Explore the Twelve Tyrants Series

As soon as Bringar awoke, she grinned.

       The outside observer, had he been present to watch her, might have wondered why she did so. After all, she wasn’t in any enviable position, bound by unbreakable chains in a volcano’s belly; what dragon could smile while forced to serve her enemies? 

       This dragon. Bringar loved both conversation and manipulation, and because her Lightvian captors produced excellent dialogue, she never grew bored. She could worm inside their heads, cuddle up to them like old friends, and amuse herself with the wondrous irony that, although she was their prisoner and servant, she had found a way to establish her dominance— for power, as all dragons knew, involved much more than physical strength. 

       Sometimes, though, it also meant simply listening. And that was what she planned to do today. 

       “Good morning, Bringar,” shouted a distant voice, echoing through a long shaft to reach her ears. Foolish Lightvian, thinking that she needed to be roused; dragons were always aware of their surroundings and could awaken in a lash of the tail. Humans were so full of misconceptions about her kind. 

       And, of course, this often worked well to her advantage. A second smile curled across her snout. 

       So she played along. She opened her boiling red eyes and stretched her toothy jaws wide in an extravagant yawn, expelling a burst of breath-energy as she did so. She spread her wings and stretched her legs, making sure to give all of her chains a good clanking rattle, then crawled over to the edge of the cliff and sat down. 

       Far, far below, her rocky perch met a molten pool of magma. The fiery fluid bathed the vast subterranean chamber in a sinister orange glow and infused the air with glorious, sweltering heat that only a dragon could enjoy. 

       The Lightvian had done all right with her prison. It was the proper environment for a dragon, even if she would have liked the mouth of the volcano to be open to the air rather than sealed firmly shut by a massive stone slab.        

       Ah, well. You can’t expect everything. I merely wish that they’d done away with the chains by now. 

       “Are you awake?” called the Lightvian. 

       Hadn’t he heard the thunder of her chains? Sometimes she wondered how humans could possibly go about their lives with such limited senses and intelligence. 

      She smiled fondly, then replied, “I am awake, Manavior.” 

       Her deep, throaty voice rumbled through the air like an earthquake. She had made no effort to raise it, but even relatively deaf as they were, the Lightvian would hear— and hopefully go on conversing as they had for the past few days. 

       Certain current events, after all… were interesting.

     “Very good,” Manavior said, oblivious to her plan. “We will be ready in a few minutes.” 

       She rattled her chains in affirmation, then sat down to wait. Gazing down at that rippling basin of lava, her hearing was nevertheless aimed directly toward the shaft behind her. 

       It was quiet at first, the only noise being that of several metallic clinks. Then she caught a voice. 

       And she grinned. 

       “I can’t believe this.” That was one of the workers moving the weapons into position; if she recalled correctly, his name was Kathrae. “We’re working as though we have nothing better to do.” 

       Manavior replied, “Someone had to stay.” His voice was markedly more subdued than before. 

       “I just wish it wasn’t us.” 

       The following silence boiled like magma. Bringar’s smile widened. She knew that lava bubbles must eventually burst. 

        Kathrae thrust a blade clangorously against its fellow. “Justice is being served. History is being made. And we’re missing it.” 

        The bubble ruptured. Muttering voices flickered to life like a scattering of flames; Kathrae had poured acid onto wounds that clearly festered among them all.  

       “Don’t say that,” snapped another Lightvian, Astarial. “For our own sakes, we have to hope it won’t be as grand as that. Surely the leaders won’t overturn the pardon they granted nearly two decades ago.” 

       “But now we have Ensel,” said someone else. “He will push for justice.” 

       “With popular support, he’ll succeed,” Kathrae added. “And, by Seviar’s name, he has it!” 

       Voices rose together in a vehement affirmation of this statement. 

       “I’m telling you,” Astarial insisted. “We needn’t get our hopes up. The leaders won’t destroy the precedent they established; the most we could reasonably hope for is a whipping and a life sentence in prison.” 

       “What I wouldn’t give to watch that traitor bleed…” Manavior murmured. 

       “And,” another voice spoke up, “what of his son?” 

       The conversation died— and then it flared up higher than before. Multiple voices clamored for attention, arguments broke out, and Bringar couldn’t make sense of much until Manavior raised his voice and ordered, “Calm, everyone! We are not to win our arguments by the volume of our voices.” 

       Kathrae leaped into the conversation as soon as Manavior finished. “The leaders have to punish him! Silrae’s son is disturbed and homicidal, a danger to us and our children.” 

       “He’s underage,” Astarial retorted. “Considering how sickeningly lenient they’ve been with his father, the leaders won’t do a thing.” 

       “But lenience is about to end,” another Lightvian said. “With Silrae’s resentencing, the leaders are setting much harsher standards in place. The son will be punished accordingly— with two innocent lives already on his hands, I’d be amazed if he didn’t face whipping and imprisonment of his own.” 

       “Regardless,” Manavior said in an authoritative voice, “we can continue this discussion later, when we don’t have swords to forge. Bringar! We are ready!” 

       She smiled, then rumbled, “As am I.” The Lightvian had reaffirmed everything she’d wanted to know. She roused herself from her cliffside perch and slithered close to the narrow tunnel in the wall, purring, “Clear out, my pets.” 

       “We are clear.” 

       Bringar placed her head in front of the long tunnel. At its end, she could discern the glint of Lightvian metal, weapons to be tempered by her breath. Then she wasted no more time and opened her jaws to pour forth a geyser of blistering energy. 

       It was a common misconception among humans that dragons’ breath worked like fire. In fact, the golden energy that leaped from her mouth was more akin to liquid lightning. The crackling torrent blazed through the tunnel and engulfed the room beyond in coruscating light, which danced across her already-golden scales to perform one of the most stunning natural displays in the Twelve Realms. She maintained the flow for minutes on end, keeping the weapons directly in its center; soon they would absorb the power of her breath and become eternally sharp and stainless. 

       How ironic that she, the Lightvian’s prisoner, was the one who sharpened their claws! And how much more ironic was the reason for her imprisonment here: having tried to start a draconic rebellion in order to end their forging agreement with the Lightvian, she had been betrayed by her kind and handed over to her foes to bear all of the duties of forging herself. 

       At least she now possessed the wisdom of age to find amusement in this course of events. She would still destroy the Volcaarious Hold and every Lightvian in it when she broke free, of course, but that was simply a matter of maintaining her reputation. 

       As the energy continued to stream from her maw, her thoughts began to stream as well. Exhaling a sustained cascade of energy tended to stimulate one’s mind; she welcomed the onrushing of eager thoughts, for now was the ideal time to plan. 

       She turned her attention toward the Lightvian’s recent conversation and pondered their words. For in them lay the key to her escape.  

       A great outrage currently seethed within the Lightlands. From what she had been able to gather, the son of the despised Lightvian syvatri, Octavious Silrae, had attacked and killed two of his peers, sending the Lightvian into uproar. A change in leadership had ensued, Octavious’s pardon was revoked, and now all of the Lightvian were flocking to the capital in the hopes that a death sentence would be passed. Meanwhile, everyone was divided over what to do with his son, who was underage and technically couldn’t bear full legal responsibility for his crimes… 

       Bah! Politics. Squabbling over the law. Dragons didn’t usually care for such things, but this time, Bringar had reason to pay attention. 

       It wasn’t the politics she cared about, nor the fate of Octavious or his son. It was the simple fact that the Lightlands were currently rife with tension, hostility, controversy, and all of the other issues that could distract the Lightvian guards of an isolated prison and make them resentful of their duty. 

       And according to the recent conversations she had overheard, her wardens were tantalizingly close to that point. 

       I simply have to push them over the edge. To nudge them off the cliff and into the lava, so to speak. 

       But how? 

       “Enough!” Manavior shouted, barely audible above the rushing energy. Bringar immediately cut off the surge of power and snapped her jaws shut with a toothy snick. She heard metal clanking as the Lightvian inspected her work; then Manavior proclaimed, “Done!” and his team set to clearing out the newly perfected weapons. 

       As they did, Bringar sat back and considered how she might use their unrest against them. 

       Most Lightvian here wanted to leave for their capital. They all had passionate feelings at the moment, and many disagreed on how exactly to handle the situation. These were all vulnerabilities she could target— theoretically speaking. 

       Thus far, she hadn’t been able to come up with a viable idea to leverage this weakness to her advantage. Distracted and divided guards were always better than vigilant ones, but they still wouldn’t unlock her chains. 

       Thoughtful, Bringar crossed the cliff and seated herself once more upon its edge. 

       Chains, chains, chains… 

       A deep clanking from above announced the arrival of breakfast. Or dinner. Or lunch. The meal served as all three, as she was fed once after the completion of each day’s forging. 

       Perhaps tearing into flesh would help her think. 

       The thick slab over the room ponderously lifted, raised by a pulley system of chains operated by the Lightvian above. A shaft of sunlight overpowered the dim hue of the lava light, and she gazed hungrily up at the shard of sky with dreams of unfurling her wings in flight. Then the Lightvian shoved her meal through the opening, and meat rained down upon her ledge. 

       “Thank you, my darlings!” Bringar flared them a charming smile. “Shall we say grace?” 

       She enjoyed this little gibe of hers to no end. The Lightvian were all devout believers in regular prayer to their god Seviar, but they knew that she believed in no such thing, and so it both annoyed and confused them whenever she asked. Over the years, she had received responses from ignorance to indignance. A few times the Lightvian had actually taken her request and uttered a prayer, and it had been nearly impossible to keep herself from collapsing to the ground and roaring with laughter.

       Today, their reaction was extremely anticlimactic: they simply ignored her. Then they left, and the slab sealed her chamber shut with a resounding boom. 

       Ah, well. 

       At least they’d brought her a decent haul. Two camels, several hardy iguana-type creatures, and… 

       Wait. There was another scent, on top of the other animals’, and smellable even over the overpowering stench of sulfur. An alien scent. A creature’s scent. A scent of life. 

       Bringar extended one golden paw and clawed the camels aside. There, flattened against the ground and looking more battered than a beggar’s dress, laid a bat the size of a human child. 

       “Well!” she exclaimed, her mighty voice ringing around the vast chamber and causing the bat’s ears to swivel around. “This is a most fascinating surprise.” 

       The bat started to move, but Bringar flipped it over and pinned it down with three scythe-like claws. She arched her head down, tooth-studded maw inches away from the bat’s ugly face, and growled, “Did the Lightvian send me dessert?” 

       The wretched mammal squeaked like an oversized mouse. Its beady eyes darted in every direction while its flat nostrils flared and its enormous ears swiveled forward and back; its body was covered in stinking, matted brown fur and its leather wing-arms were ragged. Green flashed in its rapidly moving ear— it was pierced with an earring of some unknown, jade-colored metal, though Bringar couldn’t fathom how it thought this accessory could possibly compensate for its intrinsic hideousness. The creature didn’t even look fit to eat. 

       Her tail lashed, smacking against the floor and throwing up a wave of brown stone dust. The bat squealed again as she leaned forward and demanded, “How did you end up with my snacks?” 

       The lava light glistened in the corner of her eye. It brought to mind an excellent solution: shredding the bat’s wings and tossing it in the lava.

       “Wait!” shrilled the bat, high-pitched but unmistakable.

       Bringar snorted in surprise and dug her claws deeper into the creature’s chest. At that moment, realization sparked. This was surely no ordinary bat, but a Mungru of the mountains. 

       She raised her paw and let the beast up. It scrabbled immediately to all fours, where it crouched looking up at her, a feral gleam in its eyes. However, it did not fly away, nor did it make any other move to flee. 

       Amusing.

       “Apologies, my pet,” she told the creature. “I was perhaps a bit harsher than I meant to be. I do not appreciate contaminants in my meals, but you are a novelty indeed.” 

       The Mungu paused, its ears rotating incessantly. Another manic spark lit its gaze, but then it descended into a strange calm and stilled.

       “Yes,” it said. Shrill, but quite telligible. 

       Bringar smirked and spread a dazzling wing. This was fine entertainment. “Welcome to the Volcaarious Hold, my darling! It appears you have come to remedy my shortage of guests. But, before we embark upon our lovely chat— I am simply aching for want of fresh conversational partners— what are you doing so far from your mountainous Realm?” 

       “A mission I have.” The Mungru crawled forward an inch or two, compulsively licking its lips. “Flight all here from mountains. Long path for short wings, but come I did.” It scowled. “Forgive my Commontongue. It must improve as I speak.” 

       “Don’t worry, my pet. Your childish phrasing is very endearing. Now tell me, what is this ‘mission’ that led you out of the mountains, through the desert, and into a dragon’s lair?” 

       “Lair?” The bat looked around. “I see a prison.” 

       Bringar felt the smile melt off her face like molten lava, but did her best to maintain a lofty air nevertheless. “Bear in mind, darling, that I can slaughter you at my leisure.” 

       “Oh?” The Mungru laughed, and that brief, strident chuckle raised the spikes down Bringar’s spine. “Would you really kill your savior?” 

       Savior? Her claws sank into the earth. “You would do well to remember that you speak to the great Bringar, bat, or else you may take a lovely lava bath below." 

       The bat spasmed violently, then stumbled back. It crumpled as it tried to prop itself up with one wing, spat out a string of bloody drool, and began to writhe on the floor. “I did not come to be denied, dragon. I did not disguise myself among the corpses to have my vessel become one of them. I did not— I did not— take the foot, idiot! The FOOT, not the WING!” 

       The beast pounced on its left foot and bit off its toes. 

       “Halt!” Bringar spat. She leaped forth in a great thunder of chains and pinned the Mungru down before it could savage its other foot. The bat flailed and spasmed, nipping at her claws with bloody teeth as the aromatic perfume of its blood deluged her nostrils. “What dementia has overtaken you?” 

       The Mungru scowled, quit thrashing, and abruptly came into full possession of itself. “Such fits occur on occasion. Ignore them if you will— I was about to tell you exactly why I’ve come.” 

       Bringar hesitated. She rarely hesitated, for it made her appear weak and slow of tongue, but she had never witnessed something so disturbing in all her syvatri life. 

       How did one react to a foreign bat that hid in one’s food, bit off its own toes, and acted like nothing had happened? 

       Well, perhaps she would give the Mungru a chance to explain itself. If its explanation failed to satisfy her, she could always liquidate it in a blast of energy. 

       “Speak,” she rumbled. 

       “Chains,” said the bat. “How I hate them. They choke, they torment, they drain our life. Dragon, chains must break. So I have come to set you free, and in return, you must free me.” 

       Kadarhan’s breath! Bringar stepped back, acutely feeling the weight of her fetters, and found herself on the dangerous verge of another hesitation. “My pet, this borders on lunacy.” 

       “I assure you, I am quite sane.” 

       “This after biting off your own toes?” Bringar swept the severed appendages off the ledge with her tail to boil in the lava below. “You have an uncommon breed of madness.” 

       “Let me up,” said the Mungru, “and prepare to fly free.” 

       Doubtful, she raised her paw once more. She had nothing to lose, after all, and surely watching the bat attempt and fail to break down the walls of her prison would be amusing at the very least. 

       Or not. When the creature failed, she decided, she was going to hurl it straight to its death. The ratio of alarm to amusement that this Mungru projected was slanted much too far in one direction for her liking. 

       Free, the bat scurried to its feet and spread its wings wide, tottering on its hind legs. Its eyes gleamed ravenously and saliva spilled from its jaws— and then, screaming, it fell upon itself with teeth gashing and tearing. 

       Blood spattered the floor; fur flew through the air. Bringar inhaled and prepared to exhale a blaze of deadly energy, but just before she could, the world twisted. 

       Her airways sealed shut as though her iron collar had become a noose. Filled with sudden panic, she lashed out toward the bat, but her depth perception had gone all wrong, and her claws missed. Her scales began to melt, her wings collapsed in on themselves, her tail bled out of being, and all of her bones snapped out of place. 

       It was the worst sensation she’d felt in all her centuries of life, but a moment later, it was over. 

       Bringar collapsed to the ground, paws smacking against the dusty stone with a shocking clarity of touch that she’d never experienced before. She lay there panting, dazed and in shock, until a furry paw came to rest on her shoulder. 

       She whirled around, scrambled to her feet, and found herself face to face with a bat who was now more than half her height. 

       It grinned, blood trickling through its teeth. 

       “You treacherous mammal!” Bringar screeched, and she lashed out to rip off its hideous head. Her blow failed to connect, however; her arm was much shorter than she remembered it being, and, to her horror, it was no longer clawed or scaled. 

       She had a human arm. 

       Bringar screeched again and pawed at her own body. Her hands— hands, soft and warm and vulnerable— met a smooth and flimsy surface, completely unprotected by scales.

       Skin. It was skin! 

       She rubbed frantically at her head, hoping against her fears that she would find a fearsome toothed snout and a pair of arching horns. Instead her fingers greeted a wrinkled face with a nose and lips and short, wiry hair dusted with age.

       I’m… human? 

       And she started to hurt. The heat of the volcano was too much for this scaleless human body! How did she get away without wings? 

       The Mungru nodded up toward the slab-barred entrance, so high above. With a thrilling shock, Bringar realized that the slab was lifting, and the Lightvian were calling, “What’s going on down there?” 

       She glanced down at herself, a naked old woman, then at the Mungru. She briefly wondered how she was going to explain all of this, and finally realized what she should have realized from the start. 

       Her chains were gone. They lay coiled on the ground around her, far too large to restrain her diminutive human body. She gazed at her shackle-less wrists in awe and touched them to be sure.

       It was true. 

       “Escape,” urged the Mungru, grinning and shuffling its wings. “Escape and destroy.” 

       And as the slab peeled away from the exit, Bringar’s human guise peeled away from her, so she was restored in all her draconic glory— chains displaced, wings unfurled, instincts yearning for blood and glory. 

       She soared up like a geyser of lava upon wings that hadn’t been used for decades and rammed herself between the slab and the volcano’s lip until she burst out into open air, broken pulley chains shattering around her. 

       Lightvian shouted in panic. White weapons swung toward her as bindings roared through the air. 

       Bringar laughed, the furious sound billowing through the skies like smoke. The game was over. She had won! And now it was time to pick up all the pieces and claim her glorious prize. 

       Feigned friendship fell to dust as her breath-energy liquidated Lightvian where they stood. Her teeth and claws tore through all of the hapless guards who fled down a man-made ledge, and her lashing tail soon cracked through the rock and sent others plummeting down the mountain to their death. 

       “Yes, YES!” screamed the Mungru behind her, soft and unimportant compared to the majestic thunder of her destruction. “Freedom!” 

       Bringar ignored the beast as it hovered shakily at her side. It was too small to distract her from her destructive spree when the rest of the Lightvian fortress gleamed proud and white down below. 

       Her wings spread wide as she launched down the mountain, plummeting like a golden comet toward the stronghold of her enemies. “Arrogant Lightvian!” she sang as she sailed down to slaughter them all. “To cage a dragon is to die!” 

       One or two human figures emerged from gaps in the fortress just in time to shriek as her full weight smashed into their refuge. 

       The impact knocked several scales loose, but failed to draw blood. The Volcaarious Hold suffered far worse than she did. It didn’t even have time to creak or groan, but rather gave in all at once and crumpled like a broken wing. Lightvian bellowed in terror as the walls and ceiling caved in, and after the mighty avalanche of stone had settled, their cries had been exterminated along with their lives. 

       For good measure, Bringar leaped back and painted the whole fortress with her breath, fine white marble melting into the volcanic rocks below and disintegrating anyone who had possibly survived. 

       She didn’t just want revenge, of course. She wanted to make sure that the terror of her escape would never be forgotten. She wanted to create a ruined, awesome landmark that would forever memorialize her power and strength. 

       This place, which had once been her prison, was now a monument to her triumph. 

       Once the haughty white fortress had been fused by her breath into the rocks below, once she had jumped down and smeared all the blood on her talons onto the pure stone, once she had clawed her name into the sheer cliff face behind her, Bringar sighed in satisfaction and curled up to rest. 

       The deed is done. 

       She rumbled deeply and adjusted her position against the rocks. Something clinked as she did so, and she realized that she felt an extra weight on her shoulder— one of the pulley chains attached to the mountaintop slab had ripped loose as she’d soared out through it, and was now caught on her ridge of spikes. 

       Amusing. Part of her prison wanted to come with her? Well, she would have none of that. She arched her sinuous neck, snagged the end of the chain in her teeth, and, once she had yanked it free, tossed it against the rocks. It sat there like a dead snake, lifeless and defeated. 

       She curled up smiling and closed her eyes. 

       She awoke some time later to the shrill shrieks of a bat. The Mungru was dancing atop the fortress-turned-tomb of the Lightvian, spilling its own blood across theirs and screaming with insane laughter. 

       Bringar inspected the beast through narrow eyes: filthy, ragged, covered in fresh cuts and scabs. It looked to be on its last legs, and its sanity was clearly dead already. 

       Her stomach growled. She had missed her normal meal, and contrary to popular myth, dragons wouldn’t eat humans, so she hadn’t devoured any Lightvian during her extermination.

       This bat, though… well, it didn’t look particularly appetizing. 

       The Mungru finally noticed that she was awake. It broke off dancing and bared a demented grin. “You dragon, are free! Now you free me!” 

       Yes, then there was that. 

       Bringar flicked her tail against the melted fortress and blanketed herself in her wings. “Now, my dear Mungru, if you don’t mind my asking, how exactly did you make me human?” 

       There was only one answer, so far as Bringar knew, but that answer didn’t seem possible here. Deepmagic was limited to sea creatures; a Mungru was certainly not one of those. 

       Then again, this Mungru was wrong in many ways, and she had an ominous sense that something… more was behind its discomfiting behavior. 

       The Mungru laughed at her question. “I took the world and I warped it to my will.” 

       “I would appreciate a straight answer.”

       “Deepmagic. Deepmagic provides the work of transformation.” 

       “Ah, but you are no creature of the sea.” 

       “Nor is Tecimon.” 

       “I am not familiar with this name.”

       “Then I won’t explain it,” cackled the bat. “We have more important things to do! Come, I will—”

       “My pet, I thank you for your assistance. However… I think your ugliness has finally outweighed your usefulness.” 

       Bringar lifted her tail and smacked it against the Mungru’s neck. The snapping of bones echoed throughout the volcanic landscape, and the bat dropped insensate. 

       There. Finished. Swift and easy, just like the destruction of the Volcaarious Hold.

       She sat back and surveyed the melted structure of the stronghold, satisfied. She hadn’t expected that today would be the day of her return, but she had seized it when it came and made the most of it. It had gone… so quickly. Ironically, the Lightvian controversy she’d brooded upon for so long had proved utterly useless in her escape, and instead a maniacal bat had saved her. 

       Remarkable. She would have to think more upon that. 

       But for now—

       The Mungru scrambled to its feet, screamed curses in a foreign tongue, and launched into flight. 

       “Kadarhan’s fire!” Bringar roared, lashing out with her claws but missing due to the creature’s erratic flight. The creature had a broken neck— its head dangled at a sharp angle— and yet it lived! 

       She spread her wings to pursue it and opened her mouth to vaporize it, but then reeled back, overtaken by a sudden avalanche of terrible sensations.

       Choking, going blind, melting, falling, bleeding, breaking— 

       “NO!” she bellowed, even though she couldn’t breathe, and as humanity engulfed her, she screamed out one last ray of incinerating energy. 

       Then she fell to her back on the ground, frail human body bruising with the impact. It knocked the breath out of her, so there she remained. 

       As she laid supine, a green earring plummeted to the earth beside her, its former owner disintegrated. 

       She sat up, took a large rock, grunted at its weight, and attempted to smash the accessory. When that failed, she buried it beneath the rock and spat upon it. Then she looked down at herself, scratched at her flimsy skin, and howled curses to the sky. 

       What happened? WHAT HAPPENED? I was just free! I was just destroying! My glory was right here at hand! 

       Yet now she was a minute and insignificant human, trapped in humiliation as surely as if she were still the Lightvian’s prisoner. 

       She laid there and fumed for a very, very long time, doing her best to ignore the peculiar new sensations of a human’s body. Blast it. That Mungru was some sort of demon! She should have blasted it with breath-energy first, but how was she to know that it could survive a broken neck? 

       At least it seemed thoroughly dead now. 

       Still, what would she do next? She was trapped in a human’s body! Yes, she knew enough about Deepmagic to know that it would normally wear off once its caster had perished, but would a demon-Mungru’s magic follow the normal rules of reversal?

       Bringar felt tiny and fragile. 

       The flimsiness of her human skin didn’t help. It was so thin, she could feel the uneven rocks upon which she lay, and she shivered in the cool air as it snuggled against her bare body. Most of her senses— sight, scent, hearing— felt strained and muffled, but her sense of touch was exquisite without a thick armor of scales. 

        It was… amazing. Amazing and infuriating, how easily this exotic human body felt like her own. 

       Humans. As her thoughts turned toward them, she pictured the Lightvian, and a bolt of lightning seemed to pierce her unprotected stomach. 

       Perhaps her gleeful destruction had been carried out a bit prematurely.  

       As soon as the other Lightvian discovered what she’d done, they would come after her. And she knew, gazing up at the mountainous heap of fused rubble that had once been a fortress, that without her fierce dragon body she would fall easily. The grand escape and destruction that had been her greatest triumph of the day would soon become her most bitter regret. 

       It must not happen. It must not. 

       She did not want to ponder this path any more. 

       Bringar climbed to her frail human feet and readied herself to hunt down some clothes. Previously, she had never understood humans’ need to cover themselves up, but having experienced firsthand the sensitivity of their skin, she now understood the value of an extra barrier between herself and the world.

       With each ginger step over the stones, she wobbled. Somehow, on an instinctive level, she understood how to walk, but the motion was still alien and felt terribly risky when she was used to the extra stability of four legs. Not to mention that her feet were so maddeningly delicate that they stung with each step over the rocky earth. 

       Her progress was lamentably slow. It was evening by the time she made it halfway up the jagged side of the volcano, where she paused to rest upon a ledge and check if any signs of her dragon nature had punctured the transformation spell. Confirming that they had not, she again tucked away her worry and gazed out across the land. 

       A human’s vantage was… different. The sky, stained with sunset hues that she had not been able to glimpse for years upon years, felt so distant and unapproachable, even though her human eyes seemed to pick out different colors slightly better than her draconic ones. The rocky volcanic lands extended outward for what seemed like miles until they met a sparse green forest on the southern horizon, a sight that sent an inexplicable shiver down her spine. Everything seemed so much larger and colder in the absence of her wings. 

       She was unfettered. The land was spread out like a feast before her, the sky rolling forever like an endless sea for her to sail. Yet she felt none of the wild joy to which she had looked forward for decades, but rather a stark sense of intimidation. 

       The world had changed while she slept in the volcano’s belly. This was not the Realm she remembered. 

       The reliable heat and shelter of her prison suddenly whispered with a certain appeal. 

       Is this strange perception on account of my age? My current humanity? Neither? Whatever the answer, Bringar dragged herself out of it in order to continue up the volcano. Those thoughts were very foolish, and very dangerous. She focused instead on her quest: she wouldn’t risk climbing while it was dark, so she had about an hour more before she’d have to stop for the night. 

       And, Kadarhan's caldera, she was hungry. 

       Just before dusk gulped up the land, she made it to one of the Lightvian corpses that had fallen to its death upon the rocks. The body was stiff and broken, especially the limbs upon which it had appeared to land, but aside from a sprinkling of dirt and a few small rips, its clothing was in impressive shape. With some work, she managed to work the robe off its stiff frame and don it herself. 

       Ah, she liked this. The pale cloth felt smooth and silky, yet durable, and it served as an excellent windbreak. She tugged off the corpse’s leather boots and wore them as well, relieved to have protection from the harsh landscape. 

       Interesting, that. Terrain had never mattered much to her before. 

       Newly clothed, Bringar curled up on the ragged cliff and sank into the darkness. Tomorrow, she hoped to wake up and find herself returned to dragon form; then she could take flight and soar across the Twelve Realms to see how the world had changed. No one would have to know about her unintended stint as a human, or even that she had spent years in bondage to the Lightvian. No, they would remember only her ferocious majesty, and fear and respect her as they ought.  

       Like the majestic sun over a slumbering world, Bringar would rise again. 

Four days later, Bringar sat beside the ruins of the Hold, peeling off the feathers of a freshly caught finch. 

       Prey was much harder to hunt without draconic speed, claws, teeth, and wings. Yet though her pickings had been laughably small, she was learning. Besides, the struggle was exciting, and the reward of raw meat and blood was something she craved even as a human. 

       The first meager sign of her draconic nature had appeared earlier that day: a single scale upon her forearm, glittering faintly when she rolled back her sleeve and exposed it to the sun. Her reversion to a dragon was progressing more slowly than she would prefer, but it was a relief to see it coming along. 

       The real question was whether it would arrive before the Lightvian did. 

       Bringar jabbed at the frail skin of her finch with a stone, and it split like flesh at the touch of a dragon’s claw. The marvelous tang of blood saturated her nostrils; she drank it in with deep breaths and wide smiles. 

       She sat back against the rocks and bit into the finch’s flesh. Ahhhhh… It might have made most humans sick, but the fresh meat tasted sublime to her. 

        As she munched upon her bird, Bringar scanned the sky. In addition to Lightvian, she was beginning to worry about other dragons— if any of them came soaring past, they would likely see the destruction and spread the news, assuming they didn’t spot and slay her first. As a last resort, she could pretend to be a Lightvian, but given her wrinkles, red eyes, and unnatural scent, she doubted that such a lie would  succeed. Best to spot any incoming dragons and hide before they arrived. 

       Assuming they’d come at all. They probably wouldn’t. This was still— in spite of her imprisonment— Bringar’s territory, and most dragons honored such boundaries. 

       Then there was the question of moving. Perhaps it would be wise to distance herself from these ruins and hide in the wilderness until she repossessed her dragon body. She hadn’t done it yet because she figured she might as well stay in a familiar domain while learning to manage her new form, but the time may well have come.

       She pondered such matters while she devoured her prey, forgetting to glance up at the sky as she enjoyed the meal. All meat tasted the same to her as a human, raw and bloody, but it was still a flavor that wrapped her in ecstasy and made her dream of soaring on high, dominant over the earth and heavens, as all the creatures of the Twelve Realms bowed and trembled below. 

        A glorious vision. Perhaps soon, she would see it come—

        She started and dropped the remnants of the bird. Gold flashed through the distant sky in the unmistakable motion of wingbeats, approaching from the southwest. 

       Suns above and below! Bringar scrambled to find a good hiding spot, hurling her frantic gaze over the rocks, ruins, and trees so far away. The forest would conceal her the best, of course, but she would never reach that in time, so she sought out niches in the stones or an overhang within the rubble. Ah, confound it! Nothing looked sufficiently secure.

       She glanced upward again. The bright wings appeared small and distant; she still had time. Perhaps the other dragon was merely passing by and would turn away before it saw the destruction she had caused. 

       The remarkable tempo of her heart lowered to a more reasonable rate, though she continued to search for crevices in which to hide— and she was relieved to sight one between the broken fortress and the ground, into which she swiftly tucked herself to wait. 

       If the dragon was truly coming here, it should arrive within a quarter of an hour. So Bringar gave it thirty minutes to be sure. Yet half an hour passed, and she heard neither thunderous wingbeats nor spotted a great shadow soaring across the earth.  

       She smiled and prepared to emerge from hiding. 

       But wait… what was that? 

       She listened. Yes, that was the thumping of wings coming in for the descent, but they were much too quiet to be a dragon’s and much too loud to be a bird’s. She stood frowning and listening for a few minutes more, but heard nothing else. 

       Human ears. They must be so weak they’re playing tricks on me… 

       “Hello?”

        Ah! Bringar’s body went stiffer than a statue, her fluttering heart the only part of her that dared move. 

        “Is… is anyone there?” the voice asked again. 

       It was tremulous, clearly frightened, but unmistakably human. Kadarhan’s gaping maw. She couldn’t see the speaker— he was concealed behind the towering mass of the ruined stronghold— but she began to creep out of hiding and toward the sound.  

       By the volcanoes’ blood, had one of the Lightvian survived? And hidden from her all this time? 

       Well, I know exactly what to do. 

       She grinned. As she slunk gradually around the corner of the fortress, she raised her own voice and channeled the most commanding Lightvian tone at her disposal: “Yes, I am here.” 

      “Oh, thank Seviar!” the other human cried. “What happened?”

       Bringar frowned. Why would a survivor ask that? With slow, deliberate steps, she moved to peer around the side of the Hold.

       And she had to bite her tongue to keep from exclaiming. 

       The stranger was a Lightvian, pale-robed and bright-eyed and clutching a white dagger. But he was also much more than that, for from his back expanded a great feathered pair of golden wings.

       Bringar’s mind convulsed into a dozen kinks. Fascinated. Disbelieving. This was the “dragon” she’d seen earlier, none other than a flying Lightvian. 

       This… is remarkable.

       “What happened here?” the Lightvian asked again. He seemed very young, somewhere in his teens, though Bringar was no expert at gauging human age. His wings trembled visibly. “The Hold… everything is completely destroyed.” 

       She drove herself out of confusion and into response. “Yes,” she said solemnly, “it was a tragedy most bitter.” But it was hard to pour all her energy into her acting when she continued to ponder his wings. Was his appearance somehow related to that of the death-defying, Deepmagical Mungru who had inexplicably set her free? It seemed more likely than not. 

       The Lightvian looked up to the peak of the volcano behind her, cracked and smoking. He didn’t seem to have spotted her yet; he was too shocked by the state of the Hold. “Did the dragon break out?” 

       Bringar hesitated— she was doing too much of that lately— and decided she could hardly pretend that another creature had caused such destruction. “Indeed. I was fortunate to survive.”

       He stared at the desolation. “I can’t believe…” 

       Time to change her angle. Ask him the questions. 

       “Why have you come here?” she demanded with Manavior’s force. “What did you expect to do at the Volcaarious Hold?” 

       The Lightvian shifted his wings.“I thought the Lightvian here… you… could help me. I… had no idea that this had happened. I’m sorry. So sorry.” 

       Profuse apologizing? Not a typical Lightvian move. “What help did you expect to find at Bringar’s prison?” 

       He turned away. “I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. These wings… I need to tell you… I came, fled, from Miriel. I don’t know what news you’ve heard, but…” He swallowed and lowered his head. “I’m Clarion Silrae. The syvatri’s son.” 

       It started as a chuckle, bubbling deep in Bringar’s throat like magma in the earth’s core. The Lightvian whirled and pierced her with an affronted stare, seeing her at last, and this only made her laugh all the harder, until her cackles crescendoed into a glorious eruption like a volcano’s grand blast.

       “A bold claim, young sir!” she exclaimed condescendingly. “What would possess you to say such a thing?” 

       The Lightvian looked stunned. “You don’t believe me?” 

       Bringar eyed him up, laughter dying down. Talon and fang, he was claiming to be the second most infamous Lightvian in history. That took real spirit. And if it were possibly true… 

       When had Lightvian ever lied? 

       The mirth whispered out of her, every last particle, to be replaced by something cold and hard and greedy. 

       Kadarhan’s blazing soul. This was an opportunity one could only dream of. 

       A wicked grin tried to twitch across her face, but she snuffed it out. A commanding scowl was what she needed. So she conjured her best one, and it must have been effective, for the Lightvian winced even before she growled, “Surrender your weapon.” 

       “I…” His knuckles went white as he clutched it all the tighter. “I won’t attack you, I swear on Seviar’s—” 

       “I said surrender, Silrae.” 

       Clarion covered his face with one wing and tossed his dagger to her, where it clattered on the rocks a few yards from her feet. “Please. Let me talk to the other survivors. Let me explain to all of you…” 

       He fell silent as Bringar stepped out of the shadow and into the sunlight to pick up his dagger. 

       Then he whimpered softly. 

       Bringar unveiled her grin for this dramatic reveal. Standing in the Hold’s shadow had concealed her red eyes and aged appearance; now that she had emerged into the light, these features— alien to Lightvian, who neither possessed red eyes nor showed physical signs of aging— flared out, unmistakable. 

       She bent down, dextrous human fingers grasping the surrendered dagger. It was so smooth, so flawless, cold as ice, sharp as heartbreak, a work of art— and she had helped create it. 

       “Finally,” she murmured. “A masterpiece in the possession of its maker.” 

       “No,” said Clarion. “Oh, Seviar, no…” 

       She waved to the hulking mass of the Volcaarious Hold, slouched brokenly behind her, and her grin extended to the four corners of the earth. “Behold, son of Octavious, my greatest masterpiece! Complete in every way— with no survivors to come running to your aid.” 

       He stepped back, small and trembling. “Did I cause this?” 

       “No, my dear. That honor goes to a bat.” 

       “How dare you!” he shouted, but his voice sounded weak and afraid. “You wear a Lightvian robe, pretending to be one of my people, when you murdered them!” 

       “Tsk, tsk,” she purred, steadily advancing. “We all claim, in one way or another, to be someone else. I would think that the son of Octavious should be a little more familiar with the deceptive ways of the world, but Lightvian never fail to amaze with their stupidity. And hypocrisy. You ask me how I dare wear a Lightvian robe? Well, ask yourself. I heard you’ve committed some fine murders back in your homeland, and I see by your wings that you’re already tampering with the boundaries of magic. You truly take after your father.” 

       Clarion groaned. Or perhaps it was a failed growl. Either way, she could tell that she had struck a nerve, and that more than anything confirmed that he was who he claimed to be. 

       Oh, yes! Her grin spread wider than the Aracor Ocean. The son of Octavious himself was hers with which to play— could the fates have given her a better opportunity? 

       “What really interests me,” Bringar went on, aiming to distract Clarion lest he fly away, “is the fact that you came all the way up here to escape judgment in Emraliad. Did you really think that you’d find sympathy in the Volcaarious Hold? I can tell you exactly what my wardens thought of you. You’re ‘disturbed and homicidal. A danger to us and our children.’” 

       Clarion clenched his right hand into a fist. By now she was close enough to determine the color of his eyes, a striking silver. Of course, Octavious’s salient silver eyes were one of the terrible features that all of her guards whispered about in their horror stories, ascribing to them frightful qualities of insanity and sadism. 

       “In other words, you show promise,” she told Clarion. “Two murders and you’re not even eighteen? Remarkable. My wardens seemed to think the same; they spent quite a bit of time discussing your reward. They seemed very taken by the idea of having you whipped and thrown into prison, though I would have advocated for the death sentence; I mean really, one life for two, it’s simple arithmetic—” 

       She had begun to enjoy laying into this Lightvian so much that it was a true disappointment when he whipped his wings open and leaped into the sky.

       Fortunately, she knew exactly how that worked. One couldn’t truly take flight in a single strong wingbeat— momentum was required to ascend. 

       And so she had time to lunge forward, interrupt Clarion’s upward motion with a brutal collision, and tackle him to the ground. 

       She knew to throw his dagger away the instant she engaged him; if he got ahold of his weapon, he would be able to use magic against her, and that would be the end. Without the dagger, neither of them had an outside advantage. It was Bringar against Clarion, dragon against Lightvian, human against human in physical combat. 

       Of course, they were far from equally matched. Clarion was fit, trained, and winged; Bringar was old, inexperienced, and new to her very body. Yet Bringar, like all capable predators, hadn’t attacked her prey without assessing her chances and finding them promising. She retained a measure of draconic strength, knowledge of ways to use an opponent’s wingspan against them, and a willingness to fight dirty when a Lightvian wouldn’t.

       She could win. 

       But the contest was brutal. 

       Pain, movement, exhaustion, adrenaline: these were all that Bringar knew as she wrestled over the rocks, snarling and clawing and doing her best to keep Clarion down. It wasn’t sufficient— he was stronger, and swifter, and this contest was fast becoming less of Bringar trying to pin him down and more of her struggling not to be knocked unconscious. 

       Blast it! She held out as best she could and attempted to maneuver them over the rocks, closer to the remains of the Hold and to the dagger she had hurled away. If she could get him to go for his weapon, she’d have a window in which to act.

       Come on, Lightvian, come on, come on… 

       Clarion took the bait. 

       Bringar grinned. As he disengaged to scramble toward his dagger, she heaved up a few loose stones and pelted him with them. Then, as he was forced to stop and defend himself with his wings, she charged in from the side and smashed into his wing right at the joint, where she knew it was weakest. 

       The wing crumpled. She used the momentum of the slam to tackle him again— and this time, she was able to wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze. 

       Terror lit his eyes, his face, his entire being. He thrashed so violently that she nearly lost her hold, yet she squeezed harder, and then he truly panicked. Wild blows from hands and wings assailed her, frantic and ill-placed, accomplishing nothing but wasting precious energy. His own efforts suffocated him nearly as much as hers, and it was not long before his struggles perished and he succumbed to unconsciousness. 

       When he did, Bringar maintained the pressure on his throat for several moments more. Then she released him, panted for a minute, and loped over to his dagger, which she pocketed after locating and stealing its sheath. 

       Then, standing over the fallen Lightvian who was none other than Octavious’s infamous son, she laughed.

       I have done it. 

       Everything is coming together for me. 

       With a wide, wonderous grin, she retrieved the white chain that had accompanied her down the mountain and dragged it over to Clarion. She looped it snugly around his wings, arms, and neck with length to spare; it worked so well, it looked as though it had made for this. 

       And what a beautiful reversal of history that was. Now she, Bringar, was in charge, and a Lightvian was her prisoner. 

       If this wasn’t victory, nothing was. 

       Yes, her escape hadn’t gone exactly as planned. Yes, it had been done largely on the terms of a crazed bat rather than her own. And yes, she was now trapped as a human, and at the rate she was currently transforming, it would take months for her to change back. 

       But ultimately, these flaws in her triumph were mere sparks to the blaze of her glory. She would be all the more magnificent for her ascension from weakness. 

       For now, she had simply had to wait. Wait and survive until she spread her dragon’s wings once more. 

       And in the meantime, she could take this son of Octavious to the capital of the desert and send the Lightvian word that she had captured him. With a few simple lies of future peace and remorse over the blood rage that had inevitably led her to wreak revenge— and using Clarion was an invaluable bargaining chip— she could ensure her safety until the time came to spread her reputation across the Twelve Realms. 

       So thank Clarion for making such a fortuitous appearance. Thank the Mungru for the long-awaited opportunity to break free. Thank even the Lightvian who had held her captive, for being so vocal about the situation in the Lightlands and cuing her in to how important Octavious’s son might be. Thank all of these noble sacrifices who, like a parasite, Bringar leeched off and ruined in the end. 

       “Your service,” she purred to them all, “is appreciated.” 

       And so, Bringar prepared to take the first step to her grand destination. But before she went anywhere, she did that which characterized her in fury, joy, and sorrow, that which any magnificent legend about her would be incomplete without. 

       She grinned.