had said. Wren had never understood, back then, why a song to tame a dragon sounded so sad, but it was only in losing almost everything that she finally understood it: there was, indeed, a calm that came with accepting grief and pain, then accepting that it did not rule a person’s life.
Wren’s loss was a part of her now, yes. That would never change.
But it did not have to define her.
All she had to do was accept it—to not hate herself for crying when it was all she wanted to do—and then her sadness was merely an emotion she felt. It would not be the end of her. It would not be all she felt until the end of time.
The dragon’s spines lowered, it ceased its rumbling, and stilled. She could have sworn she could see a similar sadness in its golden eyes reflected back at her. It was possible she was seeing things, but animals had souls. And the dragon in front of her? Well, it had suffered. Wren could sense it as she continued to sing.
For the dragon was still a dragon, and an unknown one at that. She had no rapport with it. It had no reason to trust her, nor her trust it. It wasn’t like it had been with Aurora—an immediate connection, almost love at first sight. Wren had been there when Aurora hatched when she was a child. They had grown and evolved together. There was not a single moment when they had not trusted each other with their lives.
This time was different. One wrong move, and Wren would be dead.
So, she kept on singing like her life depended on it, because it did. She kept on singing even when her throat grew raw, and her voice became raspy and hoarse. As long as the dragon remained, Wren would not let up an inch.
The beast stayed at the mouth of Wren’s cell, never moving and never making a noise until, finally, the water around Wren’s knees began to recede with the tide. The dragon made a motion to move backward, just an inch, then one more. As it moved backward, its luminescence grew duller, as if it was tied to the pull of the water.
Ten minutes later, the creature had disappeared with the tide.
Wren stood there, heart in her throat. What had just happened? Had she imagined the whole encounter?
“Beautiful voice you have,” the bard commented, breaking the spell.
She blinked, realizing she’d hardly been aware of her surroundings. Wren glanced toward his cell as he climbed down the bars to the wet cobbles of the floor. She stared at his silhouette. How long had the musician been awake? Or had he been faking it the entire time?
“You had me transfixed as much as the beast.”
Wren ignored him, her attention moving to the tide that pulled the water back along with the dragon. The creature’s appearance in and of itself had been a telltale giveaway that the water in the dungeon was connected to the sea at large. Which meant there was a way out of here.
Only if the dragon isn’t trapped in here with you.
Either way, the beast could be the key. For Wren also noticed that, while it had been present, no fish had dared to try and attack her. There hadn’t been a single one of the animals in sight. They were scared of the dragon. If Wren kept close to it, then she need not fear the fish.
This could be her way out.
She dropped to her knees the moment no more water remained in the cell, though she gasped in pain when she hit the bare stone floor. She had been exhausted before the tide came in, but that was nothing compared to the weariness that washed over her now.
Sleep. She needed just a little rest and then she’d figure out what to do with the dragon.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind the prison door, and then the door was swung open. Two Verlantian warriors stepped into Wren’s cell.
Alarm filled her. “What is going on?” she just barely managed to say, but the words were hardly audible due to her previous singing.