by Rachel Aaron
The order was barely out before a work crew of humans led by yet another F—one who, again, Julius couldn’t name but recognized vaguely as the dragon who managed his mother’s treasury—wheeled in a wooden crate the size of a wardrobe. They set the huge box down on its end where Fredrick indicated, and then the crowbars came out, cracking the crate’s nailed-down lid to reveal an authentic suit of Mayan armor complete with fur cape, jaguar-skin breastplate, and enormous, intricately engraved golden cuffs for the wrists, upper arms, ankles, and neck.
Startling as all that was, though, the real surprise was the slightly smaller crate they wheeled in next. This box was opened personally by the overseeing F, his long fingers prying the wooden boards open to reveal an enormous golden headdress decorated with gigantic rainbow-colored feathers. Feathers that had very obviously come from a dragon, and not one Julius had smelled before.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, eyes wide as the dragon carefully removed the circle of plumage from its protective silk padding. “Whose feathers are those?”
“They belonged to the Heartstriker,” the new F replied, giving Julius a cutting look. “The original one.” He lifted the crown delicately with both hands and turned it around so Julius could see. “This headdress is a treasure of our family. It was originally meant to be worn by our grandfather and contains the only remaining plumage of the Quetzalcoatl left in existence.”
That was as impressive as it was macabre, but Julius was having none of it. “I am not wearing that,” he said firmly. “Carrying his tooth is bad enough, but I am not putting on a dead dragon’s feathers.”
“You will wear them,” Fredrick said coldly. “The Great Quetzalcoatl is the original root of all Heartstriker power, and his crown is proof of our legitimacy as his lineage. Bethesda does not need to wear it because her right to rule is unquestioned. You, however, are an unknown dragon trying to claim authority in a clan where name alone is enough to determine rank. It doesn’t matter how good your ideas are. No one in that room will listen to you if you don’t have power. That’s what this headdress represents: your power and legitimacy as a grandson of the Quetzalcoatl.”
That was a pretty good argument, but Julius was still cringing. “How does this even exist? The Quetzalcoatl’s been dead for nine hundred years. How are his feathers not ash?”
“For the same reason you’re still wielding his Fang,” Fredrick said, nodding at the sword on Julius’s hip. “Mother was careful. After she defeated her father, she locked down the lingering magic left from his extinguished fire. Rather than permitting his power to escape and his form to fall to ash, she trapped it, preserving parts of his body, and magic left in them, for later use.”
Now Julius really thought he was going to be sick. “She preserved him? Like dragon jerky?”
“Of course,” Fredrick said with a scathing look. “Bethesda is greedy and clever, and even in death, the magic of a dragon as great as the Quetzalcoatl isn’t something you throw away.”
“Bethesda’s been using up her father’s magic slowly over centuries,” the new F from the treasury added. “How else do you think she managed to scrape together enough power to lay eight clutches during the magical drought? She’s not that good.”
“But the magic itself is still the Quetzalcoatl’s,” Fredrick said. “Mother can use it since he’s no longer alive to tell her no, but certain parts, like the Fangs, still follow the echo of his will.” He smiled tightly. “In her greed, you could say Bethesda created the closest thing our kind has to a ghost.”
That was probably the most horrible thing Julius had ever heard about his mother, which was saying something. “And she wants me to do it, too?” he asked, pointing at the headdress. “She wants me to wear that?”
The two Fs exchanged a look. “Actually,” Fredrick said slowly. “Mother doesn’t know. Franz and I decided—”
“Franz?” Julius said, head whipping around to the treasury dragon, who nodded. “Wait, the two of you decided I should wear this? Not Bethesda?”
Fredrick’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Bethesda wants you to fail,” he said crisply. “Why would she share the power she’s hoarded from her father with the dragon who defeated her? But we at the bottom of the clan are…optimistic about a possible change in power. That’s why our clutch has agreed to do everything we can to ensure that your efforts are not undermined.”
By the time he finished, Julius was staring at the Fs like he’d never seen them before. “You want to help me?”
He hadn’t meant for the question to sound quite so skeptical, but he just couldn’t wrap his head around it. Other than the few allies he’d won through blood and Bob, whose end goal was still completely unfathomable, no one in this mountain wanted to help him. He especially couldn’t imagine receiving it from the clutch who was so famously under Bethesda’s thumb. The more he thought about that, though, the more he started to wonder if he’d been reading this whole situation incorrectly, especially given the look of pure rage painted across Fredrick’s normally stoic face.
“Let me put this in a way you can understand,” the F growled. “From the moment we hatched, my entire clutch was assigned to be Bethesda’s personal servants. For the last six hundred years, we have been forbidden to transform out of our human shapes or leave the boundaries of Heartstriker Mountain.”
Julius stared at him wide eyed. “How?” he asked. “How could Bethesda keep an entire clutch locked up like that?”
“The same way she did for you,” Fredrick said, unbuttoning his stiff coat. He unbuttoned his white shirt next, pulling the fabric aside to show Julius the old glimmer of dragon magic crisscrossing his chest. A very familiar glimmer.
“She sealed you?” Julius cried, staring at his brothers. “All of you? For six hundred years?”
“Now you understand why we would support a change,” Fredrick said as he re-buttoned his coat. “But our seal is different than yours. You were merely trapped beneath her magic. Our seal was affixed before we were even born, and it doesn’t just stop us from changing shape or leaving the mountain. It binds us to Bethesda’s rules, making it impossible for any of us to refuse a request from her or any dragon currently in her favor. We are also absolutely forbidden from attacking any of our siblings, even if they attack us first. We are only one year younger than the Es, and yet we are treated worse than Js, and Mother has never told us why. This is simply our life.”
“We’ve learned to survive as best we could,” Franz added grimly. “With our heads down. Our only hope was that eventually someone would do to Bethesda what she did to her father and set us free. Now, thanks to you, it’s happened at last.”
“This would all have been much simpler if you’d killed her, of course,” Fredrick growled. “But we’ll take what we can get. We don’t know what you plan to do with this clan, Great Julius, but whatever it is, it can’t be worse than our life under Bethesda. So long as you change anything, anything at all, you can trust that our clutch is highly motivated to aid you.”
Both Fs were staring at him expectantly by the time Fredrick finished, but Julius didn’t know what to say. The only thing he knew for sure was that—if Fredrick was telling even a fraction of the truth—then his initial assessment of F-clutch was entirely wrong. They weren’t Bethesda’s spies or lackeys, they were her slaves. They’d been trapped here for centuries against their will, living in conditions even worse than his had been, and the longer he thought about that, the angrier Julius got.
“I’m so sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t know.”
“Not many do,” Fredrick said with a shrug. “It’s not a secret, it’s just that most dragons don’t care about anyone’s situation but their own.”
“I’m still sorry,” Julius said, because he was every bit as guilty of that as the rest of his siblings. He’d been raised by Fs, but he’d never bothered to look past his own misery to wonder why such obviously capable, centuries-old dragonesses were tending Bethesda’s children like
paid nannies instead of running their own empires like every other upper-alphabet dragon in the clan. But while he couldn’t change his selfish ignorance in the past, Julius was determined to make things right now.
“I’m going to fix this clan,” he said, looking Fredrick straight in his green eyes. “I didn’t know how badly Bethesda was treating you, but I’m not surprised at all.” His mother used everyone, manipulated them all, but that ended today. This was exactly the sort of horrible abuse of power he’d created the Council to stop, and if wearing his grandfather’s armor would help to achieve that, then Julius was going to suck it up and wear it, because Fredrick was right. Dragons everywhere were suckers for trappings of power, especially golden ones. A little J was not impressive, even one who’d overthrown Bethesda. But that same J draped in the Quetzalcoatl’s own feathers? That would make any dragon pay attention, at least for a little bit. The rest would be up to Julius, but given how terrifying it was going to be standing in front of the dragons he’d spent his life up to this point hiding from, he was ready to take whatever help he could get. Even the creepy dead kind.
“I’m in,” he said firmly, pulling himself straight. “Put them on.”
“Excellent choice, sir,” Fredrick said, his face splitting into a hungry grin as he took the crown from Franz. “Brace yourself. This might feel a little odd.”
Julius nodded and closed his eyes, pulling his whole body tight as the F set the headdress on top of his head, and the weight of a dragon with it.
***
Now he really looked ridiculous.
Once again, Fredrick had been right. Four hours was a push to get Julius into a full suit of incredibly complex armor that hadn’t been worn in centuries. Not only did every golden piece have to be remolded to fit Julius’s body—which was apparently much scrawnier than his grandfather’s had been—but Julius had to keep taking breaks to adjust the enormous weight of the feathers on top of his head.
It seemed impossible that something as light and airy as feathers could feel so heavy. The five foot long plumes looked like nothing floating behind him, but the moment he put them on, the weight was enough to buckle his knees. Even after he’d figured out how to balance it, the crown was still incredibly uncomfortable. The brilliant rainbow-colored feathers had edges as sharp as knives, and even though the dragon who’d grown them was long gone, they still twitched and rustled like living things. That plus the deathly, ashen smell that surrounded it was enough to make Julius want to tear the headdress off every time they stuck it on his head. The only reason he didn’t was because he was going to eventually have to wear this in front of a crowd, and he’d much rather learn to bear it here in private than freak out in front of his entire family.
But even Julius’s constant breaks and the literal reforging of multiple golden pieces were no match for Fredrick’s efficiency. In the end, they were done with ten minutes to spare. The F had just left to go check on Bethesda’s progress when the door to the dressing room banged open, and a tall, familiar, and very well-armed dragon strode into the room only to freeze in his tracks.
“Wow,” Justin said, his jaw hanging open. “Dude, you look good.”
This was so different from their usual interactions, it took Julius several seconds to actually reply. “Thank you,” he said at last. “I—”
“No, I mean you look good,” his brother said, stalking in a circle around Julius. “Like an actual, legit dragon.” He breathed in deep. “You don’t even smell like a loser anymore! Who worked that miracle?”
“Fredrick,” Julius said, reminding himself to take the compliment as it was meant rather than as his brother had mangled it. “This is all his work. I just stood here.”
Justin’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Fredrick? You’ve got an F now, too? I’ve been trying to convince Mother to give me one forever!” He scowled. “Maybe I should have taken the Council job.”
“No, you’re definitely better off where you are,” Julius said, repressing a shudder at the thought of his bull of a brother raging through the china shop that had been this morning’s negotiations. “And I didn’t ‘get’ an F. He’s just helping me.”
“Right,” Justin said, rolling his eyes. “Just like Whatshername’s not actually your mortal.”
There were more wrong-headed ideas to unpack in that statement than Julius could handle in the few minutes they had left, so he banked the comment for later and changed the subject. “You look nice, too,” he said, looking his brother up and down.
Like him, Justin was dressed like a warrior, but a far more practical, modern version. Though his armor was clearly modeled after Julius’s ancient costume, it was made of black tactical Kevlar and ballistic-grade steel plating rather than gold and feathers. His short, black hair was slicked back behind a military-grade Augmented Reality headset, and his back was completely taken up by his enormous Fang of the Heartstriker, which he wore with the wrapped hilt belted prominently high over his shoulder for easy access.
Together, the combination was somewhere between high tech mercenary and fantasy swordsman, which explained why Justin looked so happy wearing it. But while Julius appreciated the visit, he wasn’t actually sure why Justin was back here with him.
“I thought we were meeting in the throne room?”
“Everyone else is meeting in the throne room,” Justin said haughtily. “Which is why I’m here. As your knight, it’s my job to escort you.”
Julius blinked. “My what?”
“Your knight,” his brother repeated. “You know, your bodyguard, like Conrad is for mother. I’ve wanted the job forever, but I thought I’d have to wait until Conrad died to get it, and fat chance of that happening. Now, though, we’ve got two clan heads!” He grinned wide. “Problem solved.”
“Not to rain on your parade, but I’m not a clan head,” Julius reminded him. “I’m on the Council, and only for five years. I don’t need a knight.”
“Of course you need a knight,” Justin said. “Have you been downstairs recently? Every Heartstriker in the world is crammed into this mountain like sardines, and they’re all in a bad mood. You couldn’t even run a pest-control business in the DFZ without getting in mortal danger every other week. Do you really expect me to believe you can handle all those dragons by yourself?” He snorted. “You wouldn’t last ten seconds.”
That was true enough, but, “I don’t need a bodyguard,” Julius said again. “I’ve got this, remember?” He dropped his hand to his own Fang of the Heartstriker, which Fredrick had tied prominently to his waist. “It’ll freeze anyone in the family the moment they even think of hurting me or anyone else.”
“Only if you’re touching it,” his brother snapped. “And it doesn’t do squat against threats that aren’t Heartstrikers.” He shook his head. “Face it, you’re about to become important. That’s just another word for target, so unless you’re willing to keep a death grip on your sword twenty-four/seven, you need backup, and that means me.” He grinned. “Face it, little brother. I’m doing this for your own good.”
More like his own ego. But while Julius was sure Justin had come up with this knight idea purely so that he had a reason to stand around looking scary and important like his idol, Conrad, he also couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit touched. Selfish or not, Justin’s offer of protection was a huge display of support, and as Julius was beginning to understand, those were never to be taken lightly. He still didn’t think a knight was necessary—he didn’t fully understand his Fang’s abilities yet, though stopping Bethesda from attacking Svena this morning had done a lot for his confidence—but knowing Justin had his back was comforting in a way that had nothing to do with actual physical security, and he found himself grinning right back.
“Thanks, Justin.”
His brother nodded. “I’ll add it to your tab. We needed to start a new one anyway since I blew all your old debts on the DFZ business.”
“Well, fingers crossed you won’t have to do anything,” Julius said
. “I—”
“What do you mean won’t have to do anything?” Justin cried. “I’m praying for someone to try and kill you so I can kick his butt in front of the whole clan. The stories about me toe-to-toeing it with Conrad in the throne room are a good start, but everyone knows he was under Estella’s control at the time. A public duel is exactly what I need to shore up my reputation after that sword confiscating nonsense last week.”
“No one’s going to try to kill me,” Julius said firmly. “Intimidate, sure, but not kill. The whole point of this new election system is to make it so no one has to kill anyone else for power anymore. All they’d gain by killing me is that one of you would have to take my seat as a Fang, and no self-respecting, power-hungry dragon is going to bother with murder just for that.”
“Except for the part where most self-respecting, power-hungry dragons don’t consider murder a bother,” Justin growled. “You’re trying to change things. For those who like things the way Bethesda had them, that makes you a nuisance, and nuisances get swatted.”
That was truer than Julius wanted to admit, but he refused to take back what he’d said. Firstly, until the Council was actually complete, Bethesda’s “No one kills Heartstrikers except for Chelsie and myself” rule was still in effect. Good thing, too. Half the clan would have been dead by now if they hadn’t been more afraid of Chelsie than they’d hated each other. But even though it wasn’t yet operational, Julius already believed the new Council would make all of that irrelevant. Why risk Chelsie’s wrath by killing your sibling when you could simply vote your way into power? Or, if you couldn’t win yourself, use your vote to bind the allegiance of the dragon who could? He harbored no illusions about a fair election—they were still dragons, after all—but at least the vote selling and blatant cronyism would remove the pressure to actually kill the competition, which meant no one would have to die anymore.