Chapter 1

Mere weeks ago, I believed that history had ended, that the only purpose left for my skill with a pen was to entertain myths of dragons, heroes, and villains. I was expected to do this in a world where the dragons had disappeared, the heroes had earned their long rest, and villainy was a lost concept, shattered underneath the royal dragons’ ivory talons.

Then Aria appeared in my life.

It was rare that I prescribed such importance to a singular individual, but in her case I believed it was warranted. She changed things, both at a fundamental and on a personal level.

For the first time in my life, I felt like there was something worth writing for. It was a purpose my pen would serve rather than being the outlet for the dreams of adults born into the wrong era.

Or perhaps that’s too melodramatic.

Unlike other high chroniclers, I decided against writing this book like an obtuse religious text. I do not believe that is the best way to say what needs to be said, and that is not where the strength of the character lies. Instead, this is my gift to you: a tale of dragons and heroes, just like the stories I used to write.

Except this one is real.

Like a good story, I won’t spoil things here, for we all know the conclusion to the story. It will be displayed for generations in front of the great palace, the first skeleton of a dragon amidst the ruined city blocks.

Should the right dragon win, then this will be a historical document, granting me the greatest honor a writer could muster. A place among the history books. A piece of writing that outlives its creator. Should the dragon we’ve placed bets on fail, then this book will be burned as heresy. I will be forced to write a tragedy and for the first time in a long time, I don’t wish it to be so.

This night ought to be one of storms and rain, and if I had control of the weather like I do with my novels, that’s how I’d write it. However, in the real world, weather doesn’t comply with dramatic tension. I ordered a solemn dusk, a somber calm before the storm. Instead I am met with warm, welcoming hues. A much less dramatic time period punctuated by snoring and the shrieking of birds that don’t fear being shot at for target practice. Cool thick fog surrounded the neighborhood, hugging the walls tightly and teasing the roof shingles, the kind that would freeze your lips and steal the moisture from your throats should you dare venture outside without a scarf.

So a foggy, sleepy morning right before the final confrontation. Good tension ruined by Mother Nature.

Hands wrapped around mine. My husband beckoned us to leave, to follow the urchins who command the sewers. From there we shall be granted relatively safe seats to the coming conflict, at the cost of being useless to the battle at large. My husband chose to not leave my side—the fool.

For years he had complained about the lack of purpose for his blade, and yet at the growing conflict, he decided that now was the time to be a gentleman and woo me by being my protector.

Just kidding. I gave him a peck on the cheek as I wrapped up my work. Each page must be wrapped and tubed in order to survive the damp journey underground, to preserve their quality. By the time we’re ready to leave, the city will be waking up, and our plan will spring to action.

“Aunt Mar-Mar! You aren’t going to write me talking like this, are you?”

“G-Gah no. Continue packing.” I spoke with a soft smile as my half-sister grinned, watching me write her sudden but welcome entrance into my own moment of reflection.

“Just checking! Because if you write me with so much thinking and droning, people might get the wrong idea that I am all serious and stuff. Like the heroes you write!” Her chipper expression drew the room to her, even as I put down my pen. I would write the rest later.

“All right then. For the record, why are you doing this?” I asked the question doubtless readers may have, but all she could give me was a nervous but easygoing laugh.

“Because it’s the right thing to do. Because I get to see her again.”

Sometimes I forget that my sister-in-law is a hero. Sometimes I forget that excited feeling of butterflies in my stomach is a happy one. With that single line, I remembered both.

Of course, that’s not quite how she said it, but you’ll have to grant me some artistic liberties, dear reader. My sister-in-law is not the kind of hero that sounds the part.