TEARS ON FIRE

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THE SHIPS ARRIVED IN SPRINGTIME, carrying the heads of slaughtered dragons.

That was the beginning of the end for the high coastal city of Adonwé.

But that day was theirs. Triumphant bells rang from dragon-ivory basilicas. Bridges and canals ran full with celebratory packs.

All felt invincible and everlasting.

Drunk on this spectacle of vengeance as if it were the wine in their cups.

A plump merchant, face hidden by a lurid dragon mask that smiled on one side and cried on the other, openly declared: “Either dead or alive, we shall reclaim our dragons. This is but a small taste of greater things to come!”

Without a doubt it was. The Burning of Garra was planted the moment those vessels came to land.

1 ______________________________________________

A MIDNIGHT BREEZE CARRIES THE scent of wildflowers and charred flesh.

The Dragon Republic of Adonwé, supreme ruler of the Darkling Sea, now drowns in an ocean of flame.

Dragons, like giant metallic vultures, circle this once great city — releasing hellish lungfuls onto the crumbling buildings and screaming crowds below. Such cries ride upon the blazing wind and through the surrounding farmlands and into the Olde Forest and soon mix with another kind of crying. The cries of a little girl for her mother.

“Mama.”

The child is tucked into the burrow of a half-dead oak. Trembling like the leaves above her. Tears falling like the world around her.

“Mama!”

“Hush dear. I’m gonna help Pa load the rest of our belongins. Stay put, stay here. Yall see us back soon.”

This woman with ashes in her hair is never seen again.

Nothing is heard beyond the trees except for dying voices and dragon calls. Thunderous roars that freeze the spine. A lullaby of pure terror.

The fires burn all night, all day, and the wide-eyed child keeps perfectly still. Sleeping when she can. Waiting. Waiting on her mother.

Smoke filters the light and veils the air. A blood-red day seen through maples and spruces. Twilight of Man, and the sun is setting.

The tall pines as silent and watchful as sentinels.

She lays her head against the base of this ancient oak, perhaps as a final gesture of surrender to the coming downfall.

And the night arrives like some dreaded chimera, a beast made of darkness and for darkness, and coyotes start to yap in the canyon below and what eyes can see this now must be the eyes of some nightmare sleeper indeed.

The coyotes turn silent. Birds scatter from their nests. Raccoons dart into the underbrush.

A vast stillness overtakes the forest. Then, a low and growing rumble. The earth is shaking.

The child wakes from her sleep and breathes a smell her four-year-old nose cannot reckon with. Sulphuric air laced with rotting flesh.

Shrubs and plants shrivel in his presence — a heat that makes the hardiest life break and bow — for here is Daggonath the Deathflyer, vyrm of Zalnoth, war chief of the Drakû Nation. A true born of the Outer Dark.

Beginning to sweat, very close to fainting, she feels the incredible heat discharged from his breath and body. She can crawl no further into this oak. This is it.

He slowly approaches. A maced tail rattling in his wake.

She has never seen a dragon of this kind before. In fact, the only dragon she ever saw was when her father took her into Adonwé — and that was but a statue!

This one is alive. A walking volcano. With massive folded wings, black rams horns, and iron dark skin with more dents and cuts than the armor of a thousand seasoned knights.

His nostrils flare and fume like molten pits. “I smell you little mouse… come out… come out,” he whispers in a deep tectonic voice.

His serpentine eyes, glowing hellholes from another world, scan the underbrush.

A forked tongue, slimy and venomous, flickers into the dead oak, missing the girl’s presence by a mere thimble’s length.

“The stink of cow and sheep is upon you. Know that I roasted your farmland and not a single grain of wheat was left unlit. All of it my bonfire!” he says in a great hissing laughter more akin to bubbling lava.

“Listen, little mouse. I don’t want to eat you — I only want to kill you. To finish the game your kin started. I cannot willfully damage the trees of this forest, sacred law being what it is, so, make this easy for the both of us.”

His noxious stench and lethal heat are too much. Too much. The little girl faints. Falling into the darkness that surrounds her.

“Oh well. This oak is nearly dead. Perhaps one minor transgression is permissible.”

His nostrils suck in the forest air, converting oxygen into flammable gas, and just when he’s about to exhale — ready to open his jaws and scratch his flintlock tongue against the roof of his metal mouth — that is when he sees it.

A silver specter. Illuminating the darkness like some ghostly winged lantern.

Even among battle-scarred dragons such an apparition is greatly feared. For Olde Forest is said to be haunted by long-extinct elves. Spirits who take on the form of ghost moths. Evil insects with luminous red eyes on their wings; forever seeking vengeance for what the dragons did to elfkind.

This phantom can only mean one thing: he should not be here.

In the distance, he hears a fellow drake roaring for help, but this is just a convenient excuse to flee the scene.

“No matter little mouse, you’ll soon be ashes regardless, but here’s a parting gift to warm your broken spirit.” He snorts a tendril of flame onto the withered oak and his black-veined sails spread open — a ship’s length of razor-tipped wingspan that cleaves any tree in the way — and with two explosive beats he shoots into the air. Gone.

The oak’s deadwood exterior quickly converts into flame. Inside, the little girl is still unconscious, her hair and clothes beginning to singe. Certain death only seconds away. Then, something gracefully grabs her — a green tentacle with the dexterity of an elephant’s trunk.

2 ______________________________________________

SHE WAKES ON A GOLDEN June morning. Alone, confused, and most certainly traumatized. She is in a gloomy hole, a cave.

A new terror pops into her mind; that monster took me back to its den and is gonna eat me!

She runs toward the light, out of the cavern’s mouth, and discovers a dangerously high ledge overlooking everything — earth, sky, and distant sea, all woven into a globular blue and green infinity — and that is when she loses her balance and falls.

Out of nowhere, just like before, an emerald tentacle wraps around her and restores her to a sound footing.

“I won’t always be here to save you,” echoes a voice as smooth and polished as wrought silver. “You’re extremely foolish, even by roonda standards.”

She turns to look at the speaker and a fresh fear grips her faster than the tentacle did. That tentacle is a tail. It’s another monster.

A vyrm to be precise. And even though he appears to be full grown, exactly one hundred years old, he is still just a gangly teen. Wingless. A wormy caterpillar living in the shadow of regal butterflies.

His name — his hatchling name — is Ezalrûk, and he wants nothing more than to be rid of such a pathetic title. For in his tongue it means “green vomit.” Such a name conveys that he is still soft. Still weak. Green. Green in every sense of the word. As all vyrms are born that color until they can fulfill their skin quests.

The girl senses that this monster is different from the prior one, but she’s still terrified.

She starts to sob.

“Stop that, stop that!” barks Ezalrûk. “There is no crying in my cave!”

This only makes the girl wail even more.

A rage boils in his belly and it turns into a head full of cruel thoughts.

Roast this little roonda to a crisp!

You are deluded if you think she is apart of some grander vision.

It must be said that all vyrms must undertake a rite of passage if they are to become proper dragons. “Go forth by wave and return by wind” is the official mantra of such a perilous journey. Any worm can be hatched but a dragon is only made by skin quest.

Being without wings a vyrm must swim across the Darkling Sea and once reaching mainland must establish a “trest” or treasure nest. What the common mind understands as a greedy dragon guarding a gold-hoard is actually a vyrm preparing its trest. One's plunder is alchemically transmuted by way of cocoon or “dracoon”.

That is why all dragons have such dazzling scales… it is literally made of gold, silver, bronze, and iron.

All things of value are needed on this quest if a vyrm is to be successful, and not just material things, but also visions. For only after receiving a true vision can a vyrm commence its metamorphosis.

That night in the forest is when he thought he saw such a vision.

As it is forbidden to do violence on such a skin quest, he could only watch his fellow Drakû from afar. But he knew their war was just and snuck out to get a better glimpse of the scorching. That is when he saw the ghost moth.

A normal dragon would be scared flameless by such a sight, but not him. The fluttering specter summoned him as if by spell. He followed it into the forest until he saw Daggonath the Deathflyer. Such a drake frightened him more than any moth could. He knew this dragon was after something — and that something was her.

Her. Crying. Crying. Crying. And she will not stop! That worthless moth led me to no treasure, he thought. But I will keep her around to better understand my enemy. She is one of them after all.

“Simmer down, roonda,” he says in his most pleasant voice. Tongue flickering out as he decides what to say next.

“You must grow a thick skin if you wish to survive. Never show a drop of weakness. Be strong!” He gazes into her soul with catlike eyes. “Just like you, perhaps, I lost my parents when I was but a hatchling. However, I never shed one single tear for them. Know this, know only this; to cry is to die.”

And indeed this was true. Dragon tears are ten times more powerful than their breath. Like a sacrificial bee losing its stinger, a dragon will only cry when it’s willing to totally destroy itself for the sake of others.

“What is your name?” He asks her.

She does not answer.

“My name is Ezalrûk, but thankfully, not for long.”

He stares deep into her leaf-green eyes, scanning her mind for information (dragon scrying the elves called this) until she looks away.

“Lu…Lutie…Luticia! Is that your name?”

She turns on him with wide and astonished eyes.

“Hmmm, but you need a proper Drakû name if you are to live among dragons. I shall call you Luta. It’s close enough to your real name yet greatly improves on it. Does that suite you?”

She shakes her head.

“Good.”

Luta being the Drakû word for moth.

3 ____________________________________________

THE DAYS PASS BY LIKE summer storms. Morning after morning, Luta wakes to find various food items. Whole plucked berry bushes, roasted rabbits, and the occasional deep fried mountain goat. All washed down with spring water that flows on the cave’s left side.

Ezalrûk (Ez as she now calls him) is gone for most of the day, returning through his vyrm-hole with either breakfast or treasure.

His lair within Mount Talon has only two access points; the front door, which leads to a fifteen-thousand-foot drop-off, and the backdoor, a long tunnel or vyrm-hole, which leads down the mountain and into Olde Forest.

“Don’t disturb my trest. Don’t even go in there,” he tells her before leaving. But she can’t help it. Here is a chamber larger than the rest of the cave and it holds a small lake of coins, goblets, pearls, jewels, swords, and armor. Fantastically engraved helmets and breastplates that adorned kings whose bones are now dust.

What else is there to do but stare at this. She fears touching any of it. Ez will somehow know.

Staring, that is her new official pastime.

She watches Olde Forest change from green into the many burning colors of autumn. Leaves on fire. The evening sun paints deep shadows into Mount Talon as two barely visible moons appear overhead.

Sitting on the the cave’s precipice she commands an eagle’s view of Garra.

She can see it all. Two Fangs and the Gatlon Mountains and the glistening river Nimra — and a black patch that was once Adonwé. She avoids looking here as it makes her heart hurt. Further south is the Kingdom of Harwind and the Chimera Republic of Jal-Seo.

She cannot see westward but knows that beyond the mountains is Ruinland — formerly known as Ancient Arryn — where, once upon a time, elven, dwarven, and Smithren civilizations rose and fell. “Da elfs migrated ’cross the sea and da dwarfs disappeared in der mountains” her father once told her.

A child’s tale. One that refused to admit that such mythical peoples were actually wiped out by humans and their dragons.

That was it. That was Garra. And she was growing tired of looking at it. More and more she wished to flee this cave and return home.

I just want that. Only that.

But… there was no home. Not anymore.

A bitter tide of sadness washes over her.

Mama.

Papa.

She wants to cry. But she doesn’t. She will do what Ez told her. She will be strong.

4 ____________________________________________

SHE IS NOW EXTREMELY WEAK. The cavern’s high altitude and the mid-October nights have brought on some nameless illness.

She coughs in spasmodic fits and will not rise from her bed of straw.

Ez keeps a low fire burning all day and night and only leaves for food or more wood.

He tail-holds a bejeweled goblet of spring water and gently tries to make her drink it.

He looks into her eyes. This tragic soul. A tiny girl swimming in some fever dream. Near death’s door.

He panics.

He doesn’t know what to do.

That is when a thought grabs him.

He disappears into his vyrm-hole and exactly one day later reappears with the oddest person imaginable.

Her name is Mythma — or at least that’s what Ez calls her. She gibbers and clucks in a singsong fashion; a long dead language only she knows. The last of her 4-foot kind. With burnt parchment skin and limestone wrinkles. A Smithren hag, half dwarf and half human, and with a silvery beard on her chin to prove it. Her eyes, unlike the rest of her, are truly beautiful — the ocean-blue jewels her ancestors once mined.

Laying down her behemoth of a backpack, she starts to rummage, practically swim, through its contents. Clucking and “Ooo”ing ever so often. She eventually reveals a spindly yellow herb, crushes this in a copper pot, pours in water, and heats it on Ez’s fire.

The hag pushes a wooden spoon toward Luta. It drips with a steaming potion. Luta takes a whiff and her green eyes bulge. “Smells worse than dragon farts.” she says in a raspy voice.

“It can’t be that bad,” mumbles Ez with embarrassment.

She drinks it, squirms, grimaces, and within minutes she looks much better.

Ez returns from his chamber, his tail-clutching a number of gems and rubies. He hands these over to Mythma and she gives a low hoot.

Ez sighs. “Thank you, Mythma.”

She responds by pointing a finger in the air. Clucks out two words that sound like “garba darba” and races to her mountainous bag to reveal a chunk of bright red wood.

“Garwood,” echoes the vyrm. His forked tongue flickering with excitement. “I was searching all of Olde Forest for this!”

There are those who say that Garra got its name from all the garwood that once grew here. Such trees being the dragon equivalent of catnip, they became very rare, only occasionally found. Hence, under sacred Drakû law, it is forbidden for dragons to set fire to the forest. Such a crime being worthy of death.

Addictive only to dragons, its use by vyrms is greatly frowned upon — except during skin quests. Being a hallucingen that could conjure visions.

“Tonight is going to be a very special night,” Ez rumbles.

Twin moons, one full and the other quartered, are seen from the cave’s mouth.

Mythma, donning a crown of evergreen branches weaved with garish feathers, is now beating a buckskin drum.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

She begins to chant. A high-pitched squeal that makes Luta plug her ears.

“What’s wrong with her?” She asks Ez.

“It’s ceremony,” replies the wingless drake.

“Can you make her stop though?”

He chuckles with a fiery grin. “Nope.”

Ez places the garwood on the fire with great delicacy. Aromatic clouds curl upward. A crackling of neon red sparks.

Mythma turns silent.

Luta mumbles. “Finally.”

Ez begins to recite something in Drakû. A solemn invocation with r’s that roll from his long thin tongue.

For the sake of his guests he proceeds to translate this:

“Ûhar, I beg you to make me a dragon. Bless me with a vision from your heart and soul — the sun — eternal flame that gives all light and life.”

Mythma stands up, a rag in hand, and wipes away the charcoal residue from a nearby stone wall. What appears beneath is a series of dragon-claw petroglyphs and ash-paintings. The collective markings of others who wished to become winged.

Luta has no idea what these markings mean. Vague outline of figures and phenomena that take glow in the garwood light.

A pungent minty odor fills the lair. Ez’s slit pupils dilate into glossy orbs.

He inhales the smoke, holds it for a minute, and exhales it onto the cavern wall.

It may be a trick of the eye; but the symbols come to life. Two-dimensional yet dancing in the smoke!

An epic scene plays out before them as the ashen marks take on the colors and forms of several things; dragons, giants, humans and wars.

Ez narrates this smoke-animated spectacle: “Long ago there was only darkness. The only light there was came from dragon fire. Ûhar-Húl — the first dragon — was born a vyrm in the deepest parts of the Outer Dark and lived in fear of the Gitans; as all did. But, one night (as there was still no such thing as day) he had a great vision — a world full of light and life — and thus he began his first shedding.

He emerged from his dracoon with skin of gold! Scales that inspired others to shine as he did — to shine in the darkness! The Gitans hated him for this. Making war on him and his children. Until all seemed lost. Death and ruin being everywhere. The first dragon became very angry and very sad. He flew across the Darkling Sea and into the giant's city of Xandos, and there, in front of the king of the Gitans, he began to cry. The giants laughed at him and called him a weakling. However, his tears were no ordinary tears — they were dragon tears. Without warning, Ûhar grasped the king and soared into the sky until both Gitan and dragon were wreathed in flame. Ûhar’s teeth melted from his jaws and fell earthward — becoming Two Fangs and the Gatlon Mountains. His eyes fell from his sockets and became the twin moons. At last, Ûhar let go of the king and he fell likewise, dissolving into a million pieces that became the fertile soil where Olde Forest grew. And finally, blind and toothless, Ûhar — the golden dragon — took his tail into his mouth and became a perfect circle; erupting into what is now the sun.”

An enormous fart rips into the air.

“More or less something like that.” whispers the annoyed storyteller.

Luta’s face turns redder than the garwood. “Sorry. That medicine made me — ”

Ez returns to his narration. “What follows is only heartbreak. We taught the humans how to live in tribes. In turn, they saw us as sacred. We then allowed them to ride upon us. A fatal mistake. We were used for war and genocide. All others met our dragonfire. Then, a thousand years later, the humans started to mistreat us. So... the Drakû rebelled against them. Fleeing into the Outer Dark where wild dragons still dwelled. But, the roonda would not let our rebellion go unpunishd. Slaymen started to kill us one by one. They even murdered my parents.”

Ezalrûk stops talking. He looks at his guests. Clouds of wrath gathering inward. He dips his tail into the garwood fire and with its ashy tip he paints something on the wall of markings: a dragon burning down a man.

“What we do to others eventually comes back to us. Humankind is now getting a taste of what they did to others. The Burning of Garra is their fault, and soon, my kind shall rule the world.”

He inhales more of the pungent smoke and retires to his treasure chamber, leaving the little girl and the Smithren witch speechless.

That night he has a vision: Luta is running in a fiery forest and she becomes the ghost moth. In the dream he lights her on fire.

5 ______________________________________________

THE NEXT MORNING HE DISCOVERS that his skin has become a hard gray color — ashy and stone-like. At last, he is ready to begin his first shedding.

With the time given he stocks the cave with various provisions. Wood and food and fresh straw for bedding.

For an additional fee, Mythma agrees to take care of Luta while he is undergoing metamorphosis. He tells Luta to tell Mythma to make sure and camouflage the vyrm-hole when they are not using it. Then, at the end of the day, he stomps into his trest and says: “Take care. And whatever you do, do not to disturb me.”

6 ______________________________________________

ENTIRE MONTHS GO BY AND the only thing remaining of Ez is some large crystalline shell that occasionally belches forth steam.

Winter is very difficult for Luta for she isn’t only cold but sad. Mythma does her best to comfort her; singing songs and making funny noises and showing off her various parchment scrolls.

Luta, who now understands a few words of Mythma's language, learns about gleemary (a kind of magic) and of the Good Folk. A people who used spells to remake the world. Mythma even teaches her a few gleems. Incantations powered by raw emotion.

Every night, they bundle up in bearskin blankets and keep the fire going by uttering certain gleems.

It is early morning and the earth quakes, setting them out of bed. They soon discover that an acrid air and a sky full of smoke. Deep in the south, toward Harwind, something big is burning.

Later that day, they hear belching and bubbling from Ez's chamber and rush to inspect it. His glimmering dracoon is laced with fissures as lava oozes out. This melts the surrounding riches and creates an alchemical soup that is reabsorbed into his shell.

The next day they hear noises from the vyrm-hole.

We forgot to cover it up! Remembers Luta.

A sickly green vyrm, starved and snarling, pokes its head from the hole.

“This will make a fine lair indeed,” it hisses.

Mythma runs at it, screaming. A copper pot in hand.

She gives its skull a hard thud.

It screeches and cocks back.

Mythma continues her assault.

The vyrm unhinges its jaws and sets her on fire.

Luta is horrified. About to cry. However, she channels her terror and sadness into something else. A gleem.

She recites one of the spells Mythma taught her.

The vyrm snaps its muzzle her way, regarding the girl with frightened eyes... but really it sees no girl at all. “A ghost moth,” it whispers. Retreating into the hole.

Mythma is in very bad shape.

“What can I do to help you?”

The Smithren witch drags her blackened body towards the cave’s mouth, until she's on the ledge. In broken words, she utters one last thing: “Only tears will save you.”

Mythma throws herself off the ledge, falling into the deep dark night.

Luta screams but does not cry.

7 _____________________________________________

THREE WEEKS LATER, EZ EMERGES from his dracoon, a brand-new dragon. No longer wormy or wingless. He flaps his proud sails. Marveling at their size and power. But...

“No, no, no!”

He is still green. Not the same exact shade of green, for the sheen of his scales is bright and metallic, yet still green!

He comes to his senses and finds Luta neither wholly awake nor asleep. She sits on her bed and stares at nothing.

“So much for a warm welcome, where is Mythma?”

Luta is not speaking. Ez looks into her eyes, realizing what has happened.

“Luta. I’m sorry.”

“Get me out of here,” Luta mumbles. "Take me home."

8 _____________________________________________

LUTA GRABS A PARCHMENT SCROLL from Mythma’s pack and climbs on top of Ez — holding onto the new silvery feathers that grow from his nape.

Ez exits the cave, spreads his translucent sails, and lunges into the sky. Catching a thermal pocket and gliding over Garra.

The cool air races through Luta’s hair.

“Where do we go?” says the dragon.

“South!” Luta shouts.

It takes them little more than two hours to reach the Kingdom of Harwind. A once fertile valley that is now a moonscape. They fly over a smoking crater and land upon a sad barren field. The final battle of so many humans. Liquified iron dots the earth. Melted weapons and armor re-solidified into static ponds and streams.

“There is nothing left,” says the dragon.

Luta’s only response is: “Go further south.”

They fly past the royal city of Harwind; a smoldering grid of ashes.

They fly past the naval city of Jal-Seo; ruins blacker than a starless night.

“That’s it… we are heading back,” Ez calls out.

“No! I need to show you something!”

They camp on a craggy mountaintop. Luta unravels her scroll. It's a weathered map of Garra.

“Look at this.” She points to the bottom of the map near Many Lakes, and there, cribbed in fading ink, is The Vale of Tears.

Ez snorts. “So.”

“Mythma told me that only tears will save us… there could be people down here.”

“The dragons destroyed it all. Everything. There are no humans left, except you.”

An icy numbness covers the little girl.

“You are wrong!”

“I am never wrong, but tomorrow, we will see.”

9 ______________________________________________

THEY SET OUT THAT MORNING before dawn. Pink tinge on the eastern horizon. But, something feels wrong. Ez turns his head to look back and realizes that they are being followed.

Beneath their flight is Many Lakes and Mothwood — also some narrow valley concealed by thick fog.

"That's where it is!" Luta cries out.

A dragon roars in the distance. It's Daggonath the Deathflyer and he's gainging speed.

Ez lands near Mothwood and tells Luta to run for the forest.

Daggonath flies above its trees and sets them aflame.

Ez launches into him. Exchanging bites and scratches in midair.

A maced tail knocks the wind out of Ez. Daggonath clicks his tongue and releases a torrent of fire.

Ez’s wings light up. He tailspins. Barely putting out the flame.

Daggonath knows the time is now. He will deliver one final death blow — he is struck by a bolt of lightning. Its black cloud conjured from thin air.

Ez looks down.

Mothwood is on fire.

Is she dead?

No.

Luta is on the outskirts, arms stretched out, chanting a skyward spell.

Daggonath falls into one of the lakes.

Ez lands beside her. Partially burnt and gravely wounded. An arm missing and bleeding profusely.

Luta tries to fight her emotions but can’t. Tears run down her red cheeks.

In response, the dragons eyes fill a boiling saltwater.

“Oh Luta. I was wrong. You cry not because you’re weak but because you've been strong for too long. Crying is a gift. Weakness is our greatest strength — it allows us to love others more than we love ourselves.”

Tears fall from Ez; burning his flesh.

“Don't cry!” screams the child. “Dragons don’t cry! Be strong!”

A thunderous bellow cleaves the sky. Daggonath emerges from the lake and hisses: “Traitorous green worm!”

Ez peers into Luta’s eyes. Her soul. One final gaze. “I have to go now, little one.” His scales turning redhot. “Get to that Vale. Go on.”

Daggonath is airborne and drops onto them with talons drawn. Ez shoots into the sky, like a battering ram, and slams into the much larger dragon. Clutching him with claw and tail and leaving the earth behind. Nothing is seen, and then, an eruption of beautiful falling stars.

10 ____________________________________________

IN THIS SECRET VALLEY, THE Good Folk sing songs about her:

Fly away O human child

For your world is on fire

Look not back to the past

Dragons turned it all to ash

Rise above your tears and loss

For you are Luta; the silver moth!

She is a woman now. Sitting with a scroll on her lap and teaching local children about the mysteries of the wide world. She looks at the bright blue sky. Thinking of Ez. Filled with infinite hope.

One day the war will be over.

One day there will peace between us and the dragons.

One day.