Chapter 35

The baby dragon stood tied to the stake, bound by ropes, in the courtyard of the Bandranian fort, in horrific agony from his wounds—and now, also, in despair. He ached in every part of his body, where the ropes dug into his scales, where his back met the pole, in so much agony he wished he had never emerged from his shell. Life, he was realizing, was cruel.

Even so, that was not what hurt him the most. What hurt him far more than any of his wounds was the sight before him: his father, lying there before him, dead.

He recalled his sense of pride in watching his father fly over the fort, killing his captors, his father’s wings so massive, blotting out the sun. He still recalled the heat of his flames, flames that he hoped to breathe himself one day, waves of flame shooting down like rain. He had felt justice, vindication, knowing his father would kill all of these men. Most touching of all, he knew his father was doing it all for him, to rescue him. It had instilled in him a sense of love, of pride, beyond which he knew was possible. For the first time, he had not felt alone since being born in the universe. He had screeched, trying to join in and to make his father proud.

His father had been so close to saving him, his claws outstretched; he had anticipated the feeling of his father freeing him, grabbing him and flying away. He was just a few feet from freedom, from the two of them being far away from here, safe.

Instead, he had been forced to watch helplessly as the soldiers led his father into a trap, lured him lower and entangled him in that net. His heart broke as he watched his father plummeting, diving headfirst into the dirt. The final knife in his heart was watching those cowardly soldiers rush forward, all at once, surround his father, and stab him to death. He had sensed his father’s great life force disappear, and it had torn him to bits.

The baby let out a screech, as loud as his small lungs would allow, a screech of agony, of despair, of a creature with nothing left to lose. As he screeched, his little lungs grew louder and louder, and the soldiers, still stabbing his father, began to take notice and turn his way. As he screeched, the feelings inside him began to morph: despair was replaced with anger; sadness with rage. His agony over his father’s death gave him strength, made him forget his wounds, his pain. It blinded him, and he felt stronger than he ever would otherwise.

As he leaned back and writhed, suddenly, to his surprise, he heard a snap.

Then another.

He did not need to look to know what was happening: he was breaking his ropes. One at a time they snapped, as the baby dragon slowly became infused with a strength he had never known. The remaining ropes loosened, and he leaned over and, with his sharp teeth, bit through one.

Then another.

Finally, he leaned forward, pulled back his wings, and in one great motion, snapped all the remaining ropes.

The soldiers turned his way, realizing, now directing their attention toward him. They slowly closed in, guardedly raising their weapons, with a look that belied their uncertainty. As they neared, he leaned back, opened his mouth, and breathed, praying for fire.

To his surprise, this time it came—a stream of fire. Molten hot, it was a fire unlike any he had yet breathed, a fire which came from deep within his soul. It stretched farther this time, and farther, rolling out in waves. It killed a dozen Bandranian soldiers instantly, all too shocked to get out of the way in time.

The dragon leapt from the platform, into the air, and as he started to free-fall toward the ground, he flapped his wings with all his might—and this time, he was happily surprised to find that they had grown, and that he now had control. He flapped harder and harder, and soon his free fall leveled out. And then he began to fly.

At first his flight was slow, awkward. But soon he gained strength and speed and found himself flying straight, then soaring. He was really flying. It was exhilarating.

He flew higher and higher, out of reach of the stunned soldiers below, and he was elated. He was free. Before him was an open horizon, clouds, freedom. He had survived. He could go anywhere in the world he wanted. He could control his movements, dive and rise, turn from side to side; his claws felt stronger, too, and he expanded and contracted them, feeling invincible—and needing to claw something.

He looked down below and saw the soldiers milling about, and vengeance summoned him. After all, his father’s body still lay down there, and he was his father’s son.

He turned and dove back toward the fort where he had been imprisoned, tortured, knowing the risks but no longer caring. He flapped his wings and let out a screech—no longer a baby screech, but now a dragon’s screech—and he dove down impossibly fast. As the soldiers looked up, he opened his mouth and breathed, and out came hot flame, waves of fire unrolling below, killing hundreds at once.

Panic ensued as the men’s shrieks filled the air. They ran for cover, but there was none to be had. He was too fast, too dexterous, small enough to weave in and out of tight spaces, and their little trick with the net had already been exhausted. A few soldiers lamely threw spears at him, but these merely bounced off his scales. He dove and breathed flame in return, and any soldier he missed with his fire, he clawed to death in a single swipe. One soldier, a man he remembered had tortured him, he snatched and hoisted into the air, higher and higher, until he was straight over the stake. He then dropped him.

He watched with satisfaction as the man plummeted, shrieking, then landed on the stake, impaled.

He screeched with all his might, and soon, it was a sound even he did not recognize. It was the sound of a dragon maturing too fast.

Of a dragon ready to take over the world.