Imadra's Light

Beware the shadow-dwellers, whose skin burns in the sun. Imadra’s Light rejects them. They dwell in the shade because they come from darkness, and to darkness they shall return. Their touch corrupts. Their tilling tortures the earth. They are unlike us in every way, and only seek to conquer what is unlike them.

And soon, they will come for us.

- Parillant, Scion of Imadra

Where Scorian flew, the storm followed. Vapor hissed out from beneath her scales, becoming jets that billowed out into towering thunderheads behind her. The land blurred far below, the shadow of her passing like a blanket over the countryside.

Beneath that shadow, it was not so peaceful. Wind tore at the trees and the long grasses, propelling rain that felt more like glass than water. Lightning slammed into the ground and lit trees ablaze.

The violent storm had little effect on the nature it consumed. The good the storm did vastly outweighed any harm. Rainwater fed the fields and filled the lakes and rivers. Lightning fires maintained the forests. And with the winds came fresh air and moderate temperatures in which the wildlife thrived. When the storm passed, peace settled and the land practically shimmered with vibrance.

All thanks to Scorian, and to Imadra’s Light, shining bright in the sky, a glorious golden orb. At its center curled the dark shape of Imadra herself. The Mother. The Creator. Who sacrificed herself to light the world.

Scorian could not stare at that shape for long.

Instead, she kept her eyes on the world, on the land Imadra had tasked her and the other dragons to care for.

Once the storm behind Scorian had grown to such a height that its shadow covered even her, her duty was complete. Her scales settled and the jets ceased. Scorian beat her great wings and surged ahead, turning back to observe her work: roiling gray thunderheads that flashed with lightning and whose peak was high above the world, the edge of Imadra’s Light glinting behind the cloud.

Scorian looked away. An ache burned in her chest, not nearly so warm as Imadra’s Light, and much sharper.

And so she roared.

It did little to stop the pain, but the mountains to the north (on Scorian’s left by way of her flight) quivered, some loose rocks falling away and crashing into foothills below. Clouds of dust burst into the air. Scorian hoped that no animals were caught beneath the fall.

She stopped pumping her wings and slowed down, the sound of the rushing wind fading enough that she could better hear her surroundings. Tilting to the north, Scorian glided toward the rockfall, listening to the land below. Several animals crashed through tree and brush away from the dust and stone, but nothing cried out.

The songs of nature continued, unhindered by Scorian’s momentary interruption.

With regular beats of her great wings, she hovered there, listening. The trees whispered in rhythm with the wind. Birds sang, punctuating the trees’ susurrations with bright, high-pitched notes. The sounds flowed with one another somehow without ever actually communicating. Imadra’s creations, all of them, connected in ways that they could never understand.

And their most important connection, to their mother, severed.

The sun burned in Scorian’s periphery, but she didn’t look.

But though she didn’t look, she couldn’t stop memories from consuming her mind. Deep emerald scales and bright yellow eyes. A smile full of love. Power thrumming beneath scales, outlining them all in light, as if she were about to burst.

A great spear. Blood. An explosion that lit the world anew. A—

Something tore Scorian from her memories. An interruption to the song. Something sharp. Something dissonant. Scorian turned in its direction. It was far to the south. She pumped her wings and shot a burst of cloud from beneath her scales to propel her forward.

What was it? A wounded animal? Scorian had never heard anything like it.

There. In that glade. The dissonance was coming from there. Scorian tucked her wings and dove.

When the ground came up fast, Scorian stabbed her wings out and slowed her descent, but still slammed into the earth with such force that the trees bounced and leaves fell from their branches.

That made the dissonance worse. It was louder, now, and shriller, too. Scorian cringed against its sound and searched the glade.

In the center was a pile of objects, most of which were foreign to Scorian. Some appeared wooden, with carvings on them. There were several different kinds of fruits. Their orderliness, the arrangement of the fruits, the intricacies of the carvings, made Scorian’s stomach flutter. No animals could have done this. Only shadow-dwellers.

Scorian crouched low and spread her wings, ready to take off in an instant. She had never seen a shadow-dweller, never been near one. But Parillant’s warnings were clear enough. Was this a trap? A way to lure Scorian in? Would they use her skin to cover them from the sun’s light?

Something in the center of the pile rustled. It was a pile of furs. A shadow-dweller, waiting to attack?

Scorian crept closer, her shadow covering nearly the whole glade. Something was certainly writhing beneath the furs. Scorian lifted a hesitant foot and hooked one of the furs with her claw, then pulled it away.

The dissonance stopped.

Something tiny and copper-colored lay on the ground. It had no scales or fur, save for some wispy black hair on its head. Its eyes were large, their irises brown, and they stared up at Scorian, the mouth below it in the shape of an O. Its head was cocked slightly to one side, and it held its pudgy arms and legs close to its body.

Was this…it couldn’t be. This couldn’t be a fearsome shadow-dweller, the conquerors of the south. It was too…small.

The creature cooed and cocked its head the other way, never taking its gaze off Scorian.

There was one way to test its origins. Scorian pulled her wings in and stepped to the side. The creature continued staring at her—until the line of Scorian’s shadow gave way to the sunlight. Then it squinted and buried its face in the furs.

Scorian took a step back. It was certainly a shadow-dweller. Only it would react to Imadra’s Light in such a way. She searched the area around the creature more carefully. There weren’t any weapons near it, but then again, Parillant had always said that even the shadow-dwellers touch would corrupt.

Were they all so small? So soft? Were they really such a threat? Parillant had directed them never to even venture in their direction. And in the hundreds of years since Imadra’s passing, Parillant’s word was law.

But the way it just lay there, the largeness of its head compared to the rest of its body, the softness to its features, though different, all of those features reminded Scorian of other young animals. The size and brightness of its eyes looked very much like those of a freshly hatched dragon. This must have been a child. But if that were the case, where were its parents?

Scorian huffed, a great breath blowing out of her nostrils and rustling the furs and the child…the shadow-dweller’s hair. It giggled.

What did Scorian do? Flee and tell Parillant? Did she…kill it?

As if it could read her mind, the child stopped giggling and stared at Scorian with a frown.

Could they read minds? Parillant hadn’t mentioned that, but—

The trees shifted.

And their movement was not from any natural wind. They rocked back and forth, some branches crashing into one another and breaking leaves free.

Then a blast of wind nearly knocked Scorian off balance and blew over the shadow-dweller’s objects. A great shape covered the light of the sun above. As it descended, its shape clarified into broad wings and a length nearly twice Scorian’s. It beat its wings once before landing in the glade, opposite Scorian.

Parillant, Scion of Imadra, was one of the first dragons, his scales a brilliant ivory that shimmered in the light. His eyes were a deep blue that appeared black in some lights. He and Scorian were opposites in many ways, her navy-blue scales to his ivory, her smaller and sleeker shape to his broader and stronger one. And yet he had chosen her as his lieutenant. They and they alone were keepers of many a secret, the greatest of which was Imadra’s death. Scorian could feel it, like a cord drawn taut between them, especially when they were with the others of their kind.

“Your senses serve you well, Scorian.” Parillant’s voice rumbled through the glade, making the ground quiver. The shadow-dweller child pushed itself into a sitting position to watch this newcomer. “But its cry cuts through the air like a claw, doesn’t it? You can feel that it doesn’t belong.”

“I believe it’s a child,” Scorian said. “Its parents may be nearby. We—”

“No,” Parillant interrupted, taking a step forward and surveying the child and the other shadow-dweller objects. Then a low, loping rumble came from Parillant’s throat. A bemused chuckle. “No one’s coming to retrieve the child. They’re advancing more quickly than I anticipated. These are offerings.”

“Offerings? To whom?”

Parillant poked at one of the objects, a round piece of wood. He flipped it over with its claw. Carved on its face was a jagged, crude image of a dragon’s head.

“Imagine what they see from their hovels and shades in the south,” Parillant said, a smile pulling at his mouth and revealing the jagged fangs behind. “A dark, massive creature flying through the sky, a storm born in its wake. Or perhaps their tribes have seen Viruvian at work, trees sprouting from his steps. They worship what they do not understand. They worship what they fear.”

Scorian looked down at the child. “But…a child? They would offer their child?”

“They fear us more than they love their child,” Scorian puffed a hot breath that rustled the child and rolled through the glade. “They’re also, by nature, lazy and misguided barbarians. This was an easy way for them to escape the responsibilities of parenthood.”

The child shivered. Without any fur or scales, its soft flesh must have been sensitive to their air, too, not just the sun. Scorian nudged a fur over it. “We should return it to its parents. Force them to take it back.”

“You want to return a child to parents who abandoned it?” Parillant scoffed. “No. The child is an offering. If the shadow-dwellers wish to worship us, we will take that position. It will cement their place, and deter them from moving against us.”

Scorian looked down at the child, who had stopped shivering in the furs. It looked back and forth between the two dragons, completely unaware that they were deciding its fate.

“I do not think that’s what Imadra would want. We are equal to all her creations. Including the shadow-dwellers. We can be cautious of them without putting ourselves above them.”

Parillant’s eyes narrowed, any amusement gone. “The shadow-dwellers were born of Imadra’s madness. They—”

“You do not know that.” Scorian’s muscles tightened as she braced for Parillant’s reaction. Had she really interrupted and challenged the Scion? She had never done such a thing.

Parillant took another step forward, raising his shoulders and his head until he looked down on Scorian from above the tops of the trees. “Perhaps the shadow-dwellers are not the only ones who need to be reminded of their place. Your proximity to this child must have already corrupted your mind. My lieutenant would never speak to me with such insolence if she had her wits. Imadra would protect her children. Her family. Would you choose a clay sculpture over me, or the others? That’s all these shadow-dwellers are: dirt that has become too ambitious. They are a mistake. You see it for yourself: it cowers when touched by Imadra’s Light.” A sneer returned to his face. “I say we leave half of it behind. That will be a clear message.”

Parillant took one more step forward.

Scorian did, too.

“Their flesh is soft and their eyes are weak,” Scorian said, more of a growl coming into her voice than she intended. “It’s sensitive to a light we placed there.”

“And would Imadra create something with such flaws if not in her madness? They’re corruption, and they shall continue spreading, as a weed out of control. I will control it here.”

Scorian looked down at the child. It had the same look of any creature fresh to the world: innocence. How could Parillant be so afraid of them? Or perhaps it wasn’t fear. Scorian took a breath to calm her nerves, then let it out in a huff. “They’re no threat. You hate them because you can’t control them. And you make us afraid to control us.”

How had she not seen it before? She’d been so lost in her guilt, so desperate to merely fulfill her calling and care for the world as Imadra would want. As if she could make up for her sin. But in doing so, it seemed that she was neglecting to care for all of Imadra’s creations.

Scorian’s scales rustled, and it sounded like wind disturbing the leaves.

Parillant dug his claws into the ground and lowered his head. His great eyes flicked from Scorian to the child and back.

One more move, one more step, and Scorian could never return.

“Consider your next action very carefully, Scorian,” Parillant growled. “We will chase you to the ends of the world. Once the others know that you killed Imadra, they will not stop until they taste your blood.”

Scorian’s hesitation flared into fury. “I ki…I protected you from her madness.” She could barely find the breath to speak. “And she commanded me to finish it. I am no murderer. The others will see that.” The tension of the secret had snapped. They had never spoken of that night, of how Scorian had found Imadra’s claws deep in Parillant’s chest, a look in her eyes unlike any Scorian had seen in their Mother, and a look of desperate fear in his. How Scorian had grabbed Imadra’s massive spear, discarded on the forest floor, and thrust it into her side. Of how, as Imadra fell off Parillant, the madness left her eyes and the love of the Mother returned. How Scorian had moved to release the spear, but Imadra grabbed her and held her to the weapon as she whispered: “I love you. Have courage. And never hesitate to follow what your heart tells you is right. Finish this, and know I will always be with you.”

Of how Scorian wept and roared and created a storm that lasted for weeks.

“Scorian,” Parillant said, softer, much of his hardness gone. She saw her old friend once more, before the burden of leadership had changed him, before his paranoia made him forget what Imadra’s charge to care for her world really meant. “Please. This is the only way. If we don’t control them, they will come for us one day, and then who will care for the world?”

Have courage.

“I’m sorry.”

Thunder blasted through the glade as dark clouds burst out from beneath Scorian’s scales, instantly shrouding Scorian and the child from Parillant’s view. Scorian’s eyes, adapted to flying through dark storms, could see better than even the Scion.

Scorian dove and wrapped her hand around the child’s furs, spread her wings, and launched into the sky. Air blasted away, blowing out some of the clouds.

Then the world shattered as Parillant roared.

Scorian looked down just long enough to see Parillant surge into the sky, the trees around him nearly flattening from his leap. The sun caught his ivory scales as he escaped Scorian’s withering storm cloud, and made him appear as if he were veiled in a shroud of fire. He pumped his wings, which were almost twice as wide as Scorian’s, and covered nearly half the distance between them.

Scorian pulled the child toward her chest and released more storm cloud from beneath her scales in all directions, blocking Parillant from sight. Once out of view, Scorian darted to the left, hoping Parillant would continue his present course and fly far above them. But she didn’t dare underestimate Parillant enough to pause and look back.

Rain started pattering against her scales as the storm gained strength. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed nearby. The sounds, like a choir of their own, were normally a comfort to Scorian, but in that moment the quiet was unsettling.

A crack echoed through the sky behind her, distinct from the thunder. It was a sound Scorian knew too well. She stopped flying forward and hovered, scanning the darkening clouds all around her.

Purple light exploded up to her right and Parillant appeared out of nothing. Scorian darted to the side as a ball of flame erupted from Parillant’s maw and shot toward her. The flames blew just beneath Scorian’s right wing, the heat making her draw a sharp breath. Just as Scorian returned her attention back to Parillant, the other dragon was glowing with purple light beneath his ivory scales. Then with a crack of displaced air, Parillant was gone.

Scorian threw her wings before her, pushing herself backwards, then spun and darted back the direction she’d come. Parillant could disappear and reappear anywhere—an ability from Imadra intended for Parillant to be able to instantly appear anywhere he was needed—but he couldn’t anticipate exactly where Scorian would be. In combat, the move was more spectacle than practical, but it was certainly unsettling to his opponent.

Parillant cracked back into existence far behind Scorian. She looked backward as another swirling ball of fire shot toward her. The flames singed the underside of her wing despite her tilting to the side. All it would take was one hit for Parillant to take her down.

Another crack as Parillant disappeared again, followed by a deeper boom of thunder.

Scorian tucked her wings and dove. Rain slapped against her scales and lightning burst toward the ground ahead. When the clouds started thinning and the trees became visible, she spread her wings, spun, and started surging northward. If she could just get to the mountains, she’d—

Purple light burst in front of her and Parillant was there, mouth wide, claws ready. He latched onto her, sinking his fangs into her shoulder and grabbing onto her wings with his forelegs.

They started falling together, wrapped in a deadly embrace. Scorian tightened her grip around the child and roared in pain, her blood mixing with the rain around them as they fell.

Scorian opened her scales and released more cloud, the pressure forcing Parillant to release her shoulder. She slammed her skull into his, but he only barely recoiled, the move likely hurting her more than him. He pulled his head back and Scorian saw the light of fire in the back of his throat. She opened her own maw.

Some things were faster than fire.

Lightning exploded out of her mouth and slammed into the back of Parillant’s throat. He instantly released her and careened backwards from the force of the blast.

Parillant dropped, dazed, wings flapping helplessly at his sides. Scorian reared her head back once more, then released another blinding bolt of lightning. The bolt broke into jagged branches and punched holes in Parillant’s wings. That snapped the Scion out of his daze and he roared with a sharp pitch that made Scorian cringe. He flapped his wings, but too much air passed through the holes, and he dropped through the clouds.

Scorian stared at the imprint he left as the cloud curled into the space until there was a great crash below the storm.

A pain twinged in her heart, not unlike the guilt she felt about Imadra. But she knew her old friend would live, and, hopefully, one day understand.

She held out the child, opening her claws to ensure it was unharmed. It stared up at her, perfectly calm, its eyes searching her own. Scorian pulled the furs tighter around it and held it close to her chest once more.

With one last look below, Scorian turned north. The mountains there would provide a refuge for her and the child while she cared for it. Of one thing, she felt Parillant was right: the parents of this child must have feared the dragons more than they loved it. She would care for the child until it could make the choice whether to stay with her or return to her people. Then, perhaps, she would return home, and hope her brothers and sisters would accept her, despite Parillant’s poison.

As she pumped her wings and started for the peaks, she looked toward Imadra’s Light.

And this time, she could stare at the sun and the guilt didn’t feel so sharp. Instead of turning away, Scorian only took a deep breath and welcomed the pain. She would hide from it no longer. She would bask in Imadra’s Light and allow it to fuel her own growth, as it did all of Imadra’s other creations.

Then, perhaps, one day she could look at the sun and only feel its warmth.

***

Scorian would fly south for the winter, when the northern mountains became too cold for the child. The people of the south would call those times the Rumblings, for when Scorian returned, they very air would quiver and their buildings would shake. Then the rains would come.

And in the years to come, many a farmer and wanderer would claim that between the thunderclaps, that shrouded behind the raindrops, they would hear a child’s laughter from the skies.