Chapter I
The days were lengthening and as they progressed, weight was being added to each hour. Cold air breathed down the long exposed necks of white birches and left valleys and indents in the snow. The sun hadn't shown its face for over a week and the geese and all the critters around were getting antsy. Was this it? , they seemed to wonder, puzzled and agitated at the inconsistency of the weather. We were not content with it either. If nature was supervised by a corrupt governor, then the environment was bound to rebel. We were ready. We had always been ready. There was talk of such a rebellion drifting from the caves in the mountains of Mezdor. Many of us pushed the idea away. We were a proud species, dignified, and cautious. Some said we were so proud that we could very easily dismiss impulse and disorganization as attributes of our kind. We were said to be much more dignified than any race, any creature that ever lived. We were never compelled to action without reason. Until the fissure brought discord among us. The fissure between pacifism and aggression. Between betrayal and loyalty. I had always known that such a change was inevitable. And I welcomed it with the hopes that it would complete our species development in complexity. For, with many hardships, many more advances could be achieved. My struggle was quiet until Zistor arrived, igniting the rebellious passion of the Aggressors which exploded vehemently, leaving millions of sharp fragments instilled within the very dignity we had so long been known for. For once in our history, we were tainted. When I addressed the Keepers, my position on the matter was evident, though I had taken steps toward preventing such an abrupt revelation. I was sent away as a demented fool, after patiently describing the benefits of having a rebellion. I tried to keep to myself for a while, but no sooner had I gone when the Aggressors implored me to join their cause. I declined, admitting that I was much too passive to become a part of a violent campaign such as this. Zistor came to me himself, appealing to my more vengeful nature. I could not accept a second time and before another opportunity arose, I left the building storm within the caves. You see, I am not a young creature anymore. I have weathered more seasons than my pride dares let me reveal. And this journey that I'd made would have killed me if it weren't for the generosity of my youth at the time. I stayed away from the caves for a time before I came to realize the compromised safety of my younger sister Tirika. I had only been gone for seven sun lights and six moonlights and I had gone quite far. I had passed the Fliveus rivulet which ran up through a series of mountains I was not familiar with: the Javika Range. It had much darker peaks than Mezdor for they were not covered in snow. And rocky spirals and crevices had been eroded into the bases, almost as seemingly as a staircase, reaching to their very summits. I wouldn't climb that staircase until the Keepers insisted on a widespread evacuation of Mezdor, marking the irreversible stage of the conflict when the Aggressors enlisted the help of the Dragons. Beastly creatures with long and wiry wings, storing strength and muscle for seasonal migrations they made to a desolate land in the north. Their eyes were all the same color, a sickly green yellow that seemed to form demonic figures within each bulbous eye. Maybe my fear left false images plastered onto my eyes, but I was sure I saw something in those devilish orbs. They had a very dominating manner about them. It was almost as if they kept a steady and subtle control over all that they encountered. There was one whom I feared the most and it was he whom Zistor first appealed to: Morizar. Morizar, unlike most of the dragons, especially flaunted a sickly charm. Whenever I was within any sort of distance of him, I felt weak and blind and numbly defenseless. He could see through any one of us, but for some reason he chose to dig into my mind and use anything he obtained as a source of power. Perhaps, he sensed my strength and feared it, the way I feared his more visible strength. Morizar was not the forgiving type, and I recalled numerous accounts of failure that were regarded without any small amount of mercy. And if Zistor ever failed, he would find himself caught between Morizar and the Dragons, and the Aggressors. A mutinous gleam could be seen in every Dragon's eye, but the whole idea of turning against one's own was new to Mezdor.
