It happened when she tried to read a Hayar book. Not the one on grammar, nor her book of exercises, but an old novel her dad had found when looking through his old chests.

  Cynobria’s skills seemed to progress with all the haste of a glacier. Her study of Hayar was approaching its first anniversary, and she was still so far away.

  She opened the book—whose title she translated as Coals and Roses—and as her eyes found the first words of the prologue, she gasped.

  It was not the words themselves, but how they flowed into Cynobria’s head. A story that took second place to a realisation that sparked inside her.

  She got it.

  It was then—by herself in her room, cracking open the book her dad had found—that a cog slid into place in Cynobria’s head and everything clicked.

  Perhaps it had happened before. Perhaps she had had enough understanding while doing an exercise or reading up on the emphatic role of the syntax, but at this moment, seeing the raw Hayar prose without a comment or task, it hit her that she knew. She understood.

  She could scarcely focus on the words she read, only vaguely noting their meaning—of a young dragon, an outcast in his town, and the solace he found in the surrounding woods—but the rest of her was jumping with glee. The words swam and mixed into a blur before she could finish the first chapter, and then she heard the door open, and the distinct clink-thump of Dad’s talons, and she rushed out to greet him in Hayar.

  If this was what learning a language felt like—prior frustrations notwithstanding—Hayar would only be the first of a long list she would conquer.

  ‘And they don’t have “have”, at all. Never use it,’ Cynobria said. She was walking alongside Yselle, Jartiain, Oileau and Gevine to their next class. The bare grey-stone corridor was narrow enough Cynobria and Yselle had to fall back a few times to let other students pass. ‘Which seems really inconvenient, doesn’t it? It’s one of the most basic verbs. And yet.’ She looked at the others, waiting to see if they asked for an explanation, but nothing came—thus far most she’d got were nods of acknowledgement, but now even that was lacking. ‘Let’s assume,’ she went on, regardless, ‘that you want to say “I have a book”. But there is no “have” in Hayar, right? So what they’ll do is add a possessive suffix to the object. There exists bookmy.’

  ‘Cynne.’ Gevine spun on her, on her snout an expression Cynobria didn’t like. It was somewhere between annoyance and regret, though it was hard to tell to which side it leaned. ‘It’s great you found something you enjoy so much. And you know a lot about it. We don’t—I didn’t get half the things you said.’

  Cynobria blinked, tail twitching, ears flat against her head. ‘I… Sorry.’ She wasn’t sure what more to say, and neither did the other four. At length she managed, ‘I just wanted to share it with you.’

  ‘And that’s alright,’ Gevine said softly, but something in her tone made Cynobria prepare for a blow. She’d been getting better at reading them. ‘But you haven’t been shutting up about it for a second day! We’ve got enough confusion in Krahan classes as it is.’

  Because you’re weak, was what Cynobria might have said, but stopped herself, despite the words—burning hot—trying to force their way. She clenched her jaw, forcing the anger back. The last thing she wanted was to fire off at her friends.

  ‘Jartain? Oileau?’

  Oileau smiled tightly, without mirth. ‘You do ramble quite a bit.’

  ‘Being honest with you Cynne,’ said Jartain, ‘I drifted off after some time.’

  What.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he went on; they passed a fork in the tunnel, turned left. ‘I’m not ignoring you. But it gets a little much at times.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ she argued, though already it felt like a losing battle. ‘It’s not like I’m the only one who talks about their interests!’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gevine. ‘And that is great. We share what we like. But—’ Cynobria couldn’t suppress a hiss at that word, earning herself a frown— ‘there are moments when there is too much. Like now.’

  ‘How is that too much? It’s—’

  ‘It’s another day of the same,’ cut in Yselle, and Cynobria stopped short. If it was anyone else she might have argued back, but... ‘You learned Hayar—which I prompted you to do as a joke—so good for you. But now you try to make us understand it, and we’re not going to.’

  Cynobria stared at her. ‘I am not.’

  ‘Then what is this? Are you trying to prove something? You’re already the best in class, you don’t need to show off among us.’

  ‘Wha— Is this how you see it?’ She swept her gaze through the others.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it in these exact words,’ said Jartain, ‘but yes.’

  ‘It sometimes feels like you’re trying to be better than us,’ added Yselle, and Oileau reluctantly nodded. Gevine shifted uncomfortably, but neither she nor Jartain disagreed.

  Cynobria’s mind was a swirling mess, unsure what to feel—anger, guilt, hurt? She hadn’t meant to do it, but what had she done wrong? Got excited? Talked about it? Tried to share her joy? Her steps grew stiff, paws clenching and claws scratching the hard rock of the passage floor with each footfall. Were it not for the heavy coating of shock, she might have done something she would regret.

  Instead she said, voice tight as a string pulled taut, ‘History should be beginning soon. Let’s go.’

  ‘I think we should take a break.’

  They were in Yselle’s room, the two of them, idly enjoying each other’s company—or trying to, anyhow. There had been a distance between them since the argument earlier that day, and even though the worst of it had passed, a few final embers of that fight still burned. A small bowl of salty crackers lay untouched between them.

  ‘Take a break?’ Cynobria sat up from where she lay. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Between us,’ Yselle said, still down next to Cynobria among the cushions. She wasn’t meeting her eyes. ‘I think it would be for the best.’

  Cynobria blinked. Was she hearing right? Sheopened her maw, closed it, then tried again. At length she managed. ‘Is it still about Hayar?’

  Yselle sighed. Her frills twitched now and then. She shifted her head to look at Cynobria. ‘Yes. No. I just… What I said, about you trying to prove you are better? I don’t think it’s that, but… I sometimes feel like you're up there with the best of the best, and I’m…’ She stopped, sighed, shifted away. Cynobria itched to shuffle closer, embrace her, but she gave her space. ‘I don’t feel like I’m good enough for you.’

  ‘Yselle…’ Cynobria’s throat went tight, but she had to say something—anything. Her mind scrambled to find any soothing words. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to look like this.’ She craned her head and stroked Yselle’s snout with her own.

  ‘I know.’ Yselle leaned into Cynobria’s touch, a tad hesitantly, and that caution rent her heart. ‘And I don’t mean to break up with you. But I need a little space, for now. To think.’

  Cynobria withdrew. ‘Don’t you ever think you don’t deserve me,’ she said fiercely. Still, after what Yselle had said—and the argument before—Cynobria was in no position to dissuade her. ‘So, what will it be now?’

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  ‘I’ll tell you when I’m ready,’ said Yselle, and despite her calm voice and a small smile Cynobria felt the heavy finality of the decision. ‘Until then…’

  ‘...we should split up for a while.’

  ‘That’s what she said?’

  ‘Word for word.’

  Fey had visited, and now she and Cynobria were in the latter’s room, playing a game of Fang and Claw. Each held her five chosen dice behind a makeshift screen—the proper ones were either damaged or lost, Cynobria wasn’t sure—trying to predict what the other would play.

  ‘You should ask yourself if you want to continue that,’ said Fey. ‘You both need to be happy for it to work.’

  Feyjountairoux was two years Cynobria’s senior, and a common friend of her and Yselle. Though latest to join the trio, Cynobria soared with Fey at first wind, and with time the meetings of just the two of them were becoming more frequent.

  Despite a minor difference in age, the one in size was substantial. Fey was big—bigger than any Tarangean teen Cynobria had seen. She kept her black scales polished and shiny, and scant jewellery of green stones in silver fit the grey-and-green patterns across her snout and back. Her eyes were a merry lilac shade.

  ‘I know,’ said Cynobria. ‘But I am happy. Was, anyhow. I didn’t try to be better than her. I just did what I liked.’

  ‘You did get pretty deep into Hayar, didn’t you?’ asked Fey and she hovered a claw over her set of dice. ‘She might have thought it was more important to you than she was.’ She tapped a claw against the table, looked at something on her screen, and grabbed a die. ‘Mine’s ready.’

  Cynobria shook her head. ‘Of course it wasn’t more important than her. And that’s not what she said.’

  ‘Ah, but she might have thought it, no? Didn’t say, because it could hit a nerve.’ She clicked her tongue, waved a claw. ‘Pick.’

  Cynobria puffed a bit of smoke. ‘She said what she said. It’s not about this.’ She considered the sheet in front of her, then chose a die.

  ‘Alright, alright. Ready?’

  Fang and Claw was a curious game. Fey’s set was old—thus the missing screens—but even so its painted wooden dice were a thing of beauty. The game involved a set of “fang” cards each player was given at the start, and “claw” dice that were drafted from the common pool. One had to take the dice that best fit the cards they had, and play them together, meeting the cards’ objectives. At first glance it seemed based on luck only, but with experience Cynobria noticed possible strategies and counters. The game allowed up to four players, but anything more than two became too chaotic for her liking—playing as she was now, she could try to guess at Fey’s cards from the dice she drafted, and play her cards and dice accordingly.

  That was—she could’ve, were she not more absorbed by her conversation with Yselle two days prior.

  ‘Ready,’ she said, placing the card in front of her as Fey did the same.

  Already Cyobria knew she’d played it wrong. Fey’s card was a hard counter to hers, and even as the dice roll favoured Cynobria a little more, only Fey scored in this round. She huffed; she could’ve chosen better.

  ‘Yselle should decide,’ said Fey, placing another card into play, face-down. ‘I get why she’d be reluctant to sever the tie, but keeping you on hold like this sits wrong with me.’

  Cynobria sighed, considering her options now. With a glance at her dice and Fey’s paw kept on her chosen card—the Tarangean’s claws were painted an interchanging mint and silver—Cynobria picked her card. ‘I don’t want to rush her. I’d rather she took a break and came back than break up forever.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Fey fluttered her wings. ‘Now?’

  They both revealed their cards, and this time the matchup was more even. Cynobria predicted what Fey would use, even if she didn’t have a card that was particularly useful against it, so she picked one that, at least, would not be countered by Fey’s. They took their dice and rolled.

  As they stopped Cynobria hit the table hard enough that one of the dice almost fell. Fey sent her a critical glance. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I know losing isn’t fun, but it’s just a game.’

  Despite the cards being mostly neutral to each other, Cynobria’s roll was nothing short of pathetic, while Fey’s was moderately good. She sighed.What was she doing?

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, it’s just…’ Cynobria’s paw clenched tighter, heedless of her attempts to stay calm. ‘First the dismissal, then the argument, then Yselle wants to take a break, and now I can’t even score a single fucking point.’ She loosed another shaky sigh, though it did little to dissipate her anger. ‘It feels like everyone and everything set out to piss me off recently.’

  Fey frowned. ‘We don’t have to play if—’

  ‘No,’ Cynobria growled. She scrunched her snout and let her head fall against the table, composed herself, as best she could. ‘No,’ she said more calmly, lifting her head. ‘Sorry. Let’s finish the game, then we’ll do something else.’

  Fey looked uncertain, but nodded. In the tight silence they both picked their cards and played them.

  Fey’s card made it so all green dice aligned with Cynobria’s goals would not be counted.

  Cynobria’s revealed card only scored the green ones, doubling it at the end.

  Zero points again, no matter what she rolled.

  ‘Oh, for—ARGHHH!’ she roared as the room lit up with blue.

  Dimly, she noticed Fey jumping back, shock plain on her snout. Cynobria saw her vaguely through the cerulean curtain and shimmering-hot air. It took her a moment to register Fey’s ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’, and another to notice the growing hotness. Her eyes grew wide as she realised what had happened.

  She had blown fire across the game table.

  All at once she shook off her stupor and scrambled to salvage what remained of the game, her own fire hot against her scales. To little avail—the cards were made from thick paper and the dice were painted wood, and any bits that she’d managed to save were charred beyond recognition. Then, water splashed over her—Fey had left to fetch a bucket to put the fire out. By then the table was little more than a smoking ruin, Fang and Claw gone up in flames.

  ‘What the fuck was that?!’

  ‘I…’ Cynobria swallowed. There were no words that felt right.

  After a moment Fey shook her head, frills pinned flat against her head. ‘I should leave.’ Cynobria hung her head and made no move to stop Fey as she headed out the room and out the house.

  The following weekend Cynobria spent in her room. Upon Mum’s suggestion—who found Cynobria in her sorry state and talked with her for a good portion of the evening—she bought a new copy of Fang and Claw, complete with screens and a few more dice than Fey’s game, and resolved to give it to her friend at school.

  She found Fey before her first class, and gingerly approached the older dragon. Her stomach twisted into a tight curl, each step more painful than the one previously. Fey looked at her critically but didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Cynobria as she reached the other dragon, opening one of her side bags. From it she produced the new box of Fang and Claw and gave it to Fey, who, after brief hesitation, took it.

  ‘You know it’s not the same, right?’ said Fey. ‘The one I had, my mother played while still in her fledgeling years.’

  ‘I know,’ Cynobria said. The knot in her stomach pulsed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Fey sent her a long look, then sighed and shook her head. ‘What came over you? You’re not an emotionally unstable whelp, Cyn. You can be impulsive at times, but never…’

  Cynobria knew what she meant, and yet could not quite agree. She’d broken the ferrule when she couldn’t get the Hayar grammar right. She’d once burned a cutting board when she cut into her scales. She was no stranger to outbursts of rage, but thus far had managed to contain them when she was not alone. Hot and fresh dread gripped her then—of this part of her being seen, known. She couldn’t… She wouldn’t…

  Hiding the revulsion she felt at herself, she shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t mean to do it.’

  Fey’s snout softented from the hard mask she had worn, and she put a wing over Cynobria’s back, enveloping her, gently, in an almost translucent violet-grey. ‘It’s alright.’

  But Cynobria knew it wasn’t.

  ‘You can’t stand being worse than anyone that badly?’ Yselle roared, flaring her dark red wings wide enough to almost touch both walls of the grey-stone corridor, her frills mirroring the movement.

  Cynobria blinked—once, twice. ‘What?’

  ‘I talked to Fey. She told me about Fang and Claw.’

  Cynobria grimaced, and the knot in her stomach returned with empowered force. Her forepaws flexed; her eyes were trained on Yselle, though not quite meeting her eyes. ‘It was an accident. I—’

  ‘You accidentally blasted it with fire?’ She sat back, pressed a claw against her temple, closed her eyes. ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘Yselle—’

  ‘No,’ she cut in. Her frills were fully pinned back now. A bad sign. ‘Perhaps I was right that you’re so above everyone you need to always be the best. You say you didn’t mean to make us feel like we were not good enough, but here we are.’ She sent Cynobria a pointed look. ‘I said we should take a break, but scratch that. If you’re going to act like this, I don’t think we’re meant to be, after all. That’s the end of us, Cynobria.’

  No.

  She wanted to say something, defend herself, ask Yselle to give her a chance, but then she looked into her eyes at last, her expression, her pose, and in the worried tension Yselle seemed to be evaluating whether Cynobria would erupt again, breathe her fire, but instead of at the game, at Yselle herself. Her defiance hid an almost step-back.

  Fear.

  And it was, instead, Cynobria’s heart that was reduced to cinders inside her chest, and through it all she couldn’t bring herself to say a word.

  Yselle huffed, then turned around, walked away, leaving Cynobria standing numbly in the middle of a school corridor.