The Dragon Witch

Prologue

One thousand years of peace. 

The field that Harrun Ardavan rode across on his way to the village of Dale was filled with small white daisies that had bloomed from the ashes of the Draconic War: a war that few people in the kingdom enjoyed discussing. 

Since the dragons had fled Rhilion, the land had seen endless calm. The occasional uprising or revolt, few lasting longer than a week...and little else. Kings had come and gone, and daisies had lived through centuries of quiet pollination. Harrun himself, as with everyone else living in the kingdom, had never known a time of war. 

But the reminders were everywhere. In the distance, a dragon skeleton was seen littering one of the many hills, with its snout pointing east, as if it wanted to look at a rising sun every day. Surrounding the skeleton were the ancient ruins of Caelda Lor, a monastery that had been filled with innocents. Harrun knew that in the rubble, he would find the bones of countless men of all ages. But like the rest of Rhilion, he did not dare approach. 

This unfortunate beast was not the only dragon to have met his demise near Dale. On the other side of the village, Harrun knew, there was another field much like the one he was in. But notably, that field was covered in hundreds of dragon skeletons - so many that they blended together and formed more or less a pile of undistinguishable bones. 

The Field of Bones, Harrun thought. They were not quite creative with naming things back then. 

No one entered the Field of Bones. The people of Dale were famously the most western civilization in the kingdom: further west, there was nothing but catastrophe and bones. Many said the land was cursed. 

More than many. I don't know a single person who doesn't think the West is cursed. 

His black stallion, Dmitri, nickered beneath him softly as Dale came into view, and Harrun patted his mane assuringly. "Don't you worry, Meech," he said, using Dmitri's nickname as he urged the horse onward. "We won't be here very long - not if I have any say about it."

Meech snorted as if to agree with him. 

Steering right, away from the looming skeleton in the distance, and arriving at the gates of Dale, Harrun lowered his cloak's hood so that the gatekeeper could see his face. "Harrun Ardavan," he said formally to a broad-shouldered mountain of a man. "I have an appointment with Lord Kyantis Dekar."

The gatekeeper nodded, opening the gate. "Was told to expect you, sire. Come on in." He gestured to a wiry boy riding a pony nearby. "Wesley here will escort you." 

Harrun nodded to the young boy, who he could only guess was a squire, but the boy did not return  the nod. "Follow me," he said in a scratchy voice that reminded Harrun of the days where he was transforming from a boy into a man. 

Wesley led Harrun only a few blocks through the streets of Dale, to the largest estate that belonged to the leader of Dale and the man Harrun had traveled so far to meet. The young boy did not say another word to Harrun, but did wait patiently as the pony and Meech were put into the care of a stablehand. 

The estate was intricate - ancient in décor and even more ancient in architecture. Harrun felt like he was walking through a museum as he passed velvet curtains, winding staircases, and mahogany doors, until Wesley stopped, and nodded at a small, unassuming set of doors. 

"He's in there," that prepubescent, crackly voice said. "You can go right in."

"Thank you," Harrun said with a gentle smile, fishing out a coin and handing it to the boy before he headed inside the room. 

He had expected a library, or perhaps a sitting room, but it was actually a conservatory. Greenery, sunlight, and marble flooring surrounded him, almost blindingly. A large fountain, draped in ivy and lilac bushes, bubbled nearby, and an enormous tree grew straight through the glass roof above, which had been opened around the branches to allow the tree to grow as tall as it liked. 

Among the line of ferns to his right, Harrun caught sight of Lord Kyantis Dekar: a handsome young man who Harrun knew had been born right there in Dale, and grew up with these people adoring him. Married, and now widowed, Kyantis spent his days leading the people of Dale with honesty and mercy: a combination Harrun found surprising, considering his village lay on the blood of thousands of dragons. 

"I'm glad you came," Kyantis said to him, moving to shake his hand. "Harrun Ardavan, right? The King's Spymaster?"

"That would be me," Harrun said, shaking the hand offered to him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Milord. I've been to your village numerous times, but I haven't met you before."

"It's about high time we met, I agree," Kyantis said, gesturing to a small table nearby, at which sat two chairs. As he sat, he grunted, and then took an envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Harrun. 

"What is this?" Harrun asked suspiciously, moving to open it.

"It's a report, from my scouts," Kyantis responded slowly. "About a year ago, I sent twelve of my best scouts into the west. Dale has been doing that for centuries, but my goal for them was to make it past the Riarr Mountains." 

The Riarr Mountains. The gateway to Rhilion and the world beyond. There was no known civilization past them. 

"And?"

"And...see for yourself," Kyantis said softly. "The king ought to know."

Harrun furrowed his eyebrows and inhaled as he read the letter. 

To the Lord of Dale, to the King, to the Kingdom of Rhilion:
We have found a land of desolation and despair.
Nothing but molten rock, death, and scorpions survive out here.
But beyond the horizon, we see a new type of death
One our land has seen before, but its people have not.
Thousands of dragons, black as the night and red as blood, haunt the skies.
They are moving east. Towards the kingdom.
Prepare the people for a war we cannot win.
Under a blood red dawn, we will die again.