Wings of Roses

Chapter 1

Tomorrow I will be blooded.

It's an honor among mortals to be chosen by the Priests to receive an elder dragon's blood. You gain the power of magic and the senses of the beast. Keen eyesight, impeccable hearing, and unfortunately, unsullied scent. My nose wrinkles at the thought of being able to smell everything as I shovel a load of cow feces into the rickety wooden wheelbarrow. The waste in the stables and barns is bad enough for a mortal nose. The stench must be tenfold with a Blooded sense of smell. As I fill the stalls with fresh hay, I wonder if their sense of touch is heightened too. Priestess Yarros taught me that all senses become more acutely aware, even the bodies response to battle. It's what makes Blooded so essential to the war efforts.

With my chores finished for the day, I head out through the double doors into the pasture. The cows lay lazily under the warmth of the sun's rays. The sheep feast idly on the soft grass, and the horses trot happily about the pen. A flock of birds soaring through the clear blue skies draws my gaze upward, a hand coming to my brow to block out the worst of the sun's harsh rays. One day soon, I'll be joining them in the endless sea of blue. To feel the waves over my wings and scales is something I've been dreaming of since I was small. Now, come tomorrow, my destiny will come to fruition. If it didn't mean becoming a weapon of war, I would be more excited.

Still, I wonder what power I'll come to manifest. The magic comes from our very souls, from who we are and the affinities we possess. Someone who is drawn to nature is more likely to be gifted with floral magic than that of lightning, just as someone with chaos in their heart may be gifted with flames or toxins. Being a farmer's daughter, I always thought I would become a nature dragon and wield the earth to take down enemies. My hair and eyes would turn green upon receiving the blood, but it wouldn't be the end of the world.

A nuzzle against my leg draws my attention away from the flock disappearing over the tree line surrounding the farm. I kneel to pet the calf on the head, its soft fur tickling my fingertips. "Hello, little Belle." The chocolate babe moos softly against my palm. I scratch under her chin as I say, "I know, love. I don't want to leave you either. I'll make sure to return to see you full grown. Don't give Papa too much fuss, you hear? You must be good while I'm away." She moos again and plops down onto the ground. With a laugh, I sink down so I'm sitting and rub her belly in loving strokes. I'll miss the farm when I'm gone, and though I like to think I'll come back, it isn't guaranteed. It will be years until I'm able to retire from service if I live long enough. Most blooded die at Venial's cruel hands, but that's a fact of war. You may live long enough to survive, or you may die trying.

The cause of the war is a blur in our long history. It began shortly after mortal claimed the land from the dragons. Beasts that can only be described as living nightmares. Razor sharp teeth for tearing into flesh, boney bodies, mouths that hang off their hinges, claws fit for ripping anyone into ribbons. Villages in our kingdom have been targeted and though my village has yet to see an attack, I fear what will happen once I'm gone. I have no doubt my father will be able to protect our farm, but the rest of the villagers?

He was once a soldier in Tyrron's army. Not part of the Blood legion, but my father was stationed at outposts throughout the kingdom. He'd met my mother the night her town went up in flames. Her home was actively being burnt to the ground with my mother stuck inside, and my father rescued her. Upon his retirement, they settled here in Windson. I owe it to him for the swordsmanship I have now. He made sure I would be able to protect myself should Windson ever suffer the same fate. Not only that, but also to help prepare me for my fate.

I leave Belle once she's fast asleep in the grass and head for our cottage on the outskirts of the pastures. It's a fine home with enough room for the three of us. Made entirely of stone, it's sturdy enough to have held off the worst of the storms that pass over the mountains. The thatched roof leaks some, but it's nothing a few buckets can't handle. The few windows have their shutters open to allow in the fresh spring breeze. My father allowed me to paint the doors and shutters red long ago. I thought it went well with the vines of flowers that creep up the walls. The small garden my mother tends regularly is in full bloom with pink and white flowers sprouting up to greet me as I open the small red gate leading to the front door. The smell of vegetable stew floods my senses, making my stomach rumble and my mouth drool as I enter the small home. My mother is bent over the hanging pot she uses for cooking, the fire crackling gently beneath it. Her tawny hair hangs loosely in a bun at the base of her neck.