The Prologue to a Novel I’ll Never Write

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.”

I was only six years old when Grandfather told us about the end of the world.

My twin brother, Layton, shifted uncomfortably. Grandfather bore down at us from the cushioned chair. Layton and I were crossed-legged on the cold wooden floor. To my left, a dying fire popped and sputtered, its glow steadily shrinking. Fat droplets beat against our little wooden home.

Grandfather’s ice-blue eyes were like jewels in the gleam of the fire. He opened his mouth and continued in a rasp, “Your father thinks that you’re too young to hear about the history of our land, but I was younger than you when the dragons first came. I watched my parents die fighting them.”

I snaked my arm around my brother to keep him from shivering.

“We in the Valley have only two great enemies,” Grandfather went on, “the dragons and Mother Earth herself. Have you kids ever wondered why everyone in the Valley stores extra food? Why we build fences as tall as trees? Why we must always prepare for the strongest storms and the harshest winters?”

Layton and I shook our heads.

“It’s because of the dragons,” Grandfather explained. “The dragons kill our Earth.”

“But how—?” I closed my mouth immediately, seeing Grandfather raise his hand for silence.

“The dragons are the only magical creatures in our land,” he explained. “And their magic comes from Earth — they steal from Earth. Our Earth is the only force great enough to keep the dragon population afloat. Dragons need the magic to survive, so they suck Earth of its purity to do so.

“The more the dragons drain our Earth of its resources, the more fragile our land becomes. That is why we experience endless natural disasters. We humans will never be safe, from the dragons nor from Earth herself. Each time the dragons drain a land of its resources, they migrate to a new land. And now, they live with us. The Valley will become sicker and sicker because of these dragons, and there is nothing we can do about it.”

Half of Grandfather’s face was shrouded in shadow. The fire spat a few sparks then calmly died.

“The dragons are killing our land, and soon enough, they will kill us too.”

As the years passed, my grandfather’s words came to life before my eyes. Given my people’s violent past against the dragons, we don’t often see them in the Valley. But we see their effects.

 When I was seven years old, storms ripped through the Valley for nearly three months. Homes crumbled; livestock disappeared; babies were swept out of mother’s hands.

When I was nine years old, a strange disease killed our crops, leaving most families scraping for food. Parents prioritized sons when distributing food, and my father was no exception. That meant Layton ate first, Layton had bigger portions, and Layton had meat. But my brother would often sneak me food when our father wasn’t looking.

When I was twelve, the Valley flooded for the entirety of summer, forcing many to find new homes.

When I was fifteen, fissures opened up in the earth. Large cracks claimed the lives of anyone who walked near their edges.

When I was sixteen, the Mountain next to the Valley collapsed. Boulders rained down into the Valley, damaging homes and killing neighbors. It was this accident that cost Layton his leg. He had been working in the fields with our father when the mountain began to disintegrate. Two days later, a search party led by Grandfather found him wedged beneath a rock. The amputation went more smoothly than they anticipated. Only my father was dissatisfied.

“Look at you,” Father scowled at his son. “You were the strongest man in the Valley. You could win a fight against an ox. And now you’re just … a disgrace.” Father spat onto the floor and kicked the table upon which Layton lay. Grandfather and I observed silently from the corner.

“You are no use to me. You might as well have been born a girl.” Father stormed out.

My brother’s accident was also the start of our father’s violence. Layton took the brunt of it. Most days, he was black and blue. Often Layton wore long tunics to cover burns and cuts. Grandfather warned me never to speak of the beatings. “Your father could lose his reputation in the Valley.”

I remained silent.

Layton and I were both eighteen now. Since my brother’s accident, Father rarely let him leave the home. “You’re an embarrassment,” Father snarled day after day. “I don’t want everyone in the Valley reminded that I have a cripple for a son.”

Rather, Layton was subjugated to ‘women’s work.’ He helped me tend to the home. We cooked dinners, mended clothes, and picked herbs from the garden. We did what we could to help Father, Grandfather, and the neighbors, but in our free time, Layton and I studied.

As a woman, it was discouraged for me to study. When Father found out that Layton taught me to read, he nearly had a fit. Therefore, we had to keep our studies a secret. Books were carefully hidden beneath floorboards, and our writing utensils were stored behind our cupboard.

None hated the dragons more than Grandfather. He had seen them terrorize the Valley directly and through the effects of our dying earth. It would kill him if he knew that Layton and I studied the dragons.

Dragons were the taboo, so we wanted to quench our curiosity. We read their histories, memorized their anatomies, discussed the various mating calls. Anything and everything about the dragons would entrance us. Occasionally, while I carried water back from the well, a dragon’s silhouette graced the sky. On this rare occasion, I gasped and gazed up at it, wishing that Layton were allowed to leave the home to enjoy this spectacle. I make sure to catch every detail of the dragon to recount the tale to my brother.

My brother’s goal in studying dragons was always the same: to find a new source for their power.

“Think about it,” he would always exclaim, “if the dragons’ stopped using Mother Earth for their energy, we could coexist peacefully.”

“You can’t just change the laws of nature, though,” I always pointed out. “Maybe they have to drain Earth’s power to live. There might be no other option.”

“But what if there was another option,” Layton would counter. “Then they would stop destroying our Earth, and maybe we could even become friends—”

“Friends?” I guffawed. “Don’t let Grandfather hear you talk like that.”

But Layton continued to dream about changing our little world. Despite his ambition, his naiveté was pitiful.

But one day, in the middle of the night, he shook me awake. My name rolled off Layton’s tongue: “Orlyan, Orlyan. Wake up!”

Finally forcing myself awake, I glared at my twin and slid off my feather-stuffed mat. “What is it?”

And Layton spoke the last words I expected to hear: “I’ve got one, Orylan. I’ve got a dragon. A baby one. It’s just outside. It’s hurt.”

His words rang through my ears, unprocessed. Perhaps this was all a dream. “Layton, what are you talking about?” I hissed.

“Orylan I’ve captured a dragon!” he whispered with zeal.

“That’s imposs—”

Layton dragged me to my feet. “Let me show you.”

And before I could protest, he led me outside.