For the sixth year in a row, nothing happened. He held each egg carefully, feeling the smooth, hard shape of it, the warmth of the fires inside, but nothing else. No call came through to him, no wordless cry of welcome and friendship. For the sixth year in a row, they refused to acknowledge him.

He could feel the tightness in his throat, tears pricking at the edge of his eyes. This time, he wouldn't cry. This time, he'd walk out of here calmly, as though he didn't care, as though it wasn't the one thing he dreamt of every night.

A small mercy - fewer watchers than normal were in the high gallery, staring down in pity or contempt. His sister, of course, four years younger but already accompanied everywhere by a dragon of her own. His father - he knew without looking up - fixing him with a heavy stare that showed the disappointment he'd never spoken. A few servants, but otherwise no one else. No one wanted to watch his repeated shame, and no one believed that this year would be different. Fists clenched by his sides, he spun round and walked back out of the hatchery.

His mother was waiting in the long tunnel, arms outstretched to comfort, to witter empty assurances and comforts that never came true. He brushed past her, moving too fast to be calm but holding onto the illusion of it with everything he had. He could feel his breathing grow ragged, the tears starting to spill as he rounded the corner. Finally, he was out, free, alone, and all semblance of control was lost as he left his failures behind and plunged deeper into the caves.

For years now, this had been his refuge. When the weight of his father's disapproval was too much to bear, or when watching his sister's affection for her dragon filled him with so much jealous rage he worried it would burst out, he came here. A small side-tunnel, superseded by some other, larger route and long-since abandoned. No one except him ever came down here anymore, and no one except him knew of the little room half-way down, furnished simply over many visits.

Here, he could sit by his own firepit and forget the rest of them. By now they'd be drinking, celebrating each new pairing. There'd be a row of grinning children round the fire, each one holding their precious egg in a leather sling, eyes shining with dreams and hopes and joys that he'd never, ever get to have. Old men would be telling stories of their own pairings, the first brush of their bonded dragons' minds, the thrill of helping a scaled head breach the rocky shell, the wild joys of shared flight and fellowship.

Once, he'd sat with them, desperate to hear of the life he thought he'd live. He'd known - with the faith and ignorance of a child - that one day he'd have his own egg, even tell his own stories. For the last few years though, he'd stayed away, dulling the pain by avoiding reminders of it. His dreams, his hopes, were ashes now, not a comfort.

He'd hoped for a dragon, for an egg to wake to him. His father had hoped too, had assumed that a chief's son would - of course - wake a strong wyrm early, be a worthy successor. They both knew now that that would never happen. Unlike his father though, he had a back-up plan.

After the children had been led away to sleep, smiling curled round their eggs or their hopes for ones, the old men would still be there, drinking and telling stories. Stories of heroes, naturally - dragon riders who had done noble deeds, rescued damsels and saved kingdoms. Story after story of chosen ones with bonded dragons saving the day; a thousand names but the same basic narrative.

One thing was different every story though: the villain. Every hero overcame something, some monstrous, twisted adversary, but every story featured a different one. This handsome forgettable hero slew a ravenous giant, that bland warrior battled a witch with hair of living flame. And one hero - Dwarin, the only one whose name he'd bothered to remember - battled the Leech Master.

Not all the stories were true, of course - uncle Hrangr was a fat drunk with a fatter dragon, and the idea that they'd chased down and defeated a gigantic iron-winged hawk was laughable - but the tale of the Leech Master had a ring to it, sounded more plausible than many others. It was all the details, he thought - not 'long ago' but 'when your grandfather was young', not 'in a land far off', but 'in these very caverns'. And unlike the non-specific violence or witchery of most villains, the tale-tellers were always very clear on what the Leech Master had done.

He'd been a foreigner, a man from lands far to the West where dragons were all wild and there were no bondings. He'd come to trade, to talk, to learn about the tribe and how they lived. No eggs had woken to him, but he was a strange man of foreign secrets, and he took one anyway.

Like a thief, betraying all notions of guest rights and responsibilities, he had snuck down to the hatchery and stolen an egg away, fleeing deeper into the caverns and the trackless tunnels of the depths. At first they had hunted for him, set guards at every intersection in case he should sneak back for food, but the months passed and all assumed him dead in the dark, the egg lost with him.

And then he had returned. Not with an egg, and not bonded with a dragon. Beside him came a warped creature, a sinuous mockery of what a dragon should be, a beast of spite and shadow, not courage and flame. In the depths below, he had tainted the egg, warped and corrupted the hatchling so that what emerged was not a bonded drake but a an enslaved monstrosity. A beast taken, not given.

The story went on, of course. Told of the Leech Master's crimes, the lives he took and how they strengthened his monster. Told of Dwarin's brave, doomed assault on him, of the way the noble rider distracted him while the cave about him was undermined and collapsed. Told of how he died with his beast in darkness, sent back to shadows that had birthed them. An ignoble end, but not the important part.

For the boy, the important part was just one truth: dragons could be taken. Eggs could be made to wake, rather than waking in their own time, to their chosen people. He had dreamed, once, of fellowship; that had been denied him. He had dreamed of respect, of being seen as a man by his tribe, not dismissed as an almost cripple. That too, had been denied him.

Like the Leech Master, he would take what was not given. A small recompense - a single, stolen egg - for all that he had been promised, and denied. If the dragons would not show him fellowship, then he would not show it for them. He would be the master he deserved to be.

Part II

Dacen's parents were concerned. He was always a bit of an odd lad, but the fact that no dragon hatchling picked him made them worry about him. Joran and Emily, his brother and sister, had no issues. Joran had been picked by a sea dragon, which was fitting for his love of water sports. Emily, on the other hand, was chosen by a silver true dragon. Her parents thought it hilarious that the most troublesome child was chosen by one of the more lawful hatchlings.

Dacen, though? None chose him. No malicious shadow dragon, wise eastern dragon, or even a friendly feathered serpent approached. None came to the youngest of the Aethel family of dragon riders. Thus did the young man locked himself away and went on his own journey, away from his family and friends.

On his twenty first birthday, he sent a letter to his parents. He told them that he was accepted into a magical college, though he neglected to tell them its name. Dacen chose to study the arts of alchemy, the esoteric works of magic, and, most intriguingly, the rites of summoning. His parents wished him luck in their own letter and they received no response during his studies.

Within the magical college, Dacen excelled at his classes. He showed great understanding of not only the crafts of alchemy, but also the hidden symbols and darker truths it spoke of. This invigorated his mind and he took to study what most magicians would shy away from in magic. He impressed his professors and they allowed Dacen to study the restricted tomes within the library.

The scholar, now twenty-four years of age, began the work that he came to the college for. The only hurdle were his struggles with summoning and gathering what was needed for his creation. Alchemy provided him with the knowledge and symbols required to make a soulless homunculus body and his study of the dark arts of necromancy had taught him the secrets of life and death. He could create a soulless facsimile of the dragons that had rejected him... but he needed to go further.

Three years later, Dacen had found the rites he sought. Celestial spirits would reject any products of necromancy and elementals despised forms of flesh. Spirits of the dead had an insatiable hunger, so they would not do. Despite the limitations he was running into, however, he found the answer in scripture. It was a multiheaded creature of scales and it spoke thunderous voices. The skies darken and lightning cracks through the skies with the flap of its wings. He had found the rites to summon what the dragons considered a demons.

A year later, Dacen began the ritual before the eyes of his college. An alchemical homunculus was created for the body, the arts of necromancy would animate the flesh, and the soul of mighty zmey would inhabit it. As the ritual drew to a close, the skies darkened and it began to stir. Clerics and paladins of the gods entered the area as the horrific beast raised its three heads.

Dacen Aethel, graduate of the College of Scholomance, climbed upon his mighty fell dragon. The storms flashed fulminous bolts of lightning and thunder roared with the zmey. He had lived up to the expectations of his father and mother with the most blasphemous of beasts. When they had heard of Dacen's accomplishments, they were unsure of whether they should be proud or horrified.

Summer solstice in the valley of Sempa heralded many things; the festivals of splendour and colour, the fresh water fish migrating upstream and trading caravans hauling the freshest of goods across the valley bowl. Most of all it heralded the coming of the highest, proudest creatures of majesty outside the race of men; the dragons - a time the sun reached its zenith and the warmth and love of all the daylight poured through the seasons bounty of eggs, giving the little dragons in their little shells their little heart beats. With that, the years expectations turned from the human young of the village, their hopes and smiles in their hot blood and fair skin, to the yet-unborn offspring - that of the dragons in their bumpy, oddly rubbery casings. In the lit hours, this seasons eight eggs rest upon thatched thickets, basking so serenely under the sun, drinking the starlight greedily.

However, by the night, they are hosted by the adolescent women of Sempa, positioned lovingly beside a roaring coal fire inset of a stone hearth at the heart of large yurt. The heat of the flames gave the eggs their comforting glow ; a nurturing gift from nature, but to Tamaine, whom was the first every night to tend to the eggs, it gave her stifling conditions and sweat upon her brow; not that she minded at all- this was her year. Her season. She was getting her dragon! Just like her Ma before her, and their Ma before them! The beginning of the rest of her life as a dragon rider, a defender of her valley, a hunter, an entertainer. A true daughter of the sky. As she adjusted her last egg, she paused to wipe the sweat from her forehead and a little wetness from her eye; forget the fire blazing inches from her face, she had never felt so full of pride in her life and that fire licked and filled her from head to heart to toe. Sitting back onto her heels, knees feeling the stone a little through the deer hide on the floor, she continued her revelry as often she had; Dragon names.

There was something of a tradition in her family to take the initial letters of their name when their dragons were entitled. Her mother for example, named Sumaine and her dragon Sumador. Her grandmother Terraine and her dragon, Terador. But while she rested, she knew already what the line was likely to be at their debut in The Great Reception, 'step forwards in glory; Tamaine and Tamador!' She wasn't opposed to Tamador but it was fun to fantasise. Firedor? Granidor? Strawidor? Perhaps the naming tradition wasn't a bad thing after all. As fine as she was at carving decals and murals (including those handily crafted around not just the hatchery cradles and yurt but also around their village), she was admittedly poor as a scholar, though she was determined to do her best in the riding training in the future. Better than her brothers at the very least- they had been stuck as smith mates for years as they enjoyed drink and womanising more than they enjoyed learning to hunt. Utterly shameless. Not her though, she was going to be the best of her year, better than the rowdy feminine rabble whom loudly, tactlessly yanked aside the yurt's flapped opening and filed in.

'I knew you'd already be in here, you're always in here' Maudny muttered striding to the furthest of the eggs, dropping to hold it in a deep embrace. 'Trying to make sure they imprint on you first? As if, we'll end up sharing them before they come to you'. Tamaine grinned toothily- she wished they would.

'They'll try and eat you with that face' another added with a sneer, her woven shawl embossed with Umera in gaudy red thread. 'They'd rather die than be stuck looking at your face'. Tamaine drew her eyes towards the fire, avoiding any further eye contact with them. They were always like this but her Ma had told her how to handle them. They will be bored before long, just look to the fire instead she had said.

'You'll be like one of the mad ones - them with the blood on their faces trying to bring back the dead' Keeta whispered sinisterly from her left. The girl had covered her pale face and her egg with her flowing hair, black as pitch. As dark as her humour, even for a girl so young, as snippets of a snarl could be seen between the colourless curtains.

'Iyyaak bluueh maste, maste inn dyuuk a baak' the last of the wretched group began to utter, quietly at first. 'Iyyaak bluueh maste, maste inn dyuuk a baak, auuborivi aaeuh iyya~' she continued, her voice rising, willing and pulling at Tamiane's attention, fixed upon the fanned flames reaching higher towards the ceiling.

'Who is that? Ilamen, is that you!?' a shrill call came from outside the yurt, halting the girl from her foreign chant before the flushed face of a woman parted the flapped material and delivered a scouring stare. 'I have told you before, you are not to read aloud your brother's transcriptions - It is a dangerous hobby.' The late evenings humidity blew in a fresh as the lady drew in, lording over the room and the girls the same. 'The bloodied mad ones are mad for a reason and your brother would do well to remember that.'

'Oh Miss Denty, there is no dead here, why are you afraid?' Maudny complained. She had never feared the Hatchery Keeper, but rather through obnoxious ignorance than bravery - it had probably never crossed her mind that at some point, the portly woman could bar her from the hatchery, and so end her ambitions as a dragon rider.

'Because Maudny, the ground itself is built upon the dead and this is a place of life. Beside these eggs, your future' she emphasised with vim, 'those wicked words have no place.' Silence hung in the air, a piercing gaze cast at the naïve faces around the fire dared them to question the Keeper further. No questions were forthcoming. 'Now enough of this. Are the eggs tended? Then away with you. And apologise to Tamaine also, you mustn't tease her so harshly, you girls can be so unpleasant' she muttered bitterly, ushering them outside into the late evening mugginess. All but the smiling Tamaine whom did not hear the apologies but the words she was always so excited to hear - Beside these eggs, your future.

—

The future came quickly for the adolescents for come the winter, with its blankets of snow, it's biting chill and the baring of trees, the eggs had hatched successfully and eight dragon fledglings joined the Sempa community. One by one, the dragons had broken free of their parents birthed embrace and had taken to embracing their human holders - Ilamen first, with her perilous knowledge. Then Maudny and Umera with their ugly tones and words and finally Keeta, her cruelty on show as she had sneered down her nose at Tamaine as she left with her charge. This left Tamaine safe within the barrier of the yurt away from the antagonising bunch with a quiet broken only by the yapping of the juvenile drakes playing on the floor.

They had hatched not long after that time in summer, before the autumn began and the valley turned from a luscious green to auburn, red and gold. The wind turning cold and stripping the trees bare - The process turning the clocks forwards to now where in Tamaine sat along with the remaining hatchlings. Joyfully and raucously, they nipped, flapped and chased amongst themselves. What fun they had, batch brothers and sisters so new to the world, skittering with petite claws over the stone and hay; the hearth light bathing them still with a comforting embrace to bask in- oblivious to the adoring love of Tamaine, sat on her haunches as she had been for months, waiting and watching with hope as her company, that one might soon turn to her when she called Tamador, or any name she could think. Every time she spoke it were as if they were struck deaf. They lived as if their food, water and milk happened upon them by fate.

​

Continued...

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