THE AGE OF ASH & MOON

SOLMERE -WEST KINGDOM

ZARIAH

I have always found mornings in our valley to be too quiet for a world so full of kings.

The air would sit still over the fields as though it were listening, and even the wind seemed careful not to disturb the earth. My mother often said that peace was a blessing, but I always wondered if it was simply the world holding its breath for something it did not yet dare to speak aloud.

"Zariah," my mother called softly from the doorway of our cottage, "do not forget the baskets. The market will not wait for your dreams today."

I turned from the window where I had been watching the mist rise over our garden. Dreams are all I had in our little home. All I could do was dream for something more .

"I am coming, Mama," I replied, lifting my skirts slightly as I moved.

My mother, Zoraya, stood already prepared, her dark curls tied neatly back with a strip of worn cloth. Even in simplicity, she carried herself like a woman who had once belonged to a greater world than ours. There was always something in her eyes—something heavy, something unspoken—that made me believe she had lived more lives than she ever told me about.

She looked at me carefully as I reached for the baskets.

"It is not a day for careless words," she said at last.

I paused.

There was something in her tone that did not belong to the usual rhythm of her warnings.

"Why do you say that?" I asked gently.

She hesitated, then sighed as though the weight of the world had settled upon her shoulders.

"It is a day of mourning Zariah," she said. "Across all the kingdoms."

I frowned slightly as I fastened the straps of the baskets. "Mourning?"

Her gaze softened, though it did not lose its sadness.

"The king's sons," she said quietly. "One of them has fallen."

I stopped.

Not because I cared deeply for the affairs of kings—far from it—but because I had never heard my mother speak of the royal family with such certainty, such closeness. It was as though she had known them, not merely heard of them.

Which she often did.

More than I ever understood.

My mother spoke of the king, his wife, and his children with a familiarity that did not belong to a woman of a small farm. At times, I found it fascinating. At times, I found it almost entertaining.

And sometimes... I wondered how she knew so much.

But I never asked in the way that mattered.

Because I knew better.

"You should not speak of such things so freely," I said softly instead.

She gave me a look—half warning, half sorrow.

"Even silence does not protect you from the world, child."

We stepped outside together, the wooden wheels of our small carriage creaking beneath our weight. The horse was old, but steady, its breath rising in soft clouds as we began our journey toward the town.

The road from our home wound through fields that always seemed too green to belong to anything touched by war or kingship. Wildflowers bent in the breeze, their colours spilling across the earth like scattered jewels. The trees stood tall and patient, their branches forming arches over the path as if guarding those who passed beneath them.

I always loved this part of the journey.

It felt like the world had not yet decided what it wished to become.

The further we rode, the more the land changed—not in harshness, but in awareness. Small cottages appeared between the hills. Farmers paused in their fields as we passed, lifting hands in quiet greeting. Women in woven dresses carried bundles of herbs, their steps light but purposeful. Men spoke in low tones near their wagons, their faces drawn with thought.

Even the air felt heavier as we neared the town.

Still, I watched everything.

The way the sunlight touched the leaves.

The way the wind moved through the tall grass like fingers through silk.

The way life existed in every corner of the world, unaware of kings and their burdens.

My mother glanced at me more than once.

"You always look at the world as though it is a painting," she murmured.

"It is beautiful," I replied.

"It is dangerous," she corrected softly.

I smiled faintly at that, though I did not argue. I rarely did with her.

In town, beauty faded into stone.

The streets were lined with buildings of grey brick, their edges worn with age and smoke. The air smelled of iron, bread, and distant firewood. And yet, even here, people dressed with a certain pride—long coats, embroidered hems, polished boots. Even grief did not strip them of elegance.

But grief was everywhere.

I saw it in the bowed heads.

In the whispered conversations.

In the way shopkeepers spoke without meeting each other's eyes.

"The Dragon Prince is dead," someone said as we passed.

My steps slowed slightly.

Dragon Prince.

The name had always sounded like something from a child's tale.

I had heard it before, of course. Rumours, whispers, stories told by travellers who drank too much and spoke too freely. A prince touched by a dragon. A beast that accepted him. A soul bond that should not have existed. Ancient stories that were probably created to control people and to make people fear Kings . That is how the world worked , Kings and Queens were like Gods here . They demanded respect and that respect came in the form of fear. They wanted people to worship them hence the stories.

I had always found it ridiculous.

Dragons were myths told to frighten children into obedience. Nothing more.

Yet the people around me spoke as though the sky itself had fallen.

"The king will choose the heir soon," another voice said.

"The first son is too gentle," someone replied. "The third is... dangerous."

"And the second?"

A pause.

"He would make a better man than a king."

I listened without meaning to, stacking tomatoes carefully as my mother greeted a woman near the stall.

Emmaliah.

Her voice was sharp and familiar.

"Zoraya," she said warmly, though her eyes were heavy. "You came despite the mourning."

"I have no choice but to eat," my mother replied gently.

Emmaliah sighed. "The kingdom is shaken. They say the king has not left his chambers since word came."

I set the baskets down, pretending not to listen, though every word settled into me like dust.

"They will crown another soon," Emmaliah continued. "The firstborn, perhaps. Or the third, if ambition wins over sense."

My mother's expression darkened slightly.

"Ambition always wins in the West," she murmured.

I frowned at that.

"It is only a man who died," I said before I could stop myself.

Silence fell.

Even the wind seemed to pause.

My mother turned slowly toward me.

"Zariah."

Her voice was soft—but sharp beneath it.

"You do not understand what you speak of."

I lifted my chin slightly. "But why does everyone act as though the world is ending? Kings die. Sons die. It is not the first time."

Emmaliah's eyes widened slightly.

My mother stepped closer.

"Enough," she said quietly.

I frowned. "Mama—"

"Go home."

The words were final.

I blinked.

"What?"

"Go home, Zariah," she repeated, firmer now. "I will return after I finish here."

"That is not necessary, I can—"

"Now."

There was something in her voice that made protest useless.

So I obeyed.

But not before I muttered under my breath, just low enough for only myself to hear:

"It is as though the world belongs to kings alone."

I turned and walked away before she could hear more.

⸻

I did not take the carriage.

I walked.

The road home felt longer than before, though the sun had barely shifted in the sky. The baskets were empty now, swinging lightly at my side. The wind was stronger here, brushing through the fields like restless fingers.

I should have felt ashamed.

I did not.

Instead, I felt frustration.

Why must every conversation bend toward kings and crowns? Why must every sorrow belong to people who had never once seen this valley, this soil, this life?

By the time I reached home, I had already decided I would finish my chores before my mother returned. If I did not, the silence between us would become heavier than words.

I fetched water from the well first, the rope rough in my hands as I lowered the bucket. The garden greeted me like an old friend—rows of vegetables bending gently under sunlight.

I worked quickly.

Watering.

Weeding.

Checking the soil.

And as I moved, I muttered to myself.

"It is all politics," I whispered. "Always politics. As though life is nothing but crowns and councils."

The wind shifted.

At first, I thought nothing of it.

But then it grew stronger.

Not natural.

Not gentle.

It pressed against the trees, bending them slightly.

I paused.

"Storm?" I murmured.

The sky above me... darkened.

Too quickly.

Far too quickly.

My breath caught.

Clouds gathered where there had been none moments before, thick and heavy as iron. The air itself felt wrong—like the world had taken a deep breath and forgotten how to release it.

I looked up.

That was my mistake.

"Oh God!"

Something vast moved above the clouds.

Something too large to be sky.

A shadow passed over the sun.

And then—

A sound.

Not thunder.

Not wind.

Something deeper.

A presence.

My body froze before my mind could understand why.

The clouds split.

And I saw it.

A shape descended through the sky like the fall of a forgotten god—massive wings tearing through the air, scales catching what little light remained, horns curved like ancient weapons carved by time itself.

A dragon.

No.

That word did not belong in my mind.

Yet it was the only one my thoughts could form.

My hands slipped.

The bucket fell.

Water spilled across the earth.

And I ran.

But the ground beneath me trembled as the creature came closer, its shadow swallowing the fields whole.

The wind screamed.

The trees bent.

And the sky itself seemed to bow.

I did not get far.

Because something moved faster than fear.

A force from above.

Cold.

Certain.

Inhuman.

And then—

Claws closed around me.

The world lifted.

The ground vanished.

And I was taken into the sky.