They circled around the fire and settled in to eat. Each man had a wooden cup filled with the wine, and even Silas was given a small amount. They dined with their hands and talked much about nothing, the food and drink a worthy excuse to decompress and delay the harder conversations.

  After a while, Aerendir motioned to Siegyrd and asked, “Are you ready?”

  Siegyrd paused, finished chewing his freshly cooked deer, took a big swig of his wine, and then stood as he said, “Ready as life allows.”

  He stood over the fire as its light danced across his features. “There are scraps which I have found that indicate a much broader society of dragonkind that used to exist, though they built no monuments nor great temples like the younger folk. They loved beauty, but tended to it in nature, not requiring much for shelter. The sovereigns and their emissaries learned to take the forms of younger peoples and went out to teach them various things, magic and song mostly, but also politics, the prospects of rule, the virtues of Apeiron. We don’t know what caused the degeneration of our kind – some kind of magical disease, a rogue deity from another plane in rebellion to the Creator. Some of the lesser kin presumed it was a punishment for the hierarchies the sovereigns had imposed. Whatever the cause, the dragons became what you know them as today, discrete beings, lonely in their power never content with one another, always in competition. They began to hoard, and eventually they began to destroy. The seven sovereigns warred, and the land and sea and sky bore the weight of their combat. The eldest of the younger races were wiped nearly extinct in this world, the others fled into hovels, their growing kingdoms reduced to dust and ash. Eventually only two sovereigns remained – Ossian and Ozymandias. Two queens as well, Angharvad beloved of Ossian and Zaralai widow of Anaxomandar. Their kingdoms were split down the center of the planet, Ossian and Angharvad to the North, Ozymandias to the South. Zaralai disappeared, though we know now where.”

  Aerendir polished off a cup of wine and interrupted, “Kingdom is a strong word. What remained of our people when the accord was reached was the barest fraction. At that time I believe fewer than one hundred of us remained, fewer still with the song of forms.”

  Aerendir stared into the fire for a long time, and no one said anything. They all sensed that he was not done, so they waited, as friends attuned to one another may sometimes do.

  After a long while he spoke again, “Little brother, how many are we now?” And tears filled the elder brother’s eyes, “Now that we have killed so many more?”

  Siegyrd moved to his brother and sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder. He stared at the flame as well, “We are perhaps the last.”

  Aerendir clenched his jaw, “The fault is mine.”

  Mareth and Silas looked at each other, the boy clearly confused. Mareth said to the group generally, before Siegyrd could respond, “Perhaps we should put the boy to bed. I will do my best to explain tomorrow.”

  “Not tired!” Silas whined, and Mareth laughed.

  “The trick is to rest before you are quite too tired.” Mareth said.

  The boy scrunched his face and said, “That’s dumb.”

  Mareth laughed again, “Perhaps, but true. It takes more strength than we realize to rest. Come now, we’ll put you to bed.”

  Mareth stepped away from the fire and built wards as Siegyrd and Aerendir sat quietly, watching the dancing of the firelight, each wrestling with his own thoughts. Mareth placed a small dome of exclusion using his staff to draw the melody over the sky above the boy. Then he made a few arcane gestures and blew on the tip of his staff which whistled softly like wind chimes. He pressed it inside the ward, letting the boy hear the sound within, but not the sound without.

  Mareth sighed as he moved back to the fire and stared at the brothers, “I’ve let you wander too far in my curiosity, but we need to address the most important aspects. The history entices me, but let me recap the facts that seem to matter now. Ossian and presumably his mate are dead,” The statement struck the brothers harder than a hammer blow, but each took a deep breath and allowed Mareth to finish. “Ozymandias is the last of the Sovereigns, a type of dragon that is significantly more powerful than others we have fought, and presumably much more powerful than you two. Even combined?”

  Aerendir and Siegyrd looked at each other, but it was Siegyrd who responded, “more than likely yes.”

  “I assume you two can take on your dragon forms?” Mareth asked. Aerendir and Siegyrd looked at each other and then both chuckled. “What’s funny?”

  “We are stronger as we are.” Aerendir replied.

  “I saw that creature. In his full size he was like a mountain.”

  Siegyrd said, “The most powerful of our kind are more powerful still in human form.”

  Mareth, “How can that be?”

  “Only Apeiron knows, but there is a blessing in the human form, more even than the elves and the dwarves, the beastfolk, the birds and trees. Any shape one may take has its resonance within the song of forms, but human is distinct among them.” Aerendir said.

  Mareth buried his face in one of his hands and then shook his head, “No there are far too many questions down that rabbit trail. Let’s stick to this dragon, this sovereign.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Ozymandias is his name?”

  “It is.” Aerendir said.

  “Must we fight him?”

  Siegyrd said, “If there is some way to avoid that, we most certainly should. Yet there is something, off about him. I watched the madness take our father Ossian, a slow disdain for everything, a slinking sorrow that seeped into the world around him. He withered under some unknown loss and then, he took the path of silent stars.”

  “And your mother?” Mareth said.

  Aerendir spoke, “She was older than he, only a few centuries, but older. I wasn’t there, but she was well when I left.”

  Siegyrd interjected, “After Ossian took the path, she faded quickly. Dragons are long- lived, as you know, longer still among the sovereigns and queens, but we die. She died without another to pass on her queenship. I was at her side and performed the rites of ash in the silence of the home grove. There were no others to mourn her.”

  “But there are many dragons throughout the lands.” Mareth said. “I have studied them long.”

  Aerendir sniffed and crossed his arms, “calling those remnant whelps dragons is like calling a house cat a lion.”

  Siegyrd corrected, “Most are mindless, bestial things now. They have no song within them.”

  “And Ozymandias?”

  Siegyrd and Aerendir looked at each other again, and Siegyrd spoke, “We know very little other than that it is rumoured he started the war among the sovereigns. Only rumour. He was among the very first seven and is as old as this world. His queen died in mystery in the early years, and he never sired a brood.” Siegyrd looked with a small pleading look at Aerendir who picked up the rest.

  “We have no idea what to expect from him. He is the most ancient of the sovereigns, and also the most powerful. He was the Sovereign of Summer, of the full bloom of life and growth and heat.” With this Aerendir looked at the boy Silas who lay sleeping within his small bubble, and then he continued, “The boy cannot come. And.”

  Mareth raised a hand to pause him and spoke, “I shouldn’t come either. You think me too weak for this, too fragile?” He bit his lip and clenched his teeth but then sighed and continued, “Of course you are right, I am weak, but could you not use the Aeternum Rasa again? A long sleep is a small price for victory.”

  Aerendir shook his head slowly, “Even were all of us here to pour in the entire force of our lives, past, present, and future, into an Aeternum Rasa, we would cease to exist entirely and only manage to weaken him. There are other ways to buy time.”

  “It is our hope not to fight, and we’ve no intention to. He may be the last of the true kin of the dravok. You joined us thinking we were dragon hunters, and that we are, but we are something else. Something far simpler. We’re the orphans of a dying people looking for answers.” Siegyrd said.

  Aerendir spoke up, “And we are Ashwardens tasked to keep whatever destroyed our people from destroying the younger races too.”

  Mareth’s eyes went wide, “Ashwardens? But Ashwardens are not called to new worlds. This one is only some few thousand years at best. Has it grown so close to its end already?”

  It was Aerendir who answered, “Ashwardens do more than usher in the end, whatever you’ve heard from your peoples. The Dinistrwyr employ us for that purpose sometimes, but we can be hired by the Adeleidwyr as well as bulwarks and delays.”

  Mareth interrupted, “Yes yes, I know all about the Timeless politics, but I was not aware of any Ashwardens having been called to this world by either faction. My exile may have made me lose touch, but that at least I would have heard of.”

  Siegyrd said to Aerendir, “It is not forbidden.”

  “But it isn’t prudent either.”

  Mareth looked back and forth between the brothers and hung his head in a mix of anger and wounding, “More secrets. I hoped we were passed that.”

  There was a long pause as Siegyrd and Aerendir seemed to have a whole conversation in a few seconds with eye contact alone. Mareth stared into the fire and tried to pay them no mind. Finally, the two brothers stood and Aerendir bowed first, “I am Aerendir son of Ossian, First son of the Sovereign and Seventh Knight of the Ashwardens of Apeiron.”

  Siegyrd rose, “I am Siegyrd son of Ossian, Second son of the Sovereign and Sixth Knight of the Ashwardens of Apeiron.”

  The two brothers bowed low to Mareth who, sensing the formality, rose and introduced himself, “I am Marwolaeth, exiled son of the Adeleidwyr, Wizard, Healer, and Friend.”

  All three men stood, and Siegyrd smiled, “A lovely inclusion to your titles. ‘Friend.’”

  Aerendir spoke, “Aye, masni, it is a good title.”

  Mareth spoke somewhat confused then, “I did not know Apeiron had His own Ashwardens” He stroked his chin, “I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. I take it you’ve been given a particular task?”

  Aerendir, “As I said, we were to investigate the fate of our kin and protect the younger races from the same fate.”

  “And what have you found? Other than mad dragons and vague speculations?” Mareth inquired.

  Aerendir nodded to Siegyrd, and then produced the box with the wicked markings.

  Mareth recoiled the moment it was opened.

  “It is an evil thing. Was this the cause?”

  “Doubtful. Rather it was what it held.” Siegyrd said.

  Mareth took a portion of his cloak and covered his hand and then reached out for the box, “May I?”

  Aerendir handed it to him, and the wizard began to chant a simple song of knowing. As his spell finished there was a slight flash of light on the fingertips of his left hand, and he made a small circle with his fingers to look through at the box. A glance was all it took before the wizard threw it away from him and pulled his hand away. He then began to rub his left eye as if it pained him.

  “It is a wicked thing that contained, but the box is not a source.”

  Siegyrd moved forward and grabbed Mareth by the shoulders and looked into his eye, “Hold still.”

  Mareth blinked painfully and looked at Siegyrd. His vision was a mixture of normal vibrant colors and a colorless malaise. Siegyrd could see that Mareth’s left eye had gone stark white. There was no pupil or iris, no veins even. It was as if his eye were replaced with a clear piece of marble.

  “Are you blind in that eye?” Siegyrd said.

  Mareth blinked again and said, “No. I see…” He closed his right eye and it was as if a dark frosted glass was dropped over the whole of his vision. Stranger, there were shadows moving in the forest around them which passed around and through and seemed distantly to know they were watched. He closed that eye and opened his right and everything was normal again.

  Aerendir questioned the wizard, “What do you see?”

  “I can’t be sure, but this eye sees what is not here, or is not now. I would have to study it further. Nevermind this for now, what was in that box?”

  Aerendir spoke slowly, “A flute.”

  Mareth kept rubbing his eye as he responded, “The one that Zaralai wrote of, and Mathin had heard? No, they spoke with such fondness. It could not have been so evil as whatever that contained.”

  Aerendir spoke again, “It is a beautiful thing, but not all beauty is true.” Mareth paused, “What does that mean?”

  Siegyrd spoke then, “Only that some perceived beauty lies about its goodness.”

  Aerendir stood then and turned back out to face the direction of the valley, “and about its beauty.”