Dragon Child

Chapter 1

Copyright © Elana A. Mugdan 2018

www.allentria.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Jaka Prawira

Interior Art by Neiratina

ISBN: 978-1-5323-8798-2

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Table Of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

BOOK III AVAILABLE NOW!

GLOSSARY & PRONUNCIATIONS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“There are things that are stronger than time and death.”

~ Charon, Guardian of Timemagic

PROLOGUE

Second Age, Year 942

THE LAST BREATH OF A DYING SUMMER whispered across the pallid ground. The desert was bleak and forbidding. It had been burnt by the sun and ravaged by the war.

Inside his tent, Valerion Nameless of the Unknown Lands packed his fur satchel with the provisions he needed for the night ahead. White hair spilled past his shoulders as he bent to sheath his sword.

“You’re leaving.”

He turned to find Arisse standing at the tent’s flap. Wispy silver tresses stirred by nonexistent winds fell around her face. Valerion could never quite describe that face—the rosebud lips, the delicate nose, the luminous eyes of smoky violet—for it always seemed to be changing. Words could only capture her beauty for a moment before they became obsolete.

“Do you trust me, Valerion?” she asked, floating toward him with the grace of a cloud crossing the heavens.

“Of course.”

“Then tell me what you’re planning.”

Part of him wanted to. But if he told her, she would try to stop him. What if she condemned his scheme and decided she wanted nothing more to do with him?

“I deserve to know,” she persisted. “I have been by your side for every step of your journey.”

“Arisse, I am doing this for us—”

“You are doing this because your obsession with Necrovar has escalated to the point of madness. Don’t deny it; I know you better than you know yourself. You’re planning something that will be more far-reaching than you know. While I cannot stop you or tell you what to do, I would be remiss if I didn’t caution you against it. The last battle you fought in, you nearly died.”

Valerion’s gut twisted. That memory was fresh in his nightmares, but he couldn’t let Arisse see any weakness in him. “I don’t intend to do battle tonight, but if I should die, I promise I would return. And if I couldn’t return, I would wait for you on the winds of time.”

A sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “As I would for you . . . though it would do neither of us any good.”

He bent and kissed her so she wouldn’t see the fear in his purple eyes.

“My love, my soul-star . . . I want something that binds you to me,” she whispered against his lips. She sank onto the threadbare pallet, pulling him with her. Again she asked, “Do you trust me?”

“With all my heart,” he replied.

It was night by the time Valerion left the tent. He forced himself to put Arisse out of his mind as he left the small rebel encampment; he could afford no distractions.

When he reached the edge of the ramshackle sylphskin tents, he reflected light-threads from his source. With a blinding flash he wielded, teleporting to a desolate mountaintop.

The air was thin and still. His only companions were the stars twinkling in the dark velvet sky. No one would find him here.

No one would try to stop him from what he was about to do.

He unsheathed Sethildras and tenderly laid it on a rock. The sword was his prized possession, a treasure beyond treasures—apart from the precious white metal blade and golden hilt, it had been blessed by an oracle and enchanted to stay forever sharp.

Next, he drew a small pebble from his pocket. Its surface was rough, its color a mottled purplish-brown. Though it appeared ordinary, it was worth more than the sword. In fact, it was the most valuable thing in the world.

Valerion wielded, channeling his magic through the valestone. It grew warm against his palm and he felt a tugging in his chest. The power dynamic shifted. He was no longer feeding energy into the pebble: the stone’s magic had awoken, and it was siphoning threads from him. Valerion focused his intent, concentrating on what he wanted the valestone to do. The tugging sensation became less uncomfortable.

He fished out his diary, another cherished keepsake, and ran his fingers over its worn edges. Arisse had given it to him, and his mentor, Beledine, had taught him to write. He flipped to the final vellum page of the book and stared at the glyphs he’d painstakingly etched there. The words were a spell of his own devising—the most dangerous spell he had ever undertaken to wield.

Through a throat that had gone dry, Valerion recited the spell in the language of the dragons, the language imbibed with the same raw energy stored in the tiny rock. Speaking spells had no value, except to clarify intent . . . and Valerion, who feared the vast power in the pebble, needed to make his intentions as clear as possible.

“Flesh into sword, bone into blade,” he intoned, drawing his dagger and using it to split the pale skin on his left wrist, “magic and blood and legend are made.”

He held his bleeding arm above the sword. Crimson drops splattered onto its shining surface. Where his blood hit, the metal hissed and the liquid boiled. The valestone drew more power from him. He sensed it directing his threads into the weapon.

“Eternity binds only those who are dead,” he continued as his blood sank into the blade, “but thence from this spell shall I rise once again.”

A wave of dizziness hit him and he blinked to clear his head. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking not at the mountaintop, but a battlefield. A volcano loomed in the distance, black clouds shrouding its burning peak.

“The Shadow will rule,” he heard himself saying, “and I will have been lost . . .”

A foresight was taking hold of him. The timemagic was nothing to fear, but the words were portentous when paired with this bleak vision of the future. Plus, he didn’t know how this would affect his prepared spell. Would the delicate weave of threads connecting him to stone and sword be tangled? Or worse, broken?

“. . . but the metal remains where the mortal will rot.”

The foresight released him, and suddenly he knew not everything would go according to plan. But he was far past the point of stopping. His spell was incomplete, and he would unravel if he didn’t finish what he’d started. The valestone hummed and shuddered on his palm.

“My soul shall be sundered for no one to own, my reward is the sin for which I must atone,” he said, returning to his incantation. “So passes the life and the power in me, I surrender myself to my Destiny.”

Pain seared Valerion’s chest. It was as if someone had cut out his heart. Coldness enveloped him. The only warmth left in the world seemed to come from the valestone, and he clung to it as a shimmering essence seeped from his body. He felt broken, hollow, lifeless as he gazed upon the spectral reflection of himself, the portion of his soul he had willingly exorcised.

Horror flooded into him, filling the place where his light energy had been. For a moment he wished to snatch his soul back. He wanted to be whole again, to abandon his foolish plan. Then the misty essence flickered, and he remembered what he was fighting for. Hefting his sword, he slashed at his magic. The weapon glowed like a nova as it absorbed the loose half of his soul.

The spell was complete.

Valerion sank to his knees, dropping his blade and the valestone. The pebble bounced away into the darkness. It didn’t matter—now it was no different from any other rock on the mountain. All the magic had been leached from it.

With shaking hands and labored breaths, he tore a strip from the hem of his tunic to bind the cut on his wrist. He retrieved his canteen from his satchel and drank deeply. The water quenched his thirst and the powdered alderevas he’d mixed in took effect at once. Alderevas was a dangerous stimulant . . . but with any luck, he would be dead by the time the negative side effects took hold.

His heart raced and the remainder of his source swelled. Triumph flickered through him—his magic receptive to his mental touch. If a soul was not complete, it couldn’t be wielded, but he’d done plenty of covert research on the subject, keeping his dark discoveries from Arisse. His findings had left him in no doubt: splitting his soul would render it useless to Necrovar, but through some manner of quantum-magical entanglement he could still wield it himself.

Not all of it, but enough.

He sheathed his sword and stood. After a few calming breaths, he wielded the teleportation spell again. Teleporting was no simple feat. It cost its wielder a substantial amount of energy. Thus, when he arrived at his destination—a modest cave—he fell to his knees, drained and disoriented.

“Well met, Valerion.” A voice like glacier water flowing over smooth stone reached his ears. He swayed to his feet and raised his head to greet the owner of the cave.

“Well met, Exandrya.”

Exandrya nodded. The large gray dragon had once been beautiful, but now her face was scarred from battles past and drawn with an un-erasable sorrow. She had lost her bondmate in the war, which meant she had lost part of her soul. Valerion had never understood the extent of her pain before. His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword as he bowed to her.

“You’ve left us no time for small talk,” she said. “The moon is rising. The gods will be waiting . . .” She paused, examining him. Her purple eyes narrowed. “Something has happened. You are changed.”

Valerion suppressed a sigh; he’d been stupid to think he could hide this from her. “My friend, I should have warned you. I fear death and I fear losing Arisse, so I have taken steps to ensure my resurrection.”

“The gods cannot resurrect dead souls,” Exandrya growled.

“They cannot,” Valerion agreed.

Realization flashed in her eyes, and his heart pumped madly once more, filling with panic.

“You are a traitor,” she hissed. “You would offer yourself to him? To the Shadow?! What are you thinking, Valerion? What have you done?”

“Nothing yet,” he assured her quickly. “I plan to ask Necrovar to give me life after death, the way he does for his demons, and I will offer my soul as payment. However,” he added before she could get a word in edgewise, “I have hidden half my magic where he cannot reach it.”

Exandrya’s anger faded. Her brow ridges relaxed and her eyes clouded with confusion.

“Necrovar will not have my full soul, so he will not control my magic or me,” Valerion explained. “But if he accepts my offer, I can return to Arisse after I die.”

He held his breath, waiting for her response. Exandrya’s cooperation was pivotal to his plan, and if she refused to help him . . .

“The truth comes out. This is the real reason you needed me tonight. I am not escorting you to the gods, I am taking you to the devil himself,” she said, her scaly lips curling in a snarl.