The Matriarch bowed her head, as did every single fairy dragon. “You do not know this,” she said solemnly, “But the Winterbloom are the Elvish ladies and lords of old who created our species from magic and the essence of this Realm itself. The strongest of the four bloodlines…technically, this place belongs to you. You might be a distant, far-off relative of the bloodline…but that is the truth.”

  Tristan felt his heart skip a few beats and his breath caught in his lungs. “What?”

  “I knew I smelled the bloodline within you, but it has been so long.”

  “But…this isn’t my home. I came here so you could get me home.”

  She huffed and glared at him, and Tristan was immediately put on the defensive footing as his hand drifted to the pommel of the sword. “As expected of a…Felicity what is this Human?”

  “A dragonslayer,” she shouted back. “Not that I’ve ever seen him slay a dragon!”

  The Matriarch turned back to Tristan, “You kill dragons?”

  Tristan frowned, “I haven’t yet. But the ones I was taught about do not look like you do.”

  The Matriarch’s form shifted, and instead of facing a larger version of Tristan, he was now facing an enormous, black dragon. Four enormous, powerful legs that shook the ground, a pair of leathery wings that blotted out the sky, horns that protruded as vicious spikes from the crown of her forehead and covered with scales. A tail with a bladed protrusion upon the end whipped back and forth. Tristan drew his sword reflexively, as she chuckled. “Like this?”

  Tristan gulped and gave the briefest of nods. Calm down, Tristan. You’ve trained for this since you could hold a sword. It’s just a dragon.

  But something tugged at him. This was not a dragon of the Elemental Realms…she had shifted before his very eyes. This is a trick of some type. An illusion. He put up his sword. “You are tricking me, as all fairy dragons are rumored to do.”

  The Matriarch slammed her enormous claw next to him, faster than he could react, and her enormous teeth drew close to him. He was rooted in place. “This does not feel real to you?” She opened her mouth, and he saw a glow of light in her throat.

  I’m going to die, Tristan thought. Father was right. I’m sorry, grandfather. He shut his eyes and prepared for the end. Despite all of his training, faced with the real thing, he was struck with fear. He tried to force his body to move, but it would not. Some primal fear response held him back.

  Instead of some gushing acid or petrifying cloud of smog, he was greeted by…laughter. Peeking his eyes open, he saw all of the fairy dragons raucously laughing.

  “You got him good, mom!” Felicity shouted.

  “Do you think he pissed himself? I think he pissed himself!” another one added.

  “Matriarch! Show him!”

  The enormous black dragon before him, maw still open, expelled a blast of rainbows at Tristan. He could feel her hot breath that smelled like mint mixed with berries, and the colors shot out all around him before she pulled back and reverted to her enormous fairy dragon state. “We can shapeshift. But we do not gain the breath weapon of our more violent cousins.”

  Tristan let out a slight chuckle, then a laugh, and he gripped his knees as he bent over and lost his lunch. He was trembling all over at the near-death experience – well, perceived near-death experience – and he struggled to maintain his composure.

  “Now…young Winterbloom. You seek to return to The Mortal Realm?”

  Tristan nodded, “Yes,” he mumbled out as he pushed himself upright to shaky feet.

  “I have the means,” she held up a paw-claw, and upon it were several rings. “These allow one with Elf blood to come and go from the Realm…but to earn this…you must prove yourself as a worthy successor of your heritage.”

  “What do I have to do?” Tristan asked as his confidence came back a little bit.

  “Come with me,” she ordered. She headed over to the left of the tree, and Tristan followed her cautiously. They went under the canopy of some trees, and her body shifted and morphed to enable her to walk in a straight line around the trunks. Tristan wound his way back and forth as necessary, eventually arriving at a large field.

  The fairy dragon turned to him and shifted once more to the shape of a black dragon. “Children? Bring this Winterbloom a practice blade.”

  From his right, Tristan heard a dull thump on the grass of the clearing. Glancing down, he saw a wooden training sword had been thrown a little ways from him. Leaning down to pick it up, he felt the heft and noticed the steel color was none other than Adamant Wood – one of the strongest materials with the strength of steel and a fraction of the weight. This would be worth a pretty penny, he thought.

  His attention was pulled back to The Matriarch as she let out an aggressive growl. “Come at me, little dragonslayer. He who has the blood of Winterbloom flowing through his veins. Show me your prowess! Show that you are worthy to inherit the mantle of your legacy!”

  I’ve prepared for this, he thought as his grip tightened. I’ve trained for this. Just like when grandfather used the giant, metal puppets for us to practice on. He still felt some fear, because he was sure this creature could obliterate him with a single slash…but this is what he had trained most of his life for. I’m a dragonslayer, just like grandfather. I can do this. He took a deep breath and sprinted forward. All the fear from before was still there, but he pushed it back, knowing that this was some type of trial; his life wasn’t really on the line. And that little bit of knowledge kept the terror at bay.

  The Matriarch pulled her left foreclaw back and swept it in a large arc. Tristan immediately recognized the action and knew how to counter it, letting years of muscle memory come into play as he faced the incoming swipe, leveraged his weight onto the balls of his feet, and braced the sword in front of him with both hands – one on the flat of the blade, one on the hilt – with arms bent ever so slightly.

  The claw appendage slammed into the flat of the blade, and the moment it impacted, he jumped up with as much force as he could. Using the blade as a fulcrum, he flipped over the outstretched limb and landed on his feet. Running along the now-overextended appendage, he jumped up onto the shoulder of the dragon. He was grinning; not just because he had successfully evaded an attack – but that years of practice against dragon-sized puppets had actually prepared him for the real deal. That terror that was festering in him began to fade away as his prowess and training came to the forefront.

  Grandfather sure knows what he’s doing, Tristan thought as he used one of the horns to pull himself up onto the shoulder joint. The Matriarch let out a roar and began flapping to take to the skies. Tristan reacted by driving his armored elbow into the spot right next to the crown – where the ear canal was hidden just behind a cluster of smaller, more flexible scales. Once that elbow was in place, he slammed the practice sword against his vambrace, causing a ringing noise that traveled down and into the dragon’s ear.

  It made her balance falter, and she did not take off flying – instead staggering sideways. Tristan used the horns to pull himself atop her neck and turned around, hugging the trunk of her sinuous length with his thighs. The weak spot is there! He thought as he saw the enormous mass of flesh. The most muscular and well-protected area.

  But, beneath those scales and the muscle was the heart. Far higher up on a dragon compared to other creatures, and in the most protected place – if a dragon was attacked from above, they were as good as dead. If I used my real sword, he thought, I could stab right down and kill her. But I’m just proving my worth.

  Her weight shifted, and Tristan went falling to the side as she rolled. He reached out with his offhand and grabbed one of the spiked horns along her spine. Wait until she’s at the end of the roll, he thought as he remembered his training and let it guide his motions. As she got onto her back, he got to his feet and ran in the other direction; staying atop her as she finished upright. And he was right back next to her weak spot. He stabbed the practice blade into the spot, “I win!” he shouted, heaving with exertion from the intense, short fight.

  She growled and Tristan was left floating in the air for a second before he slammed onto the ground – she had shifted into a tiny, regular-fairy-dragon size before zipping out from under him. As he pushed himself up and winced from his bruised tailbone, she resumed her larger size and let out a barking laugh. “You are a dragonslayer. Right for the weak spot. And that acrobatic move…that was impressive. Zeltana’s blood runs through your veins.”

  The Matriarch raised her head slightly but kept it under Tristan’s head level. “You are welcome to come and go as you please.” She moved her enormous, clawed front leg that was the size of an ox cart, and there were several rings upon the claws. “Take one.”

  Tristan grabbed one of the rings and pulled it off. It shrunk in his palm down to his finger’s size, “What does it do?” He dropped the practice sword as he moved his other hand back to his buttocks and rubbed the bruised skin.

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  “This is a Fey Realm Ring. An item of artifice. Imbue it with your essence, and you will be able to open a portal here. It cannot be used more than once every twenty-four hours and takes an hour to activate from the Mortal Realm. If activated while here, you instantly travel away.”

  “Thanks…I’m guessing this means I passed?”

  “Correct,” The Matriarch replied. “At least this trial. One more awaits. But that is only if you wish to claim your birthright. If you wish to leave, you may do so, now, with that ring.”

  I…this is where mother’s people came from. I’m already here…I should see what else there is to learn. “I’ll try this other trial. But why are my mother’s people so well regarded here?”

  Felicity groaned, “Are you not listening, dummy? You are literal royalty here! The only way you could command more respect is if you were a woman. Not that I care too much, you’re still a dum-”

  The Matriarch whipped her head around and admonished Felicity in a deep, terrifying growl that shook Tristan to the bone. “We do not call his bloodline dummy, daughter.” Felicity deflated a bit and grumbled, and The Matriarch turned back to Tristan. “Come with me.” The Matriarch stood and went back through the forest and into the tree. Tristan followed her, sheathing his sword as he took off his gauntlet, slipped the ring onto his finger, and watched as it resized to fit him. He wriggled his hand back into the gauntlet.

  Items of artifice were not unknown to him; in fact his sword and armor were such items. Even without essence – which up until now, he did not have – they would operate at a fraction of their power.

  Maybe with essence, my armor and sword have some effect I can activate that I couldn’t use before. I’ll have to experiment with that.

  Looking down at the gauntlet again, he noticed that he had become a bit slimmer. He still felt strong – in fact, he felt stronger than ever before as he flexed muscles against taut skin. But he was wirier now. And I guess pushing out my Human side changed my body, too.

  One would think that having their body changed against their will would be a shocking change…but Tristan felt good. Better than he ever had before. So the changes were not disconcerting. Minus the bruised tailbone, and the general tiredness from such vigorous physical activity.

  The interior of the tree was a cavernous, hollow space. She led him down a spiraling ramp that led under the roots and into caverns below. Whereas the tree above looked like it was designed for fairy dragons with plentiful perches and nests of colorful feathers, down here the earthen walls and roots were formed and molded into pristine, high-quality tunnels.

  “Before the Essence Surge when our Realm connected with the Prime Realm, the Elves lived here. Well, the Winterbloom, at least, lived here, at the Queen’s Wood.”

  “Sorry. Prime Realm? I’ve never heard of that one.”

  The Matriarch laughed, “Another time, perhaps. I do not wish to overburden you with new insights so soon.”

  I am getting a lot of information all at once. Better to take it little by little to really understand it. She is wise.

  Being methodical was one of his most beneficial traits – something his grandfather had instilled in him from a young age. “Always fully understand before committing to action,” were the words passed down to Tristan and hammered into his mind. Plus, I can return here any time to learn more. Once I’ve digested all this information. And talked to mother. And grandfather.

  “Come, we go to the vault.” She began leading the way and commented as she walked, “Since stepping foot in this Realm and being infused by its essence that has been gathering for so long – you’re effectively full-blooded. The racial traits of your Human heritage are being suppressed. That does mean you have inherited the restrictions of your superior Elven side.”

  Tristan knew that certain heritages were restricted to certain spell types, but he had little clue about the specifics; except that Humans were the only heritage that had no such restriction on spell types.

  Half-breed children, which were only possible between Humans and another heritage, could manifest physical traits of their parentage. But, when that happened, they would also inherit the restrictions inhibiting spell versatility.

  Depending on the kingdom, half-breeds were welcomed but in other locales they were shunned. Half-breeds did not begin to show those physical traits until their late childhood. And often, those physical traits more than compensated for their lack of essence-weaving versatility. Especially since essence-weavers were somewhat rare.

  Bloodlines were more common knowledge, and Tristan was well-versed in that lore. Every person had at least one, and sometimes two. Bloodlines enabled a person to bypass the restriction on their heritage for a single, specific spell type…if they had enough essence to use a spell in the first place.

  Plus, bloodlines enabled the person with it to use Eleventh Order or higher Order spells; but only for that specific spell type. All the others were capped at Tenth Order. That meant a Human essence-weaver without any bloodline would be able to use any spell of the Tenth Order, but never above that. Some ancient rule of creation enforced that decree.

  He recalled one of his mother’s lessons on essence-weaving, hoping that he had some knack for it like she did. Her calm, entrancing voice was always slightly muted by the artificed choker she wore.

  “A Drakonid from the Elemental Realm of Light would normally be unable to use shadow elementalism, as their heritage does not allow for such spell use. But, if they were Half-Drakonid, and had a bloodline that gave access to shadow elementalism from their Human side, they could bypass their racial restriction on spell types to use that type, and use above Tenth Order spells. You, my little sapling, are going to be a great mage!”

  The memory brought warmth to his chest. His mother was the most important person in his life, save maybe for his grandfather. His grandfather, who passed on a prestigious bloodline through Fawkes – Tristan’s father – and down to him.

  Tristan knew that his grandfather’s bloodline, the Dragonslayer, was wholly unique, with its own custom spell type created by the man that enabled them to siphon the power from those creatures when slain and eaten. No one else in the world except his grandfather, his father, and his half-siblings had it – or even had knowledge of it. The family’s best-kept secret. The dragonbane spell type.

  He had no clue what Winterbloom gave him access to. Ice was a reasonable guess, but it could be something to do with plants with the ‘bloom’ part. I’ll need to ask about that when I have a chance, he thought.

  And he had no real talent or capacity for essence-weaving, he never asked his mother what his Elven sides’ spell-type restrictions were. Something I should ask sooner rather than later since I have access to magic, now, he thought.

  That thought filled him with a giddy sense of anticipation that far overshadowed any type of anxiety or uncertainty from his current predicament. The idea that he could be a user of essence-weaving, use spells, and the revelation of this new bloodline were all filling him up with a profound sense of wonder that eclipsed any worry.

  Shaking himself out of his reverie, he saw he had fallen a little behind and The Matriarch had turned to wait patiently. Tristan followed, his mind stilling as he marveled at the architecture. The environment spoke to him, called to him, making him feel right at home. Something about the walls, the very roots of the trees, resonated in him.

  He stopped once more, and The Matriarch waited patiently, as he took in a mural that was carved into the earthworks. It depicted what he assumed was the Great Exodus, as he saw an enormous group of people venturing through a portal on a hill. There were intricate details seemingly molded into the wood, and he found his fingers tracing the outline of a heavily armored individual holding some type of artifact as she led the group into the portal.

  Once he had taken in his fill of staring at the mural, he looked at The Matriarch and gestured for her to proceed.

  Felicity flew up from behind Tristan and landed on his shoulder, and he jumped slightly. “I just wanted to see you fail,” Felicity whispered, tauntingly. “I can’t wait to see the look on your face when you don’t open up the vault.”

  Tristan ignored her and just brushed her off her shoulder perch. The Matriarch led him to an enormous door made of stone; with swirls of a language he did not recognize. But as he focused, he saw the shapes reorganize themselves into letters he could read.

  Kuningattaren holvi. (The Queen’s Vault).

  “How come I can read that weird, squiggly language?”

  “You’re an Elf,” Felicity replied. “Elves know their language as well as they know their own body. You can read it because it is part of you. Duh. You’re lucky that we’re talking to you in Standard Tongue.”

  Tristan smirked. “Tied?n muutakin kuin tavallisen kielen. Ja koska olen kuninkaallinen, teid?n pit?isi osoittaa minulle enemm?n kunnioitusta.” (I know more than just the standard tongue. And since I'm royalty, you should show me more respect).

  He knew a few languages; more than most, due to his odd upbringing. Standard Tongue which is what most people on the Mortal Realm spoke, Dragon’s Tongue so he could determine what dragons were saying, Demon’s Tongue as that was the language of the court of Bhant due to the ruler’s lineage, and Elvish. He could read and write all the languages save for Elvish – as his mother did not know how to read or write in the language; only speak it.

  Felicity’s coloration went beet-red, and The Matriarch looked quite surprised, but still spoke in Standard Tongue. “Your mother taught you, I suppose? How to speak, but not to read?”

  “Yeah,” Tristan said with a smirk, as he looked over at Felicity and projected his smugness as best as he could. “She wanted me to preserve her culture. She couldn’t write.”

  “You will be able to write your heritage’s native tongue just as well as you can read it.” The Matriarch gestured to the door, “For now, place your hands upon the spiral and focus on pouring your essence into the structure. Envision a stream of water, or a current of air, flowing from your torso, down your arms, and into your hands. This is the last trial I will subject you to.”

  The Matriarch stood aside. “This must be done in one surge. You either have enough essence capacity to unlock the vault door or will need to wait until you develop further. And…you will experience pain throughout your body. As this is your first time doing something equivalent to a spell – infusing essence into an artificed item…you will feel pain. Agonizing, all-encompassing pain.” She spared him a sidelong glance, “Last chance to back out, if you wish to leave this Realm, you may do so. But then you forsake your mother’s heritage.”

  Tristan put his hands on the object. It felt warm, welcoming, as if an old friend who had been sitting on the porch, waiting for his companion to arrive for a visit. I’ve dealt with pain before, he thought as he recalled his father’s beatings with vivid clarity. If this…trial is going to do something to help me in the future, I should do it.

  He felt a swirling tornado of energy in his chest. It surged through his whole body, and he gasped in pain, as if someone had just stuck tiny pins and needles into every part of him. But that was only the start of his agony.

  He was rooted in place and he let out a scream as his arms felt like they were being ripped apart. Limb from limb. It was worse than when he had broken his leg and the bone had protruded. Worse than when his sister pushed him into an anthill on a visit to their countryside estate. It was not just piercing, cutting, or breaking – but every type of pain imaginable was inflicted upon him in a brief moment.

  His whole existence was nothing but suffering as the riotous heat and icy cold ran through his whole body in waves. He let out a gasp and tried to suck in air, but could feel nothing. He was glued in place, victim to a folly of his own creation as his essence flowed throughout his body. It tore a path through his whole body. Every single nerve was alternating between being pressed upon a hot stove and frozen in an icy tundra. He couldn’t hear, as a roaring wind filled his head.

  His sight began to flicker in and out of view – going black, then silver, then icy-blue, and then back to normal. He felt the tears pouring down his face, and would have screamed if air was able to reach his lungs. I need it to end! was the single thought that pierced through the agony. A sliver of refreshing, cool essence that stabbed into his chest. The same cooling, soothing power flushed through his body and cleansed him of the pain in an instant.

  He saw a surge of silvery light flow from his hands and into the spiral, filling it up slowly.

  Last Lord of the Fey is based on a real-world language! If there is a (translation in parenthesis), it means that Tristan knows the language and can understand - hence, the audience can, too!

  If there is an error in the non-English language - please let me know! I'm using translation tools, and they do make mistakes!