Chapter 1
Runaway
No living soul in the seven realms of Lyssia, nor the Cluster Isles nor Bast, know of the true fate of the last weredragon, who is said to have died hundreds of years before the Great Feast which saw the birth of the werelords that rule now, but that, in fact, is far from the truth.
Though none knew of it, the last dragonlord was alive in the time of Wergar, living on the undiscovered eastern continent of Pekkir, and this is the story of his last days, and the fall of the greatest therian race to ever inhabit the world.
…
The roars of the black bearlord continued to echo through the forest as the youthful dragonlord dashed through the trees, frenzied hunters pursuing him as every turn through the accursed woodlands, desperate for the draconi's flesh. Llyw resented the northlander's foul cannibalistic tendencies, and he had never intended to become one of their potential victims, his escape only made possible by Tsar Styr's young daughter, Sashenka, and Llyw's roguish charms, though he had only been running for a matter of minutes when he heard his ex-captor's hunting horn sound behind him, and the youthful-faced draconi counted himself lucky that
Without warning, a barbed arrow slammed into Llyw's left shoulder blade, throwing him into the snow beneath his feet. He heard a shout come out from behind him as whoever had fired that lucky shot cried out to his friends in jubilation, and the dragonlord soon found himself surrounded by the Tsar's men.
"Good shooting Felix," one of the hunter exclaimed as they rushed in to retrieve their meal, though they arrived to find the idiot youth gone, a blood stain and the broken shaft of Felix's arrow all that was left.
"Are you sure you got him Felix?" another hunter asked, clearly annoyed at his fellow hunter as he turned to confront him, only to find Felix gone, just as their prey had.
Silence settled over the group of hunters, two dozen in total, as they tried to work out what had happened to their friend, before the oldest and most experiences of the hunters gathered drew his sword, drawing the attention of the others.
"Stay together and get ready. Danil, Andrei, get your sword out and follow me, the rest of you, remain here, we could be dealing with another damn werewolverine,"
The hunters who remained with their bows at the ready visibly shuddered at that, fearing their fate if the warriors of the pretender Tsar, Jarek the Wolverine, were to attack them so far from the support of their ursanthrope lords, unknowing that the fate that awaited them was much bigger, and much more deadly.
The one who had spoken, alongside Danil and Andrei, fanned out through the woods, getting further and further away from the lesser hunters. They had barely trudged through 50 metres of snow before the screams began.
Llyw was a blur of blood, snow and red scales as he tore into the unfortunate hunters, his razor-sharp claws ripping through flesh, tendon and bone with ease. The first two were crushed by his densely-muscled legs, bones breaking with an audible snap as the draconi dropped drown from the trees above. The rest only lasted a few seconds, their fearful screams cut short as their now-transformed opponent tore them limb from limb, staining the snow a bright red as the steaming bodies pumped blood onto the forest floor.
By the time the three sent out to search for Felix had returned, the damage was done.
The weredragon was gone.
…
Llyw cried out once again as the pain in his shoulder fired up another time, glancing over to where the arrowhead was still embedded deep in his shoulder blade. The Northlanders' arrows were not easy to remove; their serrated edges making sure of that, Llyw would have tried to take it out had he the right expertise, yet he had limited knowledge of any medical matter, more used to causing pain than relieving it.
The hapless hunter laid out on the snow next to Llyw awoke with a start, looking around to try and work out where he was, before his eyes settled on the weredragon sitting beside him. Felix attempted to get up and run from his captor but found himself held back by the draconi's strong grip, his wrist trapped in a vice-like hold as he felt the tendons straining and the bones shifting uncomfortably.
"Don't even try, hunter, or you shall face the same fate as your friends," Llyw said calmly, still focusing on his shoulder and the arrowhead embedded deep inside it "tell me, what is your people's tradition involving the death of their fellows?"
"W-why d-do you ask?" Felix replied, fear and confusion apparent in his trembling voice.
Llyw then turned to the captive hunter, his face and neck still coated in the blood of the others that had gone out to capture him, before smiling, allowing just enough of the dragon to come for his teeth to sharpen into wickedly sharp needles, causing his captive to flinch visibly.
"I fear there may not be much left to bury, or burn, or eat," the weredragon eventually replied, still smiling "I seem to have taken most of the prime cuts,"
The hunter's face visibly paled as he looked down at the growing talons on Llyw's hand, which still held the captive's wrist tightly. The draconi chuckled, allowing the dragon to recede, before releasing his grip, smiling again, this time with his human teeth on show.
"Sit," Llyw commanded, watching as the frightened hunter did as he was told before he continued speaking "how is it that a lynxlord such as you came into the service of Tsar Styr?"
Taken aback, Felix did not know what to say, the dragonlord's question catching him off-guard. Before he could reply, however, the peculiar therian interrupted.
"Sorry, I should introduce myself. I am Llyw ap Gruffud, the last of the dragonlords, blight of the black bears, and shadow of Pekkir. Pray, cat, what is your name?"
"I-I am Felix Baldric, y-youngest son of Jarl Yeruslan of Frostmead Hall, s-servant of the rightful r-ruler of the Northlands, Tsar Styr the Great," Felix replied, stumbling over the words as he maintained to look fearfully into Llyw's blank eyes.
"There is no need to be afraid, cat, I will not harm you, not without reason," Llyw laughed, noticing the felinthrope's terrified look "I have no quarrel with your kind, Yeruslan is not as aggressive towards me as that bastard Styr,"
Felix did not speak for some time, unsure what to say in reply to Llyw's words, and was grateful when the draconi continued the conversation for him.
"You still haven't answered my first question, cat,"
"What was that?"
"How did you come into the service of Tsar Styr?"
Silence descended once more upon the two as Llyw waited for an answer, whilst Felix sat in the snow, trying to calm himself and clear his mind before replying.
"I serve Styr as part of the White Frost agreement. My father, Jarl Yeruslan, sided with Jarek the Wolverine during the War of Twenty Snowfalls, his tree fighters wreaking havoc amongst the black bear's forces before Styr captured my father's wife, Grażyna, in a daring raid that cost the Tsar his two eldest sons.
"After Grażyna's capture, Yeruslan was forced to surrender in order to keep her alive, and without my people's support, Jarek's forces were defeated, and have since been driven back into these very forests," Felix looked around at that, suddenly fearing that there might be a vengeful mustenthrope watching over them now, prompting another chuckle from Llyw.
"Don't worry, cat, the wolverines are not my enemies, and if they were, they would know to stay far from me, Jarek has seen me in combat and both respects and fears me in equal measure because of that," the dragonlord laughed, slapping Felix's back.
The ridicule of his captor began to enrage the lynxlord now, and Felix rose to his feet, staring angrily at the wounded draconi.
"Why must you make fun of me, dragon, is the torment that I am now alone in this frozen woodland with a stranger who could kill me at any moment not enough for you? Why did you keep me alive, even after I wounded you with my arrow? How did you know I was a lynxlord? How do you know Jarek? Answer me or I pray to Brenn I will stop at nothing to see you dead at either my hand or Tsar Styr's!" Felix shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as whiskers began to appear on his cheeks and his teeth and nails began to lengthen into deadly points.
Llyw rose as well to look into the comparatively short felinthrope's eyes, his own filling with rage as they turned a deep shade of yellow, and his skin simultaneously taking a green hue as his own fangs and claws growing out just a few inches, though more than enough to scare the captive werelynx back into submission. The draconi snarled at Felix, momentarily thinking about killing the foolish boy where he stood before immediately passing up on the notion, deciding instead to answer his questions.
"I kept you alive because I will not kill another therianthrope without reason enough. I have no quarrel with the lynxlords, the only therian I would intentionally kill being Tsar Styr.
"You fired the arrow from the trees, and your accuracy was uncanny, it would take no genius to work out that you're a lynxlord, only they could do that as you did.
"Jarek's ancestors took me in when I was exiled from the continent to the west alongside my people many generations ago, and the dragonlords, or what was left of them, have remained fast friends with the wolverines since then, exchanging their knowledge in return for the mustenthropes' silence,"
Llyw sat again, gesturing for Felix to do so, though the felinthrope chose to remain standing, a new wave of questions on the edge of his quivering lips, though he only chose to ask one.
"You said you came here many generations ago with other dragonlords, but surely that would make you centuries old, if what you say is true, and yet you only look a few summers at most my elder. How old are you, dragon?"
Llyw sat on the snowy forest floor, eyes downturned as his mind sunk back into old, painful memories. Memories of injustice and pain and sadness and death. Memories of the downfall of his race that would soon end in his death. Memories of who he was, the last of the dragonlords.
"I have lived for many centuries on this world. First in Lyssia, then here, and I have many memories of those I once knew and those I have lost. Those I once loved, and cared for, have been dead a long time, and all I have left is my own sorry life, and the fate of my people, placed on my shoulders until the day I die,"
Felix watched, simultaneously surprised and saddened by Llyw's words, as a single tear ran down the draconi's cheek, falling into the soft snow as decades of sadness poured out from his shaking body.
"I have seen over four hundred summers and winters since the day my people arrived here when I was a mere babe-in-arms. Since then we have dwindled, the other races too afraid to truly accept us into their society. Every race that has allied with us have either cast us out before too long or left us for our enemies, of which there have always been many, Tsar Jarek's kind being the only exception,"
Llyw was wracked with grief as sobs began to travel up and down his muscular frame. How the foolish young lynxlord had brought him to this state he did not fully understand, though he allowed the pain of loss to empty out of him, his tears flowing freely onto the forest floor.
"I have failed my race, cat," the dragonlord cried, looking up into Felix's eyes, the felinthrope still torn between sadness and anger as he too thought of the mistakes he had made in his comparatively short life. Serving the black bearlords, thinking the escaped weredragon was little more than a powerless wanderer as he relished the hunt to find him, mistaking his quarry and captor as little more than a heartless bastard even as the draconi lost all semblance of composure as he lost himself in his pain and memories. Yet the captive lynxlord knew that his sorrow would not, could not ever match that of Llyw.
Felix slowly knelt down in the snow, embracing the sobbing dragonlord as he tried to comfort one who he once thought he would come to hate. Llyw accepted the comfort, realising that instead of just finding another unfortunate werelord, caught up in the politics of this accursed lands, he had found a friend.