The Dragon-Girl

For those who lived in Casabonir, the tragic story of Princess Laegath was as ingrained as a nightly prayer. While not taught in schools or embedded in the pages of storybooks, the princess's story was a classic, grievous legend: kidnapped as a baby, left as a sacrifice in The Field of Dragons, never to be seen again.

Mothers often whispered the tale over sleepy children before bedtime; a warning against wandering where you weren't supposed to. Drunken soldiers on leave from the Silver Palace loudly proclaimed they'd seen the princess's ghost soaring through the halls during their daily watch, adorned with wide, scaly, wings thin as a wisp of smoke: a dragon-girl.

Despite the fact that the king and queen still ruled— weighed down with melancholy, of course— over Casabonir, stories of Princess Laegath seemed, after a while, like folklore, almost like she hadn't even existed to begin with. Her brothers and sisters grew into fair maidens and young gentlemen, one in particular poised to take over the mighty silver throne when his father finally passed: Loraunt.

Marching through the township every evening on his glimmering stallion, Loraunt much enjoyed the gap of fame his sister's disappearance let him fill, and thanked her for it during his evening prayers to the gods each night. He enjoyed the admirers who lined up in the streets every afternoon for a chance to see him gallop by. He enjoyed the parade of mistresses who filled his schedule each weekend with marriage proposals, now that he was of age to take a wife. Most of all, he enjoyed the portrait of his profile that hung in the family's great hall, just to the right of that mighty throne. When his father passed, that portrait would move to the center wall, mirroring the man who would hold the most powerful seat in the kingdom: him.

King Lorgoth and his daughters shared similar sentiments to Loraunt: that Laegath was gone and that she was never coming back. It wasn't as though they were naturally cold of heart, only that none of them had ever really known her. King Lorgoth had only known the fitful, red-haired baby for two weeks, as had his wife, though the baby didn't grow inside his belly; and while he had been sad, Loraunt had followed so swiftly that his attentions were quickly diverted. As for Loryaine, Amelle, and Aliya? Well, since all of them had come years after Laegath's disappearance, they hadn't known their sister at all: only her story.

Unlike the rest of her family, Queen Aimee wanted to make sure that Princess Laegath knew, if she was still out there somewhere, that she could always return home whenever she wanted to. The highly-revered queen often dreamed of her lost daughter: mostly memories of her sleeping soundly in her cradle or tucked into a blanket, sleeping in the crook of her arm. The babe had been a quiet girl, tufts of red hair (like her mother's) peeking out from her tiny cap. That was a memory that always took up space in Aimee's mind: not the empty cradle on the night she was taken; not the sharp sound of her cries; not members of her court nervously huddled around her bed the night she thought she might die of a broken heart. No, the memory that always lulled her to sleep was that of a tuft of hair, like crimson cotton, winding around the hem of a knitted cap.

Each night, Aimee would walk to the falconer and borrow Kara, her favorite bird. The queen would walk to the edge of the Silver Wood and tie a small message to Kara's leg, releasing the trained hunter and watching her soar over the tree line. The bird would be gone for hours, most nights, searching for a princess who most believed didn't exist anymore.

On the day that Loraunt married Whistill, Princess of the Golden Caverns, the queen decided not to visit the falconer. There was much to do as far as wedding preparations were concerned, which included readying her girls for a night of mingling with potential suitors.

Queen Aimee sat in a tufted chair in the corner of the princess's chambers, watching as their maids tightened the strings of her daughters' corsets. Her eyes drifted to the window, where she watched the falconer carry Kara out to the fields and release her into the sky. The bird circled the man, whose arm remained outstretched, calling her back. However, the queen watched as Kara tilted her wings and carried herself over the tree line of the Silver Forest, and despite being message-less, began to hunt for the princess she'd looked so desperately for for the past 25 years.

~

The wedding ceremony was dazzling. As was the custom, the bride entered the palace in a dress of her family's color: glittering gold, like the caverns her people had happily resided in for over 500 years.

Loraunt watched his bride stride down the aisle; watched her smile beneath the chainmail veil that hung over her face. He caught the occasional glimpse of movement around her: his sisters squirming in their uncomfortable corsets, his mother shifting from foot to foot, watching dutifully over the procession to make sure nothing went amiss, and members of his court rising on their toes, trying to get a glimpse of the glorious gold display in front of them.

Loraunt was in traditional robes of silver, his red hair tied neatly at the base of his neck with a white ribbon. His father, King Lorgoth, presided over the ceremony behind him. He stood with his hand on Casabonir's sacred book, ready to read the marriage rites once Whistill reached the altar. When he did, his voice boomed through the great hall, echoing against the castle bricks.

"May your love be unending, may your rule be powerful, and may your legacy be one of unbroken loyalty."

The couple, happily arm-in-arm, retreated down the aisle towards the banquet hall. There, the staff had spent days hanging candles, weaving vines bursting with flowers through the arches and passageways, and placing elements of both silver and gold throughout the dining tables to represent the glorious joining of two powerful kingdoms.

As he bounded down the aisle, Loraunt's eye caught on a woman standing towards the back of the procession, her bright shock of red hair wrapped into a complex braid around her forehead, almost like a crown. He didn't think much of her, except to note that she didn't look very happy for him— that wench— and that he didn't recognize her one bit.

Quickly after that, Loraunt's eye was caught on something else and the flash of red was lost in the crowd, his confusion fading away amongst the din of other, more exciting emotions. The woman hung back, understanding that she was not a part of this. She knew she was only a bystander.

The red-haired woman watched as others streamed out of the hall. She didn't expect anyone to leave her alone in the room, but they did-- the doors clambering shut and the quiet surrounding her like a fast-moving fog.

Today was supposed to be the day that she would be reunited with her family. Laegath wandered over to one of the massive windows draped in velvet, pulling it back to gaze out over the mountains. She could see the exact valley that she had traveled from: The Field of Dragons; not her birthplace, but where she'd begun her life. Maybe a type of birthplace, in a sense.

Today was supposed to be the day where she reclaimed her home; her family. Today was supposed to be the day where she would be a dragon-girl no more.

Laegath reached up and grabbed the window closure, pulling the metal barrier free so that the glass pane swung open. The princess stepped out onto the window ledge, looking down below. The ground seemed so far below her, but Laegath knew that if she jumped, she would not hit the jagged rocks beneath her. Her dragon, Minai, awaited her in the space. No one but Laegath or her dragon brothers and sisters would ever know that Minai was there— dragons didn't want to be seen. The girl discarded her shoes (she hardly wore them in her everyday life, anyway) and left them behind as she jumped from the ledge and onto Minai's soft back, who carried her away towards the horizon, away from the celebration.

Laegath did not hear the cry of the woman behind her as she jumped from the ledge. From her view, all Queen Aimee had seen was a red-haired woman jumping to her death. Was she a scorned lover of Loraunt's, perhaps? She didn't have time to wonder too much as she watched the woman, without any fear or hesitation, leap from the threshold, the velvet drapes billowing behind her as she did.

Queen Aimee, tears streaming down her face, rushed to the windowsill. As she looked down towards the rocks, she saw nothing: no one had perished, for the jagged edges were clean of blood and remains. She stared out towards the horizon, wondering if she saw a flash of red or if that was her imagination.

The nervous visions, she chastised herself, they aren't real. Don't allow them to return.

And she wouldn't. Those visions— the ones that had come to her long after her daughter had been taken from her— almost cost her a marriage and her life. She stepped back from the window and nearly tripped over a pair of shoes she hadn't noticed initially. She crouched down to pick them up, finding a pair of cerulean-blue slippers at her feet, some of the finest craftsmanship she'd seen in a while. Standing, she ran her hand over the strange material the shoes were crafted from. Her heart sunk into her stomach. Her skin paled and a bead of sweat formed at the nape of her neck.

The slippers she held were covered in a material she'd never felt before, but had heard about long ago in lore. The blue was an impossible shade, something you couldn't craft, but had to find. But it wasn't true. This material was found on a creature that wasn't real.

Scales. The slippers were made of dragon scales.