Chapter 10 #2
I walk toward it in a sort of trance, even though part of me would still rather run in the opposite direction.
Its wounds have been tended to; the blood is cleaned away, the gash along its side covered with some kind of salve that glistens in the light.
There are stitches of dark thread on its wings, which are tucked close to its body, and it seems to be holding those appendages normally—without pain.
The chains binding it are relatively loose as well, just a harness fitted around its chest and shoulders.
It has no trouble swiveling around, watching me approach through its bright golden eyes.
But it isn't going to be able to leave that platform, not with the heavy iron links anchoring it there.
Still a prisoner, even if they've given it some freedom of movement.
At least we have something in common now.
Gareth trails behind me, watching the way I approach my supposed bonded one. Studying the way I study the dragon. Taking notes for his king, I’m sure.
I stop a few feet away, keeping my distance. “So, the beast is here, and we're supposed to do what, exactly?”
The frill around the dragon's head flattens at the word beast. I'm noticing that this part of it behaves a bit like the ears of a dog, relaying everything from interest to irritation. Its actual ears are tucked underneath this expressive, protective hood, I think.
We stare at one another for a long, tense moment.
Gareth clears his throat. “You should probably start by figuring out what you’re going to call her. Dragons are highly intelligent creatures; she won't take kindly to being referred to as beast.”
“How do you know it's a female?”
“Her coloring, among other things,” he says.
“Most dragons are born covered in black scales and feathers.
Some stay that way, but others eventually take on a secondary coloring as they mature; the females are always brighter when this happens.
And she looks like she's going to be a particularly bright beauty.” He gestures to her underside.
She rises with a deliberate, slow motion, showing off a section on her belly where the purplish-black is transitioning to a pale, shining teal color.
It's a beautiful shade.
But my eyes are drawn over and over again to the darker scales around it, and I can't help thinking about a blight closing in on a healthy crop. Because, beautiful or not, this is what all dragons are: a disease that chokes the life—the brightness—out of far too many places.
“Well?” Gareth prompts. “What will it be?”
“Blight,” I mutter.
“…What?”
“That's her name. That's what I'm calling her. It seems fitting enough.” I arrange my face into a cold mask, not inviting further questions. I'm not digging into my past with this man, not explaining anything beyond what's absolutely necessary for us to get through these training sessions.
“Not much better than beast,” he comments.
I shrug.
He studies me for a long moment. “…Well, maybe in time you'll learn her true name.”
I frown. “How would I?”
“By letting her tell it to you.”
I want to pretend I'm not interested in learning any more about these creatures, but I can't help my curiosity. “…They can actually talk, as some of the legends claim?”
“If you can listen.”
“And she knows her own name?”
“They're born knowing it; when the gods shape them from the energy of the world, they speak a chosen name, and this is what makes a dragon's heart begin to beat. It's just a question of whether or not she decides you're worthy of knowing that divine fact about her.”
“Shaped from energy? They don't hatch from eggs?” This doesn't seem right, based on things I’ve heard and seen. There are well-known nesting spots; they’re always marked on maps, because of how dangerous it is to approach one.
I also know for a fact that eggs are traded and sold in some of the seedier markets of the empire.
“There are…several other types of birth,” Gareth says. “And lesser ones hatch, yes.”
“But Blight isn't a lesser one.”
He frowns at my use of the less-than-divine name I chose. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t think so.”
He doesn't seem to want to elaborate on why. But I’m still surprised he’s elaborated on anything at all, so I decide not to press him on this point.
“You actually believe all of this, don't you?” I shake my head. “That the gods are still weaving dragons from the aether and using them to shape our world?”
“You don't?” His gaze is steady. Unwavering. For a moment, I’m almost jealous of his conviction; I wish I could trust so strongly in a higher power.
But I can’t make myself lie. “It's hard to believe the gods would have shaped one meant to bond to me, or to anyone from my homeland,” I admit.
“Why bother, when Mouren is obviously the blessed kingdom in this wretched age? Unless the gods have a sick sense of humor and just want to watch me struggle.”
“Maybe they do.”
I scowl. “Let's just get on with whatever the king wants me to accomplish, shall we?”
“Very well.” He studies me for another beat, then gestures toward the dragon. “But, just to be clear, you won't survive this—won't survive me—unless you truly believe in the bond.”
“You know, I've spent most of my life being told I won't survive.” I crack my knuckles. “Yet here I am. Surviving.”
“Let's hope the trend continues.” He moves toward the weapon rack, and I think he's going to hand me something to practice with.
Instead, he draws a sword and casually makes his way back to me.
With no warning or explanation, he lunges.
I barely dodge, stumbling backward as the blade whistles past my shoulder. “What the hell?”
He comes at me again, faster this time, and I have no weapon, no way to defend myself except to keep moving.
Behind me, I hear Blight's chains rattle. A low growl rises from her throat.
“It worked before, when you were under duress,” Gareth says, circling me. “Her instinct is to protect you, as she did in Meridian. To lend you her power. All you have to do is learn to accept it.”
“I don't want—” I cut off, diving to the side as he swings again.
He twists, following me with impossible quickness. The flat of the blade catches my ribs and pain explodes through my side, sending me toppling over in a daze. I hit the ground awkwardly. Sand flies into my good eye, blinding me completely for a moment.
I blink through the stinging, watery discomfort and force myself up to my hands and knees. As I fight for vision, warmth shoots through my chest again. It rises and falls like a claw dragging over me, scrapping for hold.
I ignore it.
I don't want any help.
I want to prove that I can stand on my own two feet, like I always have. If I’m going to bond with that beast, it won’t be because I need to, but because I choose to.
I won’t be indebted to a dragon.
Blight's growl gets louder. Her chains strain as she tries to move closer, her wings half-spreading despite the confined space and the stitches glistening in them.
You're going to rip your wounds open again, you idiotic creature.
Another claw of heat rips through me, as if in response to this thought.
“You must feel something inside of you,” Gareth says, almost conversationally. “Some proof that she wants to help you. Why are you fighting it?”
“I don't feel anything,” I lie, staggering back to my feet, ignoring the ache in my ribs and the throbbing that's started in my knee again. “And I don't need help. I told you: I've survived far worse on my own.”
He adjusts the sword in his hand before unleashing another flurry of attacks.
I manage to avoid them all, but each move I make only aggravates my injuries, until it's all I can do not to cry out with every step.
“Survived, yes,” he says. “But what if you could do more than survive?”
He's still speaking in that casual, conversational tone, barely even breathing hard.
Maybe that's why the question feels like mockery.
Like I'm a jester in this cruel court, brought here to entertain these bastards who've always been able to do more than just survive.
The king, the princess, the servants, and now Gareth—it feels like they're all just poking me with sticks, trying to see who can make me snap first.
And I'm already sick of it.
I race for the weapon rack, snatching the first sword my fingers close around.
It's a much lighter weight than my mother's blade was, so I'm clumsier than usual when I spin and slash toward Gareth. But my fury carries me onward, as it always has, burning away every thought except survival.
Again and again, we collide.
Blight eventually settles down, stretching out on her platform, but continues watching the fight. Her tail gives an occasional, restless thump.
This goes on for over a half hour, at least—until Gareth seems to decide we're finished with this particular lesson.
He takes a cheap shot, darting away, weaving in a confusing maneuver before sweeping directly into my blind spot.
I sense him coming, but I don’t see him in time to react. His sword comes down hard, and I barely get my arm up to block. Its edge is blunt, but the impact is hard enough to daze and send me staggering backward.
Warmth claws at me again, only now it feels more like anger. Frustration. It's mixing with my own rage and resentment, such a tangled knot that I can't tell what belongs to me and what belongs to the dragon.
Gareth strikes again, and this time when I try to dance away, my injured knee finally gives out on me. As I stumble, he plants a boot into my side, sending me flying.
I slam face-first into the ground, ending up with a mouth full of blood and sand.
The point of his sword presses against the back of my neck a moment later. “And now you're dead,” he says flatly. “Is that really preferable to accepting a dragon's help?”
“Yes,” I cough, before rolling onto my back with a groan.
“Stubborn fool,” he mutters.
Blight makes a strange noise, something between a hiss and a chitter. It sounds almost like...laughter.
“Go to hell,” I mumble, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to Gareth or the dragon. Both of them, I guess. My vision is starting to blur at the edges. The world is tilting sideways, the sky above spinning in a slow, nauseating circle.
I hear the commander returning his weapon to the rack. “I'll leave you to reconsider your stubbornness for a bit. I'm going to take a lunch break, in the meantime.”
I want to call after him as he walks away, to curse him out properly, but I can't seem to make my mouth work. Nothing seems to be working.
Blight makes that chittering sound again.
Definitely laughing at me.
“Shut up,” I manage to whisper.
The last thing I hear before I slip out of consciousness is the rustle of her wings, and what sounds like a snort of derision as she turns her back on me.