“I TOLD YOU NOT TO FIGHT the Black King,” I chastise my dragon, Akaimo, as I oil his red scales. There are puncture marks around his neck and face, a new gash under his left eye, and a few missing scales, which show his darker red skin underneath and hide how much he’s bleeding. “You never listen to me. He’s too strong to fight alone. One day it’ll kill you.”
Kill. Hate. Hate. Blood. Akaimo, my annoying prison guard, huffs, hot air puffing down my neck and ruffling my dark curls.
I pinch my lips together, suppressing a giggle. I flick his snout to show my displeasure. Through our mental link, he sends the nauseating scent of blood and dirt, the exhilaration of the hunt, and the howling cries of dragons fighting.
He wants to fight the Black King Dragon and kill Emperor Arrick’s bonded mount. I rub at the black heart-shaped tattoo on my chest that proclaims my status as a dragon rider.
“One day, the Black King will die.” Akaimo preens at the image I send him of the Black King dead on the ground. “And then no more fighting, no more war.”
I step back and admire my work, rubbing an absent hand across the beast’s snout. His eyes close, and his chest rumbles, sending me pleased thoughts.
My dragon stands three heads taller than me, his front four claws and teeth a fading yellow. Lengthwise, the beast is twice my height and larger than most other dragons except for the Black King. Akaimo’s body is slender and muscular, able to hold my weight and a few weapons, however, nothing more, which makes flight fast and traveling barebones. The worm's eyes are yellow and horizontally split. His scales are a dark red, like dried blood, and tightly packed, with a pair of curled horns at the base and back of his skull, which seem to serve only as handholds for riders. They don’t use them to fight or for sex, and the horns do not molt off as moose or elk do.
The red dragon flicks his long tail, half the size of its body, and thinned with small fins on the bottom made of the same pink membrane that stretches between his wing bones and under his front legs for gliding. Although built for flight, dragons enjoy heights and climbing. Their compact size makes them just small enough to slither up sturdy trees and pounce from trunk to trunk in pursuit of prey or simply for fun. I used to tell Hacon that dragons are scaly squirrels to make him laugh at our disparaging situation.
“Red Prince,” Kiran, my third-in-command, walks into my house. At her heels is a medium-sized female red dragon, nameless, and ten years old. At forty-three, Kiran has been one of the most efficient thirds I’ve ever had and truly the reason Red Mountain runs as smoothly as it does. “Commander Crea is calling for the war meeting to begin.”
Her brown hair is streaked with white, and her hands are covered in cuts from woodworking. The edges of her thin brown eyes have crows' feet, and her brows have a permanent crease from frowning. Her skills in battle are lacking. Even with significant tutoring and practice, she’s only managed to master dagger throwing.
I pat Akaimo’s head and step over to the small table and chair shoved against the far stone wall in the massive den room in my house. My official jacket hangs on the delicately carved chair with flowers and dragons. I touch the collar of my red leather armor, my fingers running over the bumpy embroidery of a golden crown around my neck. It’s a mockery I despise wearing—as if I hold any power other than the “authority” to order those in my battalion to die.
I throw on the leather jacket over my brown undershirt, buttoning the armor and adjusting the metal shoulder pads to fit me properly.
Drained from this never-ending war campaign, I live in a constant state of tired, sore, and bruised. Fourteen years I’ve been fighting as a prisoner of the Rwynn Empire, and even my bones are weary. I want to sink into the nearby hot springs pool and disappear into warmth.
Once dressed, I wave my hand for Kiran to give me her report. The female dragon lingers at the edge of our house, afraid to intrude on Akaimo’s territory. Its yellow eyes are downcast, and head lowered. Akaimo lazily stretches his body. I walk around him, ducking under a wing and covering the fire in the stove, and then blow out the candles around the room until the only light is from the open door and the large glass window cut into the front of the house.
“Jizura is complaining there isn’t enough meat or leather for the upcoming storms and The Laying.”
“It’s a month away,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
In the stone wall is a wall of shelves with wooden doors. I open the far left, sit on the bench below, and lace up my leather boots.
“Jizura wanted to come complain to you personally,” Kiran tells me.
“How many Reds are on the mountain?”
“Fifty-eight.”
“How many Reds are laying eggs this year?” I put on my other boot.
“Ten.”
“Send five lower-tier members up north to hunt moose and elk. A week's trip. No more than fifteen animals. We don't want to overhunt the population.”
“Yes, prince,” she says. “Yousef is requesting to move up the mountain and take Daniel's house. Do you approve?”
Moving up the ranks requires experience and finishing five significant war battles, not taking a dead rider’s home. “Denied.”
Akaimo finishes stretching. His claws tap as he walks over to the opposite side of the den towards the large hot springs in the back. I open another cabinet on the wall and study the weapons hanging on hooks.
“Do not,” I snap at my dragon, who growls at me in annoyance. He wants to soak in the warmth. I don't have time to dry him off, and flying on a wet dragon is a challenge.
“Do you want me to clean out your house while you are away?” Kiran asks.
I pause and turn to stare at Hacon’s half of my house.
At barely nineteen, Hacon is the youngest rider in the Red Battalion and the entirety of Dragons’ Nest. I raised the kid for the past four years, taking him under my wing as a younger brother, son, and apprentice. It’s not like Hacon or any of us choose to be dragon riders.
Two weeks ago, during a battle, I staged his ‘death’ and sent him away to be free. Apparently, my misery of sending him off comes off as grief. I couldn’t send him into a battle, even when Arrick commanded me to. For the second time in the boy's life, I selfishly saved him, only this time I hope it frees him.
Promise. Stay. Stay, Akaimo sends through our mental link, reminding me of our agreement. He will not inform the other dragons that Hacon is alive, and I will not escape.
If Hacon had followed the plan, he should have crossed the ice bridge and escaped into free land. I’d promised him we’d meet up and be ‘free’ together; however, Akaimo will not leave the war. I hated lying to the kid, but my freedom will only be death in battle.
“Denied.”
“Yes, prince.” Kiran frowns and switches topics. “A messenger bird arrived. Emperor Arrick wants you returned to the capital,” she says through gritted teeth.
I just returned from the capital three days ago. If preparations for the Laying, food supplies for the winter, and the successful invasion of Langling in the south is to occur, I need to stay in Dragons Nest. Talo’s flaming dick, I dream of throwing my ax into Arrick’s spine. Or cutting the jugular of his black dragon.
“You go to the capital. I am fighting at the Langling Pass.”
She stands tall, her hands tightly held behind her back, and her lips thin in displeasure. It will be safer for her on guard duty. Like a spoiled child, Emperor Arrick Rwynn throws us at his enemies like arrows in his mad dash to conquer the continent. The mad man claims he is the god Talos reincarnated. Every word from the crazed old man is a lie, yet his charisma has led his people into their fervent loyalty and bloody campaign against the once peaceful lands.
He’s insane.
I roll my left shoulder and buckle knives to my thighs, one in my boot, one on each of my leather bracers, and then finally strap my hand ax to my waist. The light from outside the front window dims momentarily as a dragon soars past. In the distance, a monkey howls loud enough to be heard over rushing water.
“Yes, Red Prince.” Kiran about-faces and marches out with a scowl.
I snap my fingers to gain Akaimo’s attention. “Let’s go.”
He clicks in response and follows behind me, lightly bumping my back with his snout to hurry me. Our stone house, like all the others, is carved into the side of one of dozens of snowcapped mountains that make up Dragons’ Nest. As the Red Prince, my house is at the top.
Bubbling hot springs dot the mountainsides, giving the valley a warm and misty climate all year round. Black sands cover the bottom of the valley, glittering with mounts of lava glass dispersed throughout, the perfect environment for dragons to lay their eggs in. A light summer breeze ruffles the leaves of the plum trees. I miss their delicate spring flowers. It’s beautiful, far lusher than my hazy memories of my homeland.
It would take hours to walk down Red Mountain. Already, there is a crowd of people gathering in the valley, and more dragons and riders are flying down to join. My fingers tap against my thigh. Twenty years in Dragons’ Nest, and my hands sweat at the thought of addressing the crowd. Some people are made to talk, others punch people.
“We could fly away,” I fruitlessly point to the horizon, sending a picture of the ocean to Akaimo.
He snaps his large teeth— the size of my forearm— at my side in warning. Fight. Fight. Win. Blood. Our mental link is flooded with his exhilaration and anticipation of war. Mine. Mine. Mine. He curls his front hands around my middle briefly, reminding me who owns me and chooses where I go.
The Bond mark on my chest momentarily burns, and I struggle to breathe through the blazing pain.
I sigh and pat his claw. He squeezes me, then lowers himself to the ground. I swing on Akaimo’s back and settle into the leather harness. He takes a couple of running steps to the edge of the cliff and leaps off. I tilt my head up towards the bright blue sky and imagine myself soaring upwards and out of the mountain, free and away.
Akaimo glides down the mountainside to the black sand valley. Dragons and riders swiftly move to accommodate my landing. Those in my red battalion nod their heads as I pass.
“Red Prince.” My second-in-command— a man twenty years my senior with short, silver hair, a short black beard, and shining golden eyes—approaches me with a friendly wave. I scowl in response. The yellow dragon-scaled armor he wears gives his light skin a sickly pallor.
“You look ill, boy,” Francis says, clapping a hand on my shoulder with a good-natured laugh. “I’ve been nominated to speak with you. Morale is low. Hacon’s loss is a tragedy, but you can’t continue moping around. The Bloody Red Prince is an undefeatable monster. Chin up, you’re our shining beacon in this war.”
“Not a good thing.”
The older man playfully hits my collarbone, gesturing to the golden collar at my neck. He bumps into one of the countless bruises on my body. The dull ache barely registers. “You are hope, Cheng. If our Red Prince can survive this long, there’s a chance for us, unwanted, to live longer.”
Francis gestures to the mage collar at his neck. The green stone, one of four embedded in the collar, glows faintly. It suppresses his earth magic. Another one of Arrick’s cruel demonstrations to the people of the continent not to fight against him or be punished.
“Mhn” I grunt in response, crossing my arms. My eyes slide away from the older man as guilt crawls up my throat.
“Are you rested enough to ride?” Francis questions me, his eyes surveying my appearance.
I run a hand through my hair, annoyed at how he treats me as if we are friends. The eyes of the people around us watch me. I swallow my throat parched and my right foot tapping. “I have fought more battles than you. I am not a child.”
“Speaking of children.” Francis voice is loud over the buzzing hum of the other riders whispering around us. We walk together toward the center of the valley. “Are you going to be raising anymore now that yours is dead?”
My kid has never deserved Francis’ vitriol. It’s not Hacon’s fault that his parents tried to rebel against Arrick and were then slaughtered.
Xir grant me patience, I imagine punching his face hard enough to knock out teeth.
I grab the front of Francis’s scaled jacket and haul him close to me. He’s a head taller than but half as muscled. “You live under my rules,” I snap at the older man, “unless you think you can challenge me for the crown?”
Francis sneers. “If you have a problem with me, you should have killed me instead of making me a prisoner here.”
“If you’re unhappy here then throw yourself off the nearest mountain like a Kosuian would.” I let go of his shirt and push him away. “I let you have a second chance at life.”
Francis’ dragon, unnamed, flashes his yellow eyes at me. I bop the yellow beast’s nose with a flat hand, hissing back. It growls but averts its eyes, submitting to my authority. Akaimo snarls at his offspring.
“Stop.” I smack the red tail around my waist.
Akaimo, as always, doesn’t listen to me.
“Red Prince.” Commander Crea, a former Langling general— the same height as Francis with a thicker muscled body, and brown hair almost as curly as mine— marches towards us. Her green dragon, unnamed, snaps at everyone.
Her chin is raised, chest puffed, and demanding authority. The Mage's collar on her neck glows with a yellow, blocking her air magic. Her green-scaled armor suits her tanned skin.
I tug on the collar of my armor, sweating in the midday sun. “Green Princess.”
Akaimo clicks in agitation at the Commander's green beast. The green dragon growls in warning. Seven years ago, Akaimo mated with the Commander’s dragon. Francis rides one of Akaimo’s many children. With the constant animosity between dragons, it's a wonder they mate or lay eggs, let alone not eat their young. I’ve always wondered if the presence of bonded humans helps mollify the dragon's aggression.
“Are you well enough to ride?” Crea’s yellow eyes sweep over my body. She’s twelve years my senior and ranked below me.
“Yes.” I lie, ignoring the pain in my back, soreness in my feet, and the exhaustion in my bones. For something to do, I rub my sweaty hands on my thighs.
Instead of standing around, I would prefer to be hunting or managing the riders to prepare for battle or winter. My foot taps faster in agitation. There is much to be done, and Arrick will not send us supplies if we run low. I don’t want a repeat of five winters ago, when food was scarce, and the dragons began to eat each other or hunt other dragons bonded.
Crea curtly nods. “As you say.”
“I will lead the left flank on the attack against the mountain pass into Langling,” I tell her.
With more and more riders sent to guard outposts as the Rwynn’s empire grows, our numbers are thinning. Each battle increases the danger for us.
Crea has a twisted, complicated expression. “With the Red Prince and the Red Monster, we are assured victory.” She touches the collar on her neck. “We will destroy those that oppose us and snatch more prisoners that can Bond with more dragons. More dragons will hatch, and more riders will be made. We will win. No one can stop us, not even the Mages.” She parrots Rwynn propaganda. Her gaze is distant as she speaks in a monotone voice.
The whispering around us fades as eyes fall away. My involvement in prior battles is the reason she, Francis, and a quarter of the current riders were captured, given the death penalty, and the humiliation of becoming a prisoner to a dragon. And then they do the same to other war prisoners. The cycle of pain continues on and on until we are all dead.
Francis snorts and crosses his arms over his chest, muttering, “coward.” I don’t know who it’s directed at.
“Mhn,” I grunt, unable to say anything more.
Words of sympathy get stuck in my throat when I open my mouth to say something. Guilt—a familiar and lingering emotion—drags behind me. At fifteen, I was a major instrument in toppling and destroying the northern fortress, Bambai, in Jien Mau.
There is nothing I can say. I remain silent. A low buzzing noise fills the back of my skull.
Anger. Blood. Fight. Fight. Fight, Akaimo chitters at my back, talons scraping against my red armor, made with his scales.
He’s tired of us talking and speaking words he doesn’t comprehend. He wants to either fight or return home to bathe in the warm water.
“It’s time.” Crea snaps herself from dark thoughts. She turns on her heels to bark out more orders.
Elbowing Akaimo’s tail, I wiggle away. Francis stares at me without sight.
“Will you . . .” I trail off, losing my words.
This will be the first time Francis has set foot in his homeland since his forced bonding three years ago. He aggravates me, frequently undermines me, and is one of five who isn’t afraid of me. However, being forced to attack your homeland, never gets easier. I do hold some sympathy for the older man and for my fellow riders.
No words I say will ever be a comfort.
I don’t know why I keep attempting to speak.
A roar shakes the trees and vibrates my bones. Heads turn upward to watch as the Black King circles the nest in a show of dominance, which riles the other dragons. The king dragon sends waves of war images to his underlings. Roars fill the sky in response. Akaimo shakes his head, dismissing the Black King’s influence. With a flap of its massive wings, the King Black circles one more time and then glides away.
“Flaming Dick,” we both curse in unison.
“Hurry up. I had to leave my lunch for this.” Francis pushes my shoulder.
I make a rude gesture at him and march up to the black glass mound near the steam vents.
Akaimo trails after, growling and clicking. The nearby dragons and riders scramble to make a path. One step up that dias and I’m as tall as a dragon and able to see across the large valley. The Blue Princess, Aeis, and the Brown Prince, Sam, nod to me, postures rigid.
There is a hush in the air, a stillness that comes before terror. We all know with certainty that a handful will die. Their gazes feel like cuts on my skin, and I want to claw off my flesh.
“Eyes ahead,” the Commander calls out. “The Rwynns want all Mages injured but not dead. A team of Mage Hunters will be traveling with the Rwynn army. The emperor wants more Mage slaves. I know they’re annoying to deal with, but try not to kill them.” Crea touches the collar on her neck.
“The monsters love eating them,” a blue rider calls from up in a tree. “They won’t avoid them.”
“What if one of the Mages kills my worm?” a green woman rider jokes from a nearby tree, her dragon curled around the base as she swings her legs from the branch. There is a glowing blue stone on her collar.
A red rider —Jason, I think— with a scar across his face, laughs back. “I’d shake the Mage’s hand.” A wave of laughter follows.
Dragons, unable to understand any human language, do not punish us for talk of rebellion, but the man’s dragon must sense discontent through their bond. Jason is grabbed around his chest and pulled close.
The Commander ignores this. “By Rwynn decree, I am required to say these words.” Riders boo and hiss. “We ride out to the Langling Pass to beat down their door and make another way into Kosu. For the Glory of Plamya, the land under Rwynn's protection, the Empire of Talos reincarnated.”
The Blue Princess clicks her tongue in disgust. I roll my eyes up towards the pretty blue sky above us, and drum my fingers at my side.
When the entire continent is conquered, what will Arrick do with the dragons of war, of his hundreds of prisoners? I suspect he’ll cull most of the flock and riders.
Maybe Arrick will come up with an even more awful punishment than being bonded to bloodthirsty monsters and forced to fight against our homelands. My back twinges in memory. He’s got a sick talent for finding weakness and squeezing them until they break.
Crea lowers her voice and widens her stance. “We fight every day to survive. He threw us into these mountains to die. Every mission is a hanging sword. Some of you may die or be injured, and that is the price of war we are forced to pay.” She jerks her chin to the southwest, where the Rwynn capital resides in the great plains. “But I say no, we are not arrows to be thrown into the air. We are people, and our lives have purpose because we decide so. He commands us to die, and so we must defy his will by living.”
“Living?” I whisper in contemplation.
Twenty years in the Nest and I don’t know if I understand what that means. Akaimo licks my left hand, and I pat his snout.
She turns towards me, the official ‘leader’ of Dragons’ Nest, as the longest rider. My mouth is dry. I hate their eyes and the knowledge that we are all deadmen walking. It’s a matter of when not if we will die. My left foot taps against the ground.
There is only one phrase that gives riders hope. I raise my hand and shout to the sky, channeling my rage and helplessness. “Live until next sunrise.”
“Until next sunrise,” dragon riders chant, raising their hands to the sky.
The Commander shouts more instructions for the invasion. My thoughts drift away to comforting fantasies of running away and how my life would have been had my father not given me away as a hostage to the Rwynn Emperor.
In the comfort of my imagination, I run away to the southern ocean, a warm place with white sands and clear waters.
There I am free.
Finally, I can try living.