The Valley of Hea'reh

​​There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

Before, they'd known better. Their kind stayed confined to the Northern Mountains, where the thin crisp air caused no damage to their hearty lungs and the fire roiling through their bellies kept them warm through even the harshest winters. It was more than they deserved, but Rydon had always driven his kingdom with mercy at the rudder.

That was his first mistake.

After a grisly five-year bout of bloodshed, no amount of misdirected benevolence could wash the sour taste from the mouth of the people. Their hard-won victory had come with the hefty price of singed and rotting corpses littering the streets. The added slap to the face of justice not being administered was more than they could bear.

It was a dark day for Hea'reh. The king's kind nature and open heart had made him a mostly well-loved ruler. But pain reared it's head and demanded satisfaction- someone had to bear the blame. So the crown paid the price with a well-hidden dose of monkshood and the life of the king.

With the apparent vendetta against the royal family, the king's eldest, Chrystopher, had been made to wait a full three months to assume his role on the throne. He was eighteen and considered a man, but was considerably young in the mind. He was impressionable, which could be a useful asset for allies and enemies, but the bitterness that coated his heart hardened him.

And tomorrow, on his nineteenth birthday, he would be crowned king.

Chrystopher paced the damp halls, the pipes that ran heat through the drafty castle had been unused for so long since all non-essential staff had been dismissed after the king’s death due to fear of disloyalty. Now a persistent layer of moisture coated the walls wherever you went. He ran his thin white fingers along the profile of his father’s portrait, lost in memories that no amount of thought or time could alter. He dresssed comfortably, in boots made of practical skins and a simple shirt and breeches, despite the chill bumps that dotted his arms and legs. He hadn’t had a traditional upbringing, but if these pictures were any testimony, his father hadn’t been a traditional man. Photos of previous monarchs stretched down the halls, faintly illuminated by candles and torches. Each one stood more imposing than the last until Edward George Sebastian Rydon Clemmons III. He had always insisted on being depicted with his trademark grin on his face. Approachableness was key to him, and how would people approach a ruler that they couldn’t trust? He would always say: ‘An intimidating ruler doesn’t truly know his people, Chrystopher. He only knows what they think will please him.’ Chrystopher’s fingers faltered on that familiar smile. How many times had his father dandled him on his lap while he looked on in childish adoration of that irrefutable proof of happiness and contentment? Too many to count. And yet, they never would again. Chrystopher had taken his father’s smile and his chestnut brown hair as well. The gray eyes that appeared almost blue when he was upset belonged only to his mother.

A movement out the corner of his eye caught his attention, dragging them away from the wall. His stormy gray eyes set firmly above a clenched jaw covered in brown stubble snapped to the open window, where a monumental-sized beast wrapped around with streaks of white, orange and red stretched impudently across the moat, taunting him, testing his reputable hotheaded nature. Daring him to do something that would broach the peace treaty they had signed two decades prior.

His lip lifted in disgust. Banishment had been too good for them. Chrystopher thought so then, as a young man of 13, and still thought so now. The war was rarely discussed, so at rare retellings the story had been warped by time. Opinions and bitterness salted events, causing both sides to paint themselves as innocent, wronged by a species that didn't understand them.

But in his heart, there was no chance of Chrystopher misunderstanding the evil he'd seen in their eyes. He glared at the wagon sized behemoth for a few seconds more, and then stalked off further down the hall. He had a private meeting shortly with Bellicose, his father’s overweight advisor in the cathedral after sundown. He assumed it was to bless him and his potential rule before his coronation tomorrow. So with a final sneer that the beast greeted with a snort of derision, he continued down the corridor.

He judged his father. He knew he probably shouldn’t, but he did anyway. Thirty years of kindness and generosity spoiled by one hasty ill-informed decision. Brought down by the very people he’d spent his life caring for. He’d loved them as much as they had loved him. His fatal flaw was not knowing that their love was conditional. Chrystopher was determined not to rule that way. He would not be at the beck and call of heartless ingrates. Yet he didn’t have it in him to be harsh either. He had not been raised to be. He would be crowned tomorrow with no idea what kind of king he would be.

He walked on lost in thought until a shadow stirred in a corner. Chrystopher peeked around it to find a figure in a burgundy tunic and black breeches slumped against the wall, his fingers fiddling with a measure of string. “Gordon.”

The figure turned and executed a sarcastic curtsy, his long black braid dangling over his pale shoulder as he cast his deep brown eyes downwad. “Should I call you ‘Your Highness’ now, or wait until tomorrow?”

“You won’t call me that at all if you don’t desire a fat lip.” Chrystopher said, smirking at his lifelong friend.

Gordon raised his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t dare to upset the future king. At least not anymore than he already is. You’re walking like you’re heading to the gallows. What’s going on in your head?”

Chrystopher sighed. “Kingly garbage. I hated the people for what they did to my father but despite everything, I want to be a good leader. They served my father loyally for years, they at least deserve that.”

Gordon stared at him thoughtfully. “Be wary. Keep that kindness hidden. They killed your father and you are his blood. So trust no one until they prove otherwise.”

—--- —----- —---- —---

Bellicose stood in the third row of pews, staring wistfully at something in his pudgy hands. Despite the chill, beads of sweat rolled into his neck rolls and dripped into his shirt. It looked as if it could have once been white, but years of use and sweat stains had turned it cream.

After exchanging meaningless greetings, Bellicose hurriedly gestured to the bundle in his hands.

“Your father left this in my keeping once we realized the poison was fatal. He only had a few hours so things might not be explained as well as you would like them to be. But you know, ah, knew your father. And I know he earned your trust. I hope that will be sufficient.”

Bellicose handed him a carefully wrapped sword. As Chrystopher unwound the ratty bindings, a small note fluttered to the ground which he slowly scooped up and scanned before pressing it into his pocket. He stared at the weapon in his hands, his confusion morphing to anger.

The blade reflected a muted rainbow as he twisted it in his hands spitefully. It stood from above his waist and extended down to his sturdy brown boots, but lifting it, it was feather light. Odd symbols twirled around the hilt in raised metal bumps, and Chrystopher ran his finger over them with an expression of bemused disgust. A wry chuckle broke from barely parted lips.

"This was the cost of my mother's life and half of our kingdom." Tossing the sword from hand to hand, he smirked at Bellicose and cocked his head to the side.

His next words slithered out of his mouth serpentine and oil-slick as he stared at his distorted reflection in the blade. “Are you a gambling man, Bellicose?” His eyebrows raised as he slanted his eyes away from his reflection.

The portly man forced a sizable lump down his throat and attempted to stammer a response.

“Didn’t think so. I’m not either. One of the many slights my father did to me was never to teach me which risks are worth taking.” He paced slowly down the aisle between the pews and came to a stop at the wooden pulpit. “I always thought my father a wise man. But there’s one thing I am certain of.” His face hardened, and the hand gripping the sword tightened. “This worthless hunk of metal is not worth the countless lives it cost!” He raised his arm and thrust the sword inside of the pulpit where it stood impudently in front of the various religious figurines.

He thrust his finger at the accursed blade and spoke with venom dripping from his tongue. “It is needed for the coronation so it shall stay here until then. But after that, this blade can go into the depths of hell for all I care. I wish never to see it again.”

Then he spun on his heels and breezed past a still stammering Bellicose, slamming the door of the cathedral as he exited.

Coronation morning found Chrystopher in a terrible mood. He dressed in traditional clothing and washed his face before heading to the cathedral. The ceremony was long and tedious, and Chrystopher desperately wanted it to be over. He sat uncomfortably next to the pulpit trying to appear regal and focused.

“...The blade of the dragon scale,” the officiate said nervously darting his eyes toward the pulpit where the blade was still firmly erected, “and the scepter of the royal house are symbols of the longevity of the rule of Chrystoper Samuel Arthur Rydon Clemmons. Long live the king!” He croaked out while the people murmured in agreeance and respect.

He turned, freeing the sword which he handed to Chrystopher along with the scepter. He bowed, the weighty ornate crown was placed on his head, and then it was all over.

Gordon came up to Chrystopher and clapped his hand on his shoulder which was bare for the first time in his life as he was wearing his official clothing.

Chrystopher blood ran ice cold as he slowly turned to his friend with a blank expression and a nod. He placed the scepter on the rigid uncomfortable chair and turned back to Gordon. He grasped his friends hand and looked at him sorrowfully before revealing the sword from his other hand and plunging it into his friends heart. Ladies screamed as Gordon fell to the ground, a puff of smoke floating from his mouth as his open eyes shifted to green. He then grew scales and became a long slender dragon that occupied most of the cathedral worship stand.

Yanking the sword from his former friends chest, he stumbled the few steps to the window, his intention to fling the sword into the moat. He drew his arm back, and sent the blade flying. But he never heard the splash of it making contact with the water.

What was heard made the blood of everyone in the chapel run cold.

Because they heard the dragon that had been guarding the moat for the last four months stir. His wings beat the air with the sound of a thousand drums, a victorious screech tearing from his mouth as he clutched the blade in his massive paw, silver blood leaving a thin, dripping trail behind.

Chrystopher fell to ground and retched all over his friend’s corpse.

He had been king less than a day, and he'd started a war.