(From the Fractured Fairytales edition. Full Edition will be expanded.)

“Aiwah!” Liafa screams, pointing.

I almost don’t hear her voice; it’s swallowed by the din of war and shriveled by the heat of the noon sun. Clashing blades, the screams of the dying, defiant pleas for mercy abruptly cut off. . .though not all, and I cling to hope our enemy is as sick of five centuries of death as I am.

But I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to end this and I should.

The mere three second pause it takes to catch my breath and flick my gaze upward could kill many warriors, but despite the muck and fray of battle, I’m surrounded by my personal guard. They cling to me, tenaciously, and I’ve long since accepted their presence with the grim resignation that comes with knowing my House will one day get them all killed.

Needlessly.

I’m among the best warriors on this field—on our side—but they’d each sacrifice their lives. A few have, and while my gaze catches on that large shadow darkening afternoon clouds, grief clogs my throat.

Unending grief, river deep grief, grief as familiar as a long time lover. The only lover I’ve kept more than a few months before discarding.

Two centuries of conflict plus two centuries of outright war.

An immortal’s lifetime of grief.

I shove my thoughts aside because that shadow in the clouds enlarges—

“Dra’kin! Watershields!”

The squad of Adalessikai trained in a double affinity for shields and manipulating water flow into formation; each partnered with a warrior to protect their body as they work to guard us from the roar, and agony, of flames above.

My breath catches again and I allow myself the one brief moment of wonder, tears pricking my eyes because the ferocious Dragonkin are beautiful. . .

Then I brace under my own shield, hoping I won’t survive another battle, but duty bound to try.

All that is left is duty.

My birthright.

My burden.

But soon, the well-deserved peace of death.

If I am born again, let it be a long time coming and in a land far from here.

* * *

Three.

Dragonkin.

ThreeofthembytheDarkness.

I may court death, but I’m determined my people will survive. My viciousness on the field is equal to my focus, others say. The way the younger generations write of me, it’s as if they believe I don’t defecate, or vomit after a night drowning myself in wine—alone in my quarters, lest the dignity of my House suffer. Liafa tried to put a stop to that early.

We’re pressed into a retreat up against the steep decline of valley Kathnimul by sunset, thick smoke clogging lungs and obscuring vision. There are only so many watershielders, and the scent of roasting meat fills the air.

The carrion will eat well tonight; we can’t reclaim all the bodies in time.

I scream my fury, the sound lost in the general frackus, then slap myself and order a retreat. . .refusing to glance over my shoulder. The only retreat for some of us may be tumbling down the ravine into the Lianiali river.

For me, that wouldn’t be such an ill fate; its waters flow in my veins, almost replacing blood. It means “Dra’kin blood” in the archaic dialect and I’ve wondered if whatever ancestor named it was prescient.

“Lord, you must come.” Liafa grabs my sword arm with a boldness only she will chance and drags me backward.

I snarl at her. “I’ll guard the retreat. I don’t leave until every last—”

“We can’t lose you!”

It’s an old fight. Sometimes I win, sometimes she. She glares at me, her dark gaze fierce.

“I am not your servant.” The words tear out of me as I shake her off. “I’m theirs.”

But really, I belong to the river. Why, and how, I don’t understand. Though I know who rests in the Kathnimul caves, miles from my keep, the dam his hoard.

She curses at me then subsides, knowing it’s useless. She’s a quiet, properly respectful bodyservant while in the keep, but on the field she morphs into a Harpy. I haven’t had the temerity to reprimand her since the last time I mustered the gall—we were children—and a scorpion wound up in my bed. I’d survived the poison and learned a valuable lesson about who truly holds the power in a servant-master relationship.

The one who oversees my food, bath, and bedding. Anything that touches my skin.

Once again there’s no time for argument. As we finally begin our own retreats, it occurs to my tired brain—

“Liafa, we’re being herded!”

 Or I am. This plain has been stripped bare and trampled into mud but it was forest once, and there’s a reason we refuse to yield it.

Pushed back, the enemy ground forces peel us off on each flank, fire barreling down from above, relentless. There’s nothing but fire, and screaming and smoke and scorched meat when shields break, and many do. We’re strong, not invincible.

“Liafa!” I no longer see her or hear her shrieks of fury as we’re separated.

Lianiali is at my back and below.

I glance once over my shoulder, looking down the steep hill to those deceptively peaceful waters as they flow in the direction of my distant keep. It circles Neinphai, creating a natural moat before flowing out for miles and finally into the sea.

This valley and its caves are warded. No one other than a direct descendent of the mage who set the wards can come in or go out.

Fire. Pain, and then even the last circle around me breaks. I swing my sword until somehow I’m tumbling down the ravine.

Crying out a denial, desperation has my nails break off as I instinctively try to slow my fall by grabbing onto any foliage, digging into soil. I’m tumbling too fast to gain purchase, and searing pain assaults me when my body breaks through the ward.

I’ll die by Dra’kin flame after all today.

It was a fine battle, and I fell under the onslaught of three Dragons. . .there is no shame in that. Besides, if I die by his flame, the unwilling keeper of this valley and its natural dam, then that is what any warrior would consider an honor, and a good death indeed.

Dazed, blood and grit darkening my vision, I lay on the riverbed. Turning my head, I watch as tiny blue wildflowers spring up where my blood seeps into the ground. A gentle affinity, though it’s more instinctive than anything else. Not very useful for a warrior, though over the decades Liafa and my commanders have insisted I somehow weaponize this ability to. . .grow flowers. They are always more ambitious than I.

I chuckle, then groan. My ribs feel cracked and I think the right ankle and both wrists including a few fingers are done for. The worst injury, truly, is fatigue and my dwindling desire to live.

I suppose any time now I will have my almost wish.

Yet none of the physical pain compares to my inner agony. Liafa. My warriors. All I can do is stare up, try to catch glimpses of the battle, the ringing in my ears almost eclipsing the roaring of Dragons.

Struggling to at least push up on my elbows, true physical pain companions the soul agony. Internal injuries other than the broken bones then. I’ll be going nowhere, saving no one.

I don’t bother to wipe away the single tear that trails down my temple as once again the sky darkens, and a new scent teases my nostrils; they flare to catch the last notes on the wind. The richness of earth deep in a cave, the subtle crisp sweetness of a river, quite unlike the brine of an ocean breeze. Mingled with it is a woodsy musk. . .it smells masculine.

The shadow turns and wings pivot then fold, almost as if he’s taking a deep dive—and then the powerful boom of a large body gracefully hitting the water.

Soon now.

Liafa. Ainurah. Forgive me.

He surfaces, but the sound is different. . .diminished. The Dra’kin male emerges from the water, and I wish I felt anything besides. . .disappointment. That is not the emotion I would choose to accompany me into death and I’d wanted to die by flame, though his Adalessikai form is deadly enough.

Four centuries alone and he still maintains the disciplined physique of a warrior who trains daily. He must run, swim, and climb the other side of the ravine where it’s steeper. He must have explored every inch of his caves and burrowed down as deep as the boundary would allow. My aunt hadn’t been cruel, the House records say; she’d given him plenty of space inside his cage.

He approaches, sparkling waterdrops adorning golden skin, hair that should be black but I swear is true blue long, and wild, down his back and shoulders, dripping river water.

The same angular eyes as everyone on this side of the continent now stare at me. Disappointment flees; his gaze is a finally honed blade, quickly sheathed, but not quick enough for me to be fooled. But the hair matches the gold rimmed, sapphire eyes now darkening into the deep, rich shade of rain soaked soil. If I hadn’t been watching him so intently those first several seconds he emerged from the river, I’d have no suspicion now that this calm, almost gentle gaze is anything but.

Dropping to his knees as if they were cut out from beneath him, he leans over me, blocking out the fleeing light once again.

“Quickly.” Have I swallowed flame, my throat is so sore. No. . .smoke and my screams for Liafa.

My regret is not knowing whether she survived. If the Ancients are kind, she still lives.  Lives, and will take care of my kitten for me. Are they the only two I’ve ever truly loved? I don’t know whether to take joy, or sadness, from this. Three hundred years of life, and I’ve safely loved twice.

No. . .thrice. Liafa, Ainurah, Lianiali.

He slides his arms underneath my body and raises me enough to half-cradle, half-lean me against his chest.

I shiver, the heat of the power contained in his body brushing against my own. I sensed it only once he touched me; he is masking and it makes me wonder what else he conceals. His arms tighten, and I abandon a brief surge of outrage at the impertinence since it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Quickly, addajenari? What wouldst thou have of me in haste?”

He speaks my dialect, deep voice a slow, sonorous murmur, but it’s a long unused one. I was forced to learn it as a child, and understand it better than I speak it. Either he’s older than we thought, or he’s showing off. He does not strike me as a showy male. . .though the Dra’kin are vain.

I open my mouth to explain, but a groan of pain slips out along with the blood I feel seeping into the ground around me. There are injuries I didn’t account for, and now that the acute adrenaline of battle is beginning to wane, every single one of them strikes me.

His nostrils flare. “Thy pain wreaks me. Allow me to tend thee, then we will speak.”

His voice gentles, like the trickle of a stream falling over rock but with undercurrents of white rapids. This one is dual-natured I wager; sweet and light unless you rouse him, and then he will crush you against the rocks and fling your remains out to sea.

It’s why we’d had to bring him down; because of him we’d feared losing the ongoing war. Of course it was many decades before my time, but it is my family’s lore.

Sometimes I wonder if he’d allowed himself to be trapped, the way I have allowed myself to be killed.

If only he would get on with it.

“Kill me. Quickly. Mercy, General.”