by M. Walsh
She was standing in front of one of the cars. The usher, neatly dressed in his uniform, noticed her and stared for a moment. “Are you all right, Miss?”
She stared back, clutching the strap of her shoulder-bag. “I …” she stammered. “I … uh …”
You killed a dragon!
“Yes,” she said, clearing her throat. She approached the usher and handed him her ticket. “I’m just nervous is all.”
The usher took her ticket and smiled. “First time on a train?” he asked, reading it.
“Yes,” she replied. “First time leaving Graylands.”
He nodded and returned the ticket. “Well, good luck to you then. Hope you enjoy the ride.”
Lily cracked a shaky smile and stepped aboard. Once inside, she found a seat by a window and felt better. She was still nervous, but it was the good kind of nervous. The anticipating kind. She believed she was ready. She fed well the previous night, and that would keep her in good shape for the journey.
And she did kill a dragon.
Since that night on the Blind Cliffs, Lily had wondered how and why that whole mess turned out the way it did. It didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, she supposed, but all the same, she was curious just what dragon she had killed. Why did Katrina’s blood make it appear? Why didn’t Daredin realize he was being duped by Vicar Frost?
As she made her way north over the winter, she stopped in whatever library she could find, hoping she might discover some answers. She scoured for the history of the Dragon’s Fang dagger and tales of the Devil’s Moon, searching for some kind of link that would explain it.
From what she was able to piece together, the dragon she fought was named Moros, the Final Dragon. Not “final” in the sense he was the last, rather he was the ultimate, it would appear. After Moros’s death, the Dragon’s Fang was enchanted by devotees that believed he was some kind of god.
All she could find that would link this to Katrina were separate legends saying dragon-worshipping cults often sacrificed princesses to appease the creatures. These sacrifices usually occurred during certain phases of the moon, when dark energies were at their most potent—presumably, the Devil’s Moon.
For all her research, it soon became evident why Daredin didn’t realize Frost was lying: the story behind the Dragon’s Fang was so vague and unclear Frost could’ve told him pretty much anything.
The closest to an actual prophecy Lily found was some old and obscure poem about the spilling of divine blood reviving the powers of a dark god. That was probably what Frost ran with, and Daredin—sensing some kind of power within the dagger—took him at his word when he claimed sacrificing Katrina would make him one. He probably wanted to believe it as much as anything else.
In the end, none of it mattered. What was important to Lily was she stopped that thing. Despite what she was, despite only getting drawn into Frost and Daredin’s schemes by accident, she destroyed the monster and saved the lives of anyone who would’ve been caught in its path. That had to mean something. That had to prove she was better than what she was.
“Excuse me, Miss..? Is this seat taken?”
The train moved with a sudden jump and picked up speed. Lily looked at the young man standing in the aisle. He wore a gray overcoat and had a boyish face with neatly groomed blonde hair and blue eyes behind thin spectacles.
She smiled and replied, “No. Go ahead.”
He thanked her and slid into the empty seat with the awkward movement of someone who wasn’t confident in his balance on the moving train. Once sitting, he glanced at her and gave a shy smile. “Horses, I can handle,” he said. “Trains though …”
“This is my first time on a train,” she said. She couldn’t contain her eagerness and added, “My first time in the North.”
“Really..? Frontier girl, are you?”
“I guess.”
“I’ve only been in Graylands a few years,” he said. “Never traveled very far south. I suppose I’ll always be a city-boy at heart. But I’m sure I’ll come back, someday.”
She glanced out the window. The train moved northeast and allowed a view of the south, stretching for miles. Lily reflected on all the years she spent wandering with no home or place to call her own. She wasn’t sure which of the Two Empires she’d settle in. She’d have to find some kind of occupation. She always did like children—maybe she could be a teacher or something like that? She’d always have to be careful, but she could handle it.
“I don’t think I’ll ever come back,” she said.
“No..?”
“Well,” she said. “Hopefully I won’t ever have to. Tell the truth, I’m a little nervous.”
He gave a warm, reassuring smile. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Pretty girl like you …”
She’d been told she was pretty plenty of times by plenty of men—often because they had other intentions. But the earnest way he said it combined with her good mood, and she smiled and blushed.
He took off his coat, revealing a well-pressed black suit and a large, clean white vest. Upon seeing it, Lily’s mood soured. “You’re a White-Vest?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m a Brother of the Faith. Brother Myers. But you may call me James if you’d like.”
She squirmed in her seat as he took from his leather handbag a small, but thick black book. Her body tensed, as if anticipating great pain, and she cursed her rotten luck.
“Are you okay? You look kind of ill.”
Seeing an opportunity, she said, “I just need some air.”
She stood up and slipped by him. He smiled and nodded as she passed. “I’ll save your seat.”
Stepping into the vestibule between cars, Lily admitted to herself he seemed a nice and courteous young man. But she doubted he’d be as gracious had he known he was sharing seats with a demon.
3
Once his sister settled on which room she wanted, Lock claimed the one on the southwestern corner overlooking the front of the house. His brother had taken the master bedroom, and Lock thought it would be best to wait for Cassie to choose which room she wanted before claiming one for himself. Her decision took longer than expected, but everyone was doing their part to make the move as easy as possible for her.
With that out of the way, he set about unpacking—mostly clothes, some books, and a handful of small model boats he’d built in his youth. He used to have a massive collection, but he left the majority of them behind when they moved. They seemed to be of a more childish time—one gone now that he and his family had moved to this new county.
He supposed he would have to find a new hobby—aside from the sword practice he’d recently taken up.
Lock’s new room was smaller than the ones taken by his siblings, but he didn’t mind. It would have sun for most of the day and, past the trees in front of the estate, allowed a decent view of Aster. Perhaps not as nice as the view of the mountains the rooms in the back would see, but pretty in its own way.
“Suddenly my room doesn’t seem so bad.”
He turned to find a sullen Cassie. She and Lock shared the common Synclaire features of snow-white hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. Unlike Lock—who’d been a chubby boy in his youth before developing a fair build—Cassie didn’t need to grow into her looks. She was always a pretty girl and, now seventeen, would only further grow into a beautiful woman in the coming years.
She leaned in his doorway, her arms crossed, with a look of tired resignation in her eyes. “So this is it,” she said. “We’re finally here.”
“I like it,” said Lock.
“You are too easily satisfied, brother.”
“At least we’re out of the carriage.”
Cassie scoffed.
“And the town seems nice,” he continued. “Better than the places we’ve been staying on the way.”
She flashed a smile that didn’t touch her eyes and sat on the bed, looking morose. “This place isn’t half the size as our house.”
“That’s not our house
anymore,” he said, returning his attention to unpacking. “This is.”
“Don’t quote Deck at me,” she said. “We both know he enjoys this. He never liked life in court.”
“I didn’t either.”
“I don’t mean the gossip or any of that. I mean …” She paused, waving her hand around, trying to find the word.
“The luxury..?”
“I suppose,” she said with a shrug. She sighed and continued, “I still don’t see why he needed to bring us along. If he wanted to leave home so bad—”
“It’s not safe back there anymore, Cassie. I know your friends didn’t talk about this sort of thing, but they say the Two Empires could go to war any time now.” He stopped and looked at her seriously. “You want to be around when the fighting breaks out?”
“No, of course not,” she said, staring at the floor, and her mouth twisted into a pout. “Though I don’t know how much safer it’s supposed to be here.”
Lock sighed and sat beside his sister. Putting his arm around her, he said, “Aster’s supposed to be one of the safest towns in Graylands. We’ll be fine. As long as we stay together. That’s why Deck wanted us all here.”
Cassie forced a slight, unconvincing smile.
“At least your room has a nice view,” he added with a wink.
This inspired a genuine smile and chuckle from his sister. She got up and left the room, muttering, “I guess that’ll have to do.”
Lock remained on his bed and thought about the life they’d left behind. It was true the threat of imminent war between the Two Empires was a large factor in the family’s decision to move to Graylands, but there were more immediate reasons.
The sad truth was, since their father’s death, they had little to hold them back home beside their family name—something still held in some regard as a courtesy. Once upon a time, the name Synclaire commanded respect. But for the last few years, it inspired only pity—the kind reserved for a monument to a bygone age. Now even that was wearing thin.
Back home, they were becoming a relic with the dwindling wealth to go along with it. In Graylands, they could still live well and enjoy a fresh start without the baggage that went with their name.
Taking a break from unpacking, Lock went downstairs to get a glass of water. Although Cassie was correct in saying the new estate couldn’t compare to their old one, there was no denying they’d done well for themselves by Graylands standards.
The house was three stories, including a large attic. There was a cellar, and the first floor consisted of a front hall where people entered through an impressive double-door entranceway. To the right of the hall was the den—a large, comfortable room with a fireplace. To the left was a private study, although Lock couldn’t imagine who beside himself and Troa would get much use out of it.
Behind the stairs, an elegant dining room could be found with a door connecting to the den. Across from the dining room was the kitchen which had its own running water—a rare luxury in Graylands.
In the kitchen, Lock found open boxes and Seria unloading dishes. The sun was shining through the wide windows, making her all the more striking. Typical for an Eldér, she was tall—close to six feet—and slender with large, pointed ears lined with earrings. Her tanned, orange skin seemed to shine like gold in the light, contrasted by the dark green tattoo wrapped around her arm like a vine. Her long, curly hair, like most Eldér, was two-toned—mostly maroon, except for the front bangs, which were light yellow.
She noticed him enter and smiled, her purple, cat-like eyes sparkling. “Come to help me unpack?”
“Actually, I wanted some water,” he replied.
“Water isn’t running yet,” she said. “So you might as well help.”
He shrugged and started removing glasses and plates from their boxes and placing them in cupboards. “Have you and Troa picked rooms yet?”
“I think my brother has claimed the attic,” she said. “I will probably take the room on the east side of the house.” She nodded toward the window where Lock could see an open field that was wrapped with a thicket of trees. “There’s a nice yard,” she added. “Plenty of room to train.”
“Can’t wait.”
“How’s Cassie? I haven’t seen her most of the day.”
“Probably sulking in her new room,” he said, sitting on the table. “She still isn’t happy.”
“It’s to be expected,” she said, unpacking the last of the dishes. “Moving to a new country can’t be easy for someone her age.”
“She’s only two years younger than me.”
“And still at an age where everything must be dramatic,” said Troa, coming in from outside.
Being Seria’s twin, he shared her maroon and yellow hair, tanned skin, and purple eyes, along with the Eldér height and build. Unlike his sister, however, Troa had no tattoos and his hair was straight and kept in a tight tail.
He went to the built-in pump and produced a stream of water into the basin. “And now we have running water,” he said, wiping his hands on a washcloth. “Lockhart, help Deckard bring in the last of the boxes. He’s out front.” Without wasting a breath, he rushed out of the kitchen—presumably to check on the house’s other utilities.
Lock found his older brother outside the front doors with a pair of crates. The day was shifting to afternoon and turning hot. The front courtyard was aglow with light, and a gentle breeze went through the trees lining the pathway leading from the front gate.
“You look well, big brother,” he said.
Deck turned and smirked. “As do you, little brother.”
“Troa said you needed help..?”
“Just these last two,” he said. “Take them to the cellar.” They each picked up a crate and carried them inside. “So what do you think? Not too bad, is it?”
“I’m not the one to convince. Cassie still isn’t happy.”
“You’ll have better luck doing that. She listens to you more than she does me.”
Lock shrugged, although he knew there was truth to that. He and Cassie were closer in age and favored the “Synclaire look” of white hair, open, expressive faces, and wide, blue eyes. Lock was of average height and growing into a lean build. Cassie was always slim, but shorter.
Deck, on the other hand, was five years older than Lock and had dark hair with eyes that looked black in the shade. He was always tall, and he’d grown into a muscular young man. His face was stern, and his eyes, narrow—the eyes of a hunter. Despite being the eldest son of Augustus Synclaire, Deck joked he was the black sheep of the family.
“I’m doing what I can,” said Lock. “Maybe I can wear her down.”
When the last of the boxes were inside, Deck wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “It’ll be better here,” he said, though he seemed to be talking more to himself than Lock. “We couldn’t stay back there any longer.”
“You really think there’ll be a war?”
Deck hesitated, and Lock wondered if that was what his brother was referring to. “Who knows,” he said. “What matters is we have a chance for a fresh start here. No more court. No more petty politics.” He smiled and patted Lock on the shoulder. “It’s just us and the new world.”
Lock nodded, but suspected a fresh start meant something different to his brother than it did to him.
“Anyway,” said Deck. “I need to head into town with Troa. There are still things to take care of with our accounts and deeds and …” He trailed off, waving his hand.
“You’re handling paperwork?” Lock asked. “I can’t even imagine.”
“Why do you think I’m bringing Troa, little brother?”
They left the cellar, and Lock returned to his room to finish unpacking. He caught a glimpse of Deck and Troa riding into town through his window and thought of that distant look he saw in his brother’s eye.
He wouldn’t speak of it to Cassie, but he knew the move was more than practicality for their brother. Since their father’s death, Lock had seen him grow more and mor
e restless. Deck was not built for wealth and privilege. He never liked it in court and always fancied himself a warrior. He sought adventure, and Graylands was the frontier—the place to find it.
If Deck had his way, they would’ve returned to their homeland years ago to fight. The Synclaires had been refugees from their home since Armand Tyrell took power. But Vigor was long gone now—almost ten years. Perhaps then, Lock thought, it was fitting his family end up in Graylands.
After all, was it not the land for pilgrims, exiles, and the unwanted?
4
The smell of blood and fire was overwhelming. She could hear screams echoing all around her.
Rasul Kader had exploited her past and manipulated her with the intention of selling her to Jacob Daredin. The mad sorcerer sought to sacrifice her, believing her death would make him a god. Unfortunately for Kader and Daredin, their manipulations unleashed a fury she’d kept hidden since her people died. She left destruction in her wake, gladly slaughtering Daredin’s followers before taking her time on Kader himself. In her anger, she allowed a dragon to be reborn.
She was standing in a narrow corridor filled with smoke, and at the far end, a figure emerged. He stood like an implacable juggernaut, unfazed by the carnage and chaos around him. His thick body was riddled with scars and burns, and his skin was a rotting shade of gray. Sickly strands of light hair hung from his balding scalp. His ragged black clothes were stained and filthy. In one gloved hand, he held a length of jagged metal, dripping with blood and meat.
She took a step forward, and so did he. She raised her sword—the black-bladed sabre, also dripping with blood—and he raised his own blade as well. She lowered the sabre, and he lowered his weapon. She took another step, and he did, too.
The Enforcer stared at her, his face hidden beneath his black mask. The eyes revealed nothing but empty darkness. She felt his gaze, and though it chilled her to her core, she couldn’t look away. There was something there—something she couldn’t place. A familiarity. A kinship.