Child of the Dragon Prophecy

by Effie Joe Stock

  Stephania nodded wordlessly. She understood. I know, she thought in defeat. But why must it be so hard? She longed for the city hall bells to ring, signaling noon when they would stop. Today’s exercise seemed unusually long and difficult.

  “Alright, prepare yourself. It’s not noon yet.”

  Another nod.

  Stephania reluctantly lifted her sword and firmly planted her feet on the loose dust. An annoyed grunt left her lips. She was tired of doing the same thing over and over and over again. It was the same every day. They would spar, and she would lose. They practiced the same moves over and over again. If only she could do something new. Something unexpected. An excited feeling fluttered through her. A memory of sorts tickled the edge of her mind. It was familiar, but so far away, like the name of an old friend that sat perched on the tip of your tongue. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Too often she had this feeling—nostalgia and déjà vu all rolled into one fleeting image. But this time … she felt different, as if this was not memory but instinct.

  She let the familiarity wash over her and surrendered herself to something primal within her. A small smile spread across her face, and her eyes fluttered open.

  They circled each other again, waiting for the other to strike. This time, I’ll let him make the first move.

  Her instructor lunged at her. She expertly blocked his attack. Again, it was the same set of moves over and over again.

  She then feinted to the left and watched as he prepared himself for a hit toward his shoulder as she usually did.

  Her body moved on its own in accordance with the instinct.

  She twirled her sword in an intricate arch around her.

  Confusion flashed over the man’s face.

  She took advantage of his distraction and struck.

  His blade matched hers, but he had been caught off guard. He was put on the defense.

  A wild grin flashed across her face, a strange glint in her eyes. She followed up the attack. The volley of complex blows she rained on him came as naturally to her as if she were breathing. She didn’t have to think.

  Her style had changed. She no longer felt like a one-handed broadsword fighter. She was something more. Something wild, agile, and delicate.

  Finally, with a quick motion of her wrist, she flicked her opponent’s sword out of his hands, sending the weapon sliding across the floor of the arena.

  The man raised his hands in defeat, and she pressed the tip of her sword under his chin. Though she was exhausted earlier, her breath was steady in her chest now, and her body felt light, as if delighted by this new way of fighting. It felt like coming back home.

  Their eyes burned deeply into each other’s. The air was tense and electric.

  She stepped back, a broad grin sweeping across her face.

  She had accomplished what she had always thought impossible—defeating Dalton.

  She threw back her head and whooped in victory. Her clear, trilling laugh rang out across the valley. She danced around him, kicking the loose sand.

  Dalton responded with a sheepish smile, his hands held out in admittance to his defeat.

  “Well, old man. It’s been done. You can't deny it.”

  “You’re right, I am defeated, but I can always regain my title as best swordsman in New-Fars tomorrow!”

  She smirked and brandished her sword elaborately. “We'll see if you can.”

  “Huh. Sure.” Retrieving his sword, he wiped the dust off the blade on his shirt. He shook his head in wonder and awe. “Where ever did you learn such advanced moves? I barely know half of what you just pulled on me! And the style. It’s almost like—” He frowned and his face suddenly paled as if something horrible had occurred to him.

  Stephania shrugged as she pondered that same question herself. Where had she learned it from? She frowned. The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Even now, she could hardly remember a single technique she had just employed.

  Pulling herself from her thoughts, she caught Dalton staring intensely at her, and she quickly and brashly returned his glare.

  He shook himself and looked at the two blazing suns above them.

  “Well, it's still not noon.”

  However, just as he lifted his sword, the city hall’s twin bells began clanging loudly across the valley.

  Stephania grinned wildly, sighing in relief. The sound of the bells was like the call of freedom. She quickly sheathed her sword in the scabbard strapped across her back and sprinted out of the arena, her feet pounding in the dirt.

  “Race you home, old man!”

  Laughing after the eager young woman, Dalton sheathed his sword as well and started after her. In seconds, even with her head start, he was right beside her.

  She grunted in annoyance. Dalton could run faster, jump higher, and sword fight better than every other man in New-Fars—something that was widely known and well respected in the city. That was what made the nickname ‘old-man’ so ironically fitting.

  Panting, her muscles screaming in protest again, Stephania reached a shaking hand to her face and swatted a sweaty strand of her unruly hair. She struggled to keep pace.

  Their fighting area was nearly a mile away from the house. Stephania wondered if he had it built so far away just for the added exercise.

  In only a few minutes, Dalton pulled ahead of her and reached the house long before her. She may have been the only person in New-Fars to beat him in a sword fight, but she was confident she would never beat him in a running race.

  When she finally stumbled into their small blacksmith shop behind the house, she was exasperated to find that he was, like every other day, lounging casually in one of the chairs in the large, hot room. His sword had already been polished and was hanging up in its place. Not a remnant of the brutal exercise hung about him.

  “Show off,” she muttered ill-temperedly.

  “Nothing a little magic can’t do,” he chuckled under his breath. A dancing sliver of brown energy disappeared above his palm.

  Stephania whirled around. “What did you say?” She eyed him intently.

  He merely shook his head, failing to hide his amusement. “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.”

  She grunted and stomped through the room, collecting the materials needed to take care of her weapon. She quickly polished and sharpened her blade, downing almost a gallon of water in the process.

  “Uncle Dalton?” She slid into a chair after chores were complete and she had caught her breath again. She stared into the distance.

  Dalton’s eyes were half closed. He had propped his feet up on the table, his hands behind his head, his chair leaning on the two back legs. “Hmm?”

  “Jackson mocked me again yesterday.” A frown flickered across her face. Her eyes sparkled with the beginning of tears.

  “Did he now?” Dalton hid a smile. He wasn't worried about Stephania getting into a fight with Jackson; he was worried about the boy getting into a fight with Stephania.

  Her gut twisted uncomfortably, and she picked at a hangnail. She wanted to cry, to curl up into a ball on Dalton’s lap. Jackson’s hateful, stinging insults rang fresh in her mind. She wanted to disappear, to be free from the hate she endured. But she was seventeen now. She wasn’t a child. She couldn’t keep burdening Dalton will all her troubles. She needed to be strong.

  “I told him that if he did it again, I would ground him into a pulp and leave him for the vultures to eat.” Her eyes were dull as she gently set her glass of water down. Her voice was cold and emotionless as if she had pulled a mask down over her feelings.

  “And are you going to?” He barely opened one of his eyes to see her reaction.

  Stephania looked at him and responded so blandly that it sent shivers down his spine. “I don’t make idle threats, Uncle.”

  He watched her carefully. She clenched and unclenched her jaw. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap. Her voice sounded calculated, cold-blooded, but she knew her body and eyes told a different story.


  A darkness settled across his face, and she cringed. Can he see through this act? she wondered. She had started putting on this mask after turning thirteen. After that, she had stopped talking to him about the bullying and had stopped confiding in him.

  “Stephania,” he paused and searched her face. She felt exposed and vulnerable. She wanted to run into his arms and let him hold her, but she resisted. “If there’s anything you want to talk about, you know I will listen, right?”

  She nodded curtly. A sense of dread welled up inside her, but she couldn’t tell if it was due to the fear that he wouldn’t persist in questioning her or that he would. Finally, she could bear his gaze no longer and quickly busied herself with retying her bootlace. A dark, unwelcome silence hung in the air.

  She felt his eyes on her, but refused to meet his gaze. She thought if she did, she wouldn’t be able to hold up her façade and she would break under her twisted emotions. When she heard him humming, she straightened up and forced a smile on her face. Perhaps he would let it drop now.

  She twirled a lock of hair around her pale finger, directing her mind to other matters in an effort to look innocent and without lies. She frowned as she peered down at her hand. Despite how much time she spent outside in the sun, her skin refused to either burn or tan, usually staying a ghostly white. Her curly, red hair cascaded down past her shoulders, and a shorter lock of hair persistently covered her right eye. She let it fall across her face now, shielding her from Dalton’s intense, questioning gaze.

  Dalton let his chair fall back on its four legs. He grunted and poured himself a glass of water, downing it in seconds. He wiped his mouth and sighed. “Well, just don’t kill the boy. He has the mind of a fly. Show the brute some mercy.”

  She snorted, her dark eyes glinting red in the light. “Okay, I might.” A ghost of a smile flickered over her face. The knot loosened ever so slightly in her stomach, but the fear remained.

  The air grew awkward and tense. They avoided each other’s gaze, hiding behind their water glasses. Dalton finally broke the silence. “We should get changed.”

  She met his gaze. Her eyes flickered in confusion, and he frowned.

  For a fleeting moment, relief washed over her. Her mask had worked once again. But the relief was quickly replaced with disappointment and crushing loneliness. Why was it so hard to keep these things bottled up inside of her? She gripped the glass tighter in her hands. No. It is better this way. I have to learn to be strong. I have to learn to stand on my own two feet.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Before he could say anything, she stepped into the house. Her hasty footsteps thundered up the stairs.

  He sighed, feeling as if he had failed at something before slowly going to his own room.

  I hate my clothes. She frowned in disgust at the simple, common clothes that sparingly dotted her closet. Most of them were the kind of dresses she was expected to wear. Though it was societal law in New-Fars that women wear skirts and dresses, she rebelled against this daily and most of her clothes consisted of tight pants, sleek shirts, and fighting clothes, most of which were in dark or glaring colors. Dalton had stopped trying to make her conform to society years ago when they both realized that no matter what she wore, she would be hated and feared by the humans. She didn’t mind wearing dresses; she actually enjoyed them. She just hated the ones the women of New-Fars wore. They were plain, ugly, and uncomfortable things.

  Dalton had gone out of his way to buy tasteful clothing, dresses and pants alike, from expensive traders who had traveled to New-Fars from the bigger cites in the Domain. He had even spent a large sum on her compound bow. They had seen it at a weapons shop traveling from the Domain capitol. She had never seen anything like it with its strange pulleys and knobs. Dalton said it was designed to have more power with less draw poundage; she didn’t know if that was true, but much preferred the modern bow to the difficult horse bows or long bows she always had trouble firing.

  She’d never found out how Dalton managed to make that kind of money; he didn’t work the fields or sell anything. They weren’t wealthy, but they always seemed to have just enough.

  She finally picked one of the less detestable outfits and slammed her closet door shut. With a sneer, she tossed a dress onto her bed, trying not to look at it too long lest she change her mind.

  Muttering curses against the small village mentality she had to live amidst, she quickly washed in her bath. She knew that the other cities in the Domain didn’t have such conservative rules for women, and she wondered if Dalton would ever consider moving. A frown crossed her face as she thought what it would be like to live in a bigger city. Sure, culture would be more prominent, but she would also be so far away from the countryside and forests she felt so at home in. Maybe it wasn’t worth the trade. She forced the thoughts from her mind and slid the dress over her head and tightened the strings as much as she could. She wouldn’t be able to reach the rest.

  “Uncle Dalton!”

  “Yes, my lady?” he teased.

  She blushed at the formal nickname he used to call her when she was younger.

  “I see you decided to act the part of the ‘lady’ today. To what honor does the village owe this rarity?”

  She muttered something foul under her breath. “Just get over here and do this up for me.”

  He chuckled. Wrapping both of the long lacings around his hands, he pulled hard.

  A gasp and a half-hearted curse tumbled from her lips. “By the gods, that's enough.” She wheezed, shrugging her shoulders to loosen the fabric around her torso.

  “Dragon Riders never have to wear suluj clothes like this. Suluj humans,” he cursed under his breath.

  She had barely caught the words. Did he just say, ‘Dragon Riders’? Whatever in Susahu did he mean?

  “What did you say?” She turned her face to him. He looked shocked that she had heard it.

  His eyes found something interesting through the window behind her. “Oh, nothing. Nothing.” He smiled disarmingly, but she merely huffed.

  Why does he always have to be so secretive and confusing? He had been speaking under his breath more and more recently. She would let it drop—for now. “Thank you, old man.”

  His shoulders sagged as if in relief that she hadn’t pressed the matter. “Of course.”

  Once she had finished dressing and her hair was brushed, Dalton twirled her around, admiring how graceful she was. A warm smile of pride spread across his face and he chuckled. “You could dress in a feed sack and still put the gods to shame with your beauty. You have grown into such a fine young woman, Stephania. I couldn’t be more proud of you.”

  Stephania played with a loose string on her bodice, innocently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Thank you, Uncle Dalton.” She gave him a quick hug and kissed his cheek.

  Before he could stop the words from his mouth, he took her face in his hands and gazed into her eyes, whispering gently, “You know, you are the spitting image of your parents. I can see them in your eyes.”

  Her mind reeled. Her parents. Her mouth had dropped open, her eyes wide with curiosity. They rarely talked about her birth parents.

  Tears misted in his light brown eyes.

  “What did they look like?”

  “Dalton?” She waved a hand in front of him. He had gone completely still, not even blinking, for nearly three minutes. Her heart pounded with curiosity and worry.

  He shook his head. Tears had traced paths down his cheeks.

  “Never mind, Stephania. Let’s just go get our shopping done.”

  Spurned, Stephania watched as her much loved guardian once more evaded her questions about her deceased parents and somberly walked down the steps. Her heart twisted within her. He had talked about her parents so much more when she was little, but now she could hardly remember what he had told her. She knew their names—Andromeda and Drox—such beautiful, uncommon names, she thought. She knew they had died in an ambush. She assumed she had been an only child. But
that was all she knew. She didn’t know if they had been a happy family, if they had lived in a city or the country, what gods they worshipped, if any, what kinds of games they liked to play, or even what they looked like. Would she ever know?

  A stinging lump rose in her throat. She hissed, struggling to box up her feelings. Crying over it would change nothing.

  She followed Dalton down the stairs, and together they stepped out of their home and strolled down the dirt road. Neither spoke a word about what all had passed in the last hour.

  Though they lived a fair distance into the countryside, they were immediately swept away by the bustle of noon time.

  In the morning, almost all the people who lived in New-Fars worked on their daily chores: washing clothes, tending to the harvest, making tools, cleaning house, or preparing food for the week. Noon had always signaled a time of merriment, and usually, for the rest of the afternoon, people abandoned work and went into town. Most went to the market, though for many different reasons. Some went to buy a pair of shoes which were presented in a stately manner across the tables or perhaps to buy new pots, which, as they hung on the racks in the market, clanked together as they swayed in the wind. Then in the city square by the big fountain, while their parents were browsing through the market or perhaps selling their own wares or visiting relatives and friends, children played Ventronovian games, listened to stories, or mimicked sword fights.

  After about half an hour’s walk, they ambled into the outskirts of the small but lively village. The last month of autumn was upon them, and it would soon be winter. The town buzzed with the special energy that only came with final harvests and hasty winter preparations.

  Two women chased after their laughing children as they tried to bring them in to wash their small, chubby faces off for lunch. Several men quickly paced down the street, arguing about how much a year old bull was worth. One young woman was speaking in quiet tones to a young man, blushing furiously, while another lady was yelling at an older woman about how much of an old croon she thought the older one was because of “the ridiculous price” of her herbs. A young couple strolled down the road. The wife was far along in her pregnancy; by the way they talked about all the “adorable baby things” they could buy, Stephania assumed it was their first child. Two bachelors stood by a house and were discussing how much money it cost to buy and sell crops. Another pair of younger men had started a fight and were rolling around in the dusty road.