The Dragon's Dilemma

Lyraella I

Lyraella

"Up, Whitefyre! Higher!" Lyraella's voice echoed across the vast sky, her tone fierce with exhilaration.

Beneath her, Whitefyre roared, her massive wings slicing through the clouds like a blade through water. They soared higher, the cold wind biting at Lyraella's cheeks, but she barely felt it. She was one with the sky, invisible against the vast expanse, her white-scaled dragon blending perfectly into the clouds.

Her armor, crafted from Whitefyre's own scales by her sister Vaelora, gleamed faintly in the light. It was a gift, one that made Lyraella feel invincible—protected by the very creature she had bonded with all those years ago. She had been just eight when she first climbed onto Whitefyre's back,  soaring together through the skies, her heart pounding with fear and excitement. Now, nearly seven years later, the thrill was still there, but it had changed. She was stronger, braver, though in the shadow of her sister, she often felt less.

Her fifteenth name day was fast approaching, a milestone that would mark her coming of age. Yet, as she flew, she couldn't help but feel the weight of her sister's legacy pressing down on her. Vaelora had always been the prodigy, the warrior born, bonding with her dragon, Blackfyre, at the tender age of six and flying without a saddle with ease. And not just any dragon—Blackfyre, the most fearsome creature in the world.

But Lyraella wasn't without her own talents. She had been practicing relentlessly, honing her skills in secret. She was nimble and agile, able to move across Whitefyre's back with grace, something her more rigid, spear-wielding sister could not match. Though Vaelora teased her, saying she wasn't built for a warrior's life, Lyraella didn't mind. She wasn't chasing battle glory—she just wanted to fly, to feel the freedom that only the skies could offer.

Vaelora, with her unmatched combat prowess, had grown into a fierce warrior, known for her sword and spear work. Lyraella, on the other hand, had followed a different path. She had become skilled in the ways of healing, mastering herbs and poisons, her hands as delicate and precise as her flying. And though she didn't like to boast, she knew she was growing into a beauty that rivaled her sister's. Her hair, as white as Whitefyre's scales, cascaded down her back, and her pale jade eyes held a quiet, calculating intelligence.

But even Lyraella had her weapons. She had forged sharp, lethal daggers from dragon scales, perfect for throwing with deadly accuracy. Dragon scales were more than just armor—they could be shaped into blades as strong as steel, sharp enough to pierce anything.

"Ilagon!" she shouted, her command cutting through the wind.

Whitefyre let out a high-pitched shriek and dove sharply toward the sea below. Lyraella flattened herself against the dragon's back, feeling the world rush past her. The sea loomed closer, waves crashing beneath them, but she held steady. At the last moment, she tugged gently on Whitefyre's spines, and with a thunderous blast of her wings, the dragon pulled up, skimming the water's surface. Spray erupted around them, but Lyraella only laughed, the sound carried away by the wind.

"Sȳz riña, ivestragī's bartos arlī," she murmured in the old tongue.
"Good girl, let's head back."

Whitefyre roared in response, her mighty wings turning them in a wide arc toward home.

They descended to the mountainside, where a great lake fed into the sea. The cave where they lived was hidden here, tucked away in the cliffs, a place of safety and solitude. Once, it had been a playground for Lyraella and her siblings, a place where they would swim on hot days, but now the lake belonged to the younger children.