The Last Namsara

Then may Death send his worst. Cold to freeze the love in my heart. Fire to burn my memories to ash. Wind to force me through the gates. Time to wear my loyalty away. I'll wait for you at Death's gate.

Once there was a girl who was drawn to wicked things. Things like forbidden, ancient stories. It didn’t matter that the old stories killed her mother. It didn’t matter that they’d killed many before her. The girl let the old stories in. She let them in eat away at her heart and turn her wicked.

You could die," she whispered. "Everything dies," he whispered back. "I'm afraid of so much more than dying.

Iskari let others define her because she thought she didn't have a choice. Because she thought she was alone and unloved.

No one needs to ask for a woman’s opinion. It’s expected that she gives it freely.

The old heroes were called Namsara after a beloved god, he said. So she would be called Iskari, after a deadly one.

Greta used to say,” he said as he played, “that every one of us is born with a song buried deep in our hearts. A song all out own. And our mission in life is to find that song.

Haven’t we been through this? I love danger.

Asha glanced up. The look in his eyes made her breath catch. It was like looking into the heart of a star: bright and burning.

And with that thought came a loneliness so sharp and cruel, it felt like an axe cleaving her heart in two.

Everything dies,” he whispered back. “I’m afraid of so much more than dying.

The son of a dragon queen dared to love a slave, and it did not end well for anyone.

The story of a girl who hunted dragons to soothe the hurt in her heart. The story of the dragon who changed her.

Once there was a girl who was drawn to ancient wicked things. Things like forbidden, ancient stories.

Asha felt herself unravel. As if she were a carpet or a tapestry, and his words were claws tearing out all her threads.

Asleep, he looked like a moonflower whose petals unfurled only at night, rare and beautiful in the starlight.

The wind carried her words to Elorma, who ran to the girl he loved. But before he could reach her, Willa’s heart stopped beating. Death, the thief, stole her away. When Elorma reached her, Willa’s body was still warm. He clung to her, cursing the Old One for not saving her, weeping into her hair. But when Willa arrived at Death’s gate, she planted her feet and looked back to the land of the living. Souls were not permitted to linger at the gate, so Death himself came out to sway her.

When the scrublands learned of Amina’s death, of her profane funeral, they wept in sorrow and howled in rage. They declared the dragon king a monster and in their fury, took his son and heir—a boy of only twelve, a boy who was a guest in their land—and turned him into a prisoner. He was the heir of a monstrous king who would grow into a monster himself, and they treated him accordingly. In so doing, the scrublanders smashed the dragon king’s alliance, scattering its broken shards across the sand. And Amina, the gentle queen, would never be remembered as the one who cured her daughter’s nightmares. She would always and forever be a traitor.

When she remained silent, the slave went back to work. He started humming the tune of a song only to stop, rearrange the notes, then sing them again in a different order. He did this over and over. Like he was testing the song and it kept failing him. Asha lay back, letting his voice distract her from the teeth-grinding pain of his needle sewing her up. A story rose to mind, unbidden. Rayan strode through his mother's orange grove and stopped sharp. Someone was singing. Someone with the voice of a nightingale.

As realization sunk in, Asha screamed her rage - at Elorma, at the Old One, and at the bloodred moon waning above her. And when she was done screaming, the shadow dragon remained. Head tilted. Eyes fixed on her. As if to say: Where are you going? Can I come too?

A fool scan be sure of anything; that doesn’t make her right.

The dragon hissed. Asha narrowed her eyes. Time to end you.

A dragon song for the dead.

Moria bowed low to the king of Firgaard. She did not meet his gaze for fear he would see the raging fire in her eyes. She did not speak her name for fear he would hear the sharpened edge of her voice.

Asha could see that barefoot child inside her. She could hear the stories spilling from her lips as she ran through the moonlit Rift. She could feel that butterfly heart as her steps brought her closer to an ancient evil.