Work Text:
Later, he would be known as the leader of the Long-Awaited Return, the Triarch of the West, and under his vision the city would transform. Serfs would be slaughtered, traitors would be hanged, and dragons would, once again, be ridden by their lords.
Before that, he was a little boy gripping his sister’s hand as he tried to lead them out of a massacre.
He did not let her look at the bodies they’d left behind. He held his breath against the acrid scent of burning flesh that chased them from their home. But as they scampered into the hallway, he could not help but stare, transfixed, at the bodies of two servants, not much older than he and his sister, slumped against the door to their apartments. Their eyes were open, unseeing.
There was only one thing to be done. They would come looking for him and his sister once they were finished with everyone else. They were the traitors and the peasants, the ones who wanted him dead, the ones who had taken and taken until he had nothing left: only his sister, and the bloodstained knife one of them had dropped in their carelessness.
“Turn around,” he whispered to his sister, and she did as he instructed. The servants, a boy and a girl, were clothed in plain garb streaked with dirt and stiff with blood. It would have to do. The young boy yanked the fabric off their bodies, heedless of their unnatural openmouthed expressions, and tossed the girl’s serving dress at his sister’s feet.
But there was still the matter of the bodies. The servants were too recognizable as themselves, and if they knew that he and his sister had gotten away…
The boy knelt down beside their still forms and drew his knife.
The feeling of cutting into flesh for the first time returned to him often in the years that followed. He remembered every detail of that day, every smell and every blood-curdling sound, but that feeling was the one he recalled best. The feeling that he was going to survive. The feeling that he was going to take back everything that belonged to him.
His little sister, on the other hand, was a variable he forgot.
Evening is our favorite time to fly. Tonight, with the sun setting beyond the karst pillars and the shadows above the water teasing us with their absence, it is almost enough to imagine that we are alone. But beneath Erinys’s wings, an eager audience spills from the balustrades of the citadel and onto the stands that ring the steep cliffs of New Pythos. Through the fog I can glimpse the faintest outline of Callipolis. Always in the distance, just out of reach, but tonight it feels closer than ever before.
From the box reserved for the Triarchy-in-Exile, I hear Greatlord Rhadamanthus announce my name, then my brother’s. Julia sur Erinys against Ixion sur Niter. House Stormscourge against Stormscourge.
Ixion joins me in the air, his expression inscrutable behind his helmet. I wonder if he is smiling as I am, if he too feels this string of destiny pulling taut between us. I wonder if he senses Mother and Father watching us from the next life.
This tournament is unlike any our parents would have seen in their lifetimes. Some of the dragonborn are happier about it than others. With a flash of fury, I recall our drillmaster Nestor’s words uttered right before the match: Remember what your father would have wanted, Julia.
But my father had wanted many things. And if he did not want this, his daughter competing for the title that had once been his, then I will prove him wrong.
I dare to wonder, in the second before the match begins, if I have made him proud.
Then there is no time to wonder, because the bell rings and the world narrows to a knifepoint.
Instinct takes over as it always has. I have seen Ixion in his matches; he likes to strike first and strike hard, show the other rider where he stands right away. I have learned from experience to dodge his shots, which tend to be full-heat. So I’m confused when I pull Erinys into a complex diving maneuver, one I’ve seen our father perform with his dragon several times in similar tournaments, only to see that Ixion still hasn’t moved.
It’s only when I draw closer, out of bafflement more than anything else, that Ixion fires. The shot catches me off-guard—beginner mistake—and darkens the armor at my elbow. It takes a few more seconds for me to realize that something is wrong: the shot barely hurts. I fumble for coolant anyway, but my confusion only grows as the match resets. What is Ixion playing at?
We circle each other warily, neither of us giving any ground. At one point Niter opens his jaw wide and exhales a long plume of ash, but it streaks harmlessly past my helmet. It’s like Ixion isn’t even trying.
That’s when I figure it out.
Adrenaline still pounds in my ears, drowns out my thoughts. But the eager anticipation I felt before the match is gone. Instead, pure rage floods through me as I realize Ixion’s intentions. He’s going easy on me.
He doesn’t think I stand a chance.
Have we not trained side by side our entire lives? I want to shout at him, and maybe everyone else. Have I not proved myself your equal, if not your better, in every way? Even now, must I still pay the price for being born a woman?
I do not shout. Even if I did and he heard me, the words would slide right past his ignorant ears. Instead, I do something he cannot ignore. I wait for an opening as Ixion prepares for his next insultingly slow attack, and then I fire at his chest, a full-heat hit.
Ixion dodges just in time, the bastard, and my attack blackens the armor of his right leg instead. I sit back and wait for him to reset. He fires almost instantly the next time we surge toward each other, and it’s a real shot. I grin as the heat roars past my ear, missing me by several inches. Now we’re competing.
It’s exhilarating to fight for real against Ixion in the biggest match of both our lives. He slams Niter into Erinys’s side with full force, a legal same-breed contact charge that sends our slender frame skidding back in the air and leaves me open. I duck as Ixion’s shot skates above our heads. With his dragon still wrestling mine, I nudge Erinys down into free fall, gravity on our side, freeing us from Niter’s grip as Ixion nearly falls forward from momentum. It’s a sweet sight. Sweeter still is the visible speck on the ocean behind him, the promise of home.
In the half second before Ixion regains his balance, the truth hits me with the force of a kill shot: more than anything, Ixion wants to avoid defeat. This loss to his baby sister would be a devastating blow to his pride.
You’re a girl, echoes another Ixion across space and time. You can’t play dragonriding with us.
But I want to win. My desire for victory is more powerful than his fear of losing. I am so close, and I am giddy with the taste of it.
Yes, I can! And I’m calling Firstrider too!
It’s not until Erinys fires and her ash blackens the front of Ixion’s chestplate—a kill shot—that I realize I’m laughing.
The first person to greet me when I land is Delo. My glowing joy is reflected in his proud smile, so unlike his father’s. Thinking of Nestor, it occurs to me that probably only a few people wanted me to win that match, and Delo is one of them. I pull Delo into a tight, grateful hug before he can even utter a word, forgetting for a moment that I am still sweaty and breathless and smelling of dragonfire.
“We’re going home, Delo,” I say, clutching his face in my hands. “I’m bringing us home.”
Was this how Pytho the Unifier felt after conquering new lands for himself and his people? Was this a feeling that had only ever been shared by Uriel sur Aron, by my father and the Firstriders who came before him, and now by me? The same joy running through the same noble blood?
“I always knew you would,” says Delo, drawing me into another embrace.
I laugh into his shoulder. “Make this quick, or they’ll start dragging me to the crowning ceremony.” My eyes drift to where the Greatlord waits for me in the Triarchy-in-Exile’s box, a wreath of laurels in one hand, a gleaming badge in the other. My chest expands as if I can already feel the weight of it.
A tingle on the back of my neck makes me drop my gaze to the very bottom of the stands. From the section reserved for the squires, Griff Gareson watches us with an unreadable expression. A dangerous spark ignites in the space between us as I meet his eyes, and still neither of us moves.
Delo follows my gaze. His smile dims for just a moment, but he works out a tic in his jaw as if composing himself and turns back to face me. “Congratulations, Julia,” he says softly, then presses a kiss to my forehead. “It will be an honor to serve with you as my commander.”
Moments later, I stand atop the peak of the northern face of New Pythos, looking out over the island that is mine. Victor’s laurels crown my brow; the crowd chants my new title, Julia sur Erinys, Firstrider, softly at first and then louder, laden with the full weight of possibility. I lift my head to the fading sky and smell highland heather.
Later that night in my chambers, when Griff has gone and my blood still sings with triumph, I write a letter to an old friend.
Dear Freyda,
My father once told me that our veins ran with the blood of dragons and our bones were hewn from the roots of kings. In the decade since, I've often thought he would be ashamed to see what our family has come to: a brother and a sister and a distant great-aunt living in exile on this wasteland of a rock. But today I felt the nobility of our lineage as he had always described it, and it is just as wonderful as I’d hoped.
Never forget that you, too, are made of stronger steel than they are. You have fought for your dragon and for your place in life. So many men have never had to fight for anything. Today I have won power that a decade ago would have seemed impossible. Here, at the peak of power, I await your ascent.
Yours truly,
Julia Stormscourge
Ixion does not speak a word to me for the next few days, but at Springtide he appears to call a truce. More accurately, I force him into a truce by knocking at his apartments, right down the hall from mine, with a bundle of herbs tucked under my arm. He’s scowling when he opens the door.
“Quit this foolishness,” I say, not unkindly. “It’s Springtide, remember?”
Ixion grunts and moves to gather his things.
We spend the morning hiking up one of New Pythos’s tallest cliffs, the sides of our well-worn path spilling over with yellow gorse. It’s a rare sunny day in New Pythos, and if I squint my eyes to the barren rock before us I can almost pretend we are at home, making our yearly pilgrimage to Dragon’s End. Our cousins’ laughter drifts on the wind, our father warns us not to fight. Behind us, our mother carries a picnic basket large enough for this family of ten.
Then I blink, and the vision evaporates. In its place only Ixion remains, his face pinched with displeasure even as he follows without complaint.
It is rare these days that the two of us are alone together. In the beginning we clung to each other so desperately, even in sleep, that the elder dragonborn eventually had to pry us away from each other. Back then there was always an unspoken understanding between us.
Now I wonder if we have let it go unspoken for too long. If perhaps the same fire has forged us into two different weapons.
At the peak, I sit under the Springtide arch and examine the standing stones while Ixion builds the fire. These stones have stood here since before Tarquin the Conqueror, but for centuries they have remained forgotten until Ixion and I came to the island. The rock face is too steep for Aunt Electra to climb, but every year since our exile my brother and I have journeyed here to pay homage to tradition.
Once Ixion has coaxed a blaze out of the embers, I kneel down next to him and hand him the bundle of herbs. He tosses them in carefully, and the scent of rosemary and sage fills the air. I would gorge myself on the smell if I could. The smell of home.
“Next year,” I say quietly, breaking the silence, “we will celebrate Springtide at Dragon’s End.”
Ixion’s lips twist into a cruel smile. “Next year, we will build a pyre for our enemies, and it will be the greatest offering our family could dream of.”
Whenever I picture home, I smell the sweet perfume of our Palace gardens and feel the strength of my father’s hand in my own. I never think of those moments in the cupboard on Palace Day, or what came after. When I look at my brother, it dawns on me that those moments are all he sees.
How can I hold it against him? Those memories are not mine because they are his.
Out of some childish instinct, I reach out and grasp his hand. Ixion has snapped at others for much less, but perhaps out of the same instinct, he allows it.
The final part of our ritual is to honor the dead. This was never part of our routine at home; back then we had so few dead to mourn. Now eight standing stones are carved with the names of the fallen House of Stormscourge, and we place a sprig of highland heather at each one.
My gaze lingers over the stone dedicated to Leo Stormscourge. My cousin, my partner in mischief, my very first friend. Not for the first time, I wish he was still alive, if only so I could tell him I made Firstrider and see the elation on his face. In my memories he is eight years old with a guileless smile and a gap between his teeth. But of course, if he was alive now he would be my age. He’d wanted Firstrider so badly, too.
I give him my last stem of heather, the longest and brightest one, before I rise to my feet and return to the land of the living.
The climb back down with Ixion is just as silent as the way up, only it’s a different kind of silence. As if the reminder that we are all the other has left makes the rest of it, our mutual resentment and jealousy, seem petty in the face of our mutual sorrow.
“See you at training tomorrow,” Ixion says stiffly once we reach the gates of the Provisional Palace. It is the closest thing to forgiveness he has to offer.
Several weeks later, Rhadamanthus calls a council with the Fourth Order in the ha’Aurelian wing of the Greatlord’s Hall. Delo and I enter together, and I can tell by his searching gaze what, or rather whom, he is looking for. But my squire is serving tonight; Delo’s is not. The tension melts out of Delo’s stance when he, too, spots Fionna with the serving tray.
Rhadamanthus invites us to sit, and I take the seat to the Greatlord’s right. The seat reserved for the commander of our fleet.
“We’ve received word,” he begins grimly, “from a contact in Callipolis.”
I sit up straighter. Around the table, so do Ixion and Delo. Edmund’s eyes are gleaming. There is a longing in all of us for Callipolis, for the history it holds and the power it promises. Behind us, my squire fills our cups with steaming tea, not missing a single drop.
“The Usurper plans to hold a ranking tournament for his fleet in a couple weeks’ time,” Rhadamanthus continues.
So the traitors will not stop at stealing Callipolis away from us. They will steal our titles, our traditions, to crown their false Firstrider.
Ixion interrupts with a sneer. “Peasant scum, all of them. I’m shocked they even know how to ride.”
“How good can their dragonriders be?” agrees Edmund.
Quietly, Delo says, “We underestimate them at our own risk.”
“Delo’s right,” I say before Ixion can jump in again. “It’s in our best interests to take this tournament seriously, if only so that when war does come, we know who to target first.”
“But why are you telling us this now?” asks Edmund. “Why not after the tournament? What are we supposed to do with the information before we even know who’s won?”
“Because you want us to scout them out,” I guess, scanning Rhadamanthus’s expression. “See them in action, figure out just how well they fly. Isn’t that right, Uncle?”
Rhadamanthus nods slowly. “Yes. That’s exactly right.” Before I have time to bask in my small triumph, once again, over the men in the room, he adds, “But there’s one more thing.”
I have never known Greatlord Rhadamanthus to be an indecisive man, but now he seems to hesitate, his gaze flickering between me and Ixion. “Nothing is confirmed, of course. It’s been many years, you must understand—”
My focus on the Greatlord’s next words is broken by my squire reaching out to refill my cup. “You can go now,” I snap at her, a bit more forcefully than necessary. She scurries from the room without a word.
“It’s about Leo,” Rhadamanthus says, and my heart leaps. “Our contact recognized a young man at the Lyceum with Leon’s exact features, around the same age as Leo would be now. He could just be a lookalike, or a distant ha’cousin, but so far nothing disproves the possibility—”
“That Leo could be alive,” I say breathlessly. This fool’s hope, this childhood fantasy that years later takes only a mere mention to reawaken. In my mind it is already true.
And if it isn’t? whispers the part of my mind that has learned to survive. But then what’s another game of pretend between cousins?
“Does he ride?” I ask, although if it is true then I already know. Rhadamanthus’s nod only confirms it. “A stormscourge? In the Usurper’s fleet?”
“He rides in their fleet, yes,” says Rhadamanthus. “But little else is known about him. His official biography says he was born and raised in Cheapside. A slum orphan.”
“Or a Stormscourge,” I say.
Over the table, Ixion’s eyes meet mine. “One of ours.”
“It is still too soon to determine anything concrete. But once the tournament starts—”
I raise my hand. “I’ll go.”
Rhadamanthus looks at me with thinly veiled amusement. “I was about to suggest writing back to our contact for more information. He was an old tutor of Penelope’s; he’d know better than anyone.”
It is infuriating, after all this time, to still be treated like a girl.
“Not better than me,” I say confidently. My chin lifts in defiance. “Send me to the tournament. Send me to find Leo.”
After the meeting, I find myself pacing alone in my chambers. I am once again flooded with memories, but not the ones I expected. Between snatches of my cousin’s laughter in the gardens, I hear the crude rhythm of Norcian drums pounding from the top of Conqueror’s Mound. I see village children running underfoot, young couples dancing by the bonfire, their parents nursing whiskey atop overturned barrels while tapping their feet to the music.
The music I learned as a child was sorrowful, elegant, and complex. In comparison, the crassness of the Norcian instruments and the unsophisticated melodies they produced made me laugh out loud when I first heard them. But in my laughter was a hollowness that felt strangely like grief as I watched the Norcians trip over themselves in inebriated joy. What was so funny about being at home with one’s family?
I fling open my curtains. Today the fog is too thick to see beyond the North Sea, but I know that somewhere in the mist, Callipolis is there. My cousin could be there.
Same time tomorrow?
It’s evening, and the sunset is the color of highland heather.
I’ll try, I promise in my head. Wait for me, Leo.