Day One: The Decision
Blackspire's war room had become more like a throne room, although Lioran had specifically disavowed that description. Nevertheless, the seat at the head of the huge stone table had grown larger every hour, its shadow elongating as the sun moved across the fortress.
Lioran sat in it now, surrounded by maps and reports and the weight of a thousand humdrum decisions that somehow seemed to weigh more heavily than the weight of war.
"Food supplies are sufficient for three months on rations," Torven informed him, his burned arm still heavily bandaged but serviceable. "The grain from last year's harvest is in the southern warehouses. Provided there are no raids—"
"Expect raids," Lioran cut in. "We're in war. Everything must be planned for with the assumption that supplies will be cut off."
"Then we have about six weeks before shortages pinch," Torven amended himself, scribbling on the parchment in front of him. "We'll have to capture additional resources from the surrounding lands or make trade agreements with neutral traders."
Mira leaned against the war room window, gazing out over Blackspire. From this distance, the fortress appeared almost serene. The burns from the dragon flames could hardly be seen, and the graveyard of mass graves had been filled in with fresh earth. There were already flowers blooming—strong mountain flowers that appeared to laugh at the brutality that had drenched the earth beneath them.
"How many will die the next five days?" she suddenly asked, not even turning to face them.
Lioran and Torven looked at each other.
"My lady?" Torven dared hesitantly.
"You're both making plans for after the duel as if you've already won," said Mira, finally turning away from them. "But you haven't even fought Kaelen yet. He's beaten every man he's ever fought in single combat. And my son." She gazed at Lioran, and there was so much pain in her face that it was almost palpable. "My son has never fought like a man. Only as a vessel for that flame."
"I've trained," Lioran said. The words sounded inadequate even as he said them.
"You've burned things," Mira said. "That's not training. That's not skill. That's just power." She stepped up to the table, putting her hands flat on it. "How many soldiers will be killed because you're too confident? How many civilians will be destroyed when armies fight over land that should be rebuilt, not taken?"
The ember burned in Lioran's breast, outraged to be questioned, insisting that he put this woman in her place. But something deeper—something still his own—heard her.
"If I lose to Kaelen, I'm finished," Lioran whispered. "The Church gets me, tries me, kills me. The Flamebound flee. The northern lands fall back into the hands of whoever's strong enough to take them next. Is that better?"
"No," Mira conceded. "But neither is another war."
"Then what would you have me do? Refuse his challenge? Hide in this fortress and let him besiege it?"
"I don't know," Mira said. Her voice cracked. "I just know that everyone who enters your sphere of influence dies, Lioran. Kyrris died. Your friends died. Renn's sister died. At what point does your survival cease to be worth the price?"
The question lingered in the air like battle smoke, which cannot be cleared completely.
Before Lioran was able to answer, there was a commotion from the courtyard below.
...
The Discovery
They discovered Renn in the crypt where Kyrris was.
He'd barricaded himself in, managed to block the huge stone door from within. It took four men and Torven's sword arm combined to batter through. Whatever was inside made even the old campaigner turn white.
Renn knelt over the dragon's body, his clothes stained with blood not his own. Initially, Lioran assumed the young man had tried something desperate, something fatal. But then he noticed the knife in Renn's hand, and realized.
Renn had spent the past eighteen hours methodically stripping scales from Kyrris's lifeless body.
They were laid out on the stone ground around the corpse, each of them scrubbed clean of gore, sorted by size and color. Dozens, possibly hundreds. The death of the dragon became art or addiction or some mixture of both.
"Renn," Lioran whispered, stepping down the crypt steps.
Renn's eyes met his, and they were sane. Not crazy. Just hollow.
"I'm taking them," Renn stated. His voice was calm, logical. "The scales. They're worth too much to be left on a dead body. They'll come in handy. Armor. Weapons. Healing. All that's left of Kyrris now is these. Might as well make them do some good."
Lioran knelt down beside him. In the light of the candles, he could see that Renn's hands were red and raw, blistered from the compulsive work. The young man had likely been working nonstop, compelled by some urgency to convert sorrow into action, loss into use.
"He was your friend," Lioran said.
"Yes," Renn said. "And now he's dead. And I'm still alive, which is more than my sister can say." Renn settled a big, shimmering scale into the sunlight. "At least this way, Kyrris can continue to defend people. His death can be something other than nothing."
Mira stood at Lioran's elbow, and when she saw the scales, she made a faint noise of distress.
"Come out of here," she told Renn, speaking softly. "Come up into the fortress. I'll have food brought. You need to eat, to rest—"
"I don't deserve rest," Renn replied coldly. "I failed all of them. Failed Sera. Failed my sister. Failed Kyrris." He glanced at Lioran. "Failed you, though you probably don't deserve better."
"Renn—"
"How long until your duel?" Renn cut in.
"Four," Lioran replied.
Renn stood, cradling the scales against his chest. "Then by then, I'll have these fashioned into armor. You'll battle Kaelen in Kyrris. The dragon will be present, even if it's not alive anymore. Even if it's merely leather and metal draped upon your body." He also stared at Lioran, and in his eyes, something akin to defiance. "And you'd better win, Lioran. Because if you don't, then my sister and Sera and Kyrris all died for nothing. And I don't think I can live with that."
He pushed past them, carrying his precious load of scales, and they were left alone in the crypt.
...
The Armor of Dragons
News of what Renn was doing spread fast through Blackspire.
By evening, artisans had been brought together in the fortress forges. Armorers who had served the old duchy, blacksmiths who had made it through the war, even a few weaponsmiths who had escaped other lands when their lords fell. They labored late into the night, compelled by some common sense that this was critical.
They labored with care, melting and molding the dragon scales into something useful and lovely. The scales were turned into armor—plates that covered across the chest, bracers for the arms, a helm that looked to hold Kyrris's spirit, fierce and proud and old.
Lioran stood in watch over the process from a distance, powerless to assist, powerless to do much of anything but stand and bear witness to the healing of pain into purpose.
By the break of the second day, it was finished.
It was glorious. Every scale reflected light and cast it back altered, weaving designs that seemed to dance and flow like living flame. When Lioran put on the armor, he felt changed. Not more powerful—the armor itself didn't grant any strength. But somehow more connected. To Kyrris. To the dragon's memory. To something beyond his own self-existence.
"It's lovely," Mira said, and there were tears in her eyes. "He would have enjoyed it."
"Do you think so?" Lioran asked.
"I believe," Mira said cautiously, "that we are changed by grief. Sometimes into something a little better. Sometimes into something worse. But always into something other than what we were before."
She reached out and touched the helm, tracing the patterns of the scales with her fingers. "Your father wore armor as well. When he was a soldier, before he met me. Before I persuaded him to lay down his sword." She smiled wistfully. "I sometimes think I was wrong to do that. That his life would have been richer, more complete, if he'd never laid down his sword."
"Do you regret me?" Lioran inquired. "Having me? Leaving the soldiering life behind?"
There was a long silence. "No," she said at last. "But I'm not certain that's the question. The question is, whether he regretted it. And I'll never know the truth of that."
She pulled her hand from the armor. "Three more days," she stated. "Three more days until you and Kaelen face off on the Plains of Ashenmere. I hope you are prepared, Lioran. I hope you are really prepared."
But staring at the armor forged from her lover's dragon, staring at the woman who'd given birth to him twice—once in body and once in flame—Lioran couldn't help but wonder if anyone was ever ever prepared for what was ahead.
He only knew he had to attempt it.