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Story: A Fire in the Sky

Prologue

DRAGONS LIVE.

Everyone believes they are gone, the last of them annihilated in the Threshing. Lost to the annals of time, to the fade of memory, to be recalled only by the bards. It is the arrogance of man that holds to this—the wish for it to be so.

Wishing does not make it true, though.

Years ago, the kingdoms of man came together and ventured into the Crags. Legions of soldiers joined forces for the greater good, to see an end to the pestilent dragons. With their scale-tipped arrows and swords of dragon bone and droves of wolves, nursed since they were pups on the blood of dragons, humankind hunted dragons through the mists, deep into the ancient caves and winding tunnels of the mountains. For years, for decades, for centuries, they hunted, ridding the sky of dragon fire and claiming their caches of treasure for themselves.

No corner of the Crags was overlooked. Not a hollow or gully or wood left unexplored. No resource untapped. Soldiers ferreted out and slew every pride until the last winged creature was erased from land and sky. Until their fire was snuffed out for good. Until none remained.

Except one.

Part I

The Whipping Girl

1

Tamsyn

IT WAS A GOOD DAY FOR A WHIPPING.

I’d had my share. Too many to count. But today was special. Today the border lords arrived.

Word had reached the City and found its way to the palace. The party was spotted outside our walls, a meandering snake of warriors en route to us. They would be here soon, once they finished the ascent through the winding, labyrinthine streets.

The lord chamberlain was much too distracted to give me a proper flogging. Under normal circumstances, Kelby liked to linger over his work, panting in delight as he delivered each blow to the exposed flesh of my back. He would wait as I recoiled and tensed in pain. Wait until I relaxed. Wait until my body eased. And then he would strike again. He was an expert at meting out abuse. Just as I was an expert at taking it.

His dry fingers often trailed down my spine, a disturbing caress between the flays of the whip. Today there were no such caresses as I clutched my gown to my chest for modesty’s sake. I leaned over the desk where he had directed me to take my position. He’d interrupted our harp lesson. Mistress Gytha, the resident harpist, had fled the room when he arrived and announced that he had come to administer my punishment.

Residents of the palace fell into two categories: those who could stomach my whippings and those who could not. Kindhearted Gytha was in the latter group. Members of that set never stuckaround to witness the uncomfortable occurrences. No one ever objected, though. No one intervened. It was simply not done.

Kelby hurried about his task, lacking his usual vigor and thoroughness today, clearly resentful that I was keeping him from other diversions. No doubt he wished to be among the courtiers, hanging from the ramparts, marveling at the procession of battle-hardened warriors riding into the palace.

My sisters watched as my lashing was imposed. That was the protocol. Always. Perfect ladies all in a row, princesses bred to be queens, their hands demurely clasped in front of them, suffering the sight. And suffer it they did, for as the royal whipping girl, I was raised alongside them, brought up as their kin, calledsister... even if I was not.

They would have to be heartless little monsters to feel nothing. Spoiled and shallow they may be, but heartless? No. And that was the point. That was the way in which a royal whipping girl served. My punishment became theirs. Something they felt. Something they regretted.

Ever since we were little girls, we had done everything together. Played together. Ate together. Took lessons together. There was no distinction between us. We were sisters. No difference except one. A very important distinction. I was the only one to bear any punishment.

Feena and Sybilia shifted restlessly where they stood. They, too, longed to join the revelry and feast their eyes upon the infamous warriors from the Borderlands. More animal than man, they were rumored to be, and the reason our kingdom prospered and remained intact. For decades they had successfully kept the enemies to the north at bay. The dragon threat was gone—ended a hundred years ago following the Hormung, that brutal final battle of the Threshing, which had driven dragons to the edge of extinction. But there were plenty of other dangers out there to fill the vacancy. Bandits within our borders. Raiders from the Crags. Pirates from the coast. Invading armies from Veturland and across the channel.

The whip cracked against my skin, and I flinched at the sting.

Alise closed her eyes tightly, an expression of contrition tightening her features. At sixteen, she was the youngest, and most affected by my whippings. Oh, Feena and Sybilia felt remorse, but Alise was the only sister ever reduced to tears when I was disciplined for their misdeeds. She belonged in the category of “those who could not stomach my whippings.” Had she not been required to watch, she would have fled with Mistress Gytha.

The moment the fifth and final lash—the number that Kelby had decided upon as the punishment for Sybilia’s and Feena’s quarrelling this morning, over a hair ribbon of all things—struck my back, he tossed the whip to a nearby maid.

“See that puts an end to your unseemly bickering. We have important guests. Conduct yourselves as the Penterran princesses you are and do your parents proud.” He took a moment to nod sternly at Feena and Sybilia before he exited the room. The girls didn’t linger either, following fast on his heels to join the revels of the court.

Only Alise remained, helping ease my garments back into place, mindful of my tender back. “I am so sorry. No broken skin, though,” she assured me, shooing away the maid who had stepped forward to help, but then, I knew that.

Over the years, I’d endured very few whippings that actually broke the skin. Those incidents stood out for that very reason.

“Not your fault,” I said, wincing slightly as the full weight of my kirtle settled against my sore back.

“This time,” she muttered as she laced up my gown.