Purple Dragon [REPUBLISHED]

Prologue: The Birth

On the continent that would later be known as Asia, a species of dragons flourished in the depths of forests and the heights of mountains that were located in the country of Oabria. This particular species was built for combat and war, traveling from place to place, slowly gaining territory and glory. These creatures were designed to be quick, strong, and clever, defeating their enemies with only brutal strength and quick wit.

And they were called the Androsythians.

...

"Quick! Get up you lazy girl! Elethea's egg is almost hatched. We have to hurry!"

Osma struggled up from her small, hard pallet to snatch a lantern. Stumbling over her own paws, she crashed into the table.

"Get up you idiot!" Floressa hissed, boxing her ears. "I knew you were fumble-footed from the moment you hatched from your egg!"

"Yes, Mistress," Osma mumbled, casting her eyes down. The mark on her forehead seemed to burn as if it was taunting her. The sign meant everything in her world. It was the symbol of her rank. A Servant. Born a Servant. Die a Servant. Just like her mother and her father and all her ancestors before her. There was no changing your rank.

Floressa huffed with impatience. "I'm sure that sister of mine is running around with her head chopped off. She may be a Medic, but I'm sure she hasn't prepared or gathered the rudimentary things in order to properly welcome a hatchling. I ought to talk some sense into her."

"Of course, Mistress," Osma said, her head bowed. She dared not to speak when Floressa was in a mood.

Floressa glared at her suspiciously. Osma gulped, unconsciously straightening her shoulders. Floressa was her mistress, and she had taken Osma in as her personal maid out of pity. Osma thanked her lucky stars for that every day.

I should feel obligated to Floressa, Osma thought. She could have left me alone and vulnerable. She didn't have to take the young, puny orphan in.

The thing was, Osma knew she should grovel on her knees. That's what Floressa wanted her to do. She had a roof over her head and food to eat-more or less-so why was she complaining? She had the life that was standard for any Servant. Maybe even better.

But Osma secretly longed for a life of her own. She dreamed of the day when twenty-five years finally ticked by. The year she would come of age and start a family of her own. If anything could save her, it was babies. She would devote herself to her young, and they would give her a purpose. Motherhood.

"What are you staring at?" Floressa demanded, boxing her ears. "Hurry up, you useless lump!"

Osma sighed as her mistress berated her. She would have to dream about her Ceremony of Doroskly, the ritual that would bind her to her legion as a full-fledged member, some other time.

Floressa stared at her for a moment. "We live in a harsh world, Osma. It's every dragon for themselves. Remember that, and you'll be fine."

Osma shivered. It was the first and last time Floressa would call her by her name.

"Perhaps it isn't so bad that Lady Elethea is a little...scatterbrained ," Osma said hesitantly, jumping back into the conversation. Floressa was the kind of dragon who worried out loud. Osma had grown used to keeping up a stream of endless chatter.