Harbinger

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

At least, that’s what my mother told me. And when I remember her words, I smell her scent – vanilla and citrus – and I hear the soft crackle of oak on our hearth. She loved to tell stories. That one was her favorite.

At times, I’ve wondered if it was just one of those tales that parents tell their children in the dark nights when reality is too much to bear. But as a little girl, I believed with everything I had that the story was true. My mother had a strong voice, and her bright green eyes – brighter than mine, even – would train on me, as if she were commanding me to will the story into truth. I’d get lost in her words. And the clashing of metal, the screeching of the beasts and the pained shouts of our guards in the streets would fade. Sleep would come, and in the morning, I’d learn that our town of Stonestead had survived another attack.

But over time, the attacks became more and more common. As cyclical as the weather. Fiercer. The horrid sounds outside became harder to ignore. And my mother’s trembling hand would clutch the emerald amulet around her neck, the one she’d never let me hold, the one that glowed like a green ember whenever the monsters approached. Her voice would falter as she told me, “there weren’t always dragons in the valley.” And the story became harder to believe.

I step forward onto an expansive cobblestone square and see before me what I’ve been looking for the past week: the stone fountain shaped like a dragon, its snout pointed toward the skies. Around me are the charred skeletons of old storefronts and houses. This place would be indistinguishable from the other ruined villages and towns in the Valley of Lights if not for that fountain. And a flood of sad warmth fills my stomach as I realize I’m standing in the remains of the old marketplace of Stonestead Square. I am home.

For the first time in a week, I relax my grip on the hilt of my sword. I take my eyes off the gray skies above. And I sigh. Smile, even. I think of Asher with his gray eyes and jet-black hair, chiding me for being too serious, too pessimistic. What is it he always tells me? Sometimes you have to celebrate the things you’ve already done, so you remember that you’re capable of doing the things you still need to do. You win, Asher. I’m damn proud of myself for making it this far.

Days of searching – digging through the remains of the towns and villages of the Valley. It proved harder than I could have ever imagined when I first left the Hold of Brilantha, when I first learned of my destiny as the Harbinger. The Valley of Lights is unrecognizable to me now, a barely habitable fog of ash. This place had been fading from my memory already. Now it might as well be a foreign land.

The Valley of Lights that I remember was one of the most beautiful places in all of Synthos, famed for its fireflies that flashed like a little galaxy of stars in the purple haze of summer nights. But there are no fireflies, anymore. No nights, anymore. The sky is a perpetual swirl of cloud-like ash plumes. The ashes coat the ground like fresh-fallen snow. The air tastes like embers, and the smile costs me – too much air rushes through my mouth and I hurry to pull my scarf around my mouth to suppress a coughing fit. The sound of my cough sends a chill down my spine. I push my brown hair out of my face, and I look up to the skies. But there is nothing. You have to stay quiet, Alyra, I tell myself. You’ve come too far to get sloppy now.

No, this is not the place I once knew. But I believed that I could find Stonestead if I could just find the stone dragon fountain. I knew it would still be here. It was the last thing I saw, as a burly guard who smelt of boiled potatoes dragged me away when I was a child, while an inferno of heat and blue fire rained from the sky. That was the night that Stonestead, the last defense between Synthos and the Dragonwilds of the West, finally fought its last battle. It was the last time I saw my parents. The last time I walked upon this square.

I've never forgotten the image of that hell-wreathed stone fountain, still standing as my world fell to ruin around it.

I’m rushing now. I need to get out of this wasteland. But I can’t go back empty-handed. Asher and the others are counting on me. All of Synthos is counting on me. There are no roads here anymore. But I close my eyes and try to remember, let my feet find the familiar steps north of the town square, until I’m standing in front of the frame of a razed building.

I have no way of knowing for sure if it’s mine. I have no way of knowing if I’ll find what I’m looking for. My smile is gone, and I’m back to glancing up to the sky. My knuckles whiten as I grip the hilt of my blade, and I step into the rubble.

I dig until I start to find some familiar heirlooms that confirm my suspicions – this ruin was my family’s house. I find the hilt of my father’s sword – the one he left my mother to defend us with as he went to join the guards the night Stonestead fell. I find my mother’s gold earring. I want to linger with them, to remember the life that I lost, the life that fades from my memory every year with age. But it’s no time for emotion. I swallow the lump in my throat and keep looking – it has to be here. I can’t have come this far only to fail.

Soon my body is coated in ash and my throat scratches, but I’m still empty handed. Aside from a few more trinkets, there’s nothing else here.

I don’t have time to despair. The skin on my neck prickles and I hear a low growl. I peer into the gray plume around me until I see those bright purple eyes that have been following me since my first night in the Valley. An Ash Hound emerges from the squall, teeth gnashed, claws sharp, its body black with gray stripes like some tiger from hell.

But it’s not the claws that scare me. The creature’s growl swells until it boils over into cruel barks and my eyes turn to the gray skies again. Quiet, I hiss in my mind. Please, quiet.

I rise from the rubble and pull out my blade – Asher’s blade, the one he gave me as a reward for completing my training. It’s his family’s sword, curved near the top with a hilt of gold. The beast charges forward and lunges, gnashing its teeth. Each bark sends another chill down my spine. I see two other pairs of purple eyes emerge behind it. One howls.

I’m too distracted by the sounds to react, and the first Hound sinks its teeth into my arm. I smell the burning before I feel it, but when I do, I yelp. No, I remind myself. No noise. I channel the power of my mother’s voice. The voice of her stories. I will myself to stay quiet. And as I do, I bring the blade down on the Hound’s neck, its teeth still clinging to my arm. The blade strikes through, the body goes limp and the jaws relax.

The other two Hounds back away, frightened, for just a moment. But they sense that I’m injured, and they come forward again, hackles raised, humming in anger. I don’t dare look down at my arm as it dangles from my shoulder, smelling faintly of smoke. I look up to the skies instead. Still nothing. But if I don’t do something now, anything, I’m dead.

I’m resigned to the fact that I’ll have to use magic to survive this. The magic I cannot yet tame. The magic that appeared in me only a month ago, with Asher’s coaxing.

The magic of the Harbinger – the one whose destiny is to either bring the end of dragons, or the end of Synthos.

I breath in with all I have, wincing at the burning air. I stomp my foot down into the ground below me as I exhale. The earth rumbles, cracks. Ash falls like sand in an hourglass through a fissure that grows from beneath my step. The fissure traces out, toward one of the Hounds, opening beneath its feet. I watch it fall into the depths, its yelps fading into the abyss. The other wastes no time, darting off in fear into the swirling ash storm around us.

The ground rumbles for a moment more, louder than I had hoped, and then it finally stills. And once again, all is quiet.

I keep my sword tight in my hand, my gaze fixed to the sky. One week. One week without a sound. And now, when I’ve finally made it to my destination, I’ve made enough of a commotion to attract every dragon in the West.

A minute passes. Then two. Nothing. I’m safe. But I won’t be for long, and now I’m injured, weak from the magic.

That’s when I see, in the corner of my eye, a faint emerald glow. It’s off in the distance, back the way I came, a lone beacon in the expansive gray, rising and falling in intensity.

I run toward it, my heart racing. And I find I’m running back into the cobblestone square of Stonestead. I see the light emitting from the stone dragon’s mouth. But how? Is it possible that my mother hid it there in her final moments? But that would mean that she knew its power. That would mean she somehow knew this fountain would withstand the onslaught. That would mean…

Is it possible she left it here for me?

I climb the fountain, shove my arm down the dragon statue’s throat until I feel a sliver of glass, and find I’m holding what I came for: my mother’s amulet, throbbing with an emerald glow. I turn it over in my hand, the inscription in some language that I’ve never understood. It feels warm.

It’s the Key, Asher told me once. The Key to understanding why the dragons are coming to Synthos? The Key to understanding how to stop them? He didn’t tell me – he just offered that wry smile. Patience, Harbinger. But now that I’m holding it, I feel it pulsing with hope. I smile again, and this time I don’t think of Asher. I smell that concoction of vanilla and citrus. And I hear my mother’s voice.

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Maybe the story was true. Maybe it could be again.

But then I remember why the amulet glows.

I hear a booming thump of air in the skies above.

I hear a piercing screech.