Chapter 12 (Part III): Falling Star

“There's an old phrase, ‘Where a dragon goes death follows.’ It’s a sentiment so old, that it appears in thirty seven different languages. There have been some variations over time. The equivalent phrase in Feguncian elvish, translates more literally to ‘Where a dragon goes, death must come,’ and I’ve been told that it would be most accurately read as, ‘Where a dragon goes, death must be brought.’ That translation mirrors Feguncian orcish’s version, ‘If you see a dragon, kill it.’”

-          Magister Ieva, of Kingstown University

It was nearing twilight when Syliva came upon the city of Defiance, unaware of the events that had transpired in capital behind her. The rural town sprawled below; it was larger than she’d expected, but it was also surprisingly dark. No lamps had been lit in the buildings, and no campfires burned in the surrounding fields to suggest an amassed army. The only sign of life in the town was a single bonfire burning in the center of the town square.

Syliva flew overhead a few times to investigate, and then saw a lone orc standing atop a stack of barrels, next to the fire, an axe in each hand. She wondered if perhaps her approach had been spotted by some scout, and the people had fled, leaving this one man – presumably their 'hero' – to stand against her. She’d be greatly annoyed if she only finished the evening with one corpse, but she decided she’d humor the fool nonetheless.

She banked in the air and fluttered down, landing between the buildings on the opposite side of the bonfire, as if coming to parlay.

The orc did not react with any apparent surprise or distress, but merely demanded, “Are you the dragon Syliva, come to answer my challenge?”

Syliva laughed, “Are there many other dragons lining up to kill you?”

“None that I know of,” the orc sad flatly, “But I would certainly hate to kill an innocent creature over a foolish misunderstanding.”

“You’re very confident of your chances for such a small thing.”

“Well, I reckon you’re very confident of your chances for a woman that didn’t even bring a weapon.”

“I am a weapon,” Syliva said.

“Oh, I see. Are you used often?”

“Only I use myself,” Syliva glared, but then quirked her head as she realized that hadn’t sounded quite right.

“Well, as weapons go, you don’t seem very sharp,” Thrakaduhl said.

Syliva growled.

“More of a blunt object I guess,” he continued.

“I am not an object.”

“Well, that may very well be, but I myself do happen to be pretty blunt, so how about this? You go on and surrender now and we’ll give you a fair trial. You can even go and appoint a defense if you want. We’ll make it all fair and square.”

“I do not surrender,” Syliva hissed.

“Yep, Azraea was right,” Thrakaduhl said, “You are about as simple as a post, aren’t you hon? You’re not even going to ask why I’m so confident.”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Syliva said dryly.

“Well, I reckon the old lady’s got some fire in her belly after all,” Thrakaduhl said, “Because that really burned. Look, I’ll give it to you straight. My people have gone and cleared out of the town, which means I have no reason to hold back. So, that means, when we fight, only one of us is going to walk away, and I ain’t met anyone yet I couldn’t take in a fair fight.”

“How on earth do you see this as a fair fight?”

“Oh, you know, you’re right,” Thrakaduhl tossed aside his two axes and held up his fists, “That should even things up.”

Syliva rolled her eyes. She was wearying of these sorts of exchanges.

“No," she said flatly, "This is how this is going to work: I promised your pretty little friend back in Kingstown and all the other good little people of that town, your head. And the elf’s as well. So, I’m going to kill you now, and then track her down and kill her too. But, I think to do things properly, I really should track down 'your people' and incinerate every last one of them as well. Now, where are they?” Syliva flicked her tongue, sniffing the air, “They aren’t here, certainly, and I don’t believe that many people could simply have scattered into the countryside without being obvious. No, they must be somewhere nearby…” she eyed the citadel in the pass. “Ah, that old fort... its high walls and heavy stone would make it a logical choice for a hiding spot, wouldn’t they? Though it is more than a bit obvious… and what use are walls against one who strikes from the sky?”

Thrakaduhl laughed at her, “I think it’s enough to say they are beyond your reach now. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to settle for fighting little old me. Now, are we going to do this or not?”

“Beyond my reach, hm…?” She examined the fort more closely with her raptor-like vision, and could see at least one of the gates was up, possibly both, opening the pass to through traffic, “Oh, I wonder, could it be they’re hiding in the valley on the other side of the pass?”

Thrakaduhl roared, “Damn it, enough games! Fight me beast!” He hopped backward off of the barrels and kicked one into the fire. Its lid spun off as it rolled, revealing the emptied contents of one of Ochsner’s shells – a substantial quantity of white phosphorous. Syliva instinctively hopped up into the air, but she also instinctively looked down at the barrel. The detonation didn’t scathe her thickly scaled hide, but her vision flashed with strobing lights, and her nostrils burned with acrid smoke that filled the air around her. As her vision started to clear, she dropped to the ground again and saw the orc had disappeared in the cloud of smoke. She thought at first he’d run off, but she heard someone shout from one of the roof tops right next to her. She turned to look at the source of the noise; it was the elf she’d encountered in Kingstown. The elf threw a bag, or a ball of something, straight into Syliva’s face. Some sort of fluid… a poison splattered out and seeped into her eyes, inflicting stabbing, blinding pain.

Syliva thrashed wildly in the smoke, destroying the building fronts around her and lighting fires as she coughed out bursts of flame. She saw blurring movement beneath her, and a stabbing pain – the orc was actually hacking at her feet with his axe, inflicting small but irritating little cuts. Something stabbed through her wing – a spear thrown by the elf. Syliva charged forward through the bonfire and leapt into the air, she had to get distance from them before she died a completely humiliating and stupid death. Whatever the elf had thrown into her eyes wasn’t clearing away, not quickly anyway. It felt like she was staring into the sun, even with her eyes shut.

Fortunately for Syliva, the town was a big target. She flew overhead unleashing a volley of fire to get things started, and then flew towards the ridge. Chasing down the orc and the elf blinded as she was would be fruitless, but there would be hundreds of huddled refugees hiding in the forest beyond the ridge that would pay for their leaders’ stupidity.

Syliva flew over the old dwarven fort and circled over the small valley on the other side of the steep ridge. It was so densely packed with thick foliage that she couldn’t have seen anything below, even if she hadn’t been half blind. She swooped over the forest and unleashed another stream of fire, but it didn’t spread much. The wet wood burned poorly, and filled the air above the valley with thick black smoke.

She finally dropped below the forest canopy and began sniffing for prey with her flicking, forked tongue. She could smell nothing but her own smoke and the decay of a dank, dark wood. She started to launch back up into the air, spreading her wings wide, but there was a loud boom and a whistling sound came from the citadel she’d ignored. She couldn’t see what was happening, but there was a loud crack right above her head. Sharp, burning projectiles stabbed her from above. The armored plates on her back and head protected her body from the explosive, but her open wings were shredded by the shrapnel, reduced to tatters like the sails of an old derelict ship. She tumbled to the ground.

She was grounded in the valley, grounded and blind thanks to the elf's lingering poison. She couldn’t even make sense of the smells in the air. Her ears rang from the explosion that had gone off right over her head, but that quickly cleared, the reverberation of the explosion and the buzzing in her head replaced by the sound of a string instrument thundering through the valley. It seemed impossibly loud, and it played an increasingly furious and violent melody that seemed to match with a strange rhythm Syliva sensed traveling through the ground. It felt like a thousand swords being thrust into the ground again and again, with incredible speed.

She wasn’t dead. Not yet. She could still mend. Dragons could heal from wounds most creatures couldn’t imagine, she just needed to get clear of whatever was swarming towards her through the underbrush. She twisted and turned, clearing trees with her powerful tail as she indiscriminately unleashed fire in all directions.

And then she felt it. A single sting. Whatever these things were, one had gotten through her burning wall, and it had gone straight to a bleeding cut the orc had inflicted on her leg. Even so, the sharp fangs digging into her flesh were little more than a nasty prick for her. She reflexively moved to swat the attacker way, but before she could reach it her muscles tightened, becoming as inflexible as stone. She toppled to the ground, paralyzed. More of the creatures emerged from the burning underbrush, propelled along on their tapping little sword-like feet. They crawled onto her, their bladed limbs scraping across her armor as their mandibles tore away her scales one at a time.

Piece by piece, the ancient scolopendrae of the Dark Dweller’s forest pulled Syliva apart, devouring her flesh, lapping up her blood, and picking her bones clean.  

Chapter 12 (Part II): Raising Arms

A ruler may inspire fear because of his power over life and death. Normally, this means having the power to introduce the living to death. When a necromancer sits upon the throne, however, it means much more.

-          Magister Wallace, in his Nationalist book, The Reign of the Black Queen.

Back at the castle, the guards hauled Azraea inside the courtyard and dropped the portcullis, but left the gates open so the people at the front of the mob could see what was about to happen.

“Well go on then,” Azraea said, “Take me to my throne.”

Medes looked at her like she was mad. One of the guards grabbed his crotch in an obscene gesture, “She can sit on my throne,” he laughed.

“Captain, please take note," Azraea said, "the first order of business will be to have him thrown in the stocks in the market square. Without pants.”

 “I don’t know what idiot plan you’re working, girl,” Medes said, “but I’ll grant you, you do have the arrogance of a queen.”

“Well, I’m a singer, and life’s a stage,” Azraea explained, “I’ve learned you don’t get far in the business if you hide behind the curtains.”

“A singer?” Medes seemed skeptical, but some of the guardsmen said they’d seen her perform at the inn up the road, back at the beginning of the summer. They described her routine as especially rousing.

“Well, heh,” Medes smiled, “Her majesty said we could do with your nubile ebony body what we wished,” he ran his gloved hand down the curve of her back and slapped her backside, “And that entails some pretty obvious things, but this adds a little something different. I’ve never had a girl sing to me before I used her.”

“Really?” Azraea asked condescendingly, “With that sort of romantic charm? I’m shocked.”

Medes raised a hand to belt her across the face, but then remembered the dragon’s order to leave it untouched. Instead he knocked her to the ground with a strike of his steel-clad arm to her chest that left her groaning despite her resolve.

“I tell you what,” Medes said, “Sing for us, and I’ll only let my men do you one at a time.”

Azraea pulled herself up, “Every one of them?”

“Oh, aye. There’s not a man in this castle wouldn’t want to see you split on his cock.”

Azraea tried not to smile too viciously behind the white and black paint, “Well, I guess there’s no need to be gentle, is there?”

Surrounded by the mocking of Syliva’s personal guardsmen and some obnoxious Firebrands, Azraea staggered to her feet and caught her breath. She was still somewhat shaken by the blow Medes had given her, but she began to sing, as demanded.

Oh Kings of past and knights of old,

Whose deeds day and night were told,

Heroes, to the last, each and every one,

But betrayed all your work ‘twas undone.

She added in some strong incantations that sounded like nonsense filler to her audience, before dropping her voice from a low mournful tone to one of anger and resentment. Some of the guards were nodding their heads with the tune. It wasn’t the sort of performance they’d been wanting, but it was so good no one dared interrupt her.

Your lives lost, the dragon she did rob,

Your ladies lost, in grief they did sob;

Where went the merry men who brought us joy?

Where went the strong men who inspired each boy?

The guardsmen were now so enthralled by the sound of her passionate voice that most did not notice the faint green aurora in the air around them or the slight shudder in the ground.

Where went the brave men that kept us sound?

Where went the kings our gods crowned?

Where went the heroes that brought us peace?

How could the line of Caelus so sadly cease?

Azraea’s eyes glowed brightly green, as she began gesturing with her arms and hands.

Betrayed by his cousin that we cursed!

Failed by his people, so much worse!

We beg your forgiveness with this song,

Return from your grave and right what is wrong!

Dozens of apparitions rose from the ground and fell out of the stone walls. They reached out for the now horrified guards, clawing at them with incorporeal hands. Medes saw one of the apparitions claw its way into a guard who then began lashing out at his comrades, possessed by the vengeful spirit.

“Don’t let them touch you!” Medes cried as he drew his sword. His warning came too late, though. Within moments, many of the guardsmen were fighting for control of their own limbs, and those that weren’t were too terrified to clearly differentiate friend from foe. The guards began massacring each other. Several men fled into the main keep and barred the door behind them, trapping everyone in the courtyard.

Antagonizing the confusion, men on the parapets began dropping into the courtyard. Medes searched frantically for the threat above and finally spotted it. Some little halfling was dodging and darting along the wall striking with his tiny blade, while two archers covered him from the wall above Medes. Medes couldn’t reach the small assassin, but he grabbed a halberd from a panicked soldier and launched it at one of the archers. The younger of the two saw the projectile and shoved the older man out of the way, taking the weapon’s blade straight to the chest. The older man growled, pulled the polearm from his compatriot’s chest, and with surprising skill hopped down into the courtyard. He whirled the weapon in his hands.

“Schroeder,” Medes growled, “I figured you were still floating about in the sewer, with the rest of the old shits.”

“Turns out my friend knew a secret entrance into the castle,” Schroeder said. One of Medes’ possessed guardsmen ran past Schroeder, charging headlong into the stone wall, crushing his skull. “Though in retrospect, I think perhaps our presence may have been unnecessary.”

Medes searched for Azraea in the clamor, realizing that breaking her spell was more important than confronting his rival. He finally saw her walking across the courtyard, apparently indifferent to the fates of the wicked men butchering each other. He started to run after her, but Schroeder vaulted with the halberd and kicked Medes in the backs of the legs. They both tumbled to the ground, but Schroeder rolled over his halberd, and swung it low as his feet planted on the ground. Medes stabbed the point of his teardrop-shaped shield into the ground, providing enough leverage to hold against the impact. As soon as the halberd stopped, Medes pulled the shield up and slammed it into the ground, pinning the halberd’s head. With a roll he stepped on the haft near Schroeder’s grip, forcing it to the ground and pulling the weapon out of his hands. Still standing on the weapon, Medes raised his sword to kill Schroeder, only to have his swing intercepted by another blade. Jericho’s chest wound bled considerably, but the jeweled eye of the metal snake around his throat glowed brilliantly as the enchantment sustained him.

“Why don’t you take a break, old man?” Jericho said to Schroeder.

“Good idea!” Schroeder shouted from the ground; he lashed out with one of his boots and struck one of Medes’ armored knees from the side. There was a loud crack, and Medes tumbled to the ground. Jericho helped Schroeder to his feet as Medes dragged himself towards the gate. His men were regrouping. The spirits that had possessed many of them had either spent their energy or dissipated when their hosts died, and the mercenaries were recovering from their confusion. Verax was running at top speed around the wall dodging shots from a pair of soldiers that had grabbed bows.

“Azraea,” Jericho said, “We might have a problem.”  

Azraea had been standing at the locked doors of the keep still casting her spells, but now she turned and faced the courtyard to see the rallying soldiers.

“Worry not, ‘Sergeant Stone,’” Azraea winked and raised her hands, “Don't you have friends of your own?” The doors of the keep flew open behind her, and a pair of full plate armor suits marched out into the courtyard with the clang and clatter of hollow metal. The suits had once belonged to Caelus IV’s personal guard, and had stood silently in the hallway for two centuries as trophies of Syliva’s final victory over Caelus and his knights. The animated suits stepped around the necromancer and stomped towards Medes’ troops. 
Azraea kept singing. 

Oh great heroes who bring justice to these men,

Spare them, whose fate atonement may still mend,

But slay every one whose knee to evil does bend.

Another pair of ethereal knights tossed aside the men that had fled into the keep and stood aside as Azraea led her friends inside. The empty suits raised their bloodied swords in salute. Azraea sang, glancing back at Jericho,

I share not your blood or your bond, 
But I swear to avenge those who were wronged.

Azraea walked past heaps upon heaps of shining gold, giving it not so much as a glance, her eyes now trained upon her singular goal; the brilliant golden chair that sat as the centerpiece in the dragon’s hoard.

I swear to undo what the dragon has sewn,

By your grace I claim Caelus’s throne.

Azraea turned and sat in the seat of power.

If my worthiness you have seen,

Then on this bloody night... make me queen.

Azraea snapped her fingers, and the city quaked as a wave of brilliant green light flowed from her hand.

Chapter 12 (Part I): Pot Shots & Long Shots

The most reliable way to wound a dragon is with words, because no matter how well armored they may be, their hearing is flawless. Finding the right words to do it, though, can be a challenge. Syliva seemed to revel in the hatred of others, but desperately needed their respect.

-          Vircan, a popular Caelian satirist and Neo-Monarchist

When What’s-her-Name had notified Syliva that the recurrent thorn in her side was now standing outside the gates of her castle, Syliva had done her best to react slowly, lest anyone think she actually cared. By the time she wandered up to the battlements above the gate, however, the castle’s outer guards were gone, replaced by armored elves, and the woman was backed by a crowd of monarchists, neo-monarchists, and even defected Nationalists who were eager to hear a repeat of the exchange that had previously made a laughing-stock of the dragon. A portion of the Neo-Monarchists had even shown up with their faces crudely painted with garish white skulls to match a more stylized and refined makeup worn by the woman who stood waiting below.

The woman hadn’t rallied the entire city, but it may as well have been; many of the heralds’ observers were gathered nearby – even people from The Vulpine Post, and there were thousands of people gathered in front of the castle gates. The crowd was so large it would have been impossible for most of them to hear the exchange directly – they were simply there to see how the people in front of them would react. The last time Syliva had confronted a crowd this large had been when Caelus IV had tried to recapture his city two centuries ago, and her hand was stayed just as it was then; if Syliva were to unleash her fury upon them the city she reveled in tormenting would effectively be left a ghost town.

Despite the face paint, Syliva knew by her smell that it was indeed the same woman from the marketplace, “So the pretty little girl didn’t flee with her elf-friend after all,” Syliva called down from the battlement above the gate, “I must admit that I am somewhat impressed you've eluded my guardsmen for so long.”

Azraea stood out separate from the crowd on some boxes they’d stacked so she could be seen by as many observers as possible. Verax had replaced her purple dress with something that had comparable flair and a new black jacket. She’d expected him to treat the request as a vanity, but he’d said it was important to establish an image and “grow her brand.” The latter part sounded like it must have been a merchant thing, but given she was competing with something as attention-getting and memorable as a dragon, she was going to take all the advice he had in that regard.  

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” Azraea shouted back, “I’ve heard you’ve been quite busy since last we spoke. But, I wonder, what do you mean ‘your’ guardsmen?” Azraea asked, “I wasn’t aware you had guards. I thought they were the king’s men.”

“The king is dead,” Syliva puffed out her chest, “The kingdom’s guards serve me, for I am queen now.”

“Oh, then my condolences on your loss,” Azraea said, “It must be hard to be widowed so soon after your marriage.” The crowd chuckled.

“What?” Syliva gave her a look of confusion, “What marriage?”

“Well, surely you married King Hylas before his death, didn’t you? How else would you have become his queen?” Azraea explained sarcastically, to the laughter of the crowd.

Syliva shook her head, as if she didn’t quite comprehend that it was a joke, “I was never his queen.”

“Well, if you aren’t his queen, then whose queen are you?”

“Idiot girl, I am nobody’s queen!”

The crowd roared with laughter. The dragon’s blood boiled, but with Medes’ men assembled in the court yard behind her, she smiled, knowing that she could have the rabble-rouser stricken down in moments with but a word. Teeth and claws were wonderful implements of carnage, but there was something extra satisfying about using humans to kill humans.

“You’re very clever with words...” Syliva led into an insult, but Azraea interrupted her.

“I seem to be cleverer with your words than my own, actually,” she said, gaining more laughter, “perhaps if we keep trading them, we’ll both be better off.”

“Hnh…” Syliva ground her teeth again, “How about you just trade words with my dungeon master. I’m sure he’ll have many questions for you.”

“Really? About what?” Azraea asked, “If you have questions for me, wouldn’t it be simpler just to ask me yourself?”

Syliva was vexed by being denied the satisfaction of promising Azraea various forms of torture, but the situation didn’t preclude it, so fine. “Was it you spreading seditionist propaganda with unlicensed printings?” Syliva hissed.

“Of course it was,” Azraea asked, “But I printed them on campus for educational purposes, so it would have been tax-exempt, wouldn't it? Or did that stop being the case after you burned down the building and killed half the college’s journalism students?”

Syliva ignored the accusation – such things were no longer of consequence, “Are you the one that has been attacking my men in the streets?”

“If you mean protecting innocent citizens from hired thugs, then I did my part,” Azraea said. The painted Neo-Monarchists cheered and whooped wildly, raising their fists in the air. She and Verax had been busy.

“And do you also admit to conspiring against the throne with agents of the Gnoman Empire?”

“No,” Azraea said, “I admit only to conspiring against you.” The crowd expressed clear surprise at her boldness.

“I am the throne,” Syliva said.

“Well, you might make passable upholstery, but I don’t think you’ve got what it takes to be a full piece of furniture,” Azraea said, cueing more laughter from the crowd.

Syliva growled, “And what of the elf you were seen with?”

“Kairumina Doro Asterigennithika?” Azraea asked, “The warrior who liberated defiance from your puppet despot? She’s returned there to join our ally, Thrakaduhl da Tharka, in preparing your destruction.” Azraea’s painted supporters cheered a sentiment that spread back through the crowd, even to those who did not hear the exchange, but simply knew that people they supported were also cheering.

The dragon was puzzled by the straightforward answer, “Why are you telling me this?” she hissed suspiciously.

“Well, my allies wanted to march on the city,” Azraea explained, “to rally the people of Caelia to our cause as we crossed the countryside. I was eager to have this resolved sooner than later, though, and it seemed that it would be quicker for everyone if you simply came to us. Unfortunately, since you spend most all of your time hiding in this little castle, someone had to come here and issue the invitation in person. Not a desirable task, certainly, but as their leader, I felt I should be the one to do it.”

“You claim to be the leader of this ill-fated insurrection, then?” Syliva asked.

“I am the leader of this insurrection,” Azraea said. The painted men and women in the crowd began shouting in support again, but died down when she started speaking, “I know that in some cultures deposing a tyrant would involve some sort of trial by combat, but let’s be honest with ourselves: this isn’t so much a coup de tat as it is simple pest removal.” Azraea’s supporters began shouting and screaming again. “And simple traps are usually the best way to exterminate vermin,” she added.

“How dare you!” Syliva roared.

“Oh, so it’s being called vermin that rattles you?” Azraea said, “I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have expected you to have self-esteem issues. I would have guessed you were, perhaps, a classic narcissist? But an inferiority complex? Well, I guess that actually explains a fair bit.” Azraea didn’t elaborate – it was the ambiguity of that insult that would get under the dragon’s scales.

Syliva seethed, fire flickering from between her teeth, “So, your friends conspire against me in the city of Defiance, thinking that they can destroy me with some clever trap, then? Some clever trap you and your Gnoman allies have conceived with their clever little scheming minds.”

“Oh, yes, they’re quite prepared to kill you. I’ve given them a standing order to do so. I’ll admit, I had some trepidation at first – after all, a few weeks ago it would have been murder, and we couldn’t do that. That’s illegal, remember? But now that you’ve decided you’re queen, killing you is just treason, and that is only illegal if we fail,” the crowd laughed at Azraea’s audacity in the face of certain doom, “Which, obviously, we won’t.”

“You couldn’t possibly be serious?” the dragon tried to feign a convincing laugh. “Any attempt to harm me would fail. None can overcome my power.”

 “So then I’ve failed to frighten you away from Defiance, then?”

“Yes…” Syliva was now more than slightly confused regarding the girl’s motivation, “Wait, you want me to go there... don’t you?”

“Of course I want you to go there,” Azraea said, “That’s where our trap is set. I was trying to bait you into going there by insulting you.”

“Do you think me a fool girl?” Syliva roared, “To rush headlong into such an obvious ploy?”

“A fool or a coward,” Azraea said, “I think we were all interested to see what would win out tonight.” People clapped and laughed. The crowd began chanting, “Syliva’s scared,” the alliteration blending with the hissing of the crowd and giving way to a thundering chorus of booing from the audience.

Syliva roared, silencing the crowd, “I FEAR NOTHING! All of creation lies open to me to do with as I wish. Nothing is denied me. No power can contest my own!”

“Except the power of my own words, which seem adequate to frighten you into hiding behind the walls of your safe little castle,” Azraea got cheers again.

“Your words have no power over me!” The dragon hissed, “Whatever game you’re playing, I will tear it down. I will kill you and your friends! Starting with you!” The crowd scrambled back from Azraea as the dragon churned up a stream of fire in her belly.

“Not buying it,” Azraea said coolly. Her heart raced, but she kept her body still and her voice even.

“What?” Syliva hung over her with smoke leaking from her nostrils.

“Honestly, I really don’t believe you’ll win. I mean, you can kill me, obviously. I’m right here in front of you, helpless and everything. But I know that if you go and take on my friends, you will lose.”

“I would not! I will not! I cannot be vanquished. You shall see!”

“I’ll see? I thought you were going to kill me, remember? I won’t get to see it play out. But that’s fine,” Azraea said nonchalantly, “Like I said, I know you’ll lose, and I’ll go to my grave happily knowing that we’ve already won.”

“Ha!” The dragon suddenly seemed to have a brilliant idea, “Guards!” Immediately the gates flew open and members of Syliva’s Blackguard rushed out to seize Azraea and drive back the front of the mob. The crowd backed off, unwilling to challenge the fully armed men while the dragon loomed overhead.

“You can wait here while I go fetch your friends,” her tongue flicked gleefully as she spoke, “we’ll see what quick words you have when I bring you their charred heads!”

“To the dungeons with her, your majesty?” One of the men asked.

“Yesss…” Syliva hissed, “Do with her as you wish, Captain Medes, but keep her alive, and leave her perfect little head intact. I want to hear her silenced by despair, and see the hope ebb from her eyes.” The dragon cackled and launched into the air, trailing a dark plume of smoke.

Syliva streaked towards the Ridge of Bloody Terror. It was always good to get out of the castle and stretch her wings. She thought perhaps she should do it more often in the future. After all, a queen should go amongst her people, and occasionally she should kill a few hundred of them to assert her authority.

Starting with these most recent pests.

For a school girl and her idiot friends, they’d proven unreasonably troublesome. She could have killed the human and the elf easily the first time she laid eyes on them but the people of Kingstown would have thought that made them right somehow. They would have thought Syliva was afraid of them. People were foolish like that. Syliva feared nothing, feared no one, no force. She killed out of hunger, out of boredom, or out of annoyance, but she’d never killed someone out of fear. It was unfathomable to her.

These troublemakers had grievously annoyed her, however. Just when she thought everyone clearly understood who was in charge, that girl had had the audacity to challenge her authority in front of a city full of impressionable idiots. If she didn’t turn their deaths into a spectacularly demoralizing demonstration of violence, word would spread and people might become less than wholly terrified by her presence. The next thing after that would be rebellions here and there, and even if she put down each one it would just spur on more.

Of course, it wasn’t the threat of being deposed that bothered Syliva. The problem was that rebellion was symptomatic of hope, and she had been so close to almost completely purging that from the little kingdom that she couldn’t stand the idea of letting even a smudge of it survive. Other dragons might have called her obsessive, even by their standards, but Syliva thought of herself simply as a perfectionist. The suffering of lesser beings was her art and she was looking to craft her masterpiece. These wretched little nuisances were posing a serious threat to what was an otherwise flawless piece of work.