Our Third Eye

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

There was never that continual fear of the shadows, or of the beasts lurking in them. The now familiar cold shiver that ran down your spine when they neared, making your hair stand. Your body tense, your eyes on alert. Long before, The darkness was a blessed thing. It bestowed upon us the ability to dream and imagine. Suns and galaxies abound in an infinite sea of night. A universe that exists in between reality and fantasy. Now, before going to bed, we light a fire in the hopes that the creatures of the night don't deprive us of our tomorrow.

Celistyal was once a mythical place. In the Valley of every element, countless kinds of creatures would thrive. There was magic everywhere. Everything you breathed, touched, tasted, saw, and heard. It looks like something from a fairytale. A world just so impossible you only dream.

Mountains covered with snow and frost that never melted, whatever the weather. Constantly gleaming like stars and icy fire. The never-ending fields of crops and flora that never wither or die. The taste is always rich and delicious. The river and lakes are never deep and harsh; always quiet and peaceful. The Sky never closed or grey, every sunrise and set painted the world in art and colors. What a tale- a world, they lived.

“We used to live in freedom.”

Unbound by chains and rope. By fear. By terror.

Until they came.

How the world they once lived in shattered after that rumble.

Where the sky broke and the earth shook. Power and pain leaking in the cracks. Light, blown out like a candle until only fire and lightning consumed the Valley. It happened so fast. Unexpected.

But that wasn’t what broke the peace.

It was the after that did.

The silence of lost lives. The harsh ringing echoing in your head. The harsh tears of blinding your sight. So you didn’t see the corpse of you friends and family gone. Blood staining the water like ink on paper. Painting on the grass, like a canvas- and in some sick twisted way, that’s what it was to history.

The Art of Bloodshed and Dragons.

The Thefts of Magic.

“There used to be peace.”

“There is peac-”

“This ain’t peace! This is fear, we live in a constant fear,” Couldn’t they see? “Don’t you miss being outside at night?” Couldn’t they know? “Swimming in the lakes, hiking in the mountains, don’t you miss that?”

A harsh wind threatened to blow out the spark in between them.

“You can’t miss something you’ve never had.”

It flicked.

“But you can dream of it,” she whispered. “You can want it.”

Then it went out.

“Don’t be selfish, Catyrin.”

It shouldn’t have bothered her. She knew the darkness. Lived with it all her life. But the light sang to her like a seductive lullaby.

Others may have made peace with it. Accepted the fact that the past was the past. Just a memory. Just a fantasy. A story to whisper and share.

But not her.

Couldn’t they imagine how much happier they would be if they would just fight. Fight for the future, for the sun, the stars, the people. The freedom.

Want to have instead of wishing on false hope. That only let you down every time the moon rises.

She wanted a future.

A tomorrow.

One where they didn’t fear, didn’t hurt. One where the stories became reality and not only images in your mind.

And if she had to slaughter the dragons, one by one. She’ll do it.

And she’ll win.