Part 1

  Woodland

  There is something fleeting about the Lore.

  Something they have that no other race shares.

  Something that saves them from destruction,

  But also from salvation.

  High Prince Randor

  30 years ago

  Sundown and showtime.

  Readjusting the circlet on my head, I study my reflection in the full-body mirror. Tonight had to be perfect. Messengers from across Arkeya would be at the coronation, and nothing could go wrong. If it did, I would kill the person responsible in a very slow, painful death. Not that anything would go wrong, but still, it helped to have safeguards in place in the event of utter failure.

  “Your Majesty.” A servant comes up behind me, their outline blurred in the mirror.

  “What?”

  “It is time.” They step out of view, then back into it as they lay the heavy red fur-lined cape that had belonged to my father over my shoulders. No, not my father’s. Mine. I set my jaw, thrilled by the way the copper stubble on my chin moves with it. For someone who’d just entered manhood, I look splendid.

  “If I may, your Majesty, you look absolutely brilliant.” The servant says as they fuss over the ornamental gold bracer curled around my left forearm.

  “Cruel would be a better word.” That held true. I had long waves of hair the color of copper wire, a square, well-defined jawline, Shur’tyr-like eyes and thick flame orange brows. If cruel could be personified, it was me. I let the servant finish, before sweeping my arms up. As the servant fishes out a leather belt covered in silver and rubies, I study their appearance. Long brown hair tied back in a bun, a narrow, root-like head with lips too big for their face. A genderless white shift and brown leggings.

  “Enlighten me, what is your name?” I demand, sucking in the slight gut I’d grown over the past year.

  “Garro, sire.” Garro says, kneeling and reaching around my waist with the belt in their arms. They clip it on and stand up, taking a few steps back to examine their work.

  “Garro, tell me, how would you enjoy becoming my chamberlain?” Garro’s cheeks turn bright red, and they keep their eyes on the leather moccasins on their feet when they respond.

  “I’d-I’d like that very much, sire. Been me dream since I’d a wee lad.” They talk with the accent of someone raised in the fields, using certain words at improper times. I dip my head, taking in the tight feeling around my midriff.

  “Very good. What time is it?”

  “Nearly midnight, sire.” Garro hands me the scabbard for the ceremonial dagger, decorated in dark leather, gold, and bright sapphires and emeralds. I take and put it on my belt, making sure it’s tight so it would not slide free during the ceremony. Another failure I’d like to avoid.

  “Let’s do this.” Sweeping in a half circle, I stride out of the dressing room clad in its depressing slat gray and bone white wallpaper, furnished with the palest aspen wood and thick curves of silver. It had been part of the new installation done by my father, a man too kind and open to other races. I was secretly proud of the assassin responsible for his death. It had enabled me to step closer to the throne. Pat on the back for the mystery killer.

  I stop, facing a long flight of stairs covered in a crimson carpet like a waterfall made of blood. The chandeliers far above my head are made out of dragon skulls, held together by silver chains forged by the Dwrfish. Another thing my father had left behind.

  Another thing I intend to wipe from the face of Arkeya.

  Muffled drums beat up and ahead of me, the Drums of Kuntri. Two guards clad in bright silver armor with colorful feather plumes on their helmets take their places on either side of me.

  We begin the tiresome walk up the stairs, and when we get to the top, two massive doors await us, made of white marble and lined with pieces of gold that depicted a very biased version of the creation of Arkeya.

  A functional piece of history, and not in the way its creator had intended. How hilarious.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  A member of the A’Era’i dressed in navy blue leather stood under each one of the giant brass nobs at head height on both doors.

  Heartless.

  A suitable name for a cult of well-trained guardsmen. The doors are pulled open, and I step out onto the comically oversized balcony. The railings are nonexistent, the floor a deep brown and well polished. Laid out before the balcony, is the Great Yard, a massive gathering space that could easily hold twice the current population. And tonight it was packed, an ocean of bodies. Mainly humans, some Dwrfish, a handful of Shapeless, and a great number of Lore. I flared my nostrils.

  Already this night had taken a turn for the worst, all because of the Lore deciding to show their tree-loving faces. The sky sits in deep shades of navy blue and black, only a copper, half full Anariita visible in the night sky. Seven massive pillars rise from the ground, evenly spaced along the edge of the courtyard, like the bars of a cage. Atop each tower of black stone was a bonfire, seven bright flames illuminating the sky, casting the crowds beneath them in a dancing firelight that glows pale yellow and bright orange. The drums stop abruptly, the drummers shaking out their arms and hands.

  “Ulm.” A priest wearing dark white robes clears his throat, hands nervously fiddling with the cover of the wooden box in his possession. I turn to face him, keeping a level gaze. The priest is old and wrinkled, long white hair kept out of his face by the antlered hat perched on his head. His old blue eyes carry the gleam of a man who’s seen more then most others. When he opens his mouth, the words are loud enough for all to hear.

  “Kneel, High Crown Prince Randor, son of the late King Kandor Odisson.” The priest’s voice is thick and gravely, wrung tightly like a spring about to snap. I kneel, knees connecting with the ground in a soft thud.

  “Do you swear, until the day you enter the Void, or your spirit weighs too heavy, to guard Argona till your dying breath?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you swear to be a generous king, a sympathetic adviser, and a trustworthy general should enemies ever attempt to breach Argona?”

  “Yes.” Our enemies are already inside, walking among us. Why don’t you realize that, old fool? Or have they already brainwashed you?

  “Do you swear, in the holy name of the First One and your forefathers, that you will uphold these oaths till the day your bones join those of your ancestors’?”

  “I swear, by the Emhic that binds the world in Her heart, to uphold the sacred vows of the Odisson Line till the day I am unable to continue living.” I say, my voice carrying out on the gentle winds that besiege the crowd. The priest opens the box and pulls the crown out of it with nimble hands. He takes off the circlet on my head, replacing it with the gold and green crown. It rests heavy on my head, a settling weight.

  “Now rise, Randor King of Argona! May the land flourish under your hand, and may the gods bless you with a long life and many heirs!” The priest raises his arms above his head, practically screaming the words out. I rise, slowly turning to face my subjects. It takes a few seconds of silence before one person begins clapping. The applause spreads like the plague, quickly taking over the entire sea of people in a sound similar to a thousand bolts of lighting striking at once. Revealing it from the folds of his robes, the priest passed me the bejeweled dagger of Kinghood, before standing aside, showing me the pile of black stones behind. Every monarch from the first king has carved their name into this rock, every name written slightly differently. I find my father’s with my eyes.

  “Sire, if you may.” The priest gestures to the marble with a knotted hand. I go over, trying to resit the erg to walk around the stone, taking in every name, every king and queen who had ever sat on the throne before me. I etch my name right above my father’s, keeping the text simple and legible. I put the dagger in the scabbard at my hip, returning to my place in the center of the balcony.

  “Your first order, my King?” The priest asks, leaning forward slightly, hands clasped in front of him.

  I stride forward, clearing my throat.

  “Hear me, and hear me well, Argona! My first order is not an order, but a declaration.” Murmurs erupt in the crowd, quickly silenced by three quick beats from the drums.

  “My declaration is this: from the moment I took the crown, for as long as someone of my blood sits on the throne, the Lore are Argona’s enemies. They are not welcome in this city, nor in any city west of the Dragonbone Mountains. As long as my descendants bear the crown, the Lore will be hunted down like the savages they are, and butchered like the monsters they are.” I scan the crowd, looking for reactions. The Lore in the crowd are pulling away, a rift forming between the two races. The Dwrfish and Shapeless shrink away, disappearing into the thong of people. Guards begin to corral the Lore, lances and poleaxes lowering. I grin, watching as the Lore who were witnesses flee, running from the city like water breaking the dam holding it back.

  My grin becomes deeper, cackling, already enjoying the chaos that would spread across Arkeya, already planning just exactly how I would kill off the Lore. And just exactly what I would do to insure that none escaped the net I’d thrown over the west.

  Woodland’s people are destined to die.

  Deep under the mountains far to the east and south, far beneath rocky layers of stone, one of the First One’s children woke.

  The dragon growled, opening her eyes. Tonight did not sit well with her. She could sense it in the way the stale air clung to her scales, the slight scent of citrus in it. She stalked to the entrance of her cave, peering up at the blackness overhead.

  Not a cloud to be seen. All four moons hung suspended in the sky, each one a different shade of rust and red. It confirmed the dragon’s suspicions.

  She tilted her head in the direction of wingbeats, watching the black male land in front of her.

  “You sensed it, didn’t you?” The male dips his head, folding his sparrow-like wings along his back, stretching one of his hind legs out behind him.

  “Yes.” The she-dragon opens her mouth, tongue venturing out to taste the air. The male watches her, coppery moonlight glittering on his scales.

  “What scent does the world carry?” The male’s blue eyes glint like shards of stolen ice.“Blood has been spilled tonight, up in the west.” The dragon flicks her tail, letting her scales scrape along the uneven stone with a shrill ringing. The male frowns, testing the air for himself.

  “What blood?”

  “The blood of Lore.”

  “Then it has begun.” The male sighs, spreading his wings.

  “It has. You know what role you’re required to play.”

  “So I have been told.” The male crouches, muscles preparing to take flight. He lifts off, soon becoming a mere shadow. The female twists around, heading back inside her cave, relaxing once she’s out of the moons’ painful glare.

  “We all have to play the game called war.” She tucks herself back into the narrow crevice, tail tip resting above her nostrils. “Even if we are not pleased with the role thrust upon us, it is our duty as children of the gods.”