Once, the draksors were a mighty force. They were the wingbeats in the night. They were the fire that rained from the sky. They were the last sight you saw.
No one dared come against them.
But a storm was sweeping across the desert. Invaders from beyond the sea, a people called the skral, had conquered the northern isles and were hungry for more. The skral looked to Firgaard, the shining star of a desert kingdom. A bustling capital that straddled a seam dividing leagues of white sand from a mountainous mantle. If they could conquer Firgaard, they could rule the world.
Hoping to take the draksors by surprise, the skral came beneath the cover of darkness.
But when darkness falls, the Old One lights a flame.
The Old One heard the enemy coming. He cast his gaze out over dusty villages and desert dunes until he found a man suited for just his purpose.
A man by the name of Nishran.
With that single whispered name, the Old One woke the First Dragon from his slumber. The First Dragon flew fast and far, over the desert, seeking out the owner of it.
Nishran was a weaver. He sat at his loom when the First Dragon found him. The treadles stopped clicking and the shuttle stopped clacking as the weaver looked up into scales as black as moonless night.
Fear filled his heart.
But the Old One had chosen Nishran to be his Namsara, and there was no refusing the Old One.
To aid him, the Old One gave Nishran the ability to see in darkness. Unhindered by the cloak of night, Nishran led the dragon queen and her army across the sand, beneath the pitch of a new moon, straight to the camp of the skral.
The northern invaders were unprepared for the arrows and dragonfire they woke to. They were overcome by those they intended to conquer.
When it was over, the dragon queen did not drive the enemy out of her realm. If she let the skral loose, they would only wreak their havoc elsewhere or return, stronger, for revenge. She refused to be responsible for another people’s destruction. So, with the Namsara at her side, the dragon queen ordered each and every skral locked into collars as penance for the horrors they’d unleashed on the northern isles.
With the skral bound in iron, peace fell over the draksors. News of the conquered invaders traveled fast and far. Rulers of far-off nations crossed desert and mountain and sea to pledge their loyalty to the dragon queen.
But the jubilation was short-lived.
Darkness fell once more over Firgaard as dragons suddenly and without warning turned on their riders, attacking their families and burning down their homes. Instead of being lit with celebratory song and dance, Firgaard was lit with dragonfire as terraces and courtyards and gardens blazed. In daylight, smoke clotted the air and black shadows fell over the narrow streets as dragons flew into the Rift and never returned.
Chaos tore Firgaard apart. Some draksors ran to align themselves with their queen, who cursed the dragons for their betrayal; others ran to align themselves with the high priestess, who blamed the queen for the destruction.
Draksors turned on draksors. More homes burned. Firgaard fell into ruin.
That was the first betrayal.
The second came in the form of stories.
Four
There was a long-standing tradition in Firgaard: whenever a dragon was killed, its head was presented to the dragon king. It was Asha’s favorite part of a hunt. The triumphant entry, the awed spectators, and most of all her father’s look of pride.
Tonight, though, a bigger, older dragon roamed the wilds beyond the city walls and Asha was restless, itching to sink her axe into its heart.
Soon,she thought as she and Safire stepped into the arching entrance of the palace’s largest courtyard. Music drifted out like smoke. The sound of a lute whispered beneath the brassy trumpet and the quick, driving beat of the drums.
Before entering the courtyard, out of habit, Asha checked her cousin for fresh bruises and found none. Instead, Safire seemed to glow in a pale green kaftan embroidered with honeysuckle flowers.
“I thought you hated those,” Safire said, gesturing to Asha’s silk gloves. They were a foreign style. Jarek bought them almosta year ago for Asha’s seventeenth birthday.
She did hate them. They made her hands sweat and always fell down her arms, but they kept her burn hidden.
Asha forced a shrug. “They went with the kaftan.”
A kaftan that had been waiting in a lidded silver box by her bed. Yet another gift from Jarek.
