Kastali Dun

The King of Dragonwall studied his reflection in the mirror. It was a form of self-punishment he often subjected himself to. This was the only looking glass kept within his tower. The others had long since been destroyed. It remained to remind him of his ugliness.

He wasn't always this way. He had been exceedingly handsome once, hundreds of years ago—two hundred and eighty-two, to be exact. He was the prince of Dragonwall then. Those were the days when his cares weighed little, the days when he could do as he pleased.

Good things unearned never last. Verek—the god of judgement—saw fit to punish him for his ways. He was sure of it, because everything had changed. His scars became evidence of the god's justice. As did many other things, like his title, his responsibility to the kingdom, his loneliness, his ever-present rage, and his obsessive need for control. Yet, none of these stood out the way his mauled face did. His was the face he was forced to present to the public each day. His was the face they were subjected to. And so, he administered the same to himself, forcing his eyes to trace the heavy lines. If a king could not do that which was required of his people, then he was no king at all.

Still, he hated the self-imposed rule. He loathed the face that looked back at him. Moreover, he despised the memory accompanying his disfigurement. He cursed Válkar—the god of war—for his desire for bloodshed.

During those days, Válkar was thirsty; long it had been since Dragonwall's last great battle. That day was fateful for many, but him most of all. He bore the brunt of Válkar's victory price.

In his mind's eye, he beheld the incident that changed him. His memory took him far back to the great ice battle in Vestur. The room around him disappeared, replaced by a snowy landscape. Now he was a prince instead of a king. His feet no longer stood on solid ground, for he no longer had feet. He was a dragon, with scales of black iridescence, claws as sharp as knives, and wings larger than a ship's sails.

All around him, chaos ruled. Dragons screamed in defiance. Giants roared in contest. With effortless grace, he swooped around the icy grasp of a nearby Kald, roaring. His lungs filled, forcing his scales to pull apart as his chest expanded. His breath released—a flaming-orange blaze aimed straight at his enemy's blocky legs. The ice giant expelled another deep bellow, its cry rent the air, but a successful hit meant nothing. It would take much more to bring this nemesis down.

But he was a mighty Prince of Dragonwall and he would not be defeated.

Others fought with the same relentlessness. The sky was filled with hundreds of dragon forms. Their movements were like angry bees, aggressive and swarming, billowing flame in great bursts. On the ground, ice giants swatted at them, lumbering around like bears.

Válkar was not easily satisfied with minor bloodshed. He called for something far greater to ensure the monarchy with a victory.

A pained bellow made Talon shudder. He knew the voice almost as well as his own. And so, in the midst of the battle, through the thunder of noise, he lost his nerve. The sound of his father's anguish would haunt him until the end of his days.

He turned in time to see his mother, eyes wide with shock, mouth open, ripped from the back of his father's red hide. His warm scales turned cold. Terror seized him. He, who had never felt fear, became frozen in the moment. Paralyzed by horror. He may as well have been captured by the same icy hand gripping his mother. He hovered midair, watching as if in slow motion, the unbearable scene before him.

He knew she was lost the moment she was exposed to Black Rock Ice.

King Tallek's bellow was more like a pitiful screech; he forsook all caution and dove after Queen Ahlessa, his lifelong mate and Rider. Talon shouted for him, warned him, but it was no use. It was exactly what their enemy wanted—expected. The ice giant snatched his father from the sky.

The ice giant lifted the flailing red dragon to its mouth, taking hold of his father's spiked head within its enormous, cubed teeth, and ripped it from its body. Talon screamed. Both head and body were tossed away like a broken plaything.

Something inside of him snapped. Fear forgotten, his mind erupted into a frenzy of rage, rage that would stay with him for an eternity. He no longer knew himself. He had only one desire. Destruction.

"The leader of the Kalds is mine!" His telepathic command rang through the minds of the Drengr with force. He shot through the sky. The leader, still holding his mother's limp body, roared its challenge. He bellowed in return. Those who considered avenging their rulers knew to retreat. This ice giant's death belonged to the prince alone.

He filled his lungs and came down upon the Kald unleashing torrents of fire. Plumes of black smoke and ash swirled around the giant as the flame began to melt its body. Perhaps these icy fiends felt pain—he did not know—for in that moment the giant released his mother from its clutches. She dropped.

A nearby Drengr swooped in to catch her fall, whisking her away, cradled in its talons, far from the battle. She was already dead.

He'd never get to tell her how sorry he was for all the ways he'd rebelled against her. He'd never get to tell his father he was capable of greater responsibility, or that he'd been listening to all those lectures on duty even when he pretended otherwise. He'd never get to tell them anything. Not now.

Now, there was only the giant.

They battled for hours, flame against ice. Even as the other giants began to disappear, melting away into puddles of blackness, he fought. But he could not fight forever. As the day stretched on, he grew tired.

Minor injuries covered him—places where icy hands grazed his beautiful scales. The Drengr were impervious to fire. They'd been wrought from lava rock. Yet, they were not resistant to the Black Rock Ice of giants. It scorched their scales like lightning to dry earth. Despite this, he refused assistance. Vengeance would be his and his alone.

Darkness fell and he grew sloppy. The ice giant knew this. It cackled with glee. Just a little longer, he urged. Already it had shrunk noticeably in girth, its body merely half its original thickness. Black gooey puddles were forming upon the ground.

In a desperate attempt to burn away its legs, he made a deadly mistake. He dove too close. He came within the giant's reach. His face erupted into pain as it swatted him. He felt its icy fingers rake across his scales, from the eye ridges of his forehead, down to his jaw. White-hot agony, pain unlike anything he'd ever felt, erupted across his face. He roared, the power of its reverberations nearly splitting him in two. A final flame, a last ditch effort, erupted from his jaw. He directed it exactly where it needed to go.

The legs of the ice giant began fracturing and breaking away like glacial calving. Thunderous sounds echoed into the stillness. Heartened, a number of jubilant bugles erupted from his onlookers, Drengr who had already defeated their enemies.

He yelped, trying to ignore the burns to his face, the excruciating pain. The giant began to crumble. It's hand reached for him. He saw it too late. A fresh wave of agony, different than what he felt before, erupted across his body. The icy hand wrapped around him like a cloak of misery, holding on tight.

Time lasted an eternity. So did his torment. A cold burn washed over him. His vision flickered. His scales melted beneath the grasp of the ice giant's hand. Darkness took him into its black pit, devoid of all but despair...

When he next woke, he was in human form laying on a soft bed, looking up at the canvas of a tent. A camp had been erected at the site of the battle. None wished to move him.

The first time he saw his face, he didn't believe it. That was the moment he wished for death.

Reyr was there in the tent with him. "You cannot die," he said. "You are our king now."

The reminder triggered memories of his parents' death like an avalanche. In his pain and grief, in his disgust for his new appearance, he smashed every mirror from that day forth, ashamed to see the face he was condemned to wear.

The Magoi were summoned. Every effort was made to heal him of his injuries. But no magic heals the scars inflicted by dark magic. He had always known that.

In the mirror within his tower, he studied the pattern of the heaviest three scars. They stretched diagonally from his left brow bone to his right jawbone. Each time he beheld them, he recalled the fierce pain in acquiring them. Would that he could forget it.

A growl brewed deep within his chest and a familiar rage boiled up. He smashed his palm into the mirror. It shattered, fragments flying everywhere. Most of the pieces crumbled to the floor. The shards left behind in the frame replicated his reflection over and over. Multiples versions of himself looked back.

Curse the gods!

A knock sounded at the door. He gave a start, glancing about. Glass everywhere. He lifted a hand and muttered, "Malí gler ahlasem." Words of the old language, used to create the world around him. He commanded the glass pieces to come back together. The fragments covering the floor reassembled. Their cracks fused. Once more he saw a single, whole reflection of his tormented face.

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd fixed it.

"Enter." His voice echoed the dark thoughts still dwelling within his mind. He pushed them away.

One of his tower guards stood in the doorway. "Pardon, Your Grace." He bowed his head. "I apologize, but she says it is urgent."

"Who?"

"The Lady Saffra, Your Grace. She would not be turned away. I tried to tell—"

"Never mind. Show her in." He moved over to his desk and took a seat. The guard exited. He glanced down at his bloodied hand. It had already healed.

Lady Saffra was a needle in his neck, though she was hardly to blame. Her visions came of their own accord. Yet, for all the good they did, just as much trouble followed.

While he waited, he continued working on a document he had been writing earlier. A letter to Lord Avraean, the fort leader of Northedge. Avraean had once been a member of his father's six Drengr Fairtheoir, a title more commonly referred to these days as King's Shield. In the old language, Drengr Fairtheoir meant, noble dragon warrior, but commoners knew very little of the old language. Over time, King's Shield became the title that stuck. Like the true meaning suggested, Avraean was noble, but his father's death released him from his oath, as it did for all Shields. Lord Avraean had since taken up leadership at Northedge, a most prestigious position. He'd made a new life for himself.

The door opened and Saffra was ushered in. The first thing he noticed was the roll of parchment in her shaking hands. She was trembling, shooting nervous glances his direction, looking everywhere other than his scarred face. He was used to it. The only people capable of looking at him, truly looking at him, were his six.

"Take a seat."

She did as she was bid. "Forgive my intrusion, Your Grace. I had to come at once."

"Another vision I presume?" He already knew the answer. Her dark skin, the rich color of toffee, was far paler than usual.

"Yes," she whispered. Her free hand firmly grasped the chair arm. The other gripped the roll of parchment so tightly, it crinkled beneath her palm.

He tensed. His mind jumped to Cyrus. Would she confirm his worst fears? If Cyrus died, he would never forgive himself.

"What did you see?" he said at last. "Not Cyrus I hope?"

For the first time, her eyes met his. They were haunted—like one who sees death. He inhaled. His keen nostrils picked up the scent of vomit. She'd been sick recently.

"Which city is this, Your Grace?" Her voice shook as she unrolled the parchment and handed it to him.

It was of an iconic bell tower. He knew it well, though he had only visited the city once. It was far from the capital, sitting at the base of the Northern Barrier Range.

"Bellnesse, if I'm not mistaken. That bell tower resides in the center of the city," he said.

The city of Belnesse got its name when the tower was first constructed. It was meant to act as a warning beacon for the city's inhabitants when wild dragons from the Ice Clan came down from the mountains. But the wild dragons disappeared at the dawn of the Third Age, nearly fifty thousand years ago.

When their cousins—the Drengr—came to be, the Drengr monarchy was built. Most of the evil dragons were killed or driven away. After all, they were not like the Drengr. They did not possess the ability to shift into human form. Thus, their lack of humanity made them what they were—beasts. Not all wild dragons were bad, but those of a kind-hearted nature disappeared as well. Not a single wild dragon had been seen since the first several generations of the monarchy. By now they were long extinct. The world was better for it. Yet, the bell tower remained, as a monument to the days of old.

"Tell me of your vision."

Saffra's eyes grew unfocused—reliving the sight of it. "They came from the mountains," she whispered. "They swept down upon the city like a moving rainbow of colors. The bell never tolled—never cried out in alarm. The city was taken unawares. I watched as they burned its white-washed buildings. I watched as the city's people died in the inferno. I heard their screams. I smelled their scorched flesh. I choked on the ash. They will have their vengeance, and they do not care how many lives it takes." A tear slid down her cheek and she shuddered.

"They—who? Who will have vengeance?"

"Wrath, Your Grace. His name is Wrath. He is the new leader of the Ice Clan. Wild dragons have returned to Dragonwall." 

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