Master of None: A Wings of Fire fanfiction

28.

The Emperor

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I can't stop seeing it.

The sand rises up from the ground, swallowing everything in sight. The armies of dragons charge toward each other, buried in the onslaught of dust.

The earth cracks apart, bright light spreading up from the ground.

The wind breaks the trees like toothpicks.

Fire emanates out from the centre of a battlefield. It scorches everything in sight, incinerating dragons to ash in a matter of seconds–my metal soldiers no different beneath the face of its wrath than any other.

This maelstrom descends upon my beautiful dome, breaking the barrier into pieces; puncturing even my strongest magic.

If I still had a heart, it would be racing. I have finally met an enemy I stand no chance at defeating.

***

"The future I see troubles me greatly, Whiteout," I say, staring out at the kingdom, watching the smoke pour from the factories, clogging the streets. The industry, the grandness of it all; built entirely in my image.

"Mmm," Whiteout says, nodding.

I still can't tell what she's thinking. I still hate her for what she did, but I got bored quickly without her company. I think she fears me less now I don't have her brother in my custody, like the thought of the things I could do to her doesn't even bother her a bit. How strange.

Maybe she just knows I'm too lonely to kill her off.

No, I'm not lonely. I'm just–alone. There's a difference.

"The world is going to end, and I can't figure out how to stop it. You don't have any advice, do you?"

"I'm sure that you'll untangle the threads," Whiteout says halfheartedly. "How about the scorpions? How are they treating you?"

I bury my face in my talons. The wind up here is so loud, the tower so high, and I hate to admit it but it scares me a little. I know nothing can kill me, but looking over the edge, I still feel that lurch in my stomach. I don't even have a stomach anymore. Stupid.

"I'll win, with far more effort than this should have taken. It's ridiculous, Whiteout, ridiculous." I look over at her. "I am the most powerful dragon in Pyrhhia, and these Gifted dragons are making a fool of me."

I shake my head, sighing so heavily I can hear the gears rattle in my chest.

"You do think I'm the most powerful dragon in Pyrhhia, don't you, Whiteout?"

"Of course," she says wearily.

"Exactly. There's no way around it. So why, pray tell, am I struggling to take Scorpion Den?"

"You could snuff out their flames," Whiteout points out.

"No, no, no–I have to prove I can do this. If I take away their powers, it'll look like I can't handle some–some useless balls of fluff whose magic so underpowers my own."

"Then why not make your fire burn brighter?"

I've been trying–working all day on a new model of NightWing soldier, impervious to flame even up to thousands and thousands of degrees; one that wouldn't melt even if I were to chuck that armour into the sun. Other things are harder–like the vines, or the earthquakes, or the floods. I don't want to patch together a messy solution, I want an elegant fix that dragons will marvel over for centuries to come.