King of the Woodlands

Chapter 16

The clock chimed the hour, but lost in his memories, he could barely hear it.

When he saw his father chained, and his brother chained, it was like the entire world had fallen apart around him.

Some of the men had reached for him, their fingers calloused, stained with dragon's blood. They put him in dark, heavy irons. But over the chaos, over his own roars, the Woodland King had heard his brother's screams.

"Leave him alone!" Kolzryrth had shouted, thrashing against the men that held him, clawing and kicking. "Don't you dare touch my brother!"

Kolzryrth had screamed his name, a name that time forgot, a name that he'd abandoned. It had been his last tie to his brother, his family, but if he kept it, it would only bring him misery.

"Please," Kolzryrth had then begged. He'd never heard that word from his brother's mouth. "You can kill me. But my brother—my little brother—he's more than everything I am."

Vaguely, he could remember a whip shining in one of the men's hands before craackk! It struck like lightning from a blue sky, and Kolzryrth went down hard. At the last second, the two brothers sought out one another, but Kolzryrth's eyes turned glassy and emptied out.

Kolzryrth. Brother. His brother, the only dragon who had befriended him. As he slumped backward, the trees listened, and they screamed their fury.

The Woodland King's world had slipped from beneath his feet, shattering before him, but somehow, impossibly, he was still standing. He was confused, numb, like something vital had been torn out of him.

Take me to your darkest places, and I'll stay the night, Kolzryrth had said. Brother, come to me with a splintered spine and a fractured heart. Look at me with swollen eyes, and I'll take you as you are.

But who would come for him now? Kolzryrth was gone—no, dead. Taken. If he fled, swallowed up by the clouds, would anyone care? If he fought, would anyone bother to stop him? He couldn't harm humans, he knew. The code forbade it.

He had two choices: kill the men and live, or stand down and let him—and his family—die in vain.

The men had bound him with iron chains, but he couldn't fight back. Harming a human was like treason. Their broadswords shone like sunlight over water—subtle warnings.

But a single swipe of his lethal claws could kill them all in seconds. Could he harm humans and become a disgraced Fire-Dancer? His entire family would disapprove, even his brother.

His brother, who laughed like lightning, who flew like an eagle. Kolzryrth was gone.

No, he was taken. Taken by humans, the people that dragons had respected for centuries.

No, he thought as he was dragged to a caravan. There's nothing waiting for me but misery and hunger. What's the point of fighting?

No. Vengeance was waiting, and he had to fight to claim it.

The Woodland King tipped his head back and roared the battle cry of a god.

I'll choose to live freely as a man-killer rather than die as a slave.

So the Woodland King fought. He tried not to think about the guilt he'd have to live with, disobeying a sacred rule of the code. But these men were the people who had killed his family. Fueled by white-hot, blinding rage, he couldn't listen to reason. The human men had brittle bones and paper skin, and they fell apart easily.

One by one his claws flashed and men fell, each step bringing him closer to Kolzryrth.

His brother's eyes were wide and empty, staring at a vast blue sky. "Don't leave me," he'd wanted to say, but he was too tired to grieve, to beg.

He'd tried to pull Kolzryrth's body out of the wreckage, but it was too heavy. He thought of nights beneath a lacquered silver moon, days spent in the skies, flying over green hills and jagged mountains. He remembered closing his eyes and wanting to die.

He'd taken to the skies, but his wings trembled and his body was frail. He'd only been a fledgling, an adolescent, cautious and frightened and unsure, and he was quickly defeated by the winds as they dragged him down, down, down into the sea.

The waters were cold and salty. He was being pulled under by their azure, seafoam-frosted hands, pulled into an eddy of darkness. With one splash he broke the waters, gulping great mouthfuls of smoky air and—

The grandfather clock cawed again, and the Woodland King snarled. He'd gone too far into the dark depths of his memories—his heart was hammering and his breathing was labored.

Weak, he chastised himself, trying to ignore the tear in his heart. He'd let his shields down, allowing a fresh torrent of emotions to surge through him. How could he ever go outside and conquer his pain if he let a single flashback tear his heart open? He wanted to live without his armor. But now, he wasn't sure if he could.

Time was running out, and he had to find a way to save himself.

But to save himself, he had to let go of his armor and embrace his pain.