Deathborne: Dragon Seer, #1

By S. Kay Lanphear

Deathborne follows Nadraya, a desert princess kept locked away as a precaution against the deadly plague that has ravaged her kingdom for generations. When her sister falls victim to the disease, she makes the reckless decision to sneak away with a band of strangers headed north, where they hope to find evidence of a cure. Together, they create a mismatched crew—a runaway princess, a retired assassin and his two disorderly cohorts, an incompetent wizard, a reluctant knight just trying to do his job, and a ranger cruelly exiled by his people. Their differences separate them as clearly as sand from water, but as their quest spirals out of control, those differences begin to fade in favor of unlikely friendships.

Faced with bandits, dragons of lore, dark magic, and a growing army of undead, they discover more during their quest than any legends of old could have prepared them for. Even Nadraya, who has always been troubled by unpredictable visions and disturbing dreams, is shocked at the dark secrets that threaten to unhinge the entire world of Vraed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. Kay Lanphear
• Release date: Apr 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215344583

S. Kay Lanphear

S. Kay Lanphear is the author of Dragon Seer: Deathborne, the first book in a series she’s been drafting since she was thirteen. Prolific in her craft, she writes every single day whether she be working on her next fantasy epic or indulging in a short drabble of fanfiction. With a bachelor’s degree in English Creative Writing, Kay hopes to eventually write fulltime.

Book preview

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part 2

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part 3

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

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Prologue

Lord Devrah, Emperor of Caelasas, sired three daughters during his reign over the southern desert. He likened them to the prettiest sand flowers in his kingdom, but his opinion was limited to only himself and those that served within the palace. Eighteen years prior, he’d lost his wife to the plague, a sickness that had worn on the borders of his kingdom for generations. He’d therefore decreed that no royal skin come in contact with that of the common folk—an effort to protect the three princesses from the same fate that had befallen their mother. They were forbidden from leaving the palace walls and allowed to touch none but each other, thus they would be safe from infection.

They grew safe behind the glass and stone of the palace. The first, Lady Amirya, was to be heir and inherit rule following her father. She was of stable mind and strict judgment, raised to the position despite the limiting perspective of observing her people through clouded windows. Though this weakness weighed on her, she was determined to follow in her father’s footsteps. She suffered much in the conceits of any natural born princess, but was not so heavily burdened with the sentiment as some trailing her in birthrights.

Lady Ventya, the youngest of the three, was as equally spoiled as she was ignored. Having not been brought into the world first, she was of little significance to her father, whose favor fell for none of the talents she had to offer. Rather, she was showered with gifts and praise, if only to distract her from her own triviality. Her vanities dominated her person, a trait of her existence that was treated with patience by Amirya and disdain by Nadraya, the middle of the three sisters.

Nadraya, despite her rank as second born, had somehow managed to win her father’s favor. Perhaps it was because she seemed a bit cleverer than her sisters, or because her temperament left little to be doted upon. She was like her mother in appearance and her father in the capacities of mind, these qualities occasionally causing the emperor to consider how much happier he’d be, were she the first to have been brought into the world. Amirya was sure to do well, but he was convinced Nadraya could lead their people in ways her elder sister could only ever observe through her underlings.

Nadraya, however, was not without her own conceits. As a child, she had taken advantage of her father’s favor, using it as a means of escaping boring lessons on manners and decorum, or in persuading him to allow her the study of subjects outside what a princess of little consequence should be indulging in. She was given the run of the library from a young age and had often demanded that books and scrolls relating to lands outside their own be brought back whenever her father went abroad. He humored her more often than not, returning with tales fantastical in nature about make-believe worlds and adventures that would no doubt preoccupy her from her own dreary existence. Yet, he carefully regulated what she read as well, equally as wary as he was pleased about her thirst for knowledge beyond their desert palace.

This aspect of her personality grew only more and more apparent over time, and so Devrah took it upon himself to provide any sort of distraction to keep her focus from the reality of her confinement. He gifted her not in dresses and jewels and pretty trinkets, which only preoccupied her for a moment, but things that would keep her attention for some years to come: at the age of twelve, she received a flock of golden-crested verins—small, dainty birds that she carefully learned how to breed and that were traded in and outside their borders as valuable rarities; at the age of fourteen, he delegated that the garden the late empress had tended within the palace courtyard be her responsibility; at sixteen, he gifted her three Lreesadian water dogs which she had to raise and train herself; and at eighteen, he finally gave in to her pleading and purchased a Zradian-bred mare, which she learned to ride far too swiftly and with far too much natural skill.

Yet, even with so many active preoccupations, her thoughts could not be fully dissuaded from her situation. Her father would argue that she and her sisters were protected within the palace walls, but age had twisted his reasoning, instilling in Nadraya a sort of anxiety she couldn’t shake. This anxiety turned to bitter resentment, leaving her hunger unsated despite all the knowledge lining the library walls. Her sisters and father—her only confidants outside her pets—noted her change in temperament: her abrupt mood swings, her shortness of attitude, a new predisposition for complete seclusion inside what was already an isolating palace. All too often, she desired to be alone, no longer interested in re-reading her many books. She retained her riding practices and the comfort of her other pets, but even these left her deflated—a flower wilting beneath the desert sun.

It was for this reason that her father supposed a change of pace would soon be necessary. Even he knew that he could not keep her locked away for the entirety of her life. After twenty-four years, her patience was finally wearing thin—Devrah could see it day by day. But she was also a princess, and so she had a responsibility to her country and crown. Her father knew her well enough to realize that any sort of match he proposed would have to equal her wit as well as potential—he would be satisfied with nothing less for her.

She was too restless to be comfortable as a lord’s wife and too intelligent to be limited by her own kingdom’s prejudices. Devrah looked beyond his own borders as a result, hoping to retain her status while at the same time provide her a position that would keep her a safe distance from the ever-worsening plague. He went north, across the river Siants to the neighboring kingdom of Zrao. And while his daughters were well-aware of his recent travels abroad, he had not divulged the entirety of his objectives.

Yet, even so, Nadraya had a knack for discovering the secrets of others. Never intentionally. Rather, the truth had a way of making itself known to her no matter her intents, generally in ways entirely unpredictable in nature.

Part 1

Smoke Before Fire

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Chapter 1

Lord Devrah would soon be arriving home after many long weeks abroad. He travelled with a large party of twelve Caelasian high-guards and six knights. Having crossed Caelasian borders, they were but a day out from the capital city of Tyr. Riding upon the slow-moving draken—large, ruddy colored sand lizards that had long been domesticated by the desert people—they kept a steady pace over the dunes and through the soft, drifting sands.

An extra had been added to their party. Though he rode a draken mount alongside the rest, his foreign dress gave him away. Unlike the long, high-necked jackets Lord Devrah and the Caelasian lords wore, he donned a billowing tunic tucked into thick, linen trousers. His face was shrouded by a cloak, as were most in the party—a precaution against the harsh sun.

The same sun flashed brightly over Nadraya’s face, momentarily saturating the blue sky above until her eyes were able to readjust to reality. Breathing heavily, she found herself lying prone in the dirt of the palace garden, stunned as she blinked against the blossoming headache throbbing through her temples. For a moment, the image of her father and his party remained stamped in her mind’s eye, but, as always, soon began to fade in tandem with the passing seconds.

It was only when the sun was abruptly blocked by the long face of her mare that she returned fully from the vision. Nose snuffling, the horse toed carefully closer before beginning to lip at her ear. Nadraya stroked the mare’s cheek and began to murmur soft assurances that she was quite alright, even if her body was sore and bruised from having fallen out of the saddle at such a quick pace. It was likely best not to mention the tumble to anyone, lest sanctions be placed on her riding time. Besides, discussion of her occasional visions tended to unease others, so it was best that she not need to explain how she’d ended up on the ground in the first place.

Slowly sitting up, she continued to blink against the ache in her head, though there was likely nothing she could do to alleviate the pain other than to seek rest and a dark room.

I had not intended to cut our ride short, Nitol, she said, continuing to stroke the horse’s cheek even as the animal preoccupied herself with sniffling around the folds of Nadraya’s clothes, looking for treats, but I doubt I’d be at all steady in the saddle now.

Remaining in the dirt only a bit longer, she soon hefted herself to her feet. Using Nitol as a means of keeping her balance, she leaned upon the mare’s shoulder before turning her focus to the northern wall and, above it, the pure blue of the horizon.

Who was the strange man that travelled with her father, she wondered. Based on his dress, he hailed from Zrao, but she couldn’t remember the last time a foreigner had been welcomed into the palace. It’d been an ordeal to have one of their own lord’s sons welcomed, and he’d been intended as her elder sister’s husband.

The thought had Nadraya frowning. Perhaps she had a better idea as to why the man was coming than she wanted to admit. Yet, if her father intended him for her, the least he could have done was say something prior to dragging him all the way south. Especially as Nadraya had no intention of accepting him as a potential husband, whoever he happened to be.

Abruptly soured, she returned her attention to Nitol. Like the man, her mare was Zradian, as Zrao was well-known throughout all of Vraed for breeding the most prized horses. Reddish-brown in color aside from her black mane, tail, and legs, Nitol was quite unlike her fellows in the palace stable. She didn’t possess the fine bone structure and dished faces of those bred in the desert. She was thicker in build, wider from chest to rear with sturdy legs and heavier hooves. The grace of her face was in the even, steady slope from her forehead to her muzzle, accented by thoughtful, deep-set eyes.

Come now, Nadraya said, taking hold of Nitol’s reins and beginning to guide the mare back through the gardens. She was the only one permitted to ride in the gardens, which were located at the center of the palace and open to the skies above. As a result, she had to lead Nitol through the palace halls and out into the front courtyard before she could return her to the stable. Such had resulted in many servants having to clean up rather rank piles after she’d passed through.

Yet, Nadraya hardly wasted a thought on such things—she was far too preoccupied with her father and his guest than anything Nitol might leave behind. The clip-clopping of hooves atop polished, sandstone floors hardly registered in her ears, nor did she pay any mind to the tall, stretching pillars interspersed in her path, holding up the warmly-colored floral-tile archways lining the halls from one end to the other. There was a light breeze, which fanned in through the open walls and doorways. Built with the heat in mind, the palace itself was rarely ever closed up. Only when sandstorms or the spring rains threatened were the doors and windows latched, but even with so much left open, the great wall surrounding the palace kept any and all who were not permitted from entering the grounds. There were four gates built into the exterior wall, but only one was regularly accessible. It was through this gate that the staff passed back and forth. The rest were patrolled by the guard, despite the fact that little threat aside from weather and the plague had ever befallen them.

Nadraya made her way from the center of the gardens to the east side of the palace, where the guard stables were stationed. Once again emerging into the sunlight, she led Nitol across the dusty ground to a sandstone building on the other side of the courtyard. It was here that the stablemaster awaited her. Though she was permitted many things within the palace, these privileges dissolved as soon as she was outside it, even if she was still within the exterior walls. She was not allowed to actually enter the stables herself, and so had to hand Nitol off to the stablemaster.

As was customary, he waited until she’d dropped the reins and stepped back before he approached. Though Nadraya wore riding gloves and was otherwise covered from the neck down, the risk of coming into contact with anyone potentially carrying the plague was strictly forbidden. Only certain servants were even permitted inside the palace, and they were required to remain covered from head to toe at all times, aside from their faces. Nor were they allowed to affiliate with the royal family outside of their duties, which were as limited as possible. Nadraya supposed that even their meals were prepared with gloves as a barrier between the cooks and the food itself, though she’d never been down to the kitchens herself to see.

Bowing his balding head, the stablemaster retrieved Nitol before taking her beneath the arched doorway leading inside. Nadraya watched her go, frowning, before ultimately taking a huffing breath and turning away.

Detouring to a shaded corner just outside the exterior doors, she approached a pen that had been erected some seven years prior. Inside were three small, sandstone huts, decorated to match the palace. Leaning upon the stone fence, she smiled as she peered over, three lolling faces staring back.

Just where I left you, I see, she said, reaching out and opening the wooden gate to her left. The three dogs burst out, acting as though they hadn’t just seen her an hour before, when she’d come to fetch Nitol in the first place.

The Lreesadian water dogs were just as out of place in the desert as Nitol was in comparison to the other horses, but they seemed to get along just fine. While they might have normally had long, curling coats, their hair was kept trimmed short so as to prevent them overheating. What remained of their curls blended in well with their ears and tails, as they were left unclipped. They were dogs of average size—no more than fifty pounds each—and while they were siblings in breed, they differed in color and attitude from one to the next.

Dev was the dominant of the three. Dignified, she was well-aware of her importance. Though she could be as excited as any dog, she was always sure to sit herself calmly at Nadraya’s side when decorum called. Ever high and mighty, she held her siblings in equal amounts of contempt as it was that she enjoyed their company. Black with the curliest hair of them all, she would oftentimes emerge from the shadows as if she had formed directly from their depths.

The second was Pel, who was the largest of the three in both height and girth. He was the lightest in color, being of a creamy tan. Apt to do little more than wag his tail when he was pleased, Pel preferred to spend his days lounging as much as possible. He napped most of the days away.

Lastly was Bort. He was dark brown and in possession of enough energy that it could be gifted to the other two and he’d still have more than enough to spare. He was never quite satisfied with what they were doing and was prone to getting himself into trouble if Nadraya wasn’t watching him closely enough. This made for a dangerous combination of not enough caution and far too much folly. Bort was, by far, the stupidest of the three.

Yet, no matter their faults, they had long been Nadraya’s only friends outside of her sisters, and so she treasured them much as she did Nitol—even if they were more apt to try her patience.

Come on, let’s go, Nadraya said once they’d calmed. Inside. There we go. Dev and Pel trotted happily at her sides as they walked back in, Bort darting ahead. Nadraya had to call him back multiple times as they made their way through the generally empty halls, up the stairs, and into the south wing where she and her sisters spent a majority of their time. And while Nadraya could still feel her headache throbbing away, she was not so entirely disabled that she wanted to give in to rest, even if it would help alleviate the pain.

But, as luck would have it, her headache was only likely to be made worse. Bustling out from the hall that led to their individual chambers came Ventya, her light-weight yellow gown fluttering out behind her as she quickly whisked her way into the lounge.

By the King, Nady! There you are! she announced. I’ve been looking for you every—No—No, Bort. Stop it. Bort had bounded forward upon spotting her, balancing on his hind legs as if to somehow scale up her body to lick her face. Ventya skirted back, cringing as she shooed the dog away with a weak wave of her hand. She eventually ended up behind one of the multiple red chaises while Bort jumped up on the cushions to get just a bit closer.

Do something about him, won’t you? Ventya eventually asked, sounding quite short about the whole ordeal.

But you know you’re his favorite, Nadraya pointed out. You two have so much in common.

Her sister cast her a rather flat look.

Come, Bort, Nadraya said, having to do so a total of three times before the dog would come and sit at her feet. Freed, Ventya finally flurried back out into the middle of the room, though she eyed Bort warily.

As I was saying, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, she said, before a devious smile unfurled across her thin lips. I know something you don’t know.

Her teasing was met with little enthusiasm on Nadraya’s part, as she was unlikely to play Ventya’s guessing games. She was never all that interested in anything Ventya was interested in, were she to be frank. Whatever it was that had her younger sister chittering excitedly in place would no doubt do very little to improve Nadraya’s mood, as was par the course of their relationship. Ventya’s theatrical preoccupation with being both melodramatic and generally shortsighted left little to appeal to Nadraya outside of their blood relationship. 

I wait in rapture, Nadraya eventually said, when it became clear Ventya was going to do little more than stall with that ridiculous grin until Nadraya volunteered herself to be victim to whatever she had to say.

It is the most splendid news! Ventya announced, twisting and twitching a bit in place, very much like a bird. Everything about Ventya spoke of this spindling, skittish disposition. From the sharp contours of her face to the pointed angles of her thin body, she was little more than an amalgamation of corners and quick motion. She was hardly ever able to sit still, generally impatient if she didn’t have some kind of shiny bauble with which to preoccupy herself, and even that was typically short-lived.

Amirya and I were just having a walk about the veranda when one of the servants delivered a letter. Guess who it was from.

I would not want to ruin your story by spoiling the news.

Guess! 

Nadraya sighed.

It was from Father! she finally said, before doing a quick spin in place. Her skirt fanned out around her, an effect Nadraya knew her to be quite fond of. He’ll be here—

Tomorrow? Nadraya interjected, having lied when she’d said she had no desire to spoil Ventya’s news. She never tired of spoiling her sister’s good time when her own patience was being tried as a result.

Ventya immediately frowned, the finger she’d had curling through her wavy black hair stilling in place.

He brings a guest with him, Nadraya continued, turning away and wearing a rather superior smirk as she looked to the open balcony on the far side of the room. A Zradian guest.

Ventya’s frown deepened. You spoil everything with your fortune telling, she said sourly.

Whipping back around on her, Nadraya glared. It’s not fortune telling. Oddly enough, Ventya was the only person Nadraya knew who was not made entirely uneasy by her vague abilities. Which suited Nadraya quite poorly, as Ventya was the only person she’d like to go out of her way to make uncomfortable.

Whatever it is, I don’t care, Ventya said, waving off Nadraya’s objections. Be it that I find it vexing, you’re right. But! She held up a knowing finger, her grin once again crawling into place. Do you know who the man is?

I might, Nadraya lied.

You don’t. He’s a prince. Heir to Zrao’s throne. And no doubt here because father expects you to marry him.

Nadraya glared.

If it pleases the prince, in any case, though I have my doubts. Pointedly looking Nadraya up and down, she clicked her tongue. Whatever she saw was clearly not to her taste. You’ll have to present yourself in a more civilized manner than this. Covered in dirt and— sniffing, Ventya curled her nose, —smelling of horse sweat.

Glancing down, Nadraya noted that Ventya was not entirely incorrect. The creases of her red robe were inlaid with dust, while the sides of the loose-fitting trousers she wore underneath were stained with dirt marks. No doubt due to her fall.

Though, even if she wasn’t donning some filth, Ventya would still disapprove. Her attire wasn’t suitable to her position as a princess. While she was entirely covered as all royalty was expected to be, the trousers were a pair that had belonged to her father, the robe much the same. That the robe was open from the hips down—so she might ride unhindered—was a regular bother to Ventya, as it was considered unbecoming. Though Nadraya couldn’t quite understand why. She was not to attend any courtly functions—she had no one to impress. It was only rational that she wear what was functional. So long as her skin was safely covered, there could be no reasonable objections.

What have you been doing? Ventya asked after another moment. You appear even more disheveled than usual. Covered in dirt, your hair a mess.

Reaching up, Nadraya patted at her black hair, which had been pulled back into a simple bun. Some of it was falling loose, but it was hardly worth griping over.

I’m not concerned with what the prince of Zrao thinks of my hair, she replied. He may think whatever he likes of me, I care not.

You are so tiresome, Ventya decided, sounding rather put upon. As if it was she who was regularly tried by Nadraya’s behavior. You haven’t even met him.

Father knows how I feel about marriage.

You’re nearly twenty-four, Ventya pointed out. You’ll have to marry eventually, and your looks will only last so long. Nadraya cast her another glare. Besides, you can’t do much better than a prince and heir! Then again, if you don’t marry him, perhaps I will. I’m not too good to be the future queen of Zrao.

That is not the point, Ventya.

And seeing as he’s a visiting guest, father will be apt to do all he can to impress him, Ventya decided, again twirling her finger through her hair as she stared dreamily up at the ceiling. Which means he cannot reasonably expect to keep him cooped up here with us for the duration of his stay. And the dragon competitions are coming up soon!

Clapping her hands together, Ventya hummed with pleasure. Perhaps we will all go! It’s been an eternity since we attended. Since before mother died!

He won’t, Nadraya said coldly. There’s a reason we’re kept here.

But if he’s willing to marry you off, then perhaps he’ll finally allow us out!

He didn’t make any exceptions when Gilbard came to stay with us, Nadraya pointed out. In fact, it was Gilbard—Amirya’s husband—that had been expected to bend to their rules. The son of a lord he may be, but infallible to the plague he was not. Their father had spent many months entertaining different suitors for Amirya before firstly settling on Gilbard. He was one of the few to be allowed a personal affiliation with them since they’d been shut up in the palace, though now he was closed in with them. And while he was a patient, dull sort of man, Nadraya could only imagine how tiring he must find it, cooped up after having lived life so differently. 

Then again, he did spend a great many days closed up in his study and he showed very little interest in any walks about the garden, so perhaps he didn’t wholly mind their conditions, even if he was no longer allowed affiliation with his family and old acquaintances outside of letters. Or perhaps the promise of being made Emperor when their father inevitably passed was reason enough not to complain.

Gilbard was just a lord’s son, not a prince, Ventya pointed out. It would be completely unforgivable if the prince of Zrao were to grow bored during his visit with us.

I’m sure father has prepared him for what’s to come, Nadraya replied.

Or we might get to go to the competitions.

We won’t.

But perhaps he’ll change his—

You know he won’t.

But I want to go!

Find a cure for the plague and you’ll be able to. Until then, you would do well to give up such futile hopes. Father is stubborn and won’t go back on his word, not without a properly convincing reason, which I know you lack.

Your negativity is what makes this palace intolerable! Ventya abruptly shouted, causing Nadraya to jump in surprise. All of you! I can’t take it anymore! If you’re too high and mighty for a prince, I’ll take him! And finally get out of this place! Whipping around on her heel, she stomped back down the hall and into her own chambers, making sure to slam the heavy door behind her.

Somewhat stunned, Nadraya blinked stupidly into the silence before her own temper finally began to catch up with her. It’d been many years since Ventya had given in to such an immature display. She was well beyond the age that such things were acceptable and Nadraya was not the least bit pleased that she’d been on the receiving end of her nastiness.

Yet, despite how she bristled, she was not entirely without sympathy. For every bit of irritation that flitted through her, defeat mirrored it in kind. She, too, was exhausted of their life in the palace. Alone aside from each other; never to see beyond the stone walls and what was visible past her balcony.

She did not condone Ventya’s display, but she could understand her sister’s frustration.

Looking up at her, all three mustaches framing her dogs’ noses twitched in distress, before Nadraya finally made a move to alleviate the tension Ventya had left behind. Heading down the hall, she cast Ventya’s door a single look before pushing in through the one across from it. Followed in by her dogs, she was met with her own chambers.

Furnished with colorful rugs and ornate furniture, it was nothing short of extravagant. In the far right corner was an intricately carved mahogany wardrobe, which had been shipped from Lreesadia prior to her mother passing. All the furniture had arrived similarly, as it was a matched set: the two chairs and table before the open archway that led out onto the balcony; the chaise with its red cushion tucked into the left corner; the plush bed, which sat upon a two-step dais and was surrounded by four sandstone pillars that supported the layered canopy overhead; the chest at the foot of the bed. There was a single, red-cushioned lounge near the center of the room, which Nadraya ran her fingers over as she passed by. Bort jumped upon it, licking at her hand, while Pel immediately ran for the bed and vaulted up, settling into the sheets. Only Dev remained at her side as Nadraya centered herself before the vanity beside the wardrobe, upon which sat a large, round mirror.

Eying her reflection, she reached up and tugged at a few stray strands of hair, before giving in and pulling the bun loose. Long black waves fell down over her shoulders, ending nearly at her elbows. She then rubbed at a few dirt smudges that darkened her already bronze, desert skin.

Despite how she desired to push both Ventya and the thought of this prince from her thoughts, she was bothered by some of what Ventya had said. Nadraya had always made it clear that if she were to marry, it would be for affection, not diplomacy. She was not her elder sister—she did not have a future as empress to think of. And if she were to get her way, then any sort of beauty that could fade in the future—as her sister had so claimed it would—couldn’t make any sort of difference. Love was unconditional, was it not?

Besides, she looked a great deal like her mother and even as she’d aged, Nadraya had vague memories of her being both tender as well as beautiful. Soft features, rounder curves than what Ventya possessed, large, gracefully cornered eyes that crinkled some when she’d smiled. If Nadraya did look as much like her mother as their father claimed, then none of Ventya’s taunts could truly amount to anything. The only difference between them, as far as Nadraya could recall, was that where her own eyes were dark brown, her mother’s had been hazel green—a feature that, of all three girls, only Ventya had inherited. It was a rare quality in the desert and a point over which Ventya was very much proud.

Yet, even as Nadraya cast these defenses, she could see the image she held of their mother wavering. Though she was consciously aware that she shared the most physical similarities with their mother, it was her eldest sister’s visage that blurred into place overtop what little she could recall of related childhood memories. Which wasn’t so terrible, she supposed. She’d been six when their mother had passed, and so remembered little of her. Amirya was much more the staple in her memory as far as maternal figures. Perhaps it was for ill that she would allow such thoughts, but she didn’t know how to preserve the image of a woman she’d barely known.

Abruptly startled, she turned toward her door when Bort released a bark, announcing that someone had knocked. Her door was gently pushed open a second later, revealing Amirya herself. She stood for some moments in the doorway, casting Nadraya a questioning look as she allowed her hand to rest upon the pregnant bulge beneath the thin layers of her burnt orange gown. 

I heard you and Ventya arguing, she said, her voice soft. You would do better to be kinder. Such tiffs do neither of you any good.

She goes out of her way to aggravate me, Nadraya reasoned, watching as her elder sister entered the room and moved to the bed. Heavy with child, she took great pains to situate herself comfortably upon the edge of the mattress. It seemed no position offered her any relief these days. Eyes closed, she sat back in the sheets and fanned her face with her hand. Unlike Ventya, who spent a good chunk of every day primping herself to perfection, Amirya had given up on such pursuits. Not as a general rule, but simply because, as of late, she hadn’t had the energy. Her curling brown hair was held in a long ponytail over one shoulder, while her dress was unadorned aside from minor gold detailing along the sleeves and collar. Despite the fabric being thin and loose, Nadraya could see sweat beading upon her skin. 

You should not have walked so far, Nadraya said, taking a wet cloth from the wash basin on her vanity and joining her sister upon the bed. She dabbed at Amirya’s forehead only for her efforts to be gently brushed aside a second later.

I’m not sick, Amirya scolded softly. This child does not dictate my actions. Nor does Gilbard. Nor Father, nor Ventya, be it as they try. And you are no different. Reaching out, she set her hand gently atop Nadraya’s knee, each move she made holding a subtle grace—as if every motion were attached by a thread to the previous. It makes no difference the company Father brings, he will not force you into a fate you do not want.

Nadraya smiled skeptically. Yet he presents a suitor nonetheless.

If he didn’t, none of us would ever chance upon meeting anyone, Amirya replied, a light laugh echoing in her voice. Besides, if you don’t like this prince, there’s always a chance Ventya will. The sooner she’s married, the sooner she’s... preoccupied.

Perhaps Father should put his focus on marrying her off then, instead of me.

Amirya laughed again. You and Ventya have more in common than you realize, you know. She does not express it quite as avidly as you, but she’s a clever girl. When it suits her.

Nadraya scoffed.

She has her own aims, Amirya continued. And her own ways of going about accomplishing them.

She and Father have that in common, I think, Nadraya said darkly, once again thinking of the prince among her father’s party. He must have had some idea in mind when he’d gone north that he’d be bringing someone back, yet he’d said nothing. Their father claimed none of Ventya’s attitudes as having come from him, but Nadraya observed a certain duplicity in them both.

It’s better to be optimistic, Amirya advised. You never know, perhaps you’ll take a liking to this prince.

As you did to Gilbard the first time Father invited him here? Nadraya asked. It was somewhat of a family joke, Amirya’s initial meeting with Gilbard. He was the first suitor their father had ever presented and the easiest problem he’d ever solved. Within a week, the two had announced their engagement. Nadraya knew their father had lined up at least four others whom he’d decided could enter the palace to try and appease Amirya, but their presence had obviously been deemed unnecessary. 

Gilbard is a good man, Amirya said simply. It shouldn’t be so shocking that I took an interest in him.

Good man he may be, but also a Caelasian noble and of high standing. Not that Nadraya judged Amirya for weighing such things in her decisions. Unlike her younger sisters, she carried a burden much heavier than their own. It was her responsibility to think of her people first, of what would be best for everyone. She did not have the option of foreign princes from other countries.

He is a good man, Nadraya agreed. Yet, if she were to marry, she hoped it would be for more than contentment. There was no folly in her sister’s idea of happiness, but they were not of the same mind on such things.

You will find the person that fits alongside you someday, Amirya said, reaching up and gently pushing Nadraya’s dark hair behind her ear. Be it this prince or someone else. You are young and there are many choices ahead of you. Do not let Father’s ploys at matchmaking pressure you, nor Ventya’s... exuberance.

Nadraya nodded. I know.

Besides, Amirya smiled, if you don’t like him, you know Ventya will.

Nadraya smiled as well. Inevitably.

They shared in a few more laughs before Amirya pushed herself to her feet and headed slowly back out the way she’d come. Watching her go, Nadraya remained on the bed, her mood dropping like a heavy stone to the base of her stomach. While her sister’s words were comforting, they left her inundated with dissatisfaction. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact source of such feelings, but they took hold of her nonetheless.

She didn’t know what she wanted, but it was definitely more than her father had planned, or what the inside of the palace walls could give her.

Looking to the foot of her bed, she stared at the ornate chest sitting there. For some time, she simply sat, but the familiar feeling of restlessness was quickly overwhelming her, echoing all the way down through her legs. She knew what she was planning was against the rules—against everything her father had decreed years before. Yet, she wasn’t a criminal, nor a toy bird. She wouldn’t remain cooped up if she could help it.

Whisking herself down before the chest, she was on her knees and rummaging through the contents within the moment. She pulled out multiple sheer cloaks, a pair of spare riding boots, and an extravagantly decorated gown she rarely wore, before she finally reached what she wanted. Dragging out a thinly layered skirt, leather boots, light cloak, and a worn tunic, she then shoved everything else back inside before beginning to strip off her riding clothes.

Soon enough, she was swathed in common attire, the cloak clipped around her neck. Grabbing a single ribbon, she tied her hair back in a tight bun before wrapping her head in a matching scarf and pulling down her hood. Tugging it forward so as to hide her face, she felt satisfied that none in the palace would recognize her.

A decade or so before, such a disguise would hardly have been convincing, but though her father’s decree was still in place, the general attitude within the palace had become rather lax. Few broke the rules that were set within the palace walls and so the attention paid to those who went in and out had dwindled. Where guards had once vigorously verified identities against required badges, they now only cast people a cursory glance before moving them on. If such practices were to become known to the emperor, he would be furious, but thus far no incident had occurred as a result. And as these practices allowed Nadraya certain freedoms she wouldn’t have otherwise had, she’d made sure to stay quiet on the matter.

Leaving her dogs behind, she went to the door and hesitantly pulled it open, before glancing up and down the hall. It was empty, ignited only by the sunlight pouring in from the lounge at the end. She crept out, tugging her cloak around her as she headed down the short corridor, through the room beyond, and back into the empty palace halls. Shortly, she had reached a set of stairs that led her down a level, feet silent as she toed onward. At the bottom, she veered to the right, coming upon a wide corridor with a pair of open double doors on the other side. Beyond them was the palace library. It wasn’t the library she was headed for, however, her attention instead landing on the intricate tapestries plunging down from the tops of the walls.

She faltered before one in particular, as she often did. Depicted across the worn fabric was large map of Vraed—of the three human kingdoms that existed within. Caelasas was furthest south, laid across a barren, brown swath of land that stretched from the cliffs to the west all the way to the darkened Dust Plains at the far east. Further south, threatening swirls had been sewn into place, symbolizing the deep sands and all the mysterious dangers living within them. While to the north, the Caelasian border ran along the river and lake Siants. Across the water, to the northwest, were the grasslands of Zrao, which stretched north some two or three times the size of Caelasas before abutting a mountain range that Nadraya knew not the name of. And to the northeast of Caelasas were the forests of Lreesadia.

There was nothing but vague emptiness surrounding the three kingdoms, though Nadraya supposed something must exist beyond. Yet, with her world already so small, she couldn’t even begin to fathom what. She would like to know, someday. Just as she would like to see the great trees of Lreesadia and the rolling hills of Zrao. Or even the sands of her own kingdom, which she was yet barred from.

So much existed outside the palace walls. So much she feared she would never see.

Swallowing hard, she pushed the thought from her mind and moved on. To the right, four wall-hangings down, a wide scene depicting the desert cliffs where the draken resided was unfurled over the stone wall. Heading to it directly, she ducked in behind it. There, shrouded, was a single door. Pushing it open, she slipped through.

The passage wasn’t secret. It was a servants’ passage, one rarely in need of use. Thus, she was able to descend the stairs without alerting anyone, the path taking her into the underground tunnels crisscrossing beneath the palace. Once intended as a last resort defense, the tunnels had long since been turned into the foremost course the servants took in getting around to certain parts of the palace. However, dressed as she was and having entered the underground quarters without raising alarm, Nadraya was able to trespass into the busier parts of the tunnels without anyone casting her a second glance. She walked swiftly across well-used stone, passing both men and women carrying out their expected, everyday duties. Her practiced, purposeful walk deterred any from questioning her.

Some few minutes later, she reached a set of wide stairs leading up to a gaping archway in the palace wall. It was, at the moment, only moderately busy, some few servants walking to and fro. In the mornings, it was packed with deliveries to the palace, but the afternoons were generally clear as everyone was at work inside.

Climbing the steps, she was greeted by the bright sunlight, heavy heat beating down as she squinted against the glare. Though the day was at its end, the orange glow still reflected harshly off nearly every surface, the heat floating up in shimmering waves.

Eyes set on the gate some twenty yards ahead, she hurried onward. Evening hadn’t fully taken hold, which meant the palace was yet open to those who had business. With a registered badge, those that served the royal family were able to pass through. Though the plague was a threat, daily business could not be ignored, therefore the palace—though the staff was not nearly as many as it could be—was quite active. Nadraya had a badge—one she’d found discarded or lost years before—but it mattered little in those moments. No one would stop her from passing out of the palace walls, not without direct orders to do so. It was in the coming back that her badge was required.

Posted to either side of the gate on both the inside and outside were four guards, each clad in the traditional Caelasian armor. Lighter and covering less than those in northern kingdoms, the metal plates hung only upon the necessary places—across the chest, torso, and parts of the legs. The design wasn’t always forward thinking as far as defense against a blade, but the warmth of the desert was more threatening than an oncoming sword. What space was left open by the armor was covered in thinly patched draken-skin leather, allowing for airflow whenever possible.

The four men were heavily armed, standing tall and paying her no mind as she passed through the thick gates interposed within the wall surrounding the palace. Intent on the city, she easily left the chains of her birth behind, a sense of superficial freedom overtaking her as she merged in with the general populace.

Raised and wrought in the desert hundreds of years before, Tyr was a city of rough edges and sand-filled crevices. There was a coarse sort of beauty in it—in the storm-faded buildings and their thick, block structure. Stacked atop one another, the clay and stone created castles all their own, those nearest the palace wall stretching some five or six stories high. As the city fanned out, the homes grew smaller, the poor living on the outskirts in little more than fabric draped over abandoned pillars.

Turning down what had become familiar streets, Nadraya was soon just outside the bazaar. Her usual destination wasn’t far, perhaps a thirty-minute walk from the palace, and left her somewhat comforted that though it was outside her prison, it was still close enough to offer security.

The pub was called the Broken Horn, a draken with a matching description etched into the stone sign hanging out front. Quickly skipping up the stairs, she entered and found the pub to be nearly full this late in the afternoon. The men sitting around the tables had only just come in from whatever hard work the day had provided them, resulting in boisterous laughter, raised voices, and clanking glasses. 

The Broken Horn was the largest pub in the area. Well-respected, it was generally popular, oftentimes busy at all hours of the afternoon and evening. Always a source of the latest gossip, it was considered both a place to accrue facts as well as nonsense. Nadraya frequented it for neither. She preferred to simply observe—from a small table in the back—the lives of the locals, which were far more interesting to her than any palace concerns.

Perhaps considering her a regular customer, the owner behind the bar—Throan was his name—looked up as she walked in, nodding before continuing on with his duties. Sifting through the crowd and ignoring any curious looks she procured from watching eyes, she took herself to an empty seat near the corner. She kept her hood up as she sat down, one of the multiple barmaids coming over to take her order. She asked for only a glass of wine, unaccustomed to drinking and knowing she wouldn’t finish.

Some of the men nearby, loud as they were, complained of work and the desert—of the sun and the long hours spent under it that never offered reward enough. Others were already past such logic, happy once more despite how they’d likely feel in the morning.

The voice that ultimately drew her attention was that of a middle-aged man at the bar, his words directed at the owner across from him, who was drying a glass with a sand-stained rag.

Another? was the aghast voice of the patron.

Another. The plague is gettin’ into every corner of the city it seems, Throan replied gruffly. He was a heavyset man, his apron discolored with the remnants of his work. Only the edges of his wispy hair remained.

They’re comin’ up so fast now, the middle-aged man at the bar, skinnier and with a full head of dark hair, replied glumly, bony shoulders sinking. I heard Haros’ youngest went into the sleep yesterday.

‘Tis a shame, Throan added, the patron across from him pausing in his drink before placing his glass back down upon the bar and shoving it away despite it being nearly half full.

This is gettin’ bad, the skinnier said quietly. We’ll all be done for if this keeps up much longer.

Throan, eyes narrowed in abrupt irritation, slammed his own empty glass down upon the bar, his actions drawing the eyes of those nearby. 

Don't be sayin’ that! he bellowed. The Emperor will have a cure soon enough. I bet he’s got troops, medics, all kinds out there lookin’ for it now. We just got to give it time.

The other scoffed. Ha! I don’t think so. Them palace folk don’t care one lick about us, and anyways, he waved his hand flippantly, I heard tellin’ there ain’t no cure no more. No different than dragons that can fly. Or elves or fairies. Stories for children. Useless hopes.

Throan turned curious. Who’s goin’ around sayin’ that?

Heard it from an old wizard that come to town this morning. Woman asked if he could cure her sick babe with his ‘magicks’ and he says ‘ain’t no cure for the plague no more.’

Throan grunted. Who can trust a wizard anyway? They never been good for nothin’ but tellin’ stories.

You never trusted nobody but yerself and the Emperor.

Well a’course I don't, Throan barked. It’s like sayin’ you believe in elves when ya never seen one before. Even as he made his defense, his patron sighed and grabbed the thin, ragged cloak that’d been hanging off the back of his chair. There’s a cure. Just got to wait for the Emperor to find it.

All the Emperor is good for is helpin’ you sleep at night, old man, the skinnier man said as he turned and walked away, though his tone was in good humor. As he reached the door, it was opened by a group incoming—three familiar, sand-dusted faces. He greeted them casually as he passed, before turning back to Throan. I’m apt to believe it, he decided. ‘Ain’t no cure. We’re all damned anyway, drunks and dullards alike. Waving over his shoulder, he headed out the door before any objection could be made.

At the bar—sidetracked by those who’d just arrived—Throan smiled.

Erof! he said loudly, his mood taking an upturn. The man he addressed nodded in greeting, a thick, leather sack slung over his shoulder. I see you’re alive then. Get the beastie, did you?

Did you expect anything less? Erof asked, before dropping the pack heavily to the bar. Even from her slight distance, Nadraya could smell the foul stench wafting from it, as could the rest of the patrons. This was normal, however—even Nadraya was around often enough to know that. These three periodically came dragging dead beasts in from the desert. Wanting them hunted for interfering with his shipments, Throan hired Erof out specifically to deal with the trouble, as the official Caelasian guard was only ever dispatched to deal with more threatening matters. No one else in the district had much comment on the job seeing as the deed did more good than harm. And though Erof was the go-to hunter for difficult beasts, his two companions—Nadraya knew their names to be Anier and Fratalie—oftentimes tagged along to assist.

Well, I got its head, in any case, Erof continued, his hand falling to the leather pack. Throan looked momentarily surprised before a great, holy smile overcame his face. Guffawing loudly, he reached over the bar and slammed the younger man on the shoulder. Erof stumbled a bit, but didn’t appear bothered.

Erof, if the beast was so big you couldn’t bring the whole carcass back, what makes you think I want the head? he asked. Nothin’ useful there!

I thought you might like it as a trophy, Erof replied, his voice sounding gruff with sand. Biggest sand skrin I’ve seen in a long time. As if reassured by the weapon, he wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword hanging at his hip. There was also a bow and quiver strapped to his back. 

Sand skrin? Throan questioned, surprised. They don’t usually come this far north. Wonder what it was doin’ up here? The large, black desert birds generally fed on the wild draken in the caves to the south. Only desperation would drive them so close to humans. Towering creatures about twice as tall as a man and three times as wide, they were usually smart enough to keep to feral game.

Short on draken perhaps, Erof replied. The southern rains were shorter than usual this year. Maybe it’s slim pickings.

Maybe. Throan agreed, staring down at the leather pack with a contemplating eye. If I’d known it was a skrin, I’da sent more than just you after it. He looked once more to Erof, who was pushing his shaggy, platinum blond hair out of his eyes and into a ruffled mess atop his head. He was quite a sight as far as the locals were concerned, which was likely why he stood out in Nadraya’s mind. Tall with wiry muscle, his alabaster skin and matching hair were rather outside the expected coloring for desert folk. She assumed he was native to a northern country, as usually none with such fair features would be a natural desert dweller. And unlike most, he was clad in a set of foreign black leathers. They appeared lightweight, which was likely why he didn’t overheat, and served as a ward against the sun’s damaging rays.

That’s why he had us tag along, Anier interjected then, smiling impishly. Not even the Great Erof, Slayer of Sand Beasts, could take this one on his own.

I doubt you were much help, Throan replied sourly, looking the other man up and down in apparent dissatisfaction. His look didn’t faze, however, Anier simply continuing with his knowing grin. Much like Erof, he too was quite alien in appearance. Very tall—more so than Erof—with long, gangly limbs and a slight build that created in him a thin, lanky disposition, a difference so in contrast with anyone else in the city that it was nearly on equal ground with Erof’s paleness. He was darker featured, his skin possessing a deep, russet tone. His black hair was long and straight with numerous beaded strands, while his frame was angular and sharp, as if he could cut through stone with his shoulders. He wore a tattered yellow bandana around his forehead and mismatching leathers over a billowy shirt and loose-fitting breeches. Two short swords were strapped to his back, up by his shoulder blades. 

He wasn’t, I assure you, the final of the three companions added. It would have been easier without him. Fratalie fit in well enough with the group of misfits as a woman that wore a large, two-handed sword at her waist. That she kept her curly, auburn-brown hair short—cut just around her ears—added to her otherness, though her coppery, sun-marred skin was familiar enough, even if her plethora of brown freckles were more of a rarity. Her thick, muscular build and steady gait were generally trademarks of those trained in combat—a man’s pastime—which was likely why she fit in so well with her two odd companions. Her ears were lined with silver rings and mismatching pieces of plate armor cascaded down her arms. Over her chest and torso was a shirt of mail, and beneath that she sported a pair of dark colored trousers and draken-skin boots. 

You hurt me, Fratalie, you really do, Anier rebuked flatly, though not nearly as offended as he was pretending to be. I did my share, just like the two of you. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d both probably be dead.

Only because your constant running away drew its eye, Fratalie made clear.

"I was being a distraction."

It’s amazing I get anything done when I have both of them with me, Erof interjected, his attention remaining on Throan. In any case, you shouldn’t have any more issues getting shipments from Turkik. I’ve combed over that whole stretch of area and this skrin was the biggest threat I could find. The only one, aside from the expected sand snake or two.

It should make a fine addition to my collection then, Throan assured, gesturing with his thumb to the multiple stuffed animal heads he had on display against the south wall. I’ll pay you what you’re due, but sit down and have a drink first.

Taking his advice, the three sat at the bar while Throan filled them each a glass.

So... Fratalie sounded hesitant as she started to speak. What was Rahner sayin’ as we walked in? About a... cure for the plague?

Throan’s expression darkened in both irritation and sympathy. It was nothin’ worth much, he assured seriously. Somethin’ ‘bout a wizard that come to town spreadin’ rumors ‘bout how there ain’t no cure for the plague no more. I wouldn’t take it to heart, if I was you.

A wizard? Anier asked incredulously, Fratalie’s expression having fallen as she stared down at her drink. Don’t hear much about that lot coming around here. I wonder what a wizard could want in Caelasas.

That’s a valid question, Erof said. There’s nothing here worth a wizard’s time.

That’s what I was thinkin,’ Throan agreed. I don’t like it. Sounds like trouble. And ‘sides, he comes here sayin’ such awful things, killin’ people’s hopes. He glanced again to Fratalie. Ain’t right startin’ somethin’ as foul as that.

He’ll likely be here and gone before much can be made of it, Erof assured. Best not to concern ourselves.

Yeah, well, Throan shrugged, ain’t the first thing I been hearin’ that’s outta the ordinary. This drew all their attention, Nadraya continuing to quietly listen. I heard just yesterday that the sand to the east been stirrin’ for months, never lettin’ up. Like a storm’s been brewin’ all summer. Right outside the Plains.

That’s all rumors and superstitions, Anier made clear, though he sounded somewhat uneasy.

You’d do better to take things more serious, the bartender reprimanded. The plague comes from them plains, you know, from the reapers there. If things’er actin’ up, it’ll likely only get worse for us.

Even if the winds to the east have been kicking up storms, Erof said calmly, there’s no reason to presume that anything will get worse here. Best not to assume.

Despite his words, Throan was doubtful.

Nadraya, ever-curious, sat back in her stone seat and considered. Rumors pertaining to a cure for the plague—or lack of one, in this case—weren’t circulated very often. The affliction had existed for generations, but people held on to the hope that someday there’d be a cure. That perhaps it already existed, they just had to discover it for themselves. Yet, never had any headway been made in even slowing the plague’s progression once it was attached to its host. The people haunted by it had no choice but to await the inevitable.

Her father, though encouraging his people to remain optimistic, had already lost enough to the affliction to have accepted that there was little point in hoping for a cure. True, he had an assigned assembly dedicated to searching for any way to relieve the infection, but