Talon the Black (Dragonwall Series # 1)

Chapter 6 - The Price of Victory

Kastali Dun

The King of Dragonwall studied his reflection in the mirror. It was a form of self-punishment he often subjected himself to. This was the only looking glass kept within his tower. The others had long since been destroyed. It remained to remind him of his ugliness.

He wasn't always this way. He had been exceedingly handsome once, hundreds of years ago—two hundred and eighty-two, to be exact. He was the prince of Dragonwall then. Those were the days when his cares weighed little, the days when he could do as he pleased.

Good things unearned never last. Verek—the god of judgement—saw fit to punish him for his ways. He was sure of it, because everything had changed. His scars became evidence of the god's justice. As did many other things, like his title, his responsibility to the kingdom, his loneliness, his ever-present rage, and his obsessive need for control. Yet, none of these stood out the way his mauled face did. His was the face he was forced to present to the public each day. His was the face they were subjected to. And so, he administered the same to himself, forcing his eyes to trace the heavy lines. If a king could not do that which was required of his people, then he was no king at all.

Still, he hated the self-imposed rule. He loathed the face that looked back at him. Moreover, he despised the memory accompanying his disfigurement. He cursed Válkar—the god of war—for his desire for bloodshed.

During those days, Válkar was thirsty; long it had been since Dragonwall's last great battle. That day was fateful for many, but him most of all. He bore the brunt of Válkar's victory price.

In his mind's eye, he beheld the incident that changed him. His memory took him far back to the great ice battle in Vestur. The room around him disappeared, replaced by a snowy landscape. Now he was a prince instead of a king. His feet no longer stood on solid ground, for he no longer had feet. He was a dragon, with scales of black iridescence, claws as sharp as knives, and wings larger than a ship's sails.

All around him, chaos ruled. Dragons screamed in defiance. Giants roared in contest. With effortless grace, he swooped around the icy grasp of a nearby Kald, roaring. His lungs filled, forcing his scales to pull apart as his chest expanded. His breath released—a flaming-orange blaze aimed straight at his enemy's blocky legs. The ice giant expelled another deep bellow, its cry rent the air, but a successful hit meant nothing. It would take much more to bring this nemesis down.

But he was a mighty Prince of Dragonwall and he would not be defeated.

Others fought with the same relentlessness. The sky was filled with hundreds of dragon forms. Their movements were like angry bees, aggressive and swarming, billowing flame in great bursts. On the ground, ice giants swatted at them, lumbering around like bears.

Válkar was not easily satisfied with minor bloodshed. He called for something far greater to ensure the monarchy with a victory.

A pained bellow made Talon shudder. He knew the voice almost as well as his own. And so, in the midst of the battle, through the thunder of noise, he lost his nerve. The sound of his father's anguish would haunt him until the end of his days.

He turned in time to see his mother, eyes wide with shock, mouth open, ripped from the back of his father's red hide. His warm scales turned cold. Terror seized him. He, who had never felt fear, became frozen in the moment. Paralyzed by horror. He may as well have been captured by the same icy hand gripping his mother. He hovered midair, watching as if in slow motion, the unbearable scene before him.

He knew she was lost the moment she was exposed to Black Rock Ice.

King Tallek's bellow was more like a pitiful screech; he forsook all caution and dove after Queen Ahlessa, his lifelong mate and Rider. Talon shouted for him, warned him, but it was no use. It was exactly what their enemy wanted—expected. The ice giant snatched his father from the sky.