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THEY lost many in the Great Battle. Many of them were elder dragons, who knew how to properly lead the dragons in the land of Morad. Many of the dragon families were left with only one mate to raise their children, or none at all.
There was a dragon, a very young one of only twenty-one years, just a baby, really, who had lost both father and mother in the Great Battle. His mother had been sister to Zorag’s mother, and Zorag knew that he would have to raise him as his own, though he himself was young as well.
The young dragon, Blindell, was known to be an impetuous one, who preferred danger over safety. Zorag had seen Blindell cross into the woods, even, and had warned him multiple times in the last few days alone to stay far away from the land of Fairendale. He would risk the lives of all the dragons.
But Blindell had simply said, “They could never kill me,” as if he, alone, were impenetrable. And it is true that he was a Fury, that he was a revered dragon among the dragons, for Furies were known to spike men faster than men could draw a sword. But he was a young dragon. He had not been trained in fighting, for the land of Morad was, until the new king marched on it, a peaceful land.
Blindell showed a fierce madness already, as if he were a dragon bred for battle. His father had been a foreigner to the lands of Morad, come from a distant land that might have been savage. Zorag’s uncle had not spoken much of his homeland. They did not know anything about him at all. And now he had left his son, reckless and powerful. Truth be told, Zorag was a bit afraid of the young dragon, though he tried his best not to show it.
In the days after the Great Battle, Zorag stayed away from his cousin, too wrapped up in his own grief to notice the grief of others, though he was now the leader of the land.
And then, one day, Zorag spoke to Blindell, for he felt the time had come.
“Blindell,” he said. His cousin’s eyes found his. They were red, with flecks of brown and black in them. They were the kind of eyes meant to scare a man.
“Cousin,” Blindell said.
“Come,” Zorag said. “Fly with me.” He took to the sky. Blindell followed. Zorag led the way to a distant mountain. The two dragons landed together on the top.
“What is it, cousin?” Blindell said. “I know there is something. You have not spoken to me in all these days, except to warn me away from the boundary line.” Blindell’s eyes flashed and sparked.
“Yes,” Zorag said. “I suppose I have been caught up in running Morad.”
In truth, Zorag had not been caught up in running Morad, for he had been doing nothing at all. Grief, you see, takes time to fade.
“I suppose,” Blindell said. He looked off in the distance, his eyes ever turned toward Fairendale.
“You need a father,” Zorag said. “Yours died bravely, but it is time for you to take another.”
“And who might that be?” Blindell said. His voice was a low rumble, as if he held back an anger that could consume him in a moment. “YOU?” His eyes narrowed, the black in them deepening.
“Yes,” Zorag said quietly. “Me.”
Blindell was silent for a moment, looking off toward the land and the forest and the faint outline of the castle. “They should have to pay for what they did,” he said.
“We have promised peace,” Zorag said. “And we shall keep it.”
“It is a coward’s way,” Blindell said.
“No,” Zorag said. “It is brave to keep peace when so much has been lost.”
“You are a fool,” Blindell said.
Zorag growled. “Peace is what King Brendon would have wanted,” he said. “He would not have wanted to risk the lives of the dragons.”
“They killed our parents,” Blindell said. “Does that not bother you?” Zorag did not say anything, so Blindell continued. “They damaged your wing. You cannot even fly properly anymore.”
Zorag eyed his bent wing. He had not even known that he had carried this wound during the Great Battle. It was only when he returned to Morad with the new king’s message that he felt its pain at all.
“It will heal in time,” Zorag said.
Blindell let out a roar that shook the mountain. “It will not heal in time,” he said. “Nothing will heal in time.”
Zorag looked toward the castle, where he had seen the good king’s fall. Where he had seen the new king slice through his father’s head with hardly an effort. Where he had witnessed a magic stronger than any he had ever seen.
“The new king has magic,” Zorag said, though this is, of course, not the only reason he would not attack the kingdom.
“Magic is nothing to fire,” Blindell said. “He does not deserve to live. I will torch their castle. Only say the word.”
“Stone does not burn,” Zorag said.
“But it breaks,” Blindell said.
“Some of King Brendon’s people are still there,” Zorag said. Blindell did not answer. “You must rid yourself of your anger, cousin. Anger does not solve anything.”
“Neither does peace,” Blindell said.
They remained quiet for a very long time. And then, finally, Blindell said, “Yes. I will be your son.”
Zorag dipped his head, though he felt much too young and ill-equipped to raise a son. But he would do what needed to be done. He would train Blindell. He would find the goodness in his cousin’s heart. He would show him love.
And this, in the end, would save the entire dragon race.