Chapter 20
Twenty
Atlas
He claimed me. I can sense it in my bones. The connection swells in my soul. This black dragon came to Draaksten to find… me. But why? They're all supposed to be dead.
There's a good chance I'm dreaming and all this is not actually happening.
So I reach my hand up with reverence. When the magnificent creature doesn't move, I rest my palm against his rough scales and tears well in my eyes at the grandeur of this moment.
This is real. Not some dream or figment of my wild imagination.
There's a dragon in Tronovia and he's allowed me to touch him.
If one of my brothers asked me to explain how I feel in this moment, all I could tell them is how insignificant yet wholly seen I am in the dragon's presence.
If I don't sound foolish enough, when I drag my hand across his snout, I can confidently declare I know this dragon.
Or at least, something deep within me recognizes him. But that's not possible.
Time slows.
Everyone fades.
The dragon turns its head for me to look into one of his purple eyes. He blinks and my head snaps upward, a vision flashing in my mind.
I see a woman. A woman with long black hair flowing in the wind.
She looks up at me and smiles sadly. Her vibrant violet eyes are filled with tears.
She reaches for me – no, not me, for the dragon.
I'm in his memories. I feel her hand and the power humming beneath her fingertips feels oddly familiar.
"To the end of all things," she says, her voice soft and broken.
Her black and silver armor is splattered with blood, her tan face scratched and bruised.
The dragon's memory shows me what appears to be a battlefield. Billows of smoke. Bodies everywhere. Fire and ice. Dragons fighting in the darkened skies. And in the distance, a demon king swinging an enormous double-sided axe at Celestials in golden armor.
"Together, Vidarr." The woman's voice echoes, drawing the dragon's focus. "One last time."
The woman suddenly transforms before me. Her beauty fades, replaced by a beastly form. Fangs, long fingernails, black spidery ink trailing up and down her arms and neck. Black wings sprout from her back and her shadow swirls around her.
It's Nox.
Making her –
My head snaps back into place, the vision gone. I fall to my knees with a heavy gasp and gaze up at the dragon before me. My breathing is uneven, fragmented. An unsettling fear stirs within me.
"You're… you're Naya Valanor's dragon," I whisper with a rasp that makes my voice not sound like my own. "You're Vidarr the Destroyer."
I quickly scan his body for the markings he was said to have received during the war one thousand years ago and sure enough, across his chest are two deep scars.
This isn't just any Black Dragon. This is the Black Dragon. And he's found me – or rather, my magic.
"Bless my soul," a shaky voice echoes from behind me, drawing my attention.
Professor Riggs rubs his glasses clean and slips them up the bridge of his nose, tears streaming down his face in wonder.
"It's Vidarr." His eyes dart to mine. "After all these years, he's come back for the Shadow Wielder of our age. "
With Vidarr back, my magic reunited with his, that can only mean one thing. A war is coming.
Angry voices are shouting across the table, my Uncle Soren at the head with his fingers pressed to his temple.
The men on his council might be efficient in advising the king on economic and political agendas, but this is a matter completely out of their understanding.
They were baffled my uncle permitted the Frost Elves to not only stay in the castle, but bring their dragons to our kingdom.
And now, a rare black dragon – according to Professor Riggs, an ancient one who fought alongside Naya Valanor – has returned to our shores.
"They're afraid," I mutter under my breath.
"These old goats are scared of their own shadows," Ronan scoffs in agreement, his disdain for the elderly counselors apparent. "The moment I'm king, these morons will be out the door."
I tilt my head toward my cousin, peeling an apple with his pocketknife. "When you're king, they will be a lifeline in helping you. But when it comes to dragons, I fear they're out of their – "
"Minds," Ronan interjects with a wicked smile.
"Wheelhouse," I amend.
"Quit defending them, Atlas." My cousin drops the curled peel on the table. "If I know these fuckers as well as I think I do, they will demand for Vidarr to leave."
My eyes go wide. "But why? This is Vidarr – "
"The Destroyer," Ronan reminds me of his nickname.
"He has seen battle before," I press on. "What if he's returned because he knows we need him?"
Ronan squares his shoulders to mine, not caring what the lords around the room will think of his blatant side-conversation. "Fearful men make bad decisions, Atlas. And this lot are nothing but cowards."
A heavy fist slams down on the table, rattling the glasses.
"Why has this dragon returned after all these years?
" Lord Kattigan twists the ends of his impressively bushy moustache in clear irritation.
His question is directed toward Professor Riggs who was brought in as an expert on this matter, but these men haven't given him proper time to get a word in.
As Riggs opens his mouth to answer, the pompous Lord Edgar interjects, "We must keep in mind this dragon's unstable condition. We all know what happened to his last rider."
"He is a danger to our people!" Lord Hess incites the others with his cry. "If Naya Valanor couldn't control the beast – "
"Naya's grief led to her demise, Lord Hess," I interrupt, no longer willing to let them slander Vidarr because of their fear. "She was never in control of her dragon. He was always his own master."
"You prove our point," Lord Hess offers a venomous smile.
"No," I sit up straighter, ready for a fight.
"That only proves dragons choose to work with mortals.
We do not serve them. They do not serve us.
There is a trust, a partnership. Vidarr is not responsible for Naya Valanor's death.
She is. And if Vidarr has returned and chosen me for his next rider – "
Lord Kattigan cackles, drawing my narrow-eyed gaze. "If you think for one second we are going to go along with your plan – "
"Vidarr and I have a connection." I find myself already protective over the dragon I've interacted with all of one time for five minutes.
"A connection?" Lord Edgar puffs his burly chest, wiping his monocle. "Preposterous! You can't expect this council to believe you and the dragon share some bond upon first meeting."
"I don't need to explain myself to you."
Ronan smiles beside me, sliding pieces of apple in his mouth.
Lord Kattigan shakes his head. "We cannot permit you to claim the ancient beast."
Thrane, who has remained silent and slouched in his chair opposite my uncle this entire meeting chuckles darkly.
Ronan and I shoot him a curious look, while the rest of the men at the table frown at his interruption.
I know it's eating a few of them alive that my uncle invited Thrane to join our conversation.
"Is there something you wish to say, King Thrane?" Lord Kattigan sighs in aggravation. His question is a formality; the man doesn't actually care what Thrane has to say.
Thrane ignores the blatant disrespect for now, but homes in on Kattigan.
"Your choice of words amuses me, Lord Rattigan.
You won't permit Atlas to claim Vidarr? Dragons do not abide by the laws of men.
We do not claim dragons, dragons claim us.
If Vidarr has chosen Atlas, that's the end of the matter. "
"It's Kattigan," he corrects. "What you ask is egregious. You want us to agree to let an anomaly – "
"Again with the let him business," Thrane interrupts, sliding his leg off the armrest and sitting upright, fingers intertwined and resting on the table. "Perhaps I will let you keep your idiotic tongue."
Everyone is suddenly on edge and Ronan is practically giddy beside me. I must admit, I don't believe anyone has spoken to this council with such purposeful disregard. Oddly enough, I now have a newfound respect for the Frost Elf.
Uncle Soren raises a hand, quelching whatever fire Thrane has lit.
"If it is as you say, King Thrane, and Vidarr has selected Atlas to be his rider, who do you propose will teach him to ride?" My uncle asks a valid question. "We no longer have dragons in Tronovia and the last trainer died in the Great War."
"I will train him." Thrane answers without a moment's hesitation.
"You?" Lord Hess scoffs, drawing Thrane's wicked side eye. He stills, the unwavering stare gluing him to his chair.
"Do I detect protest?" Thrane says lowly, a predator playing with his prey.
"Perhaps you would like to claim the honor yourself, Lord Hiss?
" Thrane taps a finger to his chin, knowing damn well he's gotten under the councilman's skin by addressing him incorrectly.
"Oh wait. You don't know shit about dragons. "
"You cross the line – "
"Tread lightly," Thrane cuts Lord Edgar off. "You may not be under my jurisdiction, but I am not to be made an enemy." With that, the Frost Elf stands, signaling the end of the meeting. "I will train Atlas Harland to ride Vidarr. Unless anyone has any objections?"
Uncle Soren smiles politely. I'm not sure how he feels about Thrane, but I know he won't argue with another king, especially one who knows about dragons. "The honor is yours, King Thrane. Train him well."
"Splendid," Thrane motions for me to follow him before clasping his hands behind his back and walking to the door. "If you will excuse us. We have work to do."
With one last look spared my uncle's direction, I do as Thrane bids and follow him out into the hall, Ronan nipping at my heels.
Once we're a good way down the corridor, I say, "I think you made a few enemies today in helping me."
"Do you think I will lose sleep over men whose names I will not remember?" Thrane snips back, unbothered by the carnage he left for my uncle to sift through.
"I, for one, found it inspiring," Ronan snickers. "Kattigan and Hess will be losing sleep over you calling them Rattigan and Hiss for the rest of their dusty days."
The corner of Thrane's mouth quirks upward ever so slightly in amusement. "Yes, although juvenile, I did find that too easy to pass up."
"All jokes aside," I press him. "Why did you help me?"
"I think the real question you should be asking is what do I want in return for helping you?"
My heart lurches in my chest and my brows knit together. "And what do you want?"
There's a brief silence as we finally stomp out the front door and into the brisk winter. Thrane suddenly squares his shoulders with mine and says, "When you and Aurelia finally decide to have a family, I want you to name your first born after me."
Ronan barks out a laugh, slapping his hand against his thigh, but I remain stoic, reading Thrane's unrelenting grey gaze.
"You can't be serious," I say lowly.
"Am I laughing?"
Irritation burns in my lungs. "There's no way – "
Thrane smirks and holds up a hand to stop me. "Don't get yourself worked up. I jest about your offspring. See this as my gift to you. A welcome to the family present if you will."
I shoot Ronan a bewildered look, but he too seems surprised by the Frost Elf's no-strings-attached generosity. "You're being nice," I release each word slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Why?"
He sighs and shakes his head. "Perhaps Aurelia is rubbing off on me. I assure you, it won't happen again." He makes for the carriage awaiting him. "I will check on Draakstan. Tomorrow morning, your lessons begin. Don't be late."
And with that, the Frost Elf hops into the buggy and disappears.
"You know, as much as I want to hate him for the wedding shit," Ronan tosses his apple core into the bushes, "he's not that bad once you get to know him."
"You only find him amusing because of how he handed those lords their asses."
Ronan shrugs, "Not all heroes wield swords in battle. Atlas."