Page 4 of Klauth (Dragonis Academy, Year 2.5 #3)

Chapter Four

Thauglor’s roar shatters the midday quiet.

It echoes across the valley in a deep bass that makes the stone beneath my feet tremble.

I step onto the sunlit balcony, squinting against the harsh daylight.

Even from here, I see him circling in the distance—a massive black silhouette against an azure sky.

His curved horns are chipped and scarred from countless battles.

Each mark is a silent testament to wars past.

He roars again. Through our bond, I feel a flash of fury ripple from him. His display at the edge of our territory has been ruined by a rival den of shadow dragons. They have also hunted several of his prized herds. That insult burns in him.

I leap from the balcony’s edge. The bright sun glares off the copper gutter beside me.

I plummet, my body twisting and stretching as scales erupt across my skin.

My transformation is seamless from long practice.

My wings snap open to catch the warm afternoon air.

I rise in broad sweeps to catch up with Thauglor.

Where he is black, I am red—a deep, blood-hued crimson that glints under the sun. My scales bear scars from brutal battles. Every gash and ridge proves my ruthless reputation. As I fly, old wounds pull tight against the wind, reminding me of each fight I have survived.

Thauglor and I speak in low rumbles that vibrate through our chests.

We strategize about the shadow dragons. They are malicious and cunning.

They rely on treachery as much as brute force.

Yet between his towering strength and my unyielding fury, we hold the advantage.

Still, the age of their den gnaws at me.

If they are ancient, this mission may be more dangerous than I thought.

The forest below darkens despite the bright sun overhead.

Long, creeping shadows stretch beneath the canopy, as if something is siphoning away the light.

This sign tells me we are nearing their territory.

The shadow dragons bend daylight to their will.

My heart pounds in anticipation. The midday heat bakes the scales along my back.

I swoop lower. I catch the acrid scent of decay and stale air clinging to the trees like a toxic film. This must be their hideout. My stomach churns with both excitement and disgust. I inhale deeply, feeling warmth build in my throat—my fire eager for release.

Together, Thauglor and I execute our plan.

I climb high as sunlight glares off my crimson hide.

Then I release a torrent of flame. Fire dances across the treetops, devouring dark pockets below.

Thauglor circles in next. His massive wings stir hot gusts that buffet me.

His acid breath spews forth, melting tree trunks and scorching the undergrowth.

I hear it hiss and crackle. I catch the faint burn of chemical fumes in the back of my throat.

Below, I spot a cavern entrance where the acid drains into darkness.

A guttural growl rattles in my chest. This must be their stronghold.

Thauglor rumbles in agreement, shaking the skies.

I swoop closer as he unleashes another stream of acid that floods the cavern.

Agonized roars echo from within, sending a dark thrill coursing through me.

The moment Thauglor retreats, I exhale a wave of flame onto the lingering acid.

Sunlight flashes against the sudden inferno.

An explosion roars into a blazing column.

The impact sends me reeling. My claws scrabble at the heated air as a raw, acrid odor invades my nostrils.

I exult in the discovery—his acid is highly flammable.

We exchange excited rumbles. It is a tactic worth using again.

With the smoldering den behind us, Thauglor leads me to a rocky outcropping overlooking the chaos.

The rock is hot beneath my claws. Thick plumes of black smoke twist skyward, staining the bright afternoon.

Thauglor settles beside me. His dark scales gleam, and his curved horns cast jagged shadows on the stone.

I fold my scarred wings and feel the dull ache of old wounds along my shoulders.

We discuss ideas for strengthening our bloodlines.

We consider pairing with other dragon species to produce formidable offspring.

Iron dragons come up, and my jaw tightens at the thought.

They loathe red dragons almost as much as black ones.

They would never consider an alliance. Thauglor rumbles a low laugh.

He reminds me that iron dragons dislike blacks slightly less than reds, but that does not mean they would welcome him any more than me.

My gaze drifts back to the scorched forest and the haze rising from our victory.

Even in the glare of day, lingering flames glow bright orange.

They stand in stark contrast to Thauglor’s obsidian silhouette.

A sense of triumph coils in my chest. We have driven off another threat and claimed a stronger hold on these lands.

For now, the valley is ours—claimed by the black brute and the crimson warlord.

It will remain ours until we unleash our combined fury again.

I circle my territory for hours, scanning every crag and crevice.

I make sure no shadow dragon slips past my watch.

The wind lashes my face and carries the sharp tang of pine along with the musk of melting snow.

Sometimes I glimpse dark wings beating against the cloudy sky, but none come close enough to threaten me.

Far to the north, near the Blackhaven nest of my kin, I spot a small flight of young wyverns.

Their shrill screeches cut through the thin mountain air.

They stand no chance. Our combined strength shatters their defenses. We end the threat in record time.

A thunderous roar echoes from Blackhaven.

We exchange a glance and head toward the sound.

The fortress looms against a stormy sky.

Carved into the mountainside, its spires and parapets of black stone stab at the clouds like jagged teeth.

Legend says the purest, most powerful black dragon bloodline calls this place home.

Even from afar, I feel the weight of its ancient history.

I land first in the courtyard. I shift smoothly into my human form before my feet meet the slick, dark stones. The courtyard reflects the moody sky above. Each stride echoes in the vast, enclosed space. Low-hanging mist swirls around my ankles like restless spirits.

Atrum strides out to greet us, waving the missive I sent yesterday. Behind him, heavy wooden doors groan shut, sealing out the biting wind. I feel scattered gravel crunch beneath my boots.

“Congratulations are in order, friend,” Atrum says, extending his calloused hand. I grip it firmly.

“We’ll see,” I reply. My mood sours at the thought of the hen’s frailty. I kick a loose stone; the clack of rock on stone bounces off the high walls. “I’m unsure about the hatchlings’ strength, given how weak the hen is.”

“It’s all about the breath weapon,” Atrum declares as he slaps my shoulder. The impact rattles me, and I catch a faint, earthy scent of sweat on him. “Crystal dragons have a deadly breath weapon, even if their bodies are frail. Hopefully, the hatchlings take after their drake.”

We leave the courtyard and enter the fortress.

Torchlight flickers along stone corridors.

Walls bear centuries-old carvings of black drakes in mid-flight.

Their scales shimmer in the sporadic light, and the archways loom closer with every step.

At the corridor’s end, Atrum’s mate, Hallah, appears.

Her thin frame is dwarfed by the towering arches, and exhaustion dulls her eyes.

“Greetings, Hallah. I hope you and your hatchlings are well,” I say. My voice echoes off the vaulted ceilings. She brushes a strand of lifeless black hair from her face, her hand trembling. A tightness grips my chest as I watch her—too many clutches and too little time for recovery.

She leads us deeper into Blackhaven. We pass through corridors carved into the mountain. The stone shifts from black basalt to a softer sandstone, designed for insulation and humidity control. At last, she pushes open heavy doors that groan in protest, their sound echoing through the winding halls.

Warm, humid air washes over my skin as I step inside the egg chamber.

The walls, carved from pale sandstone, glisten with condensation.

Torches line the perimeter, their flames dancing in the moisture-laden air and casting wavering shadows.

In the center, an egg cradle forms a hollowed depression in the floor, cushioned with damp straw and faintly steaming peat.

A cluster of newly laid eggs rests there.

Their glossy shells reflect the torchlight in opalescent streaks.

Nearby, Hallah’s hatchlings—less than a year old—tumble and scrabble as they chase the rats released for feeding.

Their tiny claws click against the smooth stone, and the hiss of their playful fighting sets my nerves on edge.

“Everyone is doing well, as you can see,” Hallah says. Her voice is worn and thin. She steadies herself against a sandstone pillar, and I notice droplets of sweat glistening on her brow. The strain of too many clutches in too short a span is etched into every line of her face.

I grimace. It is obvious she is over bred; life drains from her with each new clutch. Atrum either does not notice or does not care. He wants his lineage in every den on the continent, no matter the cost.

“Hallah,” I say quietly, fighting the disquiet roiling in my stomach, “thank you for showing me the eggs. I hope you have everything you need here.”

She forces a wan smile. Her gaze flickers to the hatchlings tussling over a squealing rat. Then her shoulders droop as she nods. I glance at Atrum. He stands tall and proud beside her, oblivious to the toll on his mate. Bitterness simmers in my chest, but I bite my tongue.

We stay for dinner. The scent of spiced meat and simmering vegetables clings to my nostrils.

A low fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.

By dusk, the sky drapes itself in deep purple and bruise-colored red.

Then we depart Atrum’s lands, the chill evening wind tugging at my scales.

I reflect on Hallah—the haunted look in her eyes and the metallic tang of blood that still lingers in the air.

I vow never to let such suffering befall my mate.

My thoughts drift to Syrax, nesting high in the mountains that border my domain and hers.

I picture her perched protectively over her clutch, wings half-furled.

I decide to be humane and offer her freedom if she leaves the eggs with me.

The thought of keeping her longer twists my stomach.

Even the idea of breeding with anyone other than my true mate unsettles me deeply.

We all know hatchlings born of true mates share a stronger bond than those from arranged pairings.

Rumors swirl of dragons mating outside our species, and the questions gnaw at me.

How would that even work? A mammal and a dragon—would the offspring be an egg or live born?

I share these questions with Thauglor. He is as perplexed as I am.

We guess it depends on the female. A dragon lays an egg; a mammal would likely endure live birth.

The thought sends a tremor down my scales.

It feels almost parasitic—carrying a living being inside for months, leeching energy day after day.

My scales ripple with distaste at the image.

Suddenly, I catch a whiff of smoke on the horizon.

I snap my head up. Black plumes coil in the dusk sky, and rage ignites deep in my chest. I roar.

My cry echoes across the darkening plains.

Someone has dared to attack my lair while I was away.

By the elder gods, they will not live to see the morning light.