Page 56 of Dragon Gods

“My parents didn’t teach me. They have always been loyal to the king.” She went silent again and he thought she might stop there, but then he heard the small intake of breath before she spoke again. “When I read the stories of my ancestors and the dragons, it was the first time I felt like something more.”

“More than what?”

She wasn’t looking at him and it allowed him to watch her carefully without fear of judgment. Her eyes were focused on the small sliver of sky they could see from their spot in the cenote, where the two moons rose above the tree line. They were full and bright, blocking out the stars.

“More than an animal. More than nothing.” She turned toward him and he quickly looked away. “Do you know any of our beliefs?”

“Some,” he admitted, “but I couldn’t tell you the legends from the histories.”

“The reason we call ourselves Dragonborn is because that’s what we are. Quelia, the mother of all things, created the world and when she was done, she shed her feathers, each one falling to the earth, imbued with magic to become all the creatures of the forest. We were born of her own body. Her scales remained in the sky, turning into the stars and her eyes became the moons, watching over what she had made with reverence. She sacrificed herself to give us life. I wonder what she thinks of her people now.”

“So if you were created from feathers, where did my people come from?” He risked a glance her way and saw the furrow of her eyebrows as she stared back.

“You say it like we’re different species.”

He shifted, uncomfortable with the look she was giving him.

“You were born of feathers, too. All of us are Dragonborn. Even those who turned on the gods and murdered their own kind.”

“So, we’re all the same?” he asked.

“A frightening thought, isn’t it?”

“If you believe in ghosts, then the Dereyans can turn into ghosts, too.”

She gave another shrug.

“Do you worry about the hundreds of Dereyans you’ve killed haunting you?” he said, not expecting an answer. He was thinking of his brother. He shouldn’t have been. It never led anywhere productive, only to tears or anger.

“Only if you’re worried about the thousands of Dragonborn your people have killed.”

“So it’s okay for you to kill, but not us?”

“We are killing out of necessity because it’s the only language your chief commander speaks.” She spit the words out.

“Why do you hate the chief commander so much?”

“How is that a serious question?”

He watched her face from across the fire, knowing full well he was right. There was something in her face when she spoke of the chief commander, something more than when she spoke of the king or the Dereyans. It was the same look she gave him sometimes, too.Hatred. Rage.

“What did he do to you?”

She didn’t answer for a while and he wondered if she even would.

“The chief commander took someone from me. He killed them because he couldn’t kill me. I was…too useful.”

“I…I’m sorry.” He was surprised that he meant the words. He knew what grief felt like. It laid on his own shoulders like a chain. “Is that when you lost your finger?”

She gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “No. My punishment was much worse.”

He opened his mouth, unsure of how to ask the question, but she cut him off.

“For that answer, you’ll have to ask your father.”

With that, she turned over, her back to the fire. To him.

He didn’t move for a while, watching her, trying to understand yet trying to not think about what she had said.Ask your father. Something akin to anger thrummed through him. He knew exactly the types of punishments his father meted out. Even after he’d been promoted to general, his father had chosen to keep his role as head interrogator. Because he loved the role—took joy in it. He took joy in pain. The thought made Fox’s stomach sour and he couldn’t explain why. She was rebel filth—a traitor to the king—and it shouldn’t matter to him what punishments she’d endured for her treason. It couldn’t matter.

---