The Fireless one

Ashka knew hunger better than she knew her own reflection. She crept along the basalt ledge like a shadow, belly low, wings tucked tight. Her charcoal scales blended into the soot-black rock, her claws silent on the worn stone. Far above, the academy spires stabbed at the sky, gold-tipped and glowing. What she knew was when the sky-lanterns were lit it meant a huge feast, and that meant satisfaction for her hunger. She kept on sneaking through the tall grass, being sure not to attract unwanted attention from the guards at the northern post. Once they had turned their backs for breath breaks, she scowled and whispered as she moved on by, “All that shine, and they still don’t see me.”

She didn’t belong there. She never had.

Ashka didn’t know the names of the towers. She didn’t even know how many there were.

That was enough. She squinted through the haze. Two carts tonight, one smelled of roasting bonefruit and cooked flesh. The other steamed with garlic and warm oil. Her stomach snarled so loud she whispered down to it, “Quiet, you’ll ruin it.”

Ashka’s mother used to say: never steal in daylight. Never steal from those with wings sharper than yours. Never steal unless you’re starving. She was starving.

She continued to move, down the slope of her mountain, and over the cracked stone ridge, past a sleeping hawkdrake roost. Where no one had ever seen her–they never did.

Ashka was known to have moved, incredibly silent since her hatchling days, crawling through abandoned burrows, slipping between hunting grounds. Her mother had taught her how to vanish before teaching her how to speak.

“I guess this counts,” she muttered, as she waited, her green eyes locked on the cook, who had his back turned facing the cauldron of stew he was making over a fire. She then leapt, as the dust-winds shifted, bringing smoke instead of sound. She had snatched a satchel bag full of food and vanished into the underbrush before he turned around and could blink. She didn’t fly–she wasn’t strong enough yet, not with her wings still leathery and stunted from years of cramped caves and cold nights. But she could run, and she did.

By the time she reached her cave, the clouds had shifted to orange, and the smell of dragon-fire clung to her like guilt. She crouched in the mouth of her den–a narrow crack between two old lava pillars, hidden by roots, rocks, and wind. No one had ever found it, not even other ferals. She dropped the satchel, ripped it open with her teeth, and devoured the breadfruit inside. It burned her throat–not because it was hot, but because it was cooked on fire, her body didn’t love it. It never had.

Ashka could never hold a flame. Not inside her lungs, not inside her claws, and not inside her heart. Not even once. She was the dragon who couldn’t burn at all.

“Ow–seriously?” She spat, “Why do they have to cook everything?”

Even cooked food made her sick sometimes. Her throat scratched from the heat–not the temperature, but the fire itself. It lingered inside everything they made, a reminder that she didn’t have. She was known by her mother as the dragoness who didn’t burn.

Ashka wrapped her wings around herself and reached for the cracked fang at her neck. “Still got you, Ma,” she whispered, “still fighting.” She curled inside the corner, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

That’s when the dream came again. A dream about a male dragon of gold, and blue, standing in the center of a stone circle. He turned his head sharply, his eyes were mirrors.

“Ashka,” He said, but not in a way her mother had. He was much deeper in his voice, sounding older, “You don’t belong here.”

Fire rose around him.

Ashka whispered, “I never did.”

She woke at dawn to a birdsong and the distant call of an elk. Her stomach still ached, and her wings were stiff from the damp cave floor. She stepped outside, and dragged a dew-catcher leaf toward her snout.

“Better than nothing,” she grumbled, slurping at the drops. Then she heard voices, far away, below the cliff of her cave.

“They’re getting better,” a boy said.

“Only because they haven’t fallen yet,” replied another voice–higher, annoyed.

Ashka crawled to the ledge and peered down. A dozen academy dragons from the city, much younger than her, both male and female, were flying lazy arcs above the training field.

One girl dipped mid-dive and shrieked, “Whoa! Too fast!”

The instructor roared, “Control your fire, Verda! No more Sky-wobbles!”

Ashka narrowed her eyes. “Sky-wobbles?” she muttered, “you pampered tail-babies wouldn’t last a day in the stonewilds.”

Still…she watched, their movements were graceful, controlled. She couldn’t do that. She’d never flown that high. Never breathed anything close to fire.

Later in the early afternoon, smoke clung too heavy to the trees, something in the wind felt wrong. Ashka began to feel exhausted as she whispered to herself, “It’s noon and they are still out there, those searchers.” She didn’t return to her den inside the cave, she huddled beneath a flow fire-willow, still as stone. That’s where she decided to take a nap, and once again had another dream, about the gold dragon.

He spoke again to her.

“You’re not ready,” he said.

Ashka growled inside her sleep, “Then make me ready.”

A sharp snap jolted her awake. Footsteps close.

“She went this way,” a voice hissed.

“How can you tell?” another whispered.

“Claw marks, see? And that’s moss ash, still fresh.”

Ashka’s blood turned to ice. “Too close,” she muttered, she took off at a run, not daring to flap her wings. Claws scraping, her heart thundering, she tore through the wild bush, and passed by the forgotten ruins of temples. Don’t look back, she thought to herself. But she did. Torches. Three dragons, young, but dangerous.

“She’s close!” one shouted.

“Don’t let her reach the bridge!”

Ashka reached the Silent bridge just as the wind howled across the canyon. The obsidian bridge shimmered underfoot, slick with frost. She panted, claws digging into the black stone. “No turning back now.” She stepped onto the bridge.

Half-way across, the surface pulsed beneath her claws. Faint spirals lit up around her feet–strange markings carved long ago. “What?” she breathed, “Is this…lanaguage?”

She reached out, the stone was warm, and then she heard it.

“You don’t burn,” the dream-voice echoed, not inside her dreams or head this time.

Ashka’s eyes widened, “Who said that?” she demanded, “who are you?”

Silence. But the markings continued to glow. Behind her, a torchlight flared. “Come on!” a voice shouted, “she’s there!”

Ashka turned and screamed, “Back off!”

The firelight flickered–then stopped. The other dragons hesitated at the edge of the bridge.

“Are you crazy?” one of them snapped, “It’s cursed!”

“No one crosses it,” said another, “because once you do, no one comes back from the stonewild ruins.”

Ashka growled, “exactly,” and then she sprinted into the stonewild’s ruins. Hours later, far from the bridge, she dropped to the forest floor, chest heaving. Her feet throbbed. Her wings ached. But she was alive. More than that–something had changed. She looked at her claws.

“I don’t need fire,” Ashka whispered.

The wind stirred, rustling the ash-trees. “I don’t need anything they have.”

Her voice sounded stronger now, because deep down, something inside her had burned, not in the way others expected.