Page 8 of Thauglor
For the past three days, we've perched high in the mountains like gargoyles of vengeance. We silently watch the blue dragons come and go from their nest with clockwork precision. Every thunderous wingbeat they make reverberates through the stone beneath us. The vibrations travel up through my claws and into my bones. Every route they take across the craggy peaks gets noted and memorized for our eventual strike. The cold mountain air bites at our scales like angry insects. But we endure it like the patient hunters we’ve become.
During the long hours of surveillance, I steal glances at Klauth’s profile. His jaw is clenched so tight I worry his teeth might crack. The lines around his eyes have deepened since we found the nest, carved by grief that no amount of vengeance will ever fully heal. I remember when he first told me about Syrax; he lit up talking about his first viable clutch. That light has died now, replaced by something cold and hollow that makes my chest ache.
I think of Ysara, the black dragoness who bore my youngest, Thalion. The way she curved protectively around our egg, singing ancient lullabies in the old tongue while her scales shimmered in the firelight. How her eyes would flash with maternal fury if anything dared approach our nest. The memory fills me with both warmth and terror—warmth for what was, terror for what could be lost.
My muscles ache from holding the same position for hours at a time. The bitter taste of wind-blown snow coats my tongue like metallic powder. But we store every detail, cataloging their patterns and weaknesses like scholars of destruction preparing for the most important exam of our lives. My neck cramps from keeping my head perfectly still for so long. By the end of the week, we’ll be ready to move with deadly efficiency.
I’ve watched three of my offspring take their first flight, watched them spread wings that seemed impossibly fragile against the vast sky. The pride that swelled in my chest those days could have lifted mountains. But now, knowing that Klauth will never experience that joy, that his progeny were stolen before they could even break free of their shells... It makes every breath taste like ash.
On the fourth day, the last piece of evidence we need arrives like a gift from the god of war. A small flight of wyverns lands in the courtyard below and shifts into human form right there in the open. Their arrogance is so complete they don’t even bother with basic security. Those stupid sons of bitches—may they develop the worst case of scale rot to ever exist and die screaming as their hides fall off in rotting chunks.
Klauth damn near loses his mind seeing what happens before us. His massive form tenses like a coiled spring ready to explode into violence. The muscles beneath his scales ripple with barelyrestrained power. A low growl rumbles from deep in his throat, a sound I’ve heard him make only once before—the night we found Syrax’s remains. I have to slam him back against the stone wall behind us and pin him in place with my full weight. My claws dig furrows in the rock as I fight to keep him from launching a premature attack. The sound of scraping stone echoes off the mountain walls.
“Bloody hell,”I hiss between clenched teeth. My breath creates small puffs of steam in the frigid air.“I didn’t think I’d have to be the voice of reason here.”The irony isn’t lost on me—if I have to remain the reasonable one out of the two of us, we’re well and truly screwed. My reputation for level-headedness is about as solid as morning mist.
I feel the tremors running through his body, see the way his claws extend and retract unconsciously. He’s reliving that moment of discovery, seeing those empty shells crumble to dust in his hands. Part of me wants to let him go, let him tear these bastards apart with his bare talons. But the strategic part of my mind, the part that’s kept us both alive for centuries, knows we need to see this through. We need proof. We need to follow the trail to its source.
I think of Korrath’s first kill, how he brought the deer to me with such pride, blood still dripping from his young fangs. I think of Velara’s laugh, like silver bells in the wind, when she successfully performed her first transformation. These memories feel sacred now, precious in a way I never appreciated before seeing Klauth’s devastation. Every milestone my progeny achieved, every minor victory and moment of joy—Klauth will never have those with his lost young. The weight of that realization sits on my chest like a boulder.
We remain motionless as carved stone and watch the exchange unfold below with predatory intensity. By the looks of it, money changes hands in leather pouches that clink with the sound of betrayal. The metallic ringing carries up to us on the thin mountain air. Payment for services rendered. Blood money for innocent lives stolen. Then the wyverns launch themselves into the air and head south with lazy wingbeats that speak of creatures who believe themselves safe from retribution.
We share a look that needs no words—this is the break we needed, the thread that will unravel their entire conspiracy. Quietly, we shift into our human forms. Bones crack like breaking branches as we compress our massive frames into more manageable shapes. The familiar agony of transformation shoots through every nerve ending. We tail the wyverns at a careful distance, following their scent trail through mountain passes and over barren wasteland until we discover their lair in the southern isles.
As we travel, I notice how Klauth’s human form moves differently now. There’s a brittleness to his posture, a weight in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. Grief has aged him in ways that centuries of battle never could have. When we stop to rest, he stares into the distance with eyes that see ghosts. I want to offer comfort, but what words exist for a loss this profound? What could I possibly say that wouldn’t sound hollow and meaningless?
I remember visiting Myranda after her third hatching, watching her croon over the large black eggs that would become my daughters. The fierce protectiveness in her eyes, the way she positioned herself between the nest and even me until she was certain of my intentions. That’s what Syrax died trying to do—protect what mattered most. The thought that she faced herkillers alone, without Klauth there to stand beside her, makes my vision blur with rage.
My mortality feels more fragile now, more precious. If something happened to me, who would remember Korrath’s first roar or Velara’s infectious laughter? Who would tell the stories of their achievements to future generations? The responsibility of memory weighs heavier than armor.
The hideout is a deep, dark cavern carved into seaside cliffs that swallows sunlight by day and probably conceals horrors beyond imagination. The entrance yawns like a hungry mouth lined with jagged stone teeth. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below provides a perfect cover for any screams that might echo from within. Salt spray mists the air, coating everything in a fine layer of brine that sticks to my skin. Our plan crystallizes with deadly clarity—when the sun rises tomorrow, their time on this earth will end in fire and acid.
When the sun finally breaks over the horizon the next morning, it paints the sky in shades of blood and gold. We shift and take flight with grim determination. The transformation burns through my muscles like liquid fire. We skim close to the water’s surface, so low that my belly scales nearly brush the waves. Each swell sends salty spray into the air that stings my nostrils and lips like tiny needles. But the discomfort only fuels my determination. The pounding of my heart matches the rhythmic crash of surf below, a war drum beating the tempo of approaching vengeance.
I glance at Klauth flying beside me and see something that chills me more than the ocean spray. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no self-preservation instinct that has kept us alive through countless battles. He flies like a dragon with nothing left to lose, and that terrifies me more than any enemy we’ve everfaced. This isn’t just about justice anymore—it’s about a father’s need to make someone pay for silencing voices that will never call him “sire.”
I think of the last message I received from Drakmor, my youngest son. A simple communication crystal pulsing with his voice: “Father, I’ve claimed the eastern ridge as you suggested. The hunting is good here. I hope to make you proud.” Such ordinary words, but they contain the entire world. Klauth will never receive such messages. His future died in ash and empty shells, and I can see that knowledge eating him alive from the inside.
I dive in first, a streak of living shadow against the dawning sky. My form cuts through the air like a blade designed for one purpose. The wind screams past my ears as I plummet toward the cavern entrance. I unleash a torrent of acid at the cavern’s mouth, watching with savage satisfaction as it eats into the stone with sounds like a thousand serpents hissing their fury. The chemical reaction spits and snarls like a wrathful beast consuming everything in its path. Wisps of acrid smoke rise from the dissolving rock.
For Klauth’s lost progeny. For Syrax’s courage. For every parent who will never have to endure what my best friend endures now. This destruction is a promise written in acid and flame—touch our young, and we will erase you from existence.
I unleash another full breath, flooding the cavern floor with enough acid to melt armor and dissolve bone. The caustic liquid pools and bubbles, sending up clouds of toxic vapor. The acrid stench burns my nostrils and makes my eyes water like I’m crying tears of vengeance. But it’s the sweet smell of justice being served. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Klauth back upseveral wingspans, smart enough to respect the deadly cloud I’m creating.
When I feel I’ve done all the chemical preparation possible, I hear Klauth suck in a breath that sounds like a bellows feeding a forge. The sound rumbles through his chest like distant thunder. When he exhales, the flames consume everything in their path with the hunger of a thousand funeral pyres. The orange and red tongues of fire lick at the stone walls, turning them cherry red with heat. The blaze meets my lingering acid with a deafening boom that shakes the very foundations of the cliff. The concussion hits me like a physical blow to the chest, followed by a flash of light so bright I see spots dancing across my vision like falling stars.
Jagged chunks of rock explode outward with the force of siege engines. Sharp fragments nick my scales and draw thin lines of blood that I wear like war paint. The taste of copper fills my mouth as I bite my tongue from the impact. The explosion throws Klauth backward through the air, and he crashes onto the rubble-littered shore with bone-jarring force. I watch his limbs tremble as he tries to stand, noting that he’s gained several fresh scars from being too close to our chemical explosion. Blood seeps from fresh cuts across his wings.
Screams and roars echo from deep within the cavern, bouncing off stone walls until they ring in my ears like the music of the damned. The sounds of dying enemies fill me with dark satisfaction—this is what happens to those who murder hatchlings and terrorize the innocent. Each cry of agony feeds the icy fire burning in my chest.
I watch Klauth’s eye twitch with barely controlled fury as he listens to the symphony of suffering. His pupils dilate with predatory focus. Without hesitation, he hurls anotherconcentrated wave of fire into the cavern mouth, determined to ensure that nothing inside survives to threaten another nest. The intense heat washes over me in suffocating waves, forcing me to step back or risk singeing my own scales in his righteous inferno. The air shimmers like liquid glass from the temperature.
Thick plumes of black smoke curl out of fissures in the cliff face above the cavern. The acrid clouds tell me that our fire spreads through internal passages like the wrath of angry gods. The smoke burns my throat and makes me cough, but I breathe it in like incense at a funeral for our enemies. With a powerful beat of my wings that sends debris scattering like a stone shower, I ascend to a better vantage point and prepare for the finishing blow.
A moment later, I release another stream of acid that follows my aerial path. The liquid is thick and viscous as it splatters against stone already weakened by our initial assault. It hisses and bubbles on contact, eating through rock like hungry acid rain. Klauth’s fire bellows at the cave entrance again, roaring higher and hotter with this fresh chemical fuel. The combination creates an inferno that would make the depths of hell seem like a pleasant retreat.
The mixture of our breath weapons creates a self-sustaining reaction that will burn for hours. The flames dance and writhe like living creatures, consuming everything in their path with insatiable hunger. Nothing inside this den of traitors will survive to see another sunset. The warrior in me knows that sometimes the only way to protect the innocent is to become the monster that monsters fear.
Chapter Eight
