Page 2 of Thauglor
I’m going to bring it up once more to him, though I know how these conversations usually end between two alpha dragons. If he goes through with this fool’s errand, so be it. I just hope the hatchlings don’t suffer because he’s too proud to admit his loneliness, too stubborn to wait for what the fates might havein store. The thought of innocents paying for their father’s impatience makes my jaw clench with barely contained fury.
The cedar and pine forests that separate our territories stretch below me like a dark green sea, their ancient canopies hiding both wonderful hunting opportunities and countless dangers that could end a life in seconds. All sorts of wild game exist in them—deer that can feed newly born hatchlings with their rich meat, elk whose antlers make excellent toys for developing claws, but also predators that wouldn’t hesitate to make a meal of vulnerable young. Shadow cats with fangs like daggers, dire wolves that hunt in packs large enough to bring down even a young dragon, and worse things that have no names but plenty of teeth.
The forest floor far below is littered with the sun-bleached bones of those who thought these woods were safe, their remains telling silent stories of overconfidence and poor judgment. Shattered ribcages speak of crushing jaws, scattered vertebrae whisper of things that strike from above, and the occasional dragon skull serves as a grim reminder that even we are not invincible in this unforgiving wilderness.
Personally, I want to catch and breed rabbits if I’m ever blessed with a mate, though the thought feels like a luxury I may never afford. I’ll dig a secure pit lined with smooth stones and place my progeny down there with several breeding pairs of rabbits for them to hunt in a controlled environment. It will teach them the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of the kill, but keep them safe from the larger threats that stalk these ancient woods. The image fills me with unexpected warmth—tiny roars of triumph echoing from below as sharp little claws learn to tear flesh, the proud gleam in blue eyes that mirror my own.
I daydream about what may one day be on my way to Klauth’s stronghold. I imagine the sound of small roars echoing from training pits carved into living rock. The sight of tiny claws learning to tear flesh with precision rather than blind fury. In my mind’s eye, I see myself teaching them the difference between killing for survival and killing for sport, showing them how to honor their prey even as they consume it. But even my fantasies are tinged with wariness—every parent’s dream shadowed by the knowledge that in our world, even the strongest hatchlings face countless ways to die before they reach their first molting.
The reality of our existence crashes back into my consciousness like an icy wave. Hatchlings die from exposure, from predation, from the simple bad luck of being born during a siege. They die from eating poisoned prey, from falling into underground rivers, from challenging older siblings too early. The mortality rate among our young is staggering, which makes every successful fledgling a precious miracle. Perhaps that’s why Klauth is so desperate to secure his bloodline, even if it means compromising everything we’ve fought to protect.
I spot Klauth circling high above his castle’s spiked turrets, a dark silhouette against the threatening sky that could easily be mistaken for a vulture by distant observers. The wind whips at my face with vicious intensity, carrying the metallic taste of iron from distant battlefields and the sharp bite of coming rain that will make flying treacherous. Each gust threatens to slam me into the jagged mountain peaks that rise like spears around his territory—navigation here requires constant vigilance and reflexes honed by centuries of aerial combat.
His castle sits perched on a natural throne of granite and obsidian, its black walls seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it. Guard towers rise from the structure like accusingfingers, their arrow slits dark and watchful. Even from this distance, I can see the subtle movements of sentries along the battlements, their weapons glinting in the weak sunlight. This is a fortress built for war, designed by someone who understands that peace is just the pause between conflicts.
When he spots me, I watch him drop in altitude with practiced precision, wings wavering dangerously as they catch a sudden downdraft that could easily dash him against the rocks if he miscalculates by even a few feet. He maneuvers toward an open field we use for landings, but even this approach is treacherous—the ground is scarred with craters from past attacks, testament to enemies who thought they could breach his defenses. Loose stones and rubble could send him tumbling if he lands wrong, turning a simple arrival into a potentially fatal accident.
He kicks up a flurry of dust and sharp pebbles with each powerful wingbeat; the debris stings my eyes as I follow his descent through the turbulent air. The sound of his wings cutting through the wind is like thunder, announcing our presence to anyone within miles. I see him shift back to human form just before he hits the ground; the transformation leaving him momentarily vulnerable to attack—a calculated risk that speaks either to his confidence in his defenses or his faith in my protection.
I land nearby with bone-jarring force that sends shockwaves through the rocky ground, my massive wings fanning a swirl of grit and small rocks through the air like projectiles fired from siege engines. The impact sends tremors through the earth, disturbing nesting creatures that scatter with alarmed cries and causing several loose boulders to shift ominously on the surrounding slopes. Birds explode from hidden roosts in cloudsof feathers and panic, their cries adding to the cacophony of our arrival.
I notice his face scales are darkening—a sure sign he’s edging closer to the wyrm stage, when dragons become more powerful but also more unpredictable, more dangerous even to their closest allies. The transformation brings increased strength and magical ability, but at the cost of emotional stability and rational thought. Many dragons who reach this stage become hermits, unable to maintain relationships with anyone, consumed by paranoia and rage. The sight of those darkening scales fills me with an unexpected pang of sorrow. My oldest friend is approaching a phase that might cost me his companionship forever.
We stride toward each other across the rocky ground, each step calculated to avoid the hidden crevices that could turn an ankle or worse. The terrain here is treacherous even in human form, littered with loose stone and unexpected drop-offs that could send the unwary tumbling into jagged ravines. We clasp hands with a firm grip that tests for weakness, a ritual greeting that has saved both our lives more than once by revealing enemies using illusion magic to disguise themselves. The lingering warmth of our transformations radiates through our palms, but beneath it lurks the constant tension of predators who could turn on each other at any moment if circumstances demanded it.
“It’s been too long, Klauth. Have you been well?” I ask, my voice resonating like distant thunder as I turn to take in his domain with a warrior’s eye, automatically noting defensive positions and potential escape routes. There’s a slight curl to my lips as I observe the sprawling stone walls and their fresh battle damage, the way the distant peaks could hide approaching enemies or provide cover for a strategic retreat. “You’ve chosen a defensibleplace for your stronghold. Will your bride come here with you, or will you be fool enough to leave this protection behind?”
The question hangs between us like a blade, sharp with implications neither of us wants to acknowledge. I can see the conflict in his eyes, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides as he wrestles with decisions that could determine the fate of his bloodline. The wind picks up, carrying with it the scent of rain and something else—something that makes my nostrils flare with recognition. Danger approaches, though whether from the weather or more sinister sources remains to be seen.
I watch as my words invoke a mix of pride and unease in him, his jaw tightening with barely contained aggression that could explode into violence at the slightest provocation. He turns away, studying the rough lines of his castle’s architecture with the intensity of someone constantly calculating threats and defensive strategies. The somber gargoyles perched along the rooftops seem to leer down at us, their stone eyes following our every movement with silent judgment. These grotesque sentinels have witnessed countless conversations like this one, have seen allies become enemies and friends transform into corpses.
The air grows thicker with the promise of an impending storm—or perhaps it’s just the dangerous tension crackling between us as we discuss his questionable choices. Thunder rumbles in the distance, though whether it comes from the approaching weather or the growls building in both our chests is impossible to determine. The pressure in the atmosphere makes my scales itch beneath my human skin, a warning that transformation might be necessary sooner than expected.
“We’ll see after she bears my clutch,” he growls, and I catch the flash of fang as he speaks, his human facade slipping justenough to reveal the predator beneath. “Apparently, her parents insisted she dig a nest in their territory.” His voice drips with the kind of fury that has leveled mountains and boiled seas, and I can tell he’s about as pleased as I am about that thought. The implications are staggering—any dragon forced to leave their chosen territory becomes vulnerable, exposed to attacks from rivals who might see an opportunity in the temporary relocation.
A low growl thrums in his chest at the thought of abandoning the place where he was hatched, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath our feet like a warning tremor that precedes an earthquake. The scent of fresh mortar and aged rock clings to these walls, but underneath lurks something else—the copper smell of old blood, evidence of battles fought to defend this place. These stones hold memories of violence, of enemies who thought they could take what wasn’t theirs and learned too late the price of their presumption.
I shake my head, causing the weak sunlight to glint off the few scales I still bear in human shape—scales that could deflect a blade if needed and serve as a constant reminder of what I truly am beneath this deceptive flesh. “Crystal dragons don’t like straying far from their kind, and for good reason,” I observe, studying his expression for any hint of the doubt I know must be eating at him. “They’re creatures of habit and comfort, unused to the harsh realities of territorial warfare. It’s nearly half a day’s flight from here to her region—time enough for any number of enemies to spot us traveling together and plan an ambush.”
The distance alone makes this journey a tactical nightmare. Flying in formation with another dragon makes us a larger target, easier to spot from great distances. Our combined scent trail will be impossible to hide, and any enemies tracking our movements will have hours to prepare traps or gatherreinforcements. The crystal dragon territories are notoriously well-defended, but they rely on passive magical barriers rather than the active military presence that actual threats require.
“If she fights to return to that nest she dug, that’s her funeral,” he snarls, his voice rumbling low in his throat like the growl of an apex predator marking territory for the last time. My gaze drifts to the sprawling mountains beyond the northern side of the castle, their peaks jagged against the grey sky like broken teeth waiting to tear the unwary from the air. Those peaks hide caves where enemies could lurk, waiting to strike at the perfect moment when we’re burdened with precious cargo and flying defensive patterns.
“I have plenty of mountains here where she can dig a nest in my territory,” he continues, but I hear the underlying uncertainty in his voice, the doubt he’s trying so hard to suppress. The wind stirs his dark hair, carrying with it the cold tang of the peaks—sharp, foreboding, and heavy with the scent of snow that could trap us if this journey takes too long. Winter approaches with each passing day, and flying in blizzard conditions while escorting someone unused to harsh weather is asking for disaster.
I lick my finger to test the breeze, a habit born from countless battles where wind direction meant the difference between victory and death. The taste of salt and metal tells me storms are coming, probably within the next few hours. “We should get going if we plan on getting there before nightfall,” I mention, my voice rumbling with a subtle growl that makes nearby birds take flight in alarm. He shifts his weight, boots scraping against the rocky outcrop beneath us with the sound of metal on stone—a sound that could give away our position to listening enemies hidden in the surrounding peaks.
“The wind is in our favor heading there, but we may have to fight it on the way back. And fighting headwinds while carrying precious cargo makes us sitting targets for anyone with patience and good aim.” The words taste bitter in my mouth, acknowledging the vulnerability we’re about to accept for the sake of political expediency and his desperate need for companionship.
With that warning hanging between us like a blade, I step away, skin rippling and stretching as my human form dissolves in a cascade of transformation that never gets easier despite centuries of practice. Bones crack and expand with sounds like snapping tree trunks, muscles bulging and reforming as obsidian scales cascade across my flesh like liquid armor forged in the heart of a volcano. Within moments, I tower before Klauth in my colossal black dragon form, every inch of me designed for destruction and honed by countless battles.
My eyes burn like molten sapphire as I spread wings that could level buildings, casting shadows that seem to swallow light itself. The transformation leaves me hyper-aware of every threat—the way the wind could carry our scent to enemies, how our massive forms will be visible for miles, the vulnerability we’ll face while escorting a crystal dragon who’s probably never seen actual combat.
The flight to the crystal dragon nest stretches ahead of us like a treacherous marathon through hostile skies, each mile taking us deeper into contested airspace where rival flights patrol the boundaries like wolves marking territory. Their scouts hide among the clouds like deadly phantoms, waiting for opportunities to strike at vulnerable targets. At a little past the halfway mark, exhaustion weighs heavily on our wings like lead chains, and we’re forced to land in search of shelter. Theconstant vigilance required to avoid detection has drained us both—flying while watching for threats from every direction is like dancing on the edge of a blade while blindfolded.
We find a cave carved deep into a cliff face, its entrance partially hidden by hanging vines that smell of decay and old death. The musty air inside carries the lingering scent of previous occupants—creatures that may have died here or simply moved on to avoid whatever dangers lurk in these mountains. I can taste the metallic tang of mineral deposits on my tongue, mixed with something else that makes my scales prickle with unease. This place has seen violence before, probably recently.
Klauth is restless, his breathing harsh and irregular as he paces the narrow confines of our temporary shelter like a caged beast. I know the man is fighting an internal war—his human side battling his dragon about taking a bride instead of waiting for his true mate. The sound of his footsteps echoes off the stone walls like the steady beat of a war drum, each step betraying his inner turmoil. The man is terrified of the madness that comes from isolation, afraid that without a mate to temper his rage, he’ll become one of those feral beasts we’ve been forced to hunt down and kill.
