Chapter One
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You may have heard the tales of the tricky fae,
Who dance in the realms by the forest and the bay,
But it's their scaled friends who are the real treat.
The drakes breathe fire and are light on their feet.
With colorful skin, and hair, and horns of might,
They turn into dragons and lift into the night.
But one should never cross this mysterious kin,
Their teeth, venom, and claws will rend your skin.
Chapter One:
“Oh, you’re the one to talk,” Hel replied aptly, “You make me discipline the kids because you don’t have the heart to be disliked by anyone.” A sharp giggle–then pointed dragon teeth bit down, hard, onto his fingers. “Stop that!” He hissed, “You could cut your tongue on my claws.” The drakeling batted at him with cold, azure wings, forcing him to release her to the cavern floor. “When I’m a full-grown frost dragon,” she grinned with sharp teeth, “I’m gonna come back and freeze you to death with my breath.” Hel sighed and shrugged, giving up. “You do that.”
The Flightnest had stood since the Great War, carved into the highlands as a refuge for the young. In ancient tradition the keepers were knights sworn to secrecy and duty, but nowadays it was where rejects were cast-off–those who couldn’t fight, or those too disfigured to be beautiful by drake standards. The eggs and hatchlings were raised–until old enough to be claimed by a royal parent, or a faction: Chosen as a soldier, a blacksmith’s apprentice, or a court spy. Or worse, not chosen at all.
“You’ve been high-strung since the accident,” Yuejun pointed out, lowering his hackles as the arctic drakeling clambered up his fur and pouted. "When will your adventurous nature return?" Hel stared down at his twisted brown leg, revealing the curl of horns behind his black tufted ears. “I'm a striker dragon–” he reminded the lung-drake, “Born to kill, now forced to watch… Hey, put that down!” Hel rushed to snatch a shed eggtooth horn from a lyndwyrm, wielding it like a knife against his littermate.
“Exactly,” Yuejun’s form shifted back into a man, the drakelings sliding down his tail as he rushed to the bawling wyrm. A mane of long hair framed his soft, yet toughened expression, the right side of his face marred with fierce burn scars–the legacy of his feuding brother. “Dragonesses would adore you, and then you’d have your drakelings running around.” Hel’s face turned furiously red. “Don’t project your desires onto me,” he hissed, crossing his slim arms, “Besides, nobody will wed a disfigured drake, and you know that--you’ve been disfigured far longer than me.”
Yuejun’s blue eyes narrowed and Hel flinched, half-expecting a blow. But rather than raise his flame, his expression only softened again–a rare act of dragon mercy. “You’ll learn to deal with it,” he smiled empathetically, “I was royal once, you know?” Hel wouldn’t hear it. “You were a cross-nephew!” He protested. “Still,” Yuejun persisted, “With that leg, you’d be lucky to hunt a rat. Have you even tried shifting back yet? It's been months.” Hels’ hip-wings shrugged, and he crossed his arms, staring away at a quibbling knucker.
"I’m gonna take that as a no.”
But the truth was, he was afraid that if he tried, his body would twist back into the broken shape he’d left it in.
Hel had bid his time in the Flightnest for four gut-wrenching months: Feeding the drakelings mice, putting himself between their spats, and never, ever getting to feel the wind under his wings, or to sink his claws into flesh. He trailed his finger down the dragon-carved walls, reminiscing on how a fortress becomes a prison. Curved stone doors locked out the outside world, protecting the innermost nursery–deeper than the warden’s stern rooms, bathing-quarters, taut kitchen, and the library of forgetting.
Yuejun often found him there, pacing during the late nights with slitted, shining eyes.
“You have a comfortable job,” the lung would argue each time for him to stay, “You need to learn when to be satisfied, Hel. What if you had stayed with the Blooddrakes as a hunter? They’re cruel, insatiable beings that turn and rip each other apart–that’s not you.”
“I know what I am,” Hel hissed, tightening his arms across his chest. The striker was fuming, like an animal in captivity–he knew that one day or another, he had to escape this place. “Well then,” Yuejun replied aptly, “You should also know that it’s time for bed, Grumpypants.”