They Took My Wings

Prologue - Erish - age 4

"Humans don't exist," I said, watching my blood pool on the stone floor, the dark red edges of the growing puddle rippling and congealing, fascinating me through the pain.

I was four years old, younger than any Heir before me to learn The Histories and receive The Mark. But that didn't mean I was special. Or so mother had told me as she led me down the long flights of steps into the deepest part of the High Palace's foundations.

"Humans do exist," mother said, continuing to cut into the pale skin of my back using her claws. "What do you know of the Last War?"

"It's a story."

"The story has many versions. Which did you hear?"

I tried to remember, focussing on each word, rather than the pain that was sending spasms all the way down to my fingers. "Long ago, the dragons, humans, and nine-tails, fought a war that threatened the foundations of the world," I recited. "So terrible was the war, it awoke the elements of Life, Death, and Time, stirring them to defend the worlds by splitting reality in two, separating the three creatures forever. Now, two worlds exist in a dangerous Balance; and Life, Death, and Time, continue to take form as Guides, carefully ensuring the Balance remains stable."

I wasn't sure if I'd gotten it right, but mother didn't seem to care.

"What happened next?" she asked.

"Humans were sent to Earth as punishment."

"And the dragons? What was our punishment for our part in the war?"

I tried to focus, but mother's claws were cutting deeper than before.

"It's just a story," I said.

"When the world was torn, we lost our wings and fell from ruling the skies as creatures of the sun, to walk the land as daemons of fire. Now, we rule a broken world, with the Mark of Shame carved into our backs where our feathered wings once were."

The pain was getting worse. But I grit my teeth to keep my voice from shaking. "That's not how the story goes."

"The story is wrong. It's the truth you need to remember."

"Being a daemon isn't a punishment. We didn't do anything wrong."

"Oh? Then where are your wings, little dragon?"

I looked at my claws—my daemon claws—and touched the place where the pale skin of my arm turned green at the tips of my trembling fingers, darkening around the edges of my claws. The skin looked burnt. Charred. As though my claws had burnt my fingers when they grew. The same discoloration appeared around the serrated spines on my elbows and the claws on my feet.

I touched the roughened (charred) skin under my eyes.

"Eyes like green fire," Kai had said more than once.

The words no longer felt like a compliment.

Had my daemon eyes burnt my face?

It was wrong. It was all wrong. Unnatural. I wanted out. Out of this body. Out of this room. Out of this world.

Daemons of fire, fallen from the sky.

I fought the urge to tear myself away from my mother and the fake wings she was carving into my back. The Mark wasn't an inheritance; it was a humiliation. Did we really need a Mark of Shame if our very bodies were shameful?

"What did humans lose?" I growled. "What's their Mark of Shame? They're worse daemons than we are."

"All creatures become evil when they want something. They're no better or worse than we are."

"But they started the war!"

"If who started the war was ever known, it's long been forgotten."

"Forgotten? How? How could...?" My thoughts stuttered. My vision darkening at the edges.

"Some realities are too unpleasant to remember. And truth has a way of bringing out the worst in most, and the best in few. Only those who must know the truth are entrusted with it; those who hold the responsibility of ruling others must see the world as it is, if they're to make wise decisions."

"The dragons."

"Not all. Three dragons—the High King, High Queen and High Heir—are entrusted with a limited part of The Histories, but not even we know the whole truth. It's a custom that has both ensured the power of the High Royals, and led to our ruin. Dragons are jealous daemons, and even a curse, if denied, becomes a trophy we will kill for."

"I don't understand."

"You will, if you're strong enough. You're the sole Heir to the High Throne, but many in the Court don't wish to see you become High Queen."

"They don't like you being High Queen either."

A particularly deep cut sent pain ripping through me, convulsing my muscles. I wasn't aware I'd screamed until mother rebuked me for it.

She seized one of my horns—one of the small ones that twisted up from amongst my hair and always hurt more than the larger ones when pulled—and wrenched me around to face her. "Never show pain!" she snarled. "Pain is weakness."

"And weakness is vulnerability," I finished the mantra, fighting to stay conscious despite the whiteness encroaching on my mind.

"Take them," mother ordered, releasing me and shoving a bundle of bandages into my arms. I started wrapping the material around my torso, distractedly tearing the thin cloth. "Memorize the words you're about to read, accurately, and never speak them to anyone but me. Do you understand?"

I startled back to alertness. "But... what about Kai?"

"You and I are the last of the dragons; we will be the last to Inherit."

I forced my hands to keep working, but couldn't prevent my movements from slowing as my mind swum.

She held out a small, leather-bound book. "Take this and read it thoroughly. You won't get the chance to read it again."