Azrakeh the Elder was a proud dragon, a ruler of the sky, he answered to no one. Even his fellows found him to be stubborn, vain, and uncontrollable. And he was proud of this. He was proud, that no god, spirit, or kin had any claim to command him, that there was no way to manipulate him into following orders.

  Except one.

  His hoard. His was a grand hoard, the object of desire for every dragon, man, and beast to have ever heard of it. It was grand, the spoils of a hundred plundered kingdoms that could not stand up to his supreme might. For thousands of years, he had protected his hoard from all who would wish to take it, building it higher all the while.

  However, never before had anyone dared to threaten it, as the priests of some goddess or another had now done. They had threatened to melt his hoard down with captured Balor-flame, and he knew they could deliver on their threats. But all they asked was that he burn down a few measly villages, draw the attention of the land’s jarl away from whatever they had planned. He could do that.

  He’d burnt down hundreds of villages, devoured tens of thousands of kin, from the smallest, most pathetic members of their peoples, to those who wore metal and liked to futilely poke at him with sticks. He had no fear of them. He would burn down all the villages he could, devour every. Last. Prey. And eventually, he’d find the Balor-flame artefact that threatened to melt his horde and rid himself of it.

  Then... Then he’d burn down every last temple to the gods in the land. It was only a matter of time. He would live eternal, remember everything. The little ones were frail, generations would pass in the span of time he considered a short nap, and they would forget.

  And he would strike.

  But now, as he soared over this pathetic collection of wood and stacked stone edifices, he thought not of the future, but of how he would torment these pathetic pests. His jaws opened; death spewed forth, a crackling maelstrom of destruction.

  .......................

  David awoke to the sound of the battle-horn and the scent of burning. Something was attacking them. He dressed quickly, donning his gambeson and what weapons he had in reach; his mythril seax, a pair of dirks, and a longsword. He charged downstairs just in time to see his father and aunt armoring themselves.

  “Equip the wyvern-scale armor in the smithy.” His father gestured. “Your mother is taking the children and those who cannot fight away from the village.”

  David did as he said, finding a suit of plate-mail layered with wyvern scales. The arms had been given additional plating descending from the shoulders, this plating was made primarily of wyvern-scale, rather than being metal layered with scales. The entire suit had been layered, even the beaked bascinet helmet was covered in wyvern-scale. It all caused a sense of nostalgia from one of his sets of memories.

  There was even a metal round shield layered with the wyvern’s bronze scales and painted with the family crest. He equipped himself and tested his movement, he’d never worn full-plate armor, and he found it to be a lot more restrictive than his usual gambeson. Still, it wasn’t as restrictive as he expected, and he would only really begin to feel the effects of its weight on long marches.

  A pained roar, louder than anything he’d ever heard, shook the smithy. He charged out into the village’s streets and found a vision of hell. Where the mead-hall once stood, there was now a dragon, a beast as tall as five houses and many more in width. Its blue scales, already scarred by the battle, glowed with reflected firelight as the beast roared out into the air. Against his every instinct, he did not run from it, but towards it, blade and shield at the ready.

  The beast roared out again, this time it was furious. A beam of crackling thunder lanced forth from its open jaws, aimed at someone near its forelegs. He wondered why the beast had not yet taken flight.

  He got his answer as he arrived at the scene. One of its wings lay severed from its body, the wound smoldering with purple flame. He watched as the beast’s head descended and it engulfed someone’s torso in its jaws, a pair of legs was all that was left of whoever the beast had caught. He watched his aunt Ethel, dressed in crimson armor, charge towards the beast, rocketing into its side with a speed and strength he would never be able to match as he was now.

  Healer Tala, wearing armor scorched and ragged by the toil of battle and hoisting a great-sword as tall as David upon her shoulders as she charged the beast’s flank, charred in a single blast of lightning. His aunt, thrown aside with a sweep of the beast’s paw, not to be seen again for the duration of the fight. His father, cratering the ground as he jumped atop the beast’s head, thrown off with a single shake. Elder Bertha sprawled across the ground, an arm and half of her torso missing.

  This was the scene he was greeted by. As the elders and the village’s other skilled warriors scuttled beneath the beast, trying to do it more harm but already tired from the battle. He faced a realization now; he was not strong enough. He had known that the elders were strong, but he’d never quite grasped the magnitude of the gulf between them until he’d watched elder Corgin call down a grand arcane thunderbolt, an expert rank spell, and still do very little to the dragon. This dragon was to them what they were to him, an insurmountable mountain. And he, he was an insignificant speck of dust to be ignored by the dragon.

  He didn’t like being ignored. His mana core churned violently as he began to form his spell, and he searched deeper. There was something there, he could feel it. A pulsing font of energy, beating like a second heart, raging at his impotence. He knew he wouldn’t be able to grasp its full power, and he could feel it growing even now, so he merely asked for a fraction, a mere drop of the churning pond. And what he received... it made him feel like he could shatter a mountain with his bare fists.

  His spell intensified as he poured all of the power he’d received into it, watching the spell become more than a runic circle floating in the air, transforming into a burning lance of stellar fire, contained, begging for release. He felt his energy drain from him until he had only the barest sliver left, and he let the spell fly.

  For a brief moment in time, his spell matched the power of the dragon’s lightning, burning, with it’s dark light, a massive scar in the dragon’s chest, melting away the first layer of scales, and he earned the vain beast’s wrath. Before he could recover from having cast the spell, a blast of lighting speared out towards him. In the blink of an eye, his mother and father ceased to be, as they rescued him from certain death and took the blast head-on. He was flung aside, impacting the wall of a nearby house, and consciousness fled him.

  .........................

  Knight-Captain Dagan Erion Lachaumes and his company were hunting. They had been asked by the Jarl of Sagresh to hunt a Dragon that had been plaguing his countryside. So, upon the arrival of the request, Fangbreak Bastion’s commander had dispatched the Knight Captain and his detachment to aid the ailing Sagresh. Thus, fourteen knights and twenty-eight squires marched out from Fangbreak Bastion and the Gildar kingdom, knowing full well that some of them might not return.

  They had chased the beast out through the countryside, trying to figure out what drives it, to see if there might be a way to lure it out. Alas, there was no rhyme nor reason to which town or village the beast chose to attack. They had always been three steps behind the beast, running from village to village, always arriving just in time to see the remnants of the beast’s havoc before the rain washed it all away.

  This time was no different.

  The beast had attacked a village, Eidrahm, according to the map, in the middle of the night. One of their squires had spotted the smoke from where they were camped, and they immediately began a hurried march. It took them an entire night of marching to arrive at the village. It was a sight like most they had seen, in Sagresh and elsewhere, with a crucial difference.

  The dragon’s blood painted the rubble of some edifice at the center of the village, a massive wing lay on the ground where the beast had been wounded. Whoever the villagers had been, they had given it a good fight, something highly uncommon. He hoped some had survived. “Send out the scouts, figure out where the beast went, it cannot fly anymore.” He ordered. “The rest of you, search the rubble! Look for corpses and survivors!”

  “Aye sir!” His troops chorused and set to their tasks with the fervor of hopeful men. What else did they hope for, but to be able to save a few lives, to not find the broken and charred corpses of children and innocents, victims of the dragon. For many of them, this was how they started off, victims of a dragon attack, the sole survivors of smoldering villages and massacred caravans. Some of them had children and saw in every dead child their own worst nightmare, that the next they dug up might be their own.

  How they hoped to prevent that. To one day rid the world of belligerent dragons, to never have to see another destroyed village, another land rendered barren by dragon’s fire. Some dragons agreed with them. It was they who had first taught them to slay their kin. It was they who had christened them ‘Dragon Knights’.

  “Healers, we’ve found a survivor!” Bellowed one of his knights. A Dwarven knight in white and crimson armor ran through the rubble towards his caller; his squires followed after him.

  “Outta my way.” He yelled as he pushed the other aside. “Francesco, get his helmet off! Mateo, ready a healing spell.” He ordered. “Gallana’s tits, he’s just a fucking kid!”

  Dagan decided to see what all the ruckus was about and found that the healer’s reaction had, in fact, been justified and not just a symptom of his advanced age. The boy they had dug out of the rubble was, in fact, a kid. He looked to be barely seventeen years old. The only reason he didn’t think he was any younger was because of the slight beard the lad had.

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  He had short tawny hair and a jagged scar on his lower jaw, from the cheek to the underside of the jaw. The boy already had the beginnings of a proper beard forming, seeing him reminded Dagan of his son, he certainly resembled him. But of course, they were nords from neighboring regions, there was a good chance they were related in some way or another.

  “No major damage, Dagan.” Knight Stelrun, the healer, stated. “The boy’s armor is very good; it prevented any damage he might have taken. Or he regenerated already. It’s possible, he has a bloodline, and you know how those can affect a person.”

  “Is that... Wyvern scale?” Dagan asked, just now noticing the material that had been layered onto the armor.

  “Oh? Aye, those are wyvern scales. Slayer-bind enchantment on the armor implies that the lad slew the wyvern himself.” Stelrun stated as he ran his squires through a diagnosis spell. “Not like that, you daft bastards, gently, you’re looking for wounds, not casting a fireball!”

  Three hours later and no more survivors had been found, just corpses promptly buried. The rest of the village had either died or chosen to flee, it would be better if they had run. The scouts had returned and confirmed the dragon’s current location; a ravine within walking distance of the village, just a mile or two away. They would depart as soon as the boy had woken up, and they would put an end to the dragon.

  “He’s awake!” Someone screamed, almost as if in response to his thoughts.

  ......................................

  David’s mind was sluggish at first, confused. He’d thought he was waking up in his home after a long party. That he would go down, eat something, and then head out into the village to catch up with Runa. See if he could build up some courage to…

  He suddenly became aware of his surroundings.

  He was in a tent. His village was likely little more than rubble and cinders. His friends, family, the other villagers, all likely gone. He’d seen some of them die. He’d seen his mother and father obliterated by the dragon’s thunder. He wanted to break down, to cry and rage against the world, and to curl up and die where he lay.

  But something stopped him. Something stirred within his heart and mana core. A cold, calculating intelligence that cared little for anything but his vengeance, and everything else, every irrelevant feeling and pain, was swept aside for later. Spurred on by a warlike, vengeful fervor, he donned his armor and weapons and marched from the tent.

  He had a dragon to slay.

  He felt a thread of magic, still connecting him to the crystal tree, and something spurred him on to call upon the thread. So, he did, and through it he swore a vow, guided by an unseen hand. “On the blood of my fallen kindred, on the ash of the dead, tonight I shall see that dragon slain.” Was his oath, and it wrapped around his heart like a serpent, waiting to constrict. He felt it guiding him towards the dragon, and he grimly followed its lead.

  He was aware of people trying to talk to him, then packing up their gear to follow him, but they didn’t matter, not to him, not right now. He was aware of the rubble that tried to slow his movements, but he simply plowed through it, it didn’t exist anymore. He was aware of his old home, the smithy, the healer’s house, the tannery, and more, passing him by. He was aware of the training fields, where he’d first sparred with Runa and the rest of his friends, he was aware of the ruined temple, destroyed by the dragon’s breath.

  He chose to ignore it. There would soon be time to grieve. But first, he needed vengeance.

  He heard Vidarr’s call.

  .............................

  “What the fuck, sir?!” Squire Gerald demanded, struggling to keep up. They were marching at a pace that the squire could barely match, hoping to catch up to the Nordling who’d spontaneously marched off like a man possessed. “He’s going to get himself killed!”

  “He swore an oath, Gerald. Half our lot once did the same. This is normal.” Dagan stated.

  “Normal? He’s not even a trained dragon knight, the beast will just spew some lightning at him and there he goes onto the next life!” Said Gerald.

  “He’s vengeful, Gerald. I assume he actually fought the beast, and he got to see it slaughter everyone he knew and cared about. How many of us can actually say we fought a dragon before our training?” Dagan stated. “Besides, he’s apparently not new to killing draconic beasts, that armor he wears is made of wyvern scales and steel.”

  “If you say so, sir.” Gerald stated defeatedly. “How are we going to keep him from killing himself?”

  “By helping him kill the beast... We’ll do what we usually do, I assure you he’ll survive. Probably.”

  .................

  The filthy, pathetic, ignorant, useless mortals had wounded him. Him! Azrakeh the Elder! The mightiest sky dragon in the region! They had scarred him! Severed one of his wings!

  They had dared to actually wound him! And now, like the worthless scavengers they are, more of them come, to finish the battle. But these are not normal little mortals, these are the scions of the traitors, the so-called ‘Dragon Knights’...

  He would not stand for this. Their transgressions would not go unpunished. He would devour them all and, when his wing regrows, hunt down their blood and consume all that bear it. He would tear them all apart and then end their lines one by one. Their offspring would be given the most excruciating death he could manage...

  If his offspring could see him now... their mighty father reduced to treading the ground like a drake or wyrm... they might just end him themselves. He could not leave the ravine. He would slay his foes and sleep until his wounds had fully healed. Then and only then would he leave the ravine’s shelter, he decided.

  So, he reared up, raising his head high, and elected to wait, though the ache in his wounds and the rage it instilled spurred him to charge out and tear his foes apart...

  The first thing he saw was a familiar suit. He’d seen this one before, during the battle in the night. Armor of steel padded over with the scales of false dragons, of wyverns. This one had hurt him. Seared away the scales beneath his neck with a beam of flaming death, left behind a wound that Azrakeh’s scales would be marred by for generations.

  The ones behind this one were not so familiar. Fourteen were armored in metal and the scales of the insipid little green dragons, the rest were armored in leather and steel in equal parts. He cared not for the armor of mortal prey, merely that some carried items worthy of being added to his hoard. He roared.

  It was a proud roar, a bellow that expressed his challenge to all that would hear it. It was a roar that had frightened away many a challenger and drawn many mates to him. Yet his foes barely reacted. The one at the head, the one he recognized, marched on towards him without breaking stride, unsheathing an impressive mythril blade. The others marched on too, though some had a brief flinch.

  The one at the head picked up speed, flashing forward at what was doubtlessly an impressive speed for the little mortal. The others entered a formation. Nine began to weave a spell, twelve prepared shields and the rest charged or began attacking from afar with a bow. Still, the first was missing from his sight, having fled his vision when he’d turned his attention to the others.

  His lightning sac began to swell, with its help he spewed death at the knights. But those with shields projected a shield of magic and blocked it. His paw swiped away a foe and nearly crushed another. Again and again, he struck, ever more tired, his previous wounds aching, and again and again his blows did little. And all the while, something was hacking away at one of his back legs, striking at one of his wounds, until the leg gave way and he slammed into the dirt beneath them.

  He felt someone running up his back, but his attention was stolen by the spell now carving its way into his shoulder, tearing apart his muscle and turning bone to dust, and he focused on stopping it. Nonetheless, he soon felt iron feet upon his head, between his horns, and saw light emit from above him, and then a blade of magic longer than it should be pierced his skull, and his spirit fled him, to the hoard of the great father.

  ......................

  The world came crashing down.

  David felt the dragon topple under him; the empowered blade having pierced its brain. He careened off the beast’s head, unbalanced by the fulfillment of his vow and thrown off by the beast’s spontaneous movement as it keeled over.

  The vow’s fulfillment took from him the calming, reliable, presence that had sealed away his feelings, his loss, his grief, his hope, and replaced them all with cold and calculating vengeful hatred. All the sentiments that he had avoided began to rush in as the dam finally burst as he fell. Tears welled up as his composure broke and he fell ever closer to his demise.

  He never felt the impact.

  He woke up in yet another tent sometime later. Moonlight streamed in through a hole in the roof. His armor and weapons lay near him, all but his aketon, which he was still in. His amulet, a leather circle with the rune for day and hope, D?g, embroidered into it, lay on his chest. The amulet had been a gift from Runa, and as he beheld it, his memory of the previous day came rushing back.

  He needed to get out. Get some fresh air. He picked up one of his dirks and walked out of his tent in a daze. He could not allow himself to break down. Not there.

  He walked in the direction of the moon for what felt like hours, but it likely wasn’t more than a single one. He heard the howls of the wolves somewhere nearby, but ignored them in daze. He walked until he arrived at a cliff, he recognized the land below them, they were heading east, and were likely on the rugged hills near Gorenshal, a relatively large city. He sat on a rock and stared at the moon, processing events.

  The elders were gone, killed by the dragon, healer Tala too, and his mother and father, and likely his aunt. They were gone, all of them. Moved on to whatever awaited them after this, after life. How many others had survived? Had the children and noncombatants escaped?

  What of his siblings and friends, of Leif, Ingrid, Arren, Runa, Fergus, and the rest? The people he had grown up with, befriended and cared about? How many had made it out, and how many made it to the nearest city? What would their fate be?

  And what would be his own? Even now he struggled to hold his composure, even with the aid of whatever spell or enchantment he could feel upon him, still active and working to calm him.

  Those who had survived likely thought him dead, as the others were, they would grieve, though he did not want them to. They would move on, though he despised the idea. The thought of them moving on, replacing him, brought to heart a hatred that could make demons shy away. He knew that’s not how it worked, that moving on didn’t mean replacing him, but it still angered him.

  The rage built up, washing aside his muted grief, pushing back the tears threatening to form even past the mind-calming spell that still affected him. The growls from behind him alerted him of something he could use to take his rage out. The pack of wolves. He pulled his dagger from its place at his thigh and entered a combat stance, rage and sorrow intensifying as he remembered the person who had taught it to him, and the way she’d died. A wolf lunged towards him.

  A massacre followed.

  Every wolf that pounced on him found a dagger at the end of their path. Throats were cut, jaws stabbed through, hearts impaled, he was not clean about these kills, the last wolf was disemboweled while in flight. His rage abated somewhat, enough that he took the time to skin the corpses before departing, finding a river to clean himself and the pelts off in. The process had allowed him time to push his rage below the surface, to contain himself once more.

  “You know, most are still crying, raging, and screaming by now.” Someone said to him as he sat on a rock to wait for his aketon to dry. He felt a pulse of magic as whoever it was spoke, calming the turmoil somewhat.

  “What good is that?” He asked. “Screaming, crying, continuing to rage against the world... it’s tempting, but it won’t fix the damage, it won’t lessen the pain, or bring back the dead and lost. Or at least, I’ve already raged, and I’ve regained nothing.”

  “Sensible.” Said the voice. “I’ll skip to the point; do you want to join the dragon knights? You are an extremely talented individual, to the point where you have slain your first dragon already. People like you are few and far between, and always welcome amongst the dragon knights.”

  “I do not wish to be exclusively a slayer of dragons; I suppose that will not be an issue?” David asked. The thought of the dragon that had slain his kin nearly made him lash out as his rage bit once more, like a caged animal gnawing at the bars, raring to be freed. But he knew that dragons were not the only foe that others faced, not the only being that could have slain his kin, and he would not see others suffer as he did, powerless against such a mighty beast.

  “Not at all. The term dragon knight originates from the belief that we once served and were taught by dragons, not from an exclusive dedication to the hunting of dragons.” Said the voice. “Those of us who specialize in dragons do call themselves dragon knights, the rest go by our actual name; Venator Cavaliers, or Hunter knights.”

  “Then I accept.” Said David.

  “Marvelous. Your training will begin when we arrive at Fangbreak.” Said the voice, fading as it became more distant. He was alone again. He bottled his rage. He had to be calm and collected when he officially met the knights.