The Drake and Wizard

Note: Image associated is from Ironage.media, specifically their prompt, 'The Pair'

The Council of Five gathered in their antechamber, anxiety twisting the air with a sour green tint. Despite his position as senior scribe, Neville, in all his years, had never seen the Five so silently agitated. Felt it, yes, but never before had he seen their emotions manifesting in the air as though they were but aspiring wizards, barely a year into their schooling. These were the unquestioned Masters of Mysticism, men who commanded the elements with a thought, could kill with the tone of a sentence, and annihilate cities with a few words.

And yet the air twisted all the same. Candlelight wavered and flared in no particular pattern; glyphs shone bright as the sun in harvest-time, then black as the night in deepest winter. Perhaps the rumour was true. Neville had only heard moments ago that a woman had appeared in the city, reeking of ancient magic. He had felt a strong presence snap into existence in the city, but, to attribute it to a woman was the height of madness. There hadn't been any female wizards in many a mortal's lifetime, let alone one who could be felt in the Aether from any distance greater than a half-mile.

But he could feel it, oppressive against not only his mind in the Aether but also his skin, like a soldier's hauberk or the weight of shame in his belly. His feet stuck to the stone floor as though he were sojourning in the Southron Marsh, not the heart of Amalgarde's great city. His mouth dared not open, irrationally afraid that something was watching him, waiting to seize on any weakness. What could possibly be waiting in the Council's Chamber?

Finally, after seconds that dragged like weeks in the onerous silence, the Head of the Council stood from his seat and led the other four, Neville shuffling in behind them, into the Chamber. As Neville crossed the threshold, the oppressive weight he'd felt magnified, nearly forcing him to his knees. The antechamber's wards had been protecting them from the fullness of her. A young woman, calm as can be, dressed in simple enough clothing. Silver clasps clung to linen cloth, holding a woollen cloak, green as spring grass, against her back. Dark trousers hung from a warrior's tanned leather belt, and the buckle was also silver. Her wrists and upper arms were clad in dark leather, like the Ranger corps of old, an armour not worn in many turns of the seasons. Her face, though feminine, was angled, and severe; an imperious edge to her entire form, right down to the rings on her delicate fingers, as though she were a statue of a King come to life.

"What brings you here?" Neville barely heard the question as the woman held his eyes in hers, silver-grey and haunting. His breath returned as she broke their staring match, though he would sorely wish it hadn't.

"It's quite a simple request, really. Your death," she said, the words dispassionately slipping from her ruby lips. Before anyone could process her words, the reason for her presence in the Aether became dreadfully apparent.

No longer was the Southron woman standing alone, her simple cloth and rich caramel skin standing out against the delicate embroidery adorning the walls, roof and floor. Now, she stood dwarfed by an ancient Drake with eyes of fire. Neville felt his knees buckle in shock as he heard the Council sputtering at their extinct enemy's reappearance before the roar of Drake's fire silenced the Five forever. As his master's burned, he felt the Drake's majesty bear down on his senses, his will cowed by its strength, and the Aether flaring around it like a beacon as it destroyed the pitiful presence of the Five Masters and stole their power for itself. As he lay prostrate, he barely heard the woman draw close to him, refusing to move even as her hand cupped his chin. "My lord is generous and has use for one such as you, a wise man who knows to fear his betters. You were their scribe, were you not?"

Neville couldn't answer her as she forced him to look into her eyes, the smell of charred flesh and bone filling his nose. Until, through the Aether itself, the Drake spoke to him.

"Answer her, or join your Masters in death," it said as it brushed aside the Council with its tail before settling itself upon the dais. It seemed to purr in self-satisfaction, its eyes blinking as its own fire touched its scales.

"I was." The answer choked him almost as much as the smell and the ash in the air.

"Good, you'll record what happened. And why. Afterwards, you'll bring the account to the criers, and they'll inform our subjects of the change. Is that clear?" She spoke softly, though he suspected that refusing her carried the same threat as before, and to his shame, Neville nodded, scrambling to find his quill and paper, dutifully recording the events to the pair's satisfaction, then the Drake's explanation of why, before he was dismissed from the Drake's presence. And yet, even as he left the Palace, he felt its eyes and ears on him, a weight in his soul that would not depart. Even if its attentions might ebb, they never entirely left him alone.