Dracae

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. There was a time when dragons were considered creatures of myth, mystical beings from fairytales and folklore. When dragons came down from their hiding place in the mountains, they knew they were in danger. Dragons were mighty beings, but if one knew their secrets, the dragons became prey, rather than predator. So they swore fealty to the king, promising they’d fight for him and his bloodline as long as the king’s bloodline was on the throne. In return, the king swore that as long as his bloodline had the dragons’ loyalty, they were safe from harm. The promise was then sealed on a bloodstone, which has remained under constant guard in the bowels of the king’s castle. Those dragons that remained in the valley took their human form. They became known as the dracae and so it has remained for over a thousand years.

These were the stories Cassandra’s uncle had told her from the time she was born. He was a constant presence in her childhood, and remained so when her father left. Shortly after, when Cassandra was nine, her mother grew ill and eventually succumbed to the Guardian of Death, her soul returning to the land of the gods. After her mother’s death, Uncle Elrod had raised her. Nearly eight years had gone by since Elrod had buried his sister and moved himself and his niece to a little village across the land, barely worthy of its name on the map. Shadowfren had remained their home ever since.

One afternoon in early spring, Cassandra worked through her forms as she did every other afternoon before supper. Uncle Elrod, terrified what the fate of his niece would be should something happen to him, taught her the art of sword fighting. And so she practiced her forms, every day.

Elrod circled Cass, watching as she moved from form to form. The blade of a wooden sparring sword rested on his shoulder. Cassandra swung the sword in an arc in front of her, flowing from Swallow Dives to Cat Prowling. Uncle Elrod shook his head and used the sparring sword to nudge her left foot out half an inch. “This one needs to point perfectly straight, or you’ll lose your balance,” he told her.

“How is it that after eight years you still manage to critique my footwork?” Cass muttered, sweat dripping from her brow.

“How is it that after eight years your footwork still needs to be corrected?” he countered.

Cass inclined her head for a moment. “Touché.”

“One day you will be correcting me, my butterfly, and then I will know it is time to turn in my sword.”

“The day you turn in your sword, Uncle, is the day the dracae return to the mountains,” Cass replied.

Elrod chuckled. “I appreciate your efforts at making an old man feel younger than his years.” Cass moved from Cat’s Pounce to Leaves Dance. Elrod cleared his throat. “I am needed in Brookshire tomorrow. I’ll be leaving in the morning. I trust you’ll be able to take care of yourself and the animals?”

“You wouldn’t be needed there because my birthday is in four days, would you?” Cass grinned, placing her sword in its sheath.

“Is it already your birthday? Why, I hadn’t realized…” Elrod turned away from her, walking toward the house.

‘You really expect me to believe that?” Cass followed him.

He shrugged. “It was worth a shot. Besides, what kind of uncle would I be if I forgot your birthday?”

“No matter what, you’d be the best uncle out there,” Cassandra told him, placing a quick peck on his cheeks. “And yes, I’ll be fine here.”

“If you’d like,” Elrod looked at Cass from the corner of his eye, “I can ask the Widow Swenson and her son if they can stay with you while I’m gone. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to protect you.”

“Uncle,” Cass said, placing her hands on her hips. “You wouldn’t be trying to set me up with Jameson, would you?”

Elrod cleared his throat again. “I would never think of such a thing.”

Cass rolled her eyes. “Besides, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself for a couple days. Why, I care for myself and such an old man daily that not having him around for a day or two might be a welcome relief.” Cassandra gave her uncle her best impression of an innocent grin before yelping as he playfully swung the sparring sword toward her. She quickly leapt out of the way as he growled at her.

“Petulant child,” he muttered, following her into the house.

As Cass spooned them bowls of cabbage and squash stew that had kept warm over the coals, Elrod built up a fire in the hearth. The days were finally starting to warm after a long winter, but the nights were still chilly. “Uncle,” Cass said as they sat before the flickering flames. “Tell me a story of Mama when she was a girl.”

“I’m sure I’ve told you all there is to tell, butterfly,” Elrod told her. He took a bite of stew.

“There’s got to be something you haven’t told me yet.”

He chewed thoughtfully before finally saying, “Did I ever tell you about the time your mother tried to make me a birthday cake that looked like a castle?” Cassandra shook her head as she ate her stew. Elrod smiled at the memory. “It’s the reason she never baked a cake again.

“It was my tenth birthday, and I was fascinated with the idea of being a knight. Your mother was almost eight years old, so our mother, your grandmother, said she would help make the cake. But Allandra was always a determined girl, and wanted to make it on her own. Even though she was young, she insisted Mother leave her to it. She spent all day mixing, baking, and decorating. In the morning I woke to find her asleep at the table with her head on her arms. She was covered head to toe in flour and sugar. And the cake looked like a mudslide. Mother said Allandra had stayed up most of the night trying to perfect it. When she couldn’t get it to look like a castle, she cried herself to sleep right there at the table.

“Your mother always cared for others. She was the kindest woman I’ve ever known. And you are her spitting image.”

“Except I have my father’s eyes,” Cass mumbled, looking into the fire.

Elrod smiled softly. “Except for your eyes, you resemble your mother in every way. From your brown hair to your single dimple to your kind heart and determination, you are your mother’s daughter.” Cassandra beamed. Elrod was right; Allandra was a special woman and Cass had loved her mother dearly. They fell into a comfortable silence, finishing their dinner. Eventually, though, Elrod stood. “I’ll be on the road early in the morning, so I better get some rest. Goodnight, butterfly.”

Cassandra awoke in the morning to the smell of coffee, as she had every morning for the past eight years. With the exception of one morning. They had run out of coffee grounds and Uncle Elrod hadn’t been able to make it to Brookshire, a full day’s journey away, to get more. Her uncle had been so miserably irritable that Cass had begged some grounds off of her neighbors. After that day, she’d vowed to make sure they never ran out of grounds again.

Normally when Cass woke, she would do her morning stretches before leaving her room, a tip Uncle Elrod had given her so her muscles would stay loose. This morning, however, she decided morning stretches could wait. She didn’t want to miss seeing her uncle off, so instead she dressed, brushed her teeth, and ran downstairs.

“Good morning, Uncle,” Cass said as she walked into the kitchen. “How did you sleep?”

He eyed her while taking a sip of his coffee. He was not a fan of mornings. “Morning,” he finally grumbled. “Slept like I always do. Hardly at all.”

“Uncle,” Cass said, pouring herself a cup of coffee and spooning them both up a bowl of porridge. “You need to take the Valerian root I got you. Mistress Leona says it’ll do the trick.” Elrod grumbled again and Cass laughed. “Do you plan to see Mistress Leona when you’re in town?”

Elrod lifted his cup, drinking the last of the coffee in his mug. “Yes, and I need to be on my way.”

“No porridge?”

He shook his head. “Not this morning, I’m afraid. Take care, butterfly. I will be back towards evening in three days.”

“Have a safe trip, Uncle,” Cassandra told him.

They hugged, and as he pulled away, he placed a kiss on her cheek. “Love you always.”

“Love you always,” she replied.

Interlude

I killed God. It's really an interesting story. I know what you're thinking: How does someone kill a supposedly omnipresent being? Well, stick around and I'll tell you a terrific tale of adventure, mystery, and intrigue.

It was a dark and stormy night... I'm kidding, I'm kidding. It was night, but it was neither dark nor stormy. A full moon shone bright above as I walked through Alar's capital city, Stonecoast. Lanterns from taverns and city torches lit the way before me. I pushed through a chaotic, crowded street, a group of people pushed together to watch the evening's parade. The celebration of Oesis, God of Beginnings, lasted an entire week, and we were only on day three. I hated these celebrations, and the loud chaos they created, but I had to put up with them. They were a central part of our society.

I had just turned into a darkened alley when I felt a hand grab my arm, its fingers wrapping tightly around my bicep. I turned to see a man with wild eyes staring at me. His tanned skin was wrinkled and leathery, white wisps of hair stood out from his head as though he'd been electrocuted, and his mouth contained only a handful of teeth. "Corvus," he whispered, his foggy, blue eyes staring at something beyond my head. I turned to see what he saw, but his grip tightened and he shook my arm. "Listen!" he continued, his voice raspy. "Beware and heed my words! Your decisions tonight will change your future and the future of the world, for either good or bad. Tread lightly and choose wisely."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, pulling my arm from the man's grip.

The man blinked, and turned his now fog-free eyes back to me, meeting my eyes. "I beg your pardon, young man," he said, his voice normal now, the rasp gone. "I think I might have had a bit too much ale tonight. Have a good one." He turned and started to walk away.

"Wait!" I nearly shouted. "What did you mean by that?"

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," the man said. "Did I say something?"

"Yes, just now, you...well you said something about tonight," I sputtered.

The man lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "I don't recall, son. Like I said, I believe I've had a bit too much to drink this evening. I'd better get home." Once again, he walked away. This time I let him, watching as he glanced back at me one time, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, before turning into the busy road.

I stared after him, wondering what, exactly, I had just experienced. How did he know about the important decisions I would be making tonight and the impact they would likely make?

With a shake of my head, I turned away, but not without a feeling of unease. If he knew, who else knew?

Later that night, I sat on a bale of hay in an empty horse stable, waiting to meet a man whose name I didn't dare utter aloud. I'd only met him once before, when he decided to plop himself down at my table in a tavern I frequented.

He then proceeded to tell me he could help me achieve my dreams and procure the power I so desperately craved. When I asked him what he knew about my dreams, he simply smiled a crooked smile and sipped at his ale.

Never before had someone made me squirm under their gaze, with the exception of my father when I was a child, but I found myself doing so under this man's stare. It irked me to once again feel so inferior to another, so I stared the man down until he laughed and tipped his ale stein up, chugging the rest of it down. The man slammed the stein down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Do you want to hear me out or go back to your home and continue to stay one step behind your father for the rest of your life?"

I considered the man's proposal. What could it hurt to hear him out? At the very least, I waste a little time. At the best, his claims turn out to be true. But before I agreed, I studied the man. He had mismatched eyes, one brown and one green, and a messy head of hair that somehow looked good on him. He was, I supposed, quite handsome, other than a scar that ran from his ear down his neck.

Finally, I shrugged. "Okay. Tell me. How can you make all my dreams come true?"

The man tilted his head back and laughed. "I can't tell you here, too many eyes and ears. Meet me at the Weavemaker's horse stable on the third night of Oesis's celebration. I'll have everything prepared then." Before I could respond, he stood and strode out of the restaurant.

So that was how I came to be sitting on a bale of hay tonight. Of course, I wasn't unprepared. Something about the man had struck a memory from lessons with my private tutor, so I researched, and researched, and researched. Until finally, I knew who the man was, and how he meant to make my dreams a reality. However, I wasn't about to let him use me for his own purposes. Instead, I came up with my own plan, one that would take him, and the world, by surprise.

* * *

Cass spent the next couple days taking care of the animals. By the afternoon of the second day, however, she was tired of being alone. The farm was situated away from the village, but it was only a ten minute walk through the forest to reach Shadowfren. Cassandra loved the forest. She had been angry when her uncle moved her away from the house in which she had grown up, but as the years had gone by, that anger had softened. She learned to love the smell of pine and earth, the comfort of being protected by the mountains that surrounded the village, and the brisk, fresh water that flowed from the mountain rivers.

There was no actual pathway through the forest to her home with her uncle, but she knew her way well. One house resided at the forest line, that of the Widow Swenson and her son, Jameson. He was only a few days older than Cassandra and they had become fast friends after she moved to the village. Shortly after, Abigail, a girl nearly a year younger than Cass and Jameson, had joined their friend group and ever since the three were nearly inseparable in their spare time.

She reached Jameson’s house and knocked on the door. The Widow Swenson opened it a moment later, wiping her hands on a towel. She was a tall, bulky woman. Her thick, gray hair was pulled back into a braid and the skin around her honey-brown eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Hello, Cassandra,” she said. “Jameson isn’t here. He’s run off with Abigail somewhere.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Swenson,” Cass replied. “You’re looking lovely today.”

The cheeks on Widow Swenson’s face turned as she waved a kitchen towel at Cassandra. “I need none of your flattery, my girl,” she said. But Cass saw her smile grow wider as she closed the door.

Cass then headed to Abigail’s house. She figured if they were out somewhere, she’d be more likely to figure out where if she asked Abigail’s mother, the wife of the village’s head. Because the village was home to less than a hundred people, they’d chosen not to appoint a mayor. Instead, Mr. Turner filled the role of the village head, taking on any concerns of the townspeople.

Before Cass even reached the door at Abigail's to knock, she could already hear Abigail’s laughter coming from the back. Her friend’s laughter was loud and contagious and often had the entire room giggling, even if they didn’t know why. Cass knocked once and opened the door without waiting for an answer. Abigail’s mother had once told Cass her door was always open and knocking wasn’t necessary. Cass still knocked once every time she came over, though, just to be polite.

Abigail and Jameson were both in the kitchen, which was straight back. A living room sat to the right and the dining room to the left. A short hallway led into the kitchen where Jameson stood at the counter, kneading a loaf of bread and Abigail diced carrots. They both looked up as Cass entered the room. “Cass!” Abigail exclaimed, and rushed over after setting her knife down to give Cass a hug.

Mrs. Turner entered the kitchen and Abigail quickly returned to dicing the carrots. “Oh, good. Another set of hands. Cassandra, be a dear and start kneading the dough in that bowl over there.” She pointed with a rolling pin to a bowl covered with a towel on top of the iron stove. Cass grinned, and immediately moved to listen, first pulling an apron from a hook on the wall.

For the next couple of hours, she helped knead dough, dice vegetables, measure out ingredients, and sift flour. By the time they were finished, the three friends were covered from head to toe in flour and were giggling as they left the kitchen. Mrs. Turner was making dinner for not only her family, but two others in the village who had sick family members.

Abigail laughed as they left the house. “Cass, you have flour on the top of your head. How did you manage that?”

Cass ran her hands through her brown hair a couple of times, flour poofing from it each time. “That would be because Jameson threw it at me and I ducked.”

“You should have seen the look on your face,” Jameson said, laughing so hard he could barely get the words out. “You were so stunned!”

“Jameson!” Abigail swatted him. “I can’t believe you threw flour at her!”

“I can’t believe your mom let us leave without cleaning up that mess!” Cass said.

“Ssshhh!” Jameson said, pressing a finger to his lips. But it was too late.

“I’ll be expecting your help with that when I get back from delivering these meals!” Mrs. Turner called from the house.

The three friends shared a look. “How does she do that?!” they asked in unison. One thing was for sure, Mrs. Turner had the best hearing out of anyone in the village.

Knowing they had a short time, the three friends ran through the woods to the north of the village, to the falls in the river. Many years before, when the first family had settled the village, they had found the river and built a dam at the bottom of the waterfall, creating a small pond where one could swim on hot days. Jameson turned away as the girls stripped to their underclothes and jumped into the pond, swimming to the middle and cleaning the flour from every inch of their bodies. He quickly followed, removing his shirt and pants before jumping in with them.

They spent the rest of the evening in the pond. The water was cold, but as they played games, trying to dunk one another below the surface, they warmed quickly. It wasn’t until the sun touched the top of the mountains that they finally climbed out of the water, wrapped themselves in the towels they had brought with, and took their clothes back home.

Jameson went to his house to change into dry clothes, but Cass followed Abigail to hers. “You can just borrow something of mine,” Abigail told her.

“Abs, you only have dresses, and you know I don’t do dresses,” Cass told her. “I’d be better off borrowing something of Jameson’s.”

Abigail laughed and flipped her red hair, so dark from being wet it looked brown, over her shoulder. “Oh, Cass. I’m sure I have something you’ll like.” They settled on a long, brown skirt and simple white top. It wasn’t trousers, Cass thought, but at least it wasn’t a dress.

By the time they had the kitchen cleaned, the sun had set and the stars were starting to show. “You should stay the night, like you used to when we were little,” Abigail told her after Cass voiced her concerns about walking home in the dark.

Without hesitation, Cass agreed. It had been a couple years since they’d slept at one another’s house and she missed it. They always stayed up far too late, talking and giggling, until Mr. or Mrs. Turner came and threatened them to within an inch of their lives if they didn’t quiet down. This always left the girls giggling behind their hands, trying their hardest to be quiet. This time was no exception.

Cass woke with a jolt. The sky was just starting to lighten through Abigail’s window. She looked around, trying to figure out what had woken her when she realized it was her dream. She had been wandering the streets of a large city, one she had never seen before, when she heard her uncle calling her name. She followed the twisting streets until she came to a large castle. She tried to enter, but the guards blocked her way, laughing and telling her to run home to her daddy.

So Cass followed the curve of the streets until an old woman came up to her and pulled her arm, making Cass follow. The old woman’s face was so wrinkled Cass could barely see her eyes, but the woman led her to a trap door in the kitchen of an old, run-down house. Cass told her no, she didn’t want to go, but the woman insisted, and with an incredible strength, threw Cass through the door.

She landed on a pile of hay, but quickly jumped up and tried yelling at the old woman to let her back up, but it was to no avail. It was when she decided to stop screaming that she realized she could hear her uncle’s voice much louder. Cass ran down a darkened tunnel, occasionally running through black puddles of water, until she came to a wooden door with an iron lock. She pounded on it, demanding to be let in, and it swung slowly open. The lock had vanished.

On the other side of the door was a large room. A table sat to the left. Two men sat at the table playing a game of cards. Mugs of ale sat next to them. The men ignored Cass as she walked across the room to a barred cell. An old man lay on a cot in the cell, his back to her. Cass reached the door and tried to pull it open, but it was locked. The bars clanged against each other, ringing out across the room. The old man rolled over. He had one black eye and a split lip. A small trickle of blood ran down his forehead from a cut above his eye. It was when Cass met his eyes that she realized it was her uncle Elrod. That was when she woke up.

“Abigail,” Cass whispered, shaking her friend. “Abigail, wake up.”

Her friend moaned and rolled over. She opened one eye and looked at Cass. “What?”

“Something happened to my uncle. I have to go help him,” she told her.

Abigail blinked a few times before sitting up. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, exactly, but I know something’s wrong. I have to go,” Cass said. She swung her legs to the side of the bed, but Abigail placed her hand on Cass’s arm.

“Explain.” So Cass told her about her dream and how it had felt so real, how she could feel the iron bars of his cage in her hands. How frail and weakened her uncle had looked. Once she had finished, Abigail looked into Cass’s eyes. “Then you must go to him. But how will you know where to go?”

“I don’t know,” Cass told her, grateful her friend believed her. “But I’ll start in Brookshire, see if I can find anything out there.”

Abigail nodded. “Run home, pack some clothes. I’ll pack you some food.”

“Thank you, Abs.” Cass wrapped her arms around her friend’s neck in a brief hug before running out of the room.

Less than an hour later she had returned to Abigail’s house. She had changed into riding clothes, packed a bag with warmer clothing in case the weather turned bad, and grabbed her uncle’s stash of emergency coins. Then she had saddled her horse, attached her bags to hang off the back of the saddle, and rode hard back to her friend’s house. She wasn’t surprised to find Jameson there with his own horse, packed for a trip.

“Jameson, what will your mom say?” Cass asked. She appreciated her friend’s support, knowing that her dreams were never wrong, but she worried what the Widow Swenson would say.

“My mom would be proud that I hadn’t left you to ride off on your own on a crazy whim, as she’d call it,” he told her. “Now you’re wasting time. Are we going or not?”

Once more, Cass threw her arms around Abigail’s neck. “Thank you, Abs. Watch after the animals, will you?”

“Of course. Send messengers once you find out what’s happened, you hear?”

Cass nodded then looked to Jameson. “You ready?” He nodded once. With one last glance back at Abigail, Cass spurred her horse into a gallop.