This is the novelization of the planned sequel to The Legend of Dragoon, the effort of which can be found here: .org/

The basic story is not mine, nor are the characters . . . however, this is my way to introduce this tale to you. Enjoy.

-S.D.

THE DARK PROPHECY

PROLOGUE – THE SHADOW BEFORE

The assassin came at night.

He came in a cloak as black as the moonless sky.

Carefully, he scaled the smooth stone walls of the Indels tower, his fingers finding the tiny nooks and using them to pull himself up. He maneuvered with great care, like a spider on a wall. He had spent a week camped outside the castle wall, watching, studying, searching for the best possible avenue of infiltration.

His target slept in the top room of the tower.

The assassin kept climbing, his mind focused on the task at hand—and on the reward he would gain if he accomplished this task. There was a lot of money to be had. Enough gold coins to buy a castle. So what if a child had to die?

The assassin's fingers curled around the cold stone windowsill, and he drew himself up slowly to peek inside.

There was a winding stone stairwell leading up to the room at the top of the tower. In front of the door, two knights in gleaming armor stood. The assassin ducked back down before they could spot him, but he sensed they wouldn't have seen him anyway. The brief glance had afforded him everything he needed. The guards were drowsy, and inattentive.

Pity.

The assassin drew back one of his hands and hung there, suspended, as he reached in the folds of his tunic. He came out with a tiny wooden ball, about the size of a walnut. There was a small protrusion at the top, and the assassin carefully slipped a finger down and pressed it into the sphere. Then he lobbed it into the open window, and heard it clatter on the stone steps.

The assassin pulled himself up and watched.

There was a small pop, and suddenly a dark grey cloud fizzed out from the tiny sphere. The knights turned just in time to be enveloped by the noxious fumes. The assassin clambered in through the window and perched there, drawing his hand-crafted kunai from his tunic. He held his breath and then sprang forward.

The elder of the two knights choked out: "Gas! Quick! Alert the—"

The assassin arrowed in, and swung laterally in a hard arc. The flat side of the blade cracked hard against the knight's helm, and the knight fell to the hard stone steps in a deafening crash.

The assassin whirled around as the younger knight started to draw his shortsword. The fool was blind, though—the assassin could sense that. Grinning inwardly, the assassin raised the kunai over his head and brought it down full force onto the younger knight's skull. The knight fell like a sack of meal and lay still.

The assassin poised in the rapidly clearing smoke, waiting to see if the din had alerted any of the other knights roaming the castle keep. When he was sure he was alone in the tower, he moved.

He dipped a hand into the older knight's pocket, and soon came out with a ring of keys. They jingled softly as he sorted through them, finding one that matched the brass lock on the door. The assassin crept over the knight's body and went to the door.

The door was made of polished oak, and was inscribed with ancient runes. The assassin smiled, tracing a finger over one of the runes—it was one of the few he recognized from his childhood—and then he slipped the brass key into the lock. He turned it, and the lock clicked. The assassin pressed a hand against the door and pushed it open.

The room was dark, save for a candle burning in the far corner of the room. In the dim glow of the flame, the assassin saw the bassinet.

The assassin took a step forward—and then he froze dead in his tracks. Someone else was in the room . . . and then he was face-to-face with that someone.

A man stood before him, tall and slender. His pine-colored eyes blazed with a fierce intelligence, and his blonde hair was swept back over one shoulder. The assassin had time to notice a small scar over the man's left eye, as though he'd been burned not long ago . . . and then he saw the royal crest stamped on the man's ceremonial chest armor and on the jade-colored cape spilled over his back.

The assassin moved his arm, preparing to slash the man's throat with his blade—but something in the man's eyes made him stop. And he suddenly understood: this man was the King of Serdio, Albert the Good . . . the father of his intended victim.

"Well," the king said, his voice queerly calm. "Aren't you going to wipe your feet, assassin? After all, you'll be staying for quite a while in our prison for attempting to murder my son."

The assassin's eyes darted briefly toward the bassinet, as though gauging the possibility of finishing the task before the baby's father took him down. But he was not certain he could do so—and that was a feeling he was not used to.

His eyes crinkled in a smile and he propelled backward, kicking out with both feet. His feet caught Albert in the chest, causing the king to stagger back a step. Before Albert could regain his stance, the assassin was sprinting out of the nursery and down the stone steps of the tower.

The guards were still lying in a heap beneath the window. He leapt onto the sill—he heard footsteps from behind him—but he did not look back. He did not hesitate to jump. The thought of rotting in the deepest dungeon in Serdio did not sit well with him.

He plummeted through the cold night air, landing in the moat that encircled Indels Castle. The frigid water knocked the air out of him, but he did not surface until he was sure he was out of sight from the tower. When he came up for breath he kicked toward the shore, scrambling up the sheer bank with the practiced skill of an acrobat.

Gods damn you, keep moving—

The assassin fled into the forest, flitting between the ancient trees that bordered Bale. He ran until his heart felt like it would burst. He ran until every breath felt like a blade twisting in his chest. But he did not dare to stop until he came to a glen a good two-and-a-half leagues from the castle keep.

The assassin sat down heavily on a tree stump, gasping for breath. He closed his eyes and cracked his knuckles. He had failed, and that was something he was unaccustomed to even more than doubt.

Still, though, he had escaped with his life, and the king was still probably reeling from the kick and trying to rouse the guards he'd incapacitated. The assassin smirked at the thought. He doubted King Albert even had the common sense to—

"That was quite rude, you know. You didn't even introduce yourself before you fled, coward."

The assassin looked up, startled at the king's voice. He expected to see the king on horseback, with a legion of knights at his disposal . . . but that was not what he saw at all.

The Serdian king had the look of a god. His blonde hair billowed in the breeze of the cold night and his own inner wind. His body was swathed in green light, which seemed to glow from an armor crafted by the gods themselves. It pulsed.

The wings beat slowly, holding the king a casual foot off the ground.

The assassin lurched to his feet, drawing his kunai . . . but the king thrust the point of his lance at his throat.

"There is no escape for you," the king told him. "There is no shadow for you to hide in, and your assassin's skills will not aid you to escape your judgment."

The assassin's jaw dropped despite himself—it was a night of firsts—and he stumbled backward from that pulsing green glow, tripping over the tree stump and dropping his kunai. He crashed to the dirt, eyes wide. He knew what he was looking at; he was well-versed in the legends of old . . . and of new.

"You . . . you are the Dragoon of the Jade Dragon?" he stammered, unable to believe his eyes.

No, it was impossible that the studious, bookworm monarch of Serdio was the great and powerful Wind Dragoon of legend. It was crazy—but here he was, resplendent in the armor of such.

"The Albert who was among the dragoons who saved the world . . . you are the same?"

The king smiled, but it was not a gentle one. "Ah, in those times, I traveled not as a king, but as a dragoon. Now I walk upon the path of life as both."

Then he thrust the point of the lance forward. "But enough talk! You will come with me to the castle and you will tell us all you know of your superiors, or you will face dire consequences."

Despite his heart racing in his chest, the assassin smiled. He, of course, had no intention of being taken back to Indels Castle. He had one last trick up his sleeve—but it would have to be the one to save him.

The assassin had a glittering dagger hidden in the folds of his tunic, and as he kept his eyes on the dragoon king, he slid it down his arm until it was braced against his wrist. He started to raise his arms in surrender, and then he took his chance. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he flung the dagger toward Albert's face.

Albert saw the gleaming core of metal at the last, and he lurched to the left—but he was too slow. The blade struck him in the right cheek, drawing blood. Albert grunted, and the assassin seized his chance. He broke for the thick fastnesses beyond the glen.

As he disappeared into the dark wood Albert raised his lance. He summoned up the power that burned within him and shouted two raw words—an incantation he could not make out—and it burst forth from him, a great bird borne of wind and light and magic, divinely cast from the gem that burned furiously in his chest. This great bird swooped forth in the direction the assassin had fled, and when it struck the treeline it ripped several of them in half, uprooting many more in a great swath before it dissipated like a morning mist.

Albert launched himself toward the path he'd cut, expecting to see the assassin lying sprawled in the dirt, bloody and whimpering . . . but there was no one there. Feeling anger and frustration well up inside of him, he cut several more swaths through the forest, blazing trails through the ancient trees, but to his great dismay, the assassin had fled.

"Damn the luck!"

He lifted off from the ground, seething still with aggravation, and took flight back to Indels Castle. To the knights that patrolled the castle walls, their king came in a brilliant green streak across the sky like a falling star . . . or perhaps the remains of the Moon That Never Sets that, from time to time, still blazed trails across the night sky. Albert plunged down towards the inner walls of the garrison like a falcon diving towards its prey, landing nimbly on the flagged stones in the shadow of the tower.

"Your Majesty!" the captain of the guard hailed him, running over to where his liege had landed. "The young prince Aero is safely secured in his room. It seems that was the only man they sent this time."

This time—

Albert closed his eyes, and felt it drain out of him: the pure energy that flowed through him. When he opened his eyes, there was a blinding flash of green fire . . . and then he was standing there in his Serdian royal garb, holding his lance. The captain o' the guard blinked, his jaw half-open in wonder. The fact that his king was one of the most powerful warriors in the known land never failed to amaze his people, Albert had noted.

He heaved a great sigh and looked up toward the tower where, even now, his son still slept. "They were even able to reach my son's room this time," he said. "If I hadn't been organizing my son's storybooks . . ." He trailed off, and shook his head violently. "I cannot bear to even think of it."

The captain o' the guard swallowed. "Perhaps we should tighten up security in the castle even further?" he suggested.

Albert shook his head. "No amount of security is going to help against an enemy whose base we can't even locate."

No; there was only one avenue left open to him now. He'd considered it long and hard before, in the event that another assassination attempt occurred. It was not a favorable option, but the King had run out of favorable options.

There was only one person he could turn to now. Only one person he trusted with that which was most precious to him.

He took a deep breath and tried to steady his voice—and his resolve. "Captain, prepare a carriage and some horses. Tomorrow, I need to make a trip in secret."

The captain o' the guard saluted. "Yes, Your Majesty!"

* * *

He went up to his son's room alone.

He thought of waking his wife, the Queen, but he decided against it. He did not want her to argue with him over this decision. It was better for her to sleep on it and he would tell her in the morning.

The guards that had been incapacitated were being roused to consciousness—Albert covered his mouth against the foul stench of the smelling salts they were waving under their noses. The guards that were conscious were apologizing profusely, fearing the King would send them to the far-flung borders of Serdio as punishment for letting the assassin get within killing distance of the prince. Albert had no such intention of doing so, but he did not tell them.

The door was still open, and he saw two guards standing on either side of the bassinet, shortswords out and at the ready. Albert waved for them to leave, and they did so—albeit reluctantly.

The King went to his son's side, and stared down. The young prince still slept, each breath ruffling the tuft of blond hair on his head. Albert brushed the boy's hair back with a finger and bit his lip.

"Aero," he croaked softly, his voice choked with tears. "Everything I do, I do to keep you safe."

He bent down and kissed the boy's forehead. "I am going to miss you, son."

The child slept, unaware of what direction his life would go, unaware of the path the gods had set for him.