The Dragon Witch

Chapter Three

Gently closing the door to her home behind her Arakhne sighed, glancing at the bubbling soup over the fire as she shrugged off her cloak and hung it on its tiny hook on the wall for the second time that afternoon.

First a lamb, now a dragon. Can't this day just end already? 

Letting the soup cook for a bit longer, she sank onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling as the room began to smell of food. Hungrily, she sat back up, and as she did, a glint of light to her left caught her eye. 

It was the amulet. It was glowing.

At least two thousand years old, the amulet long preceded the presence of magic in Rhilion, long preceded the Draconic War, and long preceded any sort of civilization at all. And yet, it existed. 

She had recovered the amulet after Princess Eustinia's rescue, in the remains of the kidnapper's home after the king had set it ablaze. It had not been affected by the flames at all, and Arakhne had only guessed that either the kidnapper or the king's men had been carrying the amulet. 

It was made of solid gold and was absolutely breathtaking - a circular, ornate shape that contained a twelve-pointed star and inscribed with a language Arakhne could only guess to be the language of the dragons. In the center of the star sat a firestone: a rare, blood-red gem only found in the Riarr Mountains, far to the west. 

The domain of the dragons. 

Arakhne had caught a glimpse of the mountains in the firestone; holding the amulet and channeling her magic, she had seen visions of dragons and cloud-touching mountains that spilled lava and ash, with nothing but ocean below. There were no words spoken to her, no eyes looking at her, and no sounds to hear, but the images were as clear as a cloudless day. 

But the glowing, most certainly, Arakhne had never seen before. 

Apparently, this day will not 'just end' already, she thought nervously, inching towards the amulet and gingerly gathering it into her hands, as if she was handling a baby bird. 

Ly'siq aulre len, she thought nervously. Magic, help me see. 

Much to her surprise, unlike the hundreds of other times she had used her magic to see the Riarr Mountains, there was nothing. No visions at all. 

Ly'siq aulre len, she repeated firmly. 

Nothing. 

"Ly'siq aulre len," she said aloud, almost angrily. She could feel her magic stirring, like it wanted to dance and was anxiously waiting for an opportunity, but nothing came to her.

And as quickly and quietly as the glow had begun, it ended. 

****************************************************

Dragons were not new to Rhilion. In fact, they predated Rhilion and were as old as the mountains themselves. Despite that, few humans new much about them, and what was known came only from what was understood because of the Draconic War. 

Besides those few ancient battle records and surviving texts, only a handful of books spoke of draconic culture. Arakhne had gotten her hands on as many as she could in her lifetime, as she tried to understand her magic and the way it worked and shaped her perception of the world - and how it worked and shaped outsiders' perceptions of her. 

The tallest mountain in the Riarr Mountains, known in Rhilion only as the Black Mountain, was the birthplace of all dragons. The technicalities were unknown, but legends told of a mound of dragon eggs within the base of the mountain - a mound so great and so wide that it dwarfed all cities of civilization. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of dragon eggs were said to be stored there, and incubated for a millennium before hatching. And when a dragon hatched, the females were taken to a nursery for gentle care, while the males were forced outside and taught how to fly immediately. 

And so, the soldiers were born. 

The draconic culture was wildly militaristic, and strangely democratic. There was no single leader, but a council of dragons, usually male, that made decisions that benefitted the race as a whole. Females were treated by the males with a gentle kindness not often found in nature, but were rarely seen, as they preferred to stay within Black Mountain and care for young. 

The source of their magic was debated. The consensus in Rhilion was that the dragons had been imbued with magic since their creation, though some believed it was a curse from the gods. And their language was also a subject of debate, for they said or did very little with their natural tongue, known as draconic. Instead, in almost all conversations witnessed by humans, they spoke in the human tongue, flawlessly and with ease. Many people believed that their language was only a relic of a time before humans settled in Rhilion, and Arakhne agreed with that belief. 

But perhaps the most intriguing thing about dragons was their color spectrum. Metallic and beautiful, glinting in the sunlight, the beasts were an array of colors, from copper to black to red to blue to emerald.

At least, according to texts. During the Draconic War, only black and red dragons were seen, and they were all male. 

There were many theories as to why this was, but the most prominent theory was that only black and red dragons were soldiers. It made the most sense, especially from a human mind, where it is attractive to put things into organized boxes, but Arakhne's personal belief was slightly less organized. 

I believe the other colors are dead, she thought as she poured herself a bowl of her eyefoot mushroom soup. And they deserve it. 

There were few draconic remains from the war, even immediately after it ended. Some relics were discovered and hoarded, some were taken to the black market or destroyed for parts, and the rest were carefully locked away by the king. Items such as wings, claws, teeth, and even dragon eyes were taken...but the rarest type of relic to be salvaged were the amulets. 

Arakhne knew her amulet was draconic. How could it not be? And therefore, it had immeasurable value, especially to the king. And she had been tempted to turn it in, in exchange for her societal freedom, many times. But in her heart she knew that any expectations or hopes for a normal life had to be thrown away. Despite her having a priceless relic from a war long gone, she would never be seen as a normal person - much less a hero. 

As the soup slowly disappeared and warmed her throat, Arakhne heard shouting from outside, and she stood, rushing to the small window nearby, and what she saw made her heart stop. 

It was a soldier for the king. Unarmed, without a horse or armor, staring up at her, and holding up his hands in a surrender.

My psionic protection, Arakhne realized in terror. It's gone.