Edom the Ageless, mightiest of dragons, was dying. 

For several thousand years he had lived; he had witnessed the rise and fall of Man's kingdoms, witnessed the wild forests be felled for farmland, the volcanic mountains shrivel and cool. In the end, it was not the fire or the steel that felled him, but his own ancient heart.

He lay now deep in the bowels of his cave; his scales were flaking, his crimson eyes darkened. The fire that burned in his heart had been reduced to cinders. And now, even those grew cold. 

As his dying pangs radiated out in psychic waves, his master came. Quietly, no need for words, she padded into his cave. She saw him lying there, and felt his thoughts, and knew what was happening. Still, she knelt. "What's wrong, Edom?"

He told her.

"It can’t be… you’re as healthy as a hatchling! You — you must be sick, that’s it. Is it too cold in here? I can call the others, we can warm it up. I can —"

I will not last much longer, he said to her. If a humble slave may make a request… stay with me.

“Don’t start that again, Edom." She settled down on the cave floor. "You can ask anything you want. You're your own dragon. We're friends."

Ah. She still did not understand. Yes… yes, you are my dearest… friend.

For the vast swathe of Edom's long-lived life, he had not been free. None of his kind had. When he was still a hatchling, a powerful Man-wizard (the most powerful that was ever known) had cast a spell upon the land to bind every dragon to his will. He had intended to use this power to rule forever, but had not foreseen the loophole. When his apprentice murdered him in an act of revenge, the ownership of dragonkind had transferred to the boy. It had been thus ever since — always, there lived a human that naturally dominated the dragons, that commanded their obedience. No one remembered a world where the mighty dragons were free. No one but himself.

And not for much longer.

Edom's breathing grew heavier and heavier. Master laid her head against his neck. She asked, "What do dragons believe is in the afterlife?"

There has not been a dragon culture for a hundred human generations. There has been no need for it.

Master frowned. "That’s really sad, don't you think?"

If you think it is sad, Master.

The earliest Dragon Masters kept the dragons as pets. They had grown up knowing only strife and destruction from the beasts, their gold stores pillaged, their livestock swept up from the skies. For generations, it was nothing but peace and prosperity (from the dragons, that is); still hung in Shroudwell Castle were fraying tapestries depicting noble ladies in rich green kirtles, gently stroking the heads of their beloved wyverns.

Some Masters, though, were not so sentimental. Edom recalled with a strange fondness his years as chattel; strapped to a yoke, endlessly tilling fields, his mighty neck bowed, his eyes milky, rendered dumb and thoughtless by the will of a sorcerer who merely wanted the profit of unremitting labor.

His last master had used him as a weapon of war.

All too vividly could Edom recall the taste of fire on his tongue, the screams of the human villagers before they were consumed by the flames. Master Bludwan intended to conquer every kingdom under his flag, and he saw no reason to spare anything that might impede his path. Edom's tactical skills were thrown aside in favor of his might, and he brought countless kingdoms to their knees, begging for mercy. Edom loved it; he loved every single one of his masters.

Of course, now, Edom could understand that Bludwan's tactics were needlessly reckless and wasteful, and inspired a level of resentment that would only spell his own doom. But Edom was incapable of questioning him in his thrall, and even under his new master, Edom did not regret the years spent in service to the evil man. Edom had simply been doing what was natural; he was only an animal, in the end. Why would he not serve when obeying the Dragon Master brought so much bliss? Edom certainly never yearned for his freedom.

Master had grown very quiet. She laid back against Edom, and with great pain, bones creaking, he stretched out his wing to cradle her. "Maybe… maybe we can make a new one."

That is very kind of you, Master.

Edom thought of Bludwan, and his throne of skulls, and of the days where Bludwan dragged Edom to the throne room in chains and had him use his crimson eye to bend political enemies to his will.

“Oh, please, my lord. I meant no disrespect to you. But — isn’t it unreasonable to expect that I hand over all that I own? My lord, I have worked very hard. Certainly, I will give a portion, but…”

And then he fell silent, his gaze wandering from the emotionless visage of the Dragon Master to the red light that emanated from his pet dragon. He met Edom’s gaze, and all his frightened blubbering faded away.

Bludwan spoke. “You will give me your lands.”

“I…”

“You will give me your money.”

“I… yes, Master.”

“You will give me your daughters.”

The man blinked dumb and slow. “Yes, I will give you all that you ask.”

Edom’s red gaze pierced his very soul and held it in check; it was a great irony, that the dragon capable of bending the wills of men was subject to yet another.

“Yes, Master… yes, Master…”

That was early on, before Bludwan decided he preferred to simply kill them.

“Buddy, I’d prefer if you don’t spend your final moments thinking about that horrible man… assuming this is the end,” Master said.

Edom ceased to think about him, then. Master curled up beneath the wing and closed her eyes. She was such a small master, and so very young. It was a shame that they had so little time together; it felt like but an instant ago that she was nothing but a dirty orphan, on a mission to destroy Bludwan for what he had done to her parents. She hadn't even known about the spell. She had killed him from a sense of justice, not the thirst for power. Hers was a rare kind.

Master… The pangs came sharp and fast, now. Master… do not let my death be wasted.

"What would you have me do?"

He could not even form the image, for the dying was drawing out, lengthy and sweet. His burning heart withered, and his wing drooped to fall upon her shoulder.

Please, Master. For all my years of service to you, I want… 

Dragon Master Wrenn Barrow, Lord of Shroudwell Castle, may she reign in fire, sat at the head of the banquet table. "O- kay!"

Her subjects stared back at her as if she had just announced a beheading. As if they would have preferred that.

The Great Hall had been decorated for the occasion; red banners hung from the high rafters, and the stained windows cast jewel-toned crystals across the hewn wooden table. The plates were all gold, and the tablecloth was of a rich black textile. Wrenn herself wore her finest clothes: her dragon-scale leather, gray quilted tunic, her black cloak which swept the floor (and was quite impractical, despite the imposing figure it cut), the silver circlet denoting her rank.

Of course, such an indication was irrelevant when she had her loyal little dragon Flip resting on her shoulder.

Otherwise, Wrenn was unremarkable. Stocky, with frizzy black hair and dark skin. There were freckles on her nose, hardly visible. There were scars on her stout hands from her years and years as a silent laborer. And yet, she commanded the room. Sure, she was not the highest rank of the land — there are many kings and queens and nobles far above her — but all were well aware that, with a single thought, she could destroy anything, conquer any land, force any person to do as she commanded… or, at least, her beasts would.

But Wrenn would never do such a thing, and neither would her friends. Not if she could help it.

“Come on, don’t look so dour," she said. "This is a celebration of life. It’s what Edom wanted."

Syrus, her advisor, cast a wary look. Of course, he would not say it, but he, and many others, doubted the veracity of Wrenn's proclamation. She was, after all, the only one who had seen Edom the Ageless die. Even if he had made such a wish, there was no way of knowing it was not a desire of Wrenn's that she had implanted within his mind in the first place. Edom had been a thrall for generations; it was doubtful that he was even capable of independent thought or desires.

Despite Wrenn's best attempts, the gathering had the air of a funeral — when it was supposed to be the very opposite! All of her human subjects had their heads bowed, hands folded. The sun was setting, and the air was thick with candle smoke and incense. Wrenn turned to Meredith, the Lady of Morningmark, who was half-dragon on her father's side, and said, "Lady Meredith, cheer up a little. You're having fun, aren't you?"

The lady raised her head, and the eyes which had but moments before had been filled with tears grew joyful. "Yes, Master."

"See? You should all behave like Lady Meredith. Look, the first course is coming."

The servants came out, toting hot steaming bowls of rich broth, bobbing with vegetables. No meat.

Despite this, Syrus was seen dubiously sniffing at it before he lifted his spoon.

“I’m going to miss him so much," Wrenn said. "There was no one better at advising me when it came to dragonkind. He took me on my first flight, did you know that?"

Syrus said, "No, my lord."

"Oh, I was so scared! But he spoke so gently. And I opened my eyes, and I saw all the kingdom below me, and I realized just how very small we all are." She smiled sadly. "He always knew just what I needed to hear."

Further courses were served, with barely a bite taken out of any of them. Fresh loaves of white bread, bowls of barley and peas, sweet minced cranberries. Wrenn joked that the servants would be eating well that night. 

She said, "I guess you’re all saving your appetites for the main course."

The hall grew darker and darker; when historians wrote later of this event, it was claimed that Wrenn Barrow threw the banquet at midnight, with black shades thrown over the windows, and no speaking permitted.

She wished they would speak. Wrenn was forced to fill the silent hall with her own musings, stories of her times with Edom, those first fumbling days as the new Dragon Master.

“He was the biggest help. He knew so many things. It was with him that I… I went back home.”

And what a return it was! Wrenn had spent so long preparing for the day. She was ready for the adulation, for the people she had grown up with to cry tears of joy that she was alive, and that the reign of Bludwan was finally over. “All hail the good Dragon Master!”

On Edom’s great onyx back she descended, and the villagers formed a distant ring around her. She sat upon his saddle, tall and proud, in the armor she had stolen and modified from Bludwan; made into something new, something better. Something good.

Flip chirped on her shoulder. She greeted her people warmly and announced that their troubles were over. “Bludwan’s dead, and I’m their new leader. I saved the dragons, and now they consider me their friend. They won’t burn down any more villages, won’t ravage the livestock. You have my word. You are free!”

Wrenn did not hear any applause. She heard… nothing.

There was Aunt Helvia, with her children huddled against her. And Jurdi, whose stables she had cleaned for a couple coins. Old Gabrien, who had raised Wrenn like a father, now glowered at her. Wrenn looked around, searching in vain for an ally. She met with a wall of stony faces. The only ones on her side were the dragons. 

“Come on, don't be scared.” She looked at a little girl, who stood alone, tear tracks through her dirty face.

Wrenn gestured to her, gloved hand hanging in the empty gap. “Come here.”

The girl did not move.

“I won’t hurt you. And neither will they! See, they’re nice. They’re like little kittens.” Flip crawled from her shoulder and down to her fingertips, making cute little noises all the while. His tongue fell from between his sharp teeth.

Still the girl cried and backed away from Wrenn.

“No, no, don’t do that!” Wrenn, without thinking, descended from Edom’s saddle. Half-crouched, with a light step, she reached out towards the little girl. “I won’t hurt —”

A sudden strike of steel. Old Gabrien had drawn his sword. “You touch her, and there will be hell to pay.”

Wrenn stood dumbfounded. “I… you don’t seriously think I would hurt a child?”

“I don’t want to assume anything, with you dressed like that, associating with those… things that the evil bastard loved so much.”

“I killed him! I did what you wanted me to do, Father —”

“Do not dare call me that! You have lost the right. You say that our troubles are over? But  you stand here, yet another tyrant! If you are true to your word — leave. Leave, and never come back.”

What would she have done if she hadn’t had Edom and the others? All through the horrid ordeal of scouring Bludwan’s castle, of creeping through the dungeons with a poisoned dagger in hand, it had been thoughts of her home, the villagers she thought of as family, that sustained her. Before, the rejection — so complete, so sudden — would have destroyed her.

But that was before she saw the caged dragons.

They filled an entire level of Bludwan’s dungeon; big dragons, little dragons, their scales desaturated, their faces muzzled. They sat quietly in their cages, still as statues, not uttering a single sound. It was only when Wrenn stood in the darkness, and she strained her ears that she could hear their breathing.

How could he do such a thing? she thought. I knew he was a monster, but…

Wrenn had thought the dragons monsters, too. And then, like a star in the night sky, she found a light. A massive thing, forced into a cage too small, chains around his snout, his piercing red eyes staring back at her. Wrenn met his eyes and didn’t realize she was speaking aloud.

“I will do anything,” she said. “It’s not right. I — I promise, when I kill that man, I will free you!”

At last, the main course arrived.

The servants brought out the platters, also of solid gold, but so large they needed at least two men each to carry them out. The table was cleared of all unnecessary accoutrements to make space for them.

The final platter went in the center of the table. At a signal from Wrenn, the servant removed the cover with a silent flourish.

Edom’s horns were sliced off, his eyesockets vacant, his scales charred from the cooking. Regardless, his severed head was instantly recognizable.

Wrenn stood, her glass high in the air. “To Edom! May he reign in fire!”

Those were words meant for the Dragon Master, and her alone. Had anyone else said such a thing, they would have been beheaded publicly, or at least fined beyond their means. But, one supposed she was allowed to say it.

What does it take to cook a dragon? The servants of Shroudwell Castle had certainly learned. Edom the Ageless had been beheaded, to start, and the rest of his body strung from a hook. His soft underbelly was sliced open, and a barrel collected the guts. The Dragon Master insisted that no part of him go to waste, and so the entrails were thrown to the pigs and to certain particularly undiscerning dragons.

(Even so, when some tried to turn their noses up at the meal, the Dragon Master was there to… encourage them.

She said, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint your best friend, would you?”

They even ate the bones.)

The fire was made, but at first the meat would not sear. It lay on the rocks, and the heat was so strong the blood dissipated, but the meat itself remained firmly uncooked. The servants had to make the fire so hot, for such a sustained time, that the skin on their hands began to bubble and peel. It was laced with butter, seasoned with rosemary and fennel and sage, stuffed with turnip, and cooked until the skin had a nice char. He was served with a garnish of mint.

“Eat up!”

The hall was filled with the scent of grilled dragon which, it turned out, was not dissimilar to the scent of grilled human. Wrenn watched it all with a nervous smile, searching the eyes of her subjects. Of course, they were a little grossed out. But, should her hopes be fulfilled, they would see the importance of it all. She had another glass of wine while the servants carved her the choicest cuts of meat.

“Don’t worry — his horns are safe. They’re going to be installed in the back of my throne, later,” Wrenn said.

"V-very good, my lord," Syrus said.

"What are you waiting for? Dig in."

"It is customary for you to eat first, my lord."

Wrenn looked at the table of sad faces that lay before her. "Not today. You guys go first."

"My lord, I must insist on adherence to tradition," Syrus stammered, "especially in such —"

"Such what?"

"— such a sad day. We miss Sir Edom very, very much. Give us some time to mourn him. You, after all, have the first right to his flesh, and —"

"You do not want to."

Slowly, Syrus nodded. "Yes, my lord. It is a barbaric practice to eat the flesh of your enemies. To say nothing of… whatever this is."

"Your honesty is to be commended, my loyal servant," Wrenn said. "I don’t want to surround myself with thralls who can’t say no to me."

Syrus cast a look at the dragon that sat upon her shoulder.

“Most of the time, I think that refusing me would be an act of bravery.” Wrenn observed her reflection in her carving knife. "But today, it's mostly just you and everyone else at this table being spineless cowards."

She slammed the knife against the table, and all the dishes rattled. Flip did not even flinch from her shoulder, his eyes wide and unblinking. The others were not so composed.

Wrenn went on, "Yeah, you heard me. I see all of you refusing to push through a little bit of discomfort to serve my wishes. Would you have done that with Bludwan?"

Silence.

"Answer me."

Lady Meredith jolted as if she had been struck. "No, Dragon Master!"

Wrenn inclined her head. "Thank you, my lady." She turned to Syrus. "You wouldn’t have fucked around with him because you know you would have died. But you refuse me. Why? Don’t answer that — I know why. It’s because you think that I’m a foolish little girl, and that I’m going to soon be killed by the next, who will be, if not a more worthy ruler, then a stronger one."

Syrus swallowed. "Yes," he said. Then, when he got no immediate response, he added, "You value my honesty."

"And you underestimate me." Wrenn stood, and Flip on her shoulder suddenly flared up. His little neck stretched upwards, and he let out an eerie shriek.

Wrenn said, "Let it be known now. If you do not eat the flesh of Edom — all of that which is on your plates — I will smite you where you sit. Should anyone try and stop me, they will be smited too. And should they survive, they will be made an example.

"You will be flayed, displayed in the courtyard, and kept alive only so that you may suffer longer. My dragons will peck at your flesh like vultures. Your screams will echo through the castle, and no one will save you. You will beg and beg for forgiveness, and I will give you none."

Her pet shrieked again.

Wrenn smiled. "Or would you rather eat a yucky meal?”

There were no troubles after that.

Meredith ate vigorously, a wide grin affixed on her face. She was the only one besides Wrenn who was having a good time. She had no other choice.

The banquet hall was filled with the scraping of serrated knives; all their heads bowed, her subjects ate silently. Unlike before, Wrenn relished in it. This time, it was her silence.

Satisfied with their behavior, she at last picked up her fork and knife and cut through. Beneath the burned skin, Edom’s flesh was surprisingly rare. It was a pinky red, and very tough. Once she had cut a satisfactorily sized piece, she brought it to her lips.

He tasted like smoke.

Strong, very strong. Wrenn was reminded of the cooking pit she used to clean on her hands and knees. She always crawled out of it blackened, with soot all over her hands and her skirts and her face. The village boys laughed at her, called her dragon-face.

"What are you going to do? Burn us alive?"

She paused to take a drink. "Isn't this nice? Living out Edom's final wishes, together. He was so wise. This was a really good idea."

Another bite.

It was all salt and smoke; it was like tasting a funeral pyre. This bite, it seemed, was even more pungent and fleshy. Wrenn squeezed her eyes shut. "Sorry. It's… he's … spicy."

All eyes were focused on their plates, and the arduous task she had set. Therefore, no one but Syrus saw the first tears fall.

Wrenn sat, hardly having touched her own helping of Edom, crying. She could not prevent even the little hiccup.

"My lord…" Syrus began, hesitatingly.

"Continue eating."

"My lord, if you must pause, there's no shame —"

Wrenn made a note of discontent which swiftly silenced him. But Syrus was not the sort to be easily cowed — a trait she used to admire. "My lord, your sorrows are understandable. He was your most obedient dragon, even amongst all of your many, many obedient dragons. But, as you said yourself, this is a celebration of life. Do not weep so. He was a good slave, yes, but he was still just a slave. He would not want you to put so much import on his name.

"It is un-befitting for the Dragon Master to get so entangled in the lives of her slaves. You would not have time to treat every single felled dragon in the same way, would you?"

Wrenn stared at her murky reflection in the gold rim of her plate.

"The hatchlings are due soon, are they not? Perhaps, when you are picking from the lot you may bestow one of them his name, and thereby you would still have him at your side, through a normal and beautiful practice, and not this savage —"

"I don’t want to hear another word from any of you until all of your plates are cleared."

Wrenn was nauseous. The tears, too, had yet to abate. It was the worst sort of sorrow, the sort that compels one to scream and thrash and destroy whatever is in sight.

She stood, and with her head raised observed the hall. "Poisontail, come down."

Her subjects froze as, from the rafters, slithered a long-necked, serpentine dragon. They had not even known it was there, watching the whole time. It was acid green, with thorny wings and claws like needles. At its master's summons, it descended down a pillar, and towards the table.

Wrenn addressed the gathering. "I must have a moment to myself. But do not take this as an excuse to shirk your duties. Poisontail, should any of these people leave the table before they have finished their meal, you are to strike them dead with your stinger — or, should they try and run, burn them alive."

Poisontail purred.

Wrenn left. She did not want to go to her chambers, where she would inevitably smash all that was precious to her. Instead, staggering forward, she climbed the tower to the room where she had once been kept prisoner.

Flip followed after her, chirping for her to slow. But she did not; he flapped his wings, little claws skittering against the stone steps. Several more little dragons, roosting on the windowsills, perked up and swung into the air, following in Wrenn's wake.

She shooed them away. "Not now, not now!"

Certainly, she was going to be ill. Her whole body was hot and flushed, and her mind was similarly disturbed. Syrus's words were a millstone. How could he ever think such a thing? Wrenn was not like those past Dragon Masters, who treated their subjects as mere mindless automatons. The dragons may have insisted on calling themselves slaves, no matter Wrenn's attempts at improving the language, but that did not mean she regarded them with such indifference.

She did not live for humans — and, in fact, found them quite distasteful as a whole. It was only her dragons that sustained her in these dark days, and it was Edom who first guided her.

The dungeon had not changed. The single ratty blanket on the stone floor. The chains hanging from the walls. The cracked mirror that, when she was strung up, she watched herself grow more and more and haggard in, day in and day out.

The Dragon Master stepped up to it, now. She glowered at it, adorned in dragon leather and silver, healthy and flush. Before now, she had thought herself healed. She had thought that she was long past the clenching fear of starving in filth.

Her dark expression fell apart, and she returned to sobbing. It racked her whole body. The last time she had cried like this, it had been in the aftermath of killing the vile Bludwan; standing with the bloodied knife, sustained by only the anger an orphan knows, and realizing that she had won.

She had dropped to her knees on the cold throne room floor. She covered her face and smeared it with his blood. And she cried, and cried, cried out for her mother, cried out for her father, cried out for anyone to love her.

Grrrr.

"N-no…" Wrenn gasped.

From the shadows emerged a dragon in armor bearing Bludwan's emblem. He was bigger than the throne, and when he stretched his wings, they nearly touched the vaulted ceiling. He was entirely black, save for his crimson eyes. His hot breath stirred her hair.

Her anger was gone. She had nothing left. She closed her eyes, and begged the beast to spare her, without much conviction. She was too small, and too starved. One of Bludwan’s loyalists would surely kill her soon. She was not worth the energy. Who would even want to eat her?

In the darkness, she waited for the end. Her conviction to save the dragons had done no good. All of her good deeds would inevitably destroy her. But at least… at least she could believe that her family was avenged, and their souls were free. Wrenn would die, and she would find them again.

Instead, Edom poked her with his snout.

Her eyes sticky with tears, she looked up. He nudged her again. He urged her to put her hand upon his snout. At last, Wrenn felt it. A tugging, a pressure, something that could not be described, and yet was unmistakably forcing its way into her mind.

Edom the Ageless spoke. All hail the new Dragon Master, may she reign in fire.

After that, life was a blur of maintaining power, organizing scattered and unhappy humans, learning to communicate with the dragons, picking out her favorites to be her personal companions. Edom brought her to the hatching caves, where a mother dragon, ordinarily so fiercely protective, removed herself from her clutch so that Wrenn may have access to her eggs.

When Wrenn stroked its thin shell, she could not stop the image of smashing it to pieces. Of forcing the mother, so loyal to her will, to lick up the scattered remains.

But Wrenn did not do such a thing. Wrenn was the good Dragon Master.

"I don't want to be a tyrant," Wrenn told Edom. "I want people to like me. I want the dragons to love me. How can I do that?"

You cannot have both, Edom said. For the humans to love dragons, you would have to make them mindless puppets. If you want the love of the dragons, you must put the humans in their place.

"You were right…" Wrenn murmured, tasting her tears. "I was such a fool. I never listened to you, and now you're dead!"

In the banquet hall, there was fire. Noble men and woman rising from their seats and, regardless of the consequences, vomiting up their entire meal. The room was catastrophic with the noise and the smell. There was not a single piece of Edom that remained digested.

Except inside Wrenn. The fire in her stomach burned, and yet she held on. Silly though it was, she did not want to waste Edom's final gift. The pain was overwhelming; it was as if her entire body was burning from within. And yet, she considered it less painful than watching Edom die the first time.

As it settled inside her, her gaze rose back to the shattered mirror, her hand over her mouth.

"I don't know how! They don’t respect me. They won’t obey me. I can terrorize them, but eventually they’ll learn. They’ll realize that I’m nothing but empty threats. They’ll rebel. Oh, Edom, what do I do?"

Eat me, Edom begged her. Do not let my body go to fallow. Let my spirit live on. Let me remain useful to you, Master.

Staring back through her reflection was a single, piercing red eye.