Death to the Golden King

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. That was true, until Ertias came along. Hatching the supposed Last Dragon Egg into Falanin, returning magic to the lands, restoring the Golden Crown, all the while courting Princess Ravina.

The bastard.

Now every spring, hatchlings are born and choose their counterparts. Their riders. As if these mighty beasts needed a rider to survive.

Not to survive, they said. To thrive. To find a rider was to find your other half and gain the Flame Breath, the magic that gave them purpose.

For a better life.

Scores of deer, bison, and moose have disappeared. Finding food for the Riderless has become a struggle. They drop dead in the streets every day, just to be shuttled to The Pile.

The Pile is alit with flame every fortnight. Ash clouds the skies, that then clouds the skin of the Riderless. Those who die do not get the luxury of leaving this plane. Instead, they’re doomed to walk it, unseen and untouched. Searching for something, anything, that will allow them to move on.

Families pray and beg the God, Peirjin, for their children to be riders. Even being paired with an unrideable dragon is better than nothing. The family rises in society, gaining access to full meals and soundly built houses.

For a better life.

It’s all anyone wants. A better life for themselves. Not their friends, neighbors, work colleagues. Two steps ahead for themselves are better than a half step ahead for everyone.

Valuable time and money are spent to impress the hatchlings and riders. If one can’t be a rider, marry one. And if one can’t marry, become the best of friends. If a rider takes pity on the Riderless, resources will then follow.

Someone can move away from The Pile, the ash, the starvation, and the torn clothes. Into a life filled with the glamour, the perfume, the scrumptious desserts, and the fine silks. Dancing in ballrooms dripping in gold and candlelight. Kisses stolen in darkened corners and ruby necklaces glittering along collarbones.

Nighttime soars under the moon and daytime hunts under the sun. A companion that will be perpetually warm in the winter and provide needed shade in the summer. A behemoth that will bow to every whim, whether by claw, bite, or breath.

Magic bubbling under the skin. Elements created and destroyed without a thought. Spells that can cause one to cry in despair or to jump for joy. Potions that cure any ailment or induce death without a taste. But only for the right price.

While the dragons may hide it better than the riders, the issue remains. Greed. There is nothing that motivates more.

King Ertias promised a better world after he convinced everyone that he should wear the Golden Crown. A world where everyone could have a Falanin and a Ravina. Their other half and their soulmate. It was possible, he said. I was just a peasant boy, he said, and look at me now. Miracles aren’t just for the rich.

There are no words to express how much the populous had fallen for these honeyed words. They continue to believe if they work hard, are pious to Peirjin, and support the Golden King, they will get their dragon and their true love.

But all it takes is one crack in the marble for it to suddenly become discarded and useless. I am told cracks can be filled to create an even more beautiful piece of artwork, strengthening it from within.

By the time they realize the crack has appeared, I will have already filled it. My knowledge, my passion, my soul, providing the answers to our King.

Because everyone knows the most damage can be done from the inside.