A Dragon's Choice

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. But there have always been dragon eggs. Hundreds of them. All the dragon eggs in the world in fact fill the valley of our little island, more dish-like than is traditional. It's as if one of the gods reached his hands into the ocean to cleanse his face, only the water never returned. Leaving this nationless place instead, Dragon's Isle.

A place that's funded by traveler’s coin, isolated from politics, and defined by the over-hanging fear that a dragon may one day hatch again, breaking the five decades-long peace and usher in an era of war.

"Here you go, lads." I drop off three cold brews of ale, not overly concerned as some spills on my apron. It's been ruined long before this, a lifetime of serving hot stew and cold drinks has worn away what was once a pristine white strip of cloth.

"Thanks, girl," a noble man here for the festivities of today nods politely, his gaze holding a bit too much interest, as if attempting to see through my basic set of clothes.

I smile tightly and give a quick nod in return, before making my way back toward the kitchen. He's not the first letch who’s walked through our doors and he won't be the last. As long as he pays good coin and keeps his hands to himself, he'll leave without a limp in his walk.

"Oh, Lyla," Mom calls from the kitchen as I return to the bar, about to gather another round of drinks for a table of regulars in the back.

"Yeah, Mom?" I ask, poking my head into the kitchen, where the steam immediately makes my hair frizz. I roll my eyes at the mild annoyance.

Mom’s blond hair is tucked neatly into a tight bun, and her warm hazel eyes are focused in the way they only are when dealing with cooking. Somehow, Mom's hair never frizzes in the heat. As if she were born to smoothly move through the wafting steam of a thriving kitchen. Stoking the flames and making hearty meals for travelers and locals alike.

I might have her slightly tanned skin tone, but I got my father's deep brown eyes and hair so dark brown it's practically black. Plus, I don't have the smooth, stylish curves of my mother, instead I'm more like a stick still figuring out where my center of gravity is.

"We're out of potatoes," mom starts, a familiar frown in her voice. "We only have enough left for one more batch, and with how today is going…" she gestures to the full tavern. "I don't know why that sod of a farmer's son can't deliver everything we ordered all at once. Get some more?"

"Sure," I respond easily, though with an agreeable frustration in my voice. Billy, the sod in question, is often bad at his job, forcing others to make up for it. Luckily, I'm not the only waitress working right now, so we can manage.

Still, it is the busiest day of the year, Dragons Day. This day, and the surrounding days, are where Mom's inn and tavern make the most of its money. Every room is booked and every table is filled in anticipation to know if another year of peace is before us… or not. So, you'd think at least today of all days Billy could get his head out his ass and deliver what we ordered.

I take a deep breath. All that doesn't matter, and it's certainly not my mother's fault. It is what it is. And I'll fix it.

"Thanks, honey," Mom sighs in relief as I agree to help. Her focus shifting to what next needs doing in her domain, knowing I'll return soon with the assigned errand completed.

I stash my tray where I always do, but leave my stained apron on. It's not a long trek to the main market square, where most of the farmers and other merchant stalls are located.

I head out and begin the task of weaving through the multitude of people. Dragon's Isle is always a traveler’s destination, it's how we can afford to keep our inn running so well.

Year-round people of countless faiths come to meditate among the sleeping creatures. Knights make the journey to touch a dragon egg, superstitions abound that doing so will give the person blessings in battle. But battle, true battle, hasn't been seen in our lands for some time. A prolonged era of peace. Though that peace feels as if it’s a thread stretched taught these last few years.

Today that tension is felt more fully than any other day of the year. As far back as our history is known a dragon will only ever hatch on Dragon's Day. If that happens, the dragon will bond with a human on the island and a year of war, instead of peace, has just been foretold. As the most powerful weapon to ever exist just entered the world, instantly tipping the scales of power in favor of the chosen bonded human's allegiances.

Which is why not everyone here is hoping the dragons stay sleeping. Some are hoping to be that special person a dragon bonds with.

The last time a dragon hatched was over fifty years ago. The bonded human is dead, but now and again his dragon, Peailleo, stretches its wings and soars overhead, creating shadows so large, it can cover the entire island at once.

Every time it does, we all freeze in our tracks, holding our breath. Its never damaged anything, never harmed anyone, but those that can remember its strength in battle have shared it enough times that we all know, all it would take is Peailleo opening his jaw to rain lethal fire down on us.

The last time he flew over I was pouring out multiple chamber pots the inn and tavern uses into the back of the local collector's wagon as he made the rounds. My hands tightened on the clay pot I was holding at the moment as I looked up. The dragon's massive body was like a floating fortress. I wondered what it would have been like for his human, to be on his back, to see the world from up there. To see every part of the world.

It didn't take long for the moment of his flying to pass, but it made me think for the first time of wanting a dragon of my own. Then again the headache of all the politics is something I could do without. I just want to fly and fly and fly. See Sarissala and Nimchanal and every place I've ever read about in books or heard about from speaking with kind strangers while they stay at mom's inn. I wish I could see it all for myself.

But the truth is, I'm not anyone. Just a barmaid working for her mother. Dumping shit into the back of a wagon. Why would a dragon pick me? Not to mention, I laugh remembering my own stupid dreams, if a dragon did pick me, it would be the cause of war among the lands. That's something I certainly don't want any part of.

Plus, once bonded with a dragon you have to share your mind with it due to the telepathic link bonding creates. My mind is complicated enough without adding a second one thank you very much.

Though I guess some minds have more room cause a few have tried to bond with Peailleo, or kill him, but no one ever comes back from either of those idiotic ventures. A dragon bonds once and never again and only a dragon has ever killed a dragon.

Fifty years of peace and all the countries in the world seem to be chomping at the bit to change that. Sarissala might have the largest lands, but talk of weakening crop yields has created tension in the kingdom's lower-class population, who are feeling the brunt of the effects. Nimchanal has the largest military force, and its King has been known to stare out into Deuangpall's land, wanting to push its own borders south. Along with all the other smaller countries' restlessness. But no one wants to be the first one to break the peace.

So each year the majority of us hold our breath and from sun up to sun down we wait and watch the valley of eggs and pray all the dragons stay sleeping. Pray that none of the royals will break the tension so thick, even us nationless islands can feel it.

All this meaning, anyone who can afford to be here, is. I dodge a group of nobles from Sarissala, though barely.

We locals only make up about a couple hundred or so. Not many people are agreeable to having no official country. To belong outside the world instead of as a part of it to protect the dragon eggs. If we belonged to one country… a shiver goes down my spine at the thought of it. War would be never ending. Our ancestors were right to isolate us in this way. I wonder if on some cosmic level that's why no islander has ever been bonded?

The ladies of the Sarissala group, dressed in brightly colored wraps of wool artfully twisted around their bodies and held in place by embellished copper pins, complain about the heat. While each has a servant fanning them; buckets of sweat pour from their skimpy clothed backs.

I internally shake my head at the unkind juxtaposition, but keep moving. I don't really care about the few lines of sweat trickling down between my own shoulder blades. I can handle this. Those servants shouldn't have to handle that. Then again, could having fashion expectations forcing one to wear wool on a day like this be considered cruel as well?

"Hey, Lyla!" a familiar voice floats over the crowd, pushing the thoughts of dresses and sweat from my mind. I look upward to see Jeff hanging off the rafters of his family's flower shop. He wears his signature goofy grin as he finishes hanging a beautiful summer garland through the lattices.

It's always odd seeing people dressing up their storefronts in anticipation of tomorrow. Because when a dragon doesn't hatch, the island turns into a non-stop party for the next day, in celebration of the coming year of peace. Yet still, there is always that chance, that slim fear, that a dragon will awaken.

But until then, my attitude is to treat today like any other Dragon's Day, like all eighteen I've lived through before.

I smile and stalk over to Jeff and with fake sternness ask, "having fun up there?"

He winks, "always." Before I can say anything else. He's doing a backflip down and landing lightly on his feet. "My lady," he says teasingly as he stands, pure mischief sparkling in his eyes. "Care to stay for some cool apple cider?" he gestures into the store.

"Not today, good sir," I say, taking on the fake noble-y speak we adapted when we were little and never quite shook off as we grew up. "I have an urgent errand to run."

"Ah, then another time for this noble knight to woo such a fair lady."

I laugh at our shared childhood silliness, the idea that I would be a lady. It's a reprieve we both look forward to from our now monotonous daily lives. No seriousness with Jeff, no change, no pain, just pure fun.

"Another time indeed, noble knight," I say waving dramatically as I walk away.

His eyes sparkle with a hint of something new, but before I can examine it further, he turns and heads inside.

I continue toward the other side of the market square, Jeff's family's flower shop signifying the beginning of it.

I doge a group of emissaries from Nimchanal, their accents so thick I can barely make out the commentary that they hope Queen Evelynn's, of Sarissala, expecting child is a girl.

I tuck the scrap of knowledge away and store it with all the other snippets of the outer world I'm always gathering from travelers. I think our ancestors were right to isolate us from the world, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to know and experience what the rest of the world is like.

I pick up the pace, reminding myself that Mom needs those potatoes. If she can't make more stew, she'll have to turn away customers and we'll lose money on the busiest day of the year.

My feet know the way to Billy the sod. I don't have to think about the steps, just weave in and out of the people, moving as quickly as I can. My mind wanders as my feet move, and I think about the hundreds of dragon eggs that can be seen from the crest of the giant hill that encircles the valley.

I often walk among the sleeping creatures, the beauty and variety of the eggs always taking my breath away.

There are eggs heavier than fifty men strong. One is midnight blue with streaks of golden dust, another is only about as big as I am, and a pure ember red. But my favorite is an egg that is big enough to fill my whole room at home, made of a pearlescent white with an imprint, as if bubbles barely kissed the shell, leaving veins the pure blue of the ocean at mid-day.

A crack like thunder striking a mountain top echoes through the market and everyone freezes in their tracks. I turn slowly to stare toward the valley, even if I can't see it from here.

I've never heard that sound in my life, but I know what it means.

"One of them hatched," a woman whispers fearfully beside me as she clutches her son closer.

The sound of my heartbeat grows in strength, until it's all I can hear. This isn't like normal fear I've felt before, like when my elder brother left to join Sarissala's army, or when Jeff fell as a child and broke his arm. No this is… is something more, something all consuming.

I turn and look to the woman next to me, she's speaking to her son and then they're running, but I can't hear them. I watch them run as if in slow motion. A searing heat floods my body from the crown of my head downward and my vision goes white with pain. The sound of my heart beating reaches levels of a raging storm.

Until I blink and bring the world back into focus. I can hear again, and everything is moving at normal speed. But I feel a buzzing in my muscles, and the residual heat from whatever struck me. Is this what it feels like to be struck by lightning?

Hello… A female voice, young and old, innocent and wise speaks, sounding as if she's standing next to me.

I turn, but don't see anyone talking to me. "Hello?" I ask uncertain in return. I'm spared a few questioning glances, but nothing more by the people around me.

Many are rushing home, or closing up their shops. Some are walking toward the valley with a look of awe on their faces, perhaps hoping they'll be the one chosen by the dragon.

Where are you? The same voice questions.

A sinking sensation drops in my stomach like a boulder and understanding dawns. The voice is inside my own mind. It's the dragon.

An animal cry echoes from the valley, a blend of a wailing infant and roaring warrior. Within moments, a dragon lifts itself into the sky. She hangs, majestic, searching for someone…. Searching for me.

The dragon's scales are a pearlescent white that glitter with faint hints of ocean blue. It's obvious the dragon hatched from the egg I love so much. I can't take my eyes off her. I can't move either, frozen to the spot.

There you are. The dragon says with what sounds like amused excitement.

She flaps her wings a few times, traveling my way before landing in front of me. Dirt puffs around her feet as she makes contact with the stone masonry of the market square, her landing not quite graceful. A single claw the size of my entire torso, is a mere breath away from my feet; her talons extending and retracting like a cat. I don't have time to run, I don't know if I would if could. I don't know if it would make a difference either.

This is happening, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

As the last of the people in the market hurry to safer places, I catch several curious glances, mainly from nobles. Most likely wondering where my allegiances lie and what this means for all their political games that I couldn't care less about.

She's small, for a dragon. Just shy of being as big as a fully-grown horse, plus wings. The same size her egg was. Her tail whips slowly back and forth knocking over several abandoned baskets of fruit, making dozens of apples, oranges, and melons roll along the empty ground.

Everyone has cleared the market now. Every window covering closed, every door locked. It's just me and the most beautiful, stunning, deadly creature I've ever seen standing in the middle of the market square.

I am Luseydea, her words authoritatively formal with a hint of giddiness as I hear them in my mind. Her lips don't move as she speaks as it is purely a psychic connection.

I stare into her eyes, a shocking blue that matches the shimmering veins along her scales.

What do you do when a dragon tells you her name?

Return the favor, Luseydea huffs with a mix of mild annoyance and amusement, her hot breath covering my body. I tremble knowing one day, or maybe even right now, that very breath could have been fire.

I sink to one knee and bow my head. "I am Lyla," I say aloud, shaking to my very core. Does this truly mean war is coming? Or worse, does this mean I caused the coming war?

Nice to meet you, Lyla.

My life, the world, will never be the same.