Of the Valley

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

But then again, there weren’t witches either.

My people used to be nomadic herders, shepherding sheep across the dangerous, rocky terrain of the Mountains, not an ounce of magic coursing through their human blood. Back then, the Valley belonged to the sprites, Elves, and other Fae folk, before their numbers dwindled rapidly and they retreated into the dark recesses of the Forest where no human dared to tread. When it was clear they wouldn’t return, some of our ancestors decided to trade the treacherous trails and trials of Mountain living for the safety and fertile soil of the Valley, ultimately dividing into two tribes: Those of the Mountain and Those of the Valley.

At least that’s what I’ve been told.

The stories revolving around the Fae aren’t exactly chiseled in stone and the details change depending on who is telling them. Some say the Fae were driven from the Valley by an evil force; others claim some of the Fae succumbed to the temptation of the Dark Craft and turned on their own, the survivors sacrificing themselves by fleeing into the Forest and using the last of their magic to trap their nefarious pursuers inside with them. There is one thing, however, that every story agrees upon: whether it was a curse bestowed by the evil force that chased them or it was polluted by their own wickedness, the Forest wasn’t dark, misty, and lifeless until the Fae took up residence.

Growing up I thought the Legends of the Fae were cautionary tales told by the Elders to keep curious children away from the gnarled reach of the Forest. For all we knew the Fae could be extinct after all this time. After all, the last human to lay eyes on them died a millennia ago. But it only supported their claims when a lone straggler stumbled, either due to their own hubris or in a drunken stupor, past the barren brambles of the Forest’s edge never to be seen from again. Or if on the rare occasion they managed to find their way back, they returned… changed.

Like my mother after she entered the clutches of the Forest searching for my missing father, who was a Mountain Dweller passing through with Those of the Mountain on their annual trading trip to the Valley. Though I wouldn’t have known a difference, for my mother didn’t realize she was pregnant with me when she went in after him. Many claim the Forest let her return for my sake, that it was my presence in her belly which saved her from a lifetime wandering lost and alone in the darkness, or worse; for as exacting as the Forest was, it was not cruel. So as far as I know, my mother was always the way she is now. But the whispers of the other Valley Dwellers lead me to believe otherwise.

According to the Elders, when the Fae left the Valley behind, they took every trace of magic with them. Until recently, I didn’t realize just how wrong they were.

Magic, even a drop of it, attracts more magic.

So, when a whiff of it blossomed in the Valley for the first time in centuries with the birth of a witch, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the first dragon found her. And neither should it have been a surprise when more dragons, griffins, and phoenixes followed as more witches came into their powers, tugging on the threads of magic that lay dormant for centuries.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’m Chrys. Chrysanthemum Ashwood, of the Valley.

And this isn’t just my story.

This is the story of the dragons, griffins, and phoenixes, and all the witches who rode them.