“He mustn’t know about this conversation. Do you understand?”
Asha, who was lost in her thoughts, looked up to find them standing before a tapestry of her grandmother—the dragon queen who conquered and enslaved their fiercest enemy, the skral. The artist chose deep reds and maroons for the background and luminescent silvers and dark blues for her hair. The dragon queen’s eyes seemed to peer out at her granddaughter with deep disapproval. As if they could see straight into Asha’s heart, beholding all the secrets hidden there.
Asha held her injured hand closer to her body.
“You mustn’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”
Tearing her gaze away from the old queen, she looked to her father. His warm eyes were on hers.
A secret? Her every allegiance was to her father. She owed her life to him twice over. “Of course, Father.”
“A dragon was spotted in the Rift while you hunted,” he said. “One that hasn’t been seen in eight years. A black dragon with a scar through one eye.”
Lightning flickered up Asha’s legs. She nearly reached for the wall, in case they gave out on her.
“Kozu?”
It couldn’t be. The First Dragon hadn’t been seen since the day he attacked the city.
Her father nodded. “This is an opportunity, Asha. One we must seize.” He smiled a slow, bright smile. “I want you to bring me Kozu’s head.”
Asha suddenly smelled burning flesh. Felt her throat choking on screams.
That was eight years ago, she thought, trying to fight off the memory. Eight years ago I was a child. I’m not anymore.
Seeing the war waging inside her, the dragon king raised his hand, as if to touch her—something he never did. But a look flashed in his eyes. The same look that flashed in everyone else’s eyes, all of the time, whenever they looked at her.
Her father didn’t like to show it, because he loved her. Because he didn’t want to hurt her. But sometimes it slipped through the cracks.
The dragon king feared his own daughter.
A heartbeat later, the look was gone. Her father’s hand fell back down to his side, resting on the gilt pommel of his ceremonial saber.
“If you can hunt down the First Dragon, the religious zealots will no longer have a reason to challenge my authority. The scrublanders will be forced to concede that the old ways are no longer. All will submit to my rule. But, most of all, Asha, your marriage to Jarek will no longer be necessary.” He looked back to the tapestry on the wall. To the image of his mother. “This will be your redemption.”
Asha swallowed, letting those words sink in.
The raconteurs—sacred storytellers from days gone by—warned of the death of Kozu. Kozu, they said, was the wellspring of stories. As such, he was the Old One’s living link to his people.
If Kozu were ever killed, all the old stories would be struck from mind or tongue or scroll—as if they’d never existed. The Old One would be forgotten and the link between him and his people broken. But so long as Kozu lived, the stories did too, and the yoke keeping Asha’s people shackled to the Old One remained.
Even the most godless of hunters wouldn’t dare hunt Kozu down. Her father knew this. It was why he was asking her. Asha had more reason than anyone to kill the First Dragon.
It would be the ultimate apology. A way to set things right.
“Did you hear me, Asha? If you bring me Kozu’s head, there will no longer be a reason to marry Jarek.”
Drawn out of her thoughts, she looked up into her father’s face to find him smiling down on her.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Asha. Will you do it?”
Of course she would do it. The only question was: Could she do it before the red moon waned?
The Last Namsara
Once, the draksors were a mighty force. They were the wingbeats in the night. They were the fire that rained from the sky. They were the last sight you saw.
No one dared come against them.
But a storm was sweeping across the desert. Invaders from beyond the sea, a people called the skral, had conquered the northern isles and were hungry for more. The skral looked to Firgaard, the shining star of a desert kingdom. A bustling capital that straddled a seam dividing leagues of white sand from a mountainous mantle. If they could conquer Firgaard, they could rule the world.
Hoping to take the draksors by surprise, the skral came beneath the cover of darkness.
But when darkness falls, the Old One lights a flame.
The Old One heard the enemy coming. He cast his gaze out over dusty villages and desert dunes until he found a man suited for just his purpose.
A man by the name of Nishran.
With that single whispered name, the Old One woke the First Dragon from his slumber. The First Dragon flew fast and far, over the desert, seeking out the owner of it.
Nishran was a weaver. He sat at his loom when the First Dragon found him. The treadles stopped clicking and the shuttle stopped clacking as the weaver looked up into scales as black as moonless night.
Fear filled his heart.
But the Old One had chosen Nishran to be his Namsara, and there was no refusing the Old One.
To aid him, the Old One gave Nishran the ability to see in darkness. Unhindered by the cloak of night, Nishran led the dragon queen and her army across the sand, beneath the pitch of a new moon, straight to the camp of the skral.
The northern invaders were unprepared for the arrows and dragonfire they woke to. They were overcome by those they intended to conquer.
When it was over, the dragon queen did not drive the enemy out of her realm. If she let the skral loose, they would only wreak their havoc elsewhere or return, stronger, for revenge. She refused to be responsible for another people’s destruction. So, with the Namsara at her side, the dragon queen ordered each and every skral locked into collars as penance for the horrors they’d unleashed on the northern isles.
With the skral bound in iron, peace fell over the draksors. News of the conquered invaders traveled fast and far. Rulers of far-off nations crossed desert and mountain and sea to pledge their loyalty to the dragon queen.
But the jubilation was short-lived.
Darkness fell once more over Firgaard as dragons suddenly and without warning turned on their riders, attacking their families and burning down their homes. Instead of being lit with celebratory song and dance, Firgaard was lit with dragonfire as terraces and courtyards and gardens blazed. In daylight, smoke clotted the air and black shadows fell over the narrow streets as dragons flew into the Rift and never returned.
Chaos tore Firgaard apart. Some draksors ran to align themselves with their queen, who cursed the dragons for their betrayal; others ran to align themselves with the high priestess, who blamed the queen for the destruction.
Draksors turned on draksors. More homes burned. Firgaard fell into ruin.
That was the first betrayal.
The second came in the form of stories.
Four