"You used to love me. What happened to make you hate me?" Laurent's insides twisted with every bitter word he spoke. His pretty face was completely blank; it was his eyes and mouth that spoke of his pain. His deep green eyes reflected endless wells of hurt, the deep creases in his skin fanning out slowly as his brow wrinkled. His full lips were pulled down dejectedly at the corners, his lower lip plump and quivering slightly with agony.

"I don't hate you, Laurent," Maudiin said truthfully, his crystal blue eyes downcast. "It's just that things are changing, and it's not safe for us to be together no more. What if someone finds out?" His dirty blonde hair was a sharp contrast to Laurent's own shaggy auburn locks, his gentle curls softening his strong, angular face.

Laurent glared at his lover impressively, long, artistic hands jammed on his hips. "Do you think I care if people find out, Maud? I love you. We have been together for three years now, and you want to tell me that it is becoming dangerous? That's stupid!" His voice shot through an octave in his disbelief, pitch rising above the normally pleasant halfway point between high and low.

Maud's attractive, earthy voice dropped to frigidity. "It's just done, Laurent. We're finished! I can't take it no more!" He curled his fingers to his palms and clenched his hands tightly, trying in vain to control his temper. "It's over with us, Highness. Accept it and move on." He clenched his jaw and went to leave, abandoning proper decorum in his anger.

The Prince of Thelsamar grabbed Maud's arm and spun him back around, his wiry frame deceptive in its strength. His skin, the color of ground nutmeg, was almost as light as Maud's, but not quite. "It's not over, Maud! As your Prince I command you not to leave me!"

"You have no authority over me there, Highness. None whatsoever."

"I am the royal heir to the kingdom of Thelsamar! I have authority over all!"

"Maychance in your dreams, Prince, but never in reality." Maud shook off the prince's hand and disappeared down another hallway, his expression grim.

His royal highness stood there in shocked disbelief, his jaw dropped wide open. For the moment, he was numb to the pain, but it slowly began to trickle through his veins like acid. He worked his jaw up and down, trying to call out to Maudiin, but no sound came. The tears began to well up in his eyes, eyes that were curiously blank, and he cried. It was an undignified kind of crying, the sort witnessed in young children and peasant women, but he had never been an elegant crier.

Laurent sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. “Why?” he choked out. “Why?”

The sound of rushing footsteps echoed down the long stone corridor, startling him from his depression. He looked up, quickly rubbing at the tears on his cheeks.

“Sire!” huffed the fleet-footed servant. “His Majesty seeks council with you! Come quickly; he’s in one of his moods!”

Laurent pushed himself to his feet, eyes puffy, mouth drawn into a sharp, thin line. He nodded to the servant, dismissing him from his sight, and loped off down the hallway, his eyes beginning to harden.

“Laurent!” his father cried. “My boy! Come, come, meet your fiancée!”

Laurent balked in the doorway, his eyes going wide as he took in his portly father, with his bushy beard and curly dark hair; skin the color of a ripe peach, and dark, commanding eyes, sitting at a table with something that was not human. On his father’s left was a Dracor, one of the dragon-people Thelsamar was currently at war with. And it wasn’t just any Dracor; it was King Tempest Rage himself.

The dragon-kin smiled, revealing long, double incisors and pointed teeth. “Prince,” he said, inclining his head. His voice was smoky and rough as a fire. Spiraling ram’s horns curved from a spot directly beneath his temples, ranging from black at the base to gray at the tips. Another set spiraled backwards from the same base. His skin was tinged with gray and Laurent could see a patch of black scales peeking up from under the collar of his satin shirt. His long-fingered hands were folded on top of the table, his claws in clear view, a threat to all that he could defend himself. Of course, Laurent knew the Dracor had no need for their claws, not with the thick bands of muscle that wrapped their bodies.

The Dracor king ran a hand through his short and spiky black hair, letting it fall in haphazard layers across his scalp, shading his slanted dragon’s eyes and obscuring their eerie gray glow.

On his father’s right, sat Queen Dawn Flare, perhaps one of the most violent Dracor in all of history. She was the epitome of beauty, in Dracor standards. Her yellow eyes glowed as all Dracor’s eyes glowed, and her knee length hair, running the spectrum of yellow to gold, was plaited to her scalp on the sides, leaving the ruff to itself in the center. All female Dracor had a feathered crest of spines running from the crowns of their heads to the small of their backs, trailing down to the floor, just as all male Dracor had ram’s horns curving from the spot beneath their temples. Her Majesty’s ruff was a soft yellow and orange in color, reflecting her namesake. She, too, had long-fingered hands tipped in sharp claws. Her skin was fair enough that it was hard to see the patches of yellow and gold scales that randomly decorated her body. Her velvet dress was a soft cream yellow, cut low over her breast.

“Highness,” she purred, her voice sounding almost human save for the odd hissing of her vowels. Sitting beside her was a young Dracor, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years of age. Laurent was only guessing because she wasn’t as tall as her mother, who was only three inches shy of his six foot three.

The daughter, he assumed, was who his father had been talking about. That would make her the Princess Aquine Crasher Wake, a Dracor every bit as violent and short-tempered as her mother. She was named well, for she was of a fair complexion with pretty scaling in the colors of aqua, teal, green, blue, and silver. Her eyes were a strange blue-green color, glowing of course, and much more slanted than either of her parents’. Her long elf-like ears were longer than her father’s, and from his schooling Laurent knew that all female Dracor had ears much longer than the males. They were quivering back and forth spastically and her light blue and green ruff was raised high above her head, the spines reaching about a foot in length each. Her hair was plaited to her scalp as her mother’s was, the color ranging all over the blue-green spectrum. Her expression was nothing but contempt, and he felt his own mouth changing to reflect his disdain for her.

His eyes tightened at the corners as he glared first at her, and then at his father. “Father,” he started to say, but he was cut off by the princess’s scornful voice. It was rough, smoky and coarse unlike her parents' relatively smooth voices. “I will not marry him! He is a human!” She clawed at the table in anger, eyes seeming to glow more brightly. "I won't!" she screeched, leaping to her feet, knocking her chair backwards in the process. "I won't! I won't!"

Aquine snarled viciously and thrashed against the wall, creating spider webbing cracks with her great strength. Her Highness Dawn Flare smiled, revealing her double incisors, which were stained red with what Laurent hoped wasn't blood, and Tempest Rage frowned in disapproval.

"I no more want to marry you than you want to marry me, Princess," Laurent spat, leaning against the doorway for support. Her strength frightened him, but he did not let it show before these enemies. "I would rather die than marry a dumb brute!"

King Eoin winced and turned hastily, or at least as hastily as his considerable girth would allow, to reassure the Dracor King that his son was only in a bad humor, and would be thinking more clearly once he got some rest. Laurent could discern that from his expression and quivering belly. The human king was too late, however.

The dragon-king's infamous temper flared into life, and his namesake became apparent. His wrath was greater than that of a storm's rage. His expression darkened, literally, as his black blood was rushing to his cheeks. He roared for silence and banged his fists down on the table, cracking it and breaking it into two splintery pieces.

King Eoin stared with mouth agape, belly falling still.

Tempest Rage swiped the two halves away as if they were nothing, sending them splintering against the wall. "We are not, as you so aptly put it, Highness, 'dumb brutes'!" He roared again, his voice rasping. "I would no more have my daughter married to a base creature like yourself than would I take one of you for my mate! Tydus, you're a fool!" he spat. "This could never have worked!" Tempest Rage stomped out of the room, his angry foot falls making the ground shake and tremble.

Aquine hissed darkly and flashed her conceited glowing eyes at him before storming off after her father, claws leaving thick gouges in the wall beside her, aqua dress billowing softly out around her lithe form.

"Because we had come here in peace and offering a white flag, we will not harm you nor your people on our departure. But do not expect us to not retaliate if you betray your offering of peace by attacking us. We will hit you hard and fast, King Tydus, and your casualties will be great if I or my daughter are set loose in your precious palatial city," Dawn Flare said slyly, tone implying worse than what her words promised. Before she exited the room, at a more sedate pace than her kin, she drew herself up to her full height and stared down the human prince.

"Prince Laurent," she cooed pleasantly. "I will not forget the slight you have shown my daughter. Expect to meet me in battle." She flexed her long fingers in his face, claws a mere half inch from his fear-filled eyes. She smirked in triumph and took a playful snap at his nose, her hot breath smelling strongly of raw meat. Then she twirled elegantly and stalked off after her family, her steps silent and menacing.

Eoin's paunch began to jiggle again and Laurent took an unsteady step back, and then two forward, his chin raised defiantly, lips set in a stubborn line. "I will not marry that thing," he growled between clenched teeth, eyes flashing with arrogance and conceit. "Whatever possessed you to even consider such a vile, incomprehensible thing?! She's a monster! Her existence goes against all that is right and true!"

Eoin shook his head sadly and sank back into his chair, the legs groaning as they struggled to support his weight. "No, Laurent. The Dracor are as much a part of this world as beggars and thieves, nobility and gentry. You forget that they have lived on this world for much longer than we have. Did it ever occur to you that they may think of us as being abominations?"

"Does it matter? We are not beasts! We are self-aware, knowledgeable people, capable of great things. Who was it that invented sky-ships? Who was it that charted the currents and explored the vast skies? Humans, Father, humans did those things. What have the Dracor done for the world besides burn their lands into a dust field?"

"Not even the long memories of the Dracor stretch that far back."

"You miss my point, Father. But it matters not, for I will not marry that brute!"

"Leave me, Laurent. You try my patience. Send one of the man servants in when you leave," he commanded, voice weary.

He bowed to the king as he backed out of the room, running into the wall opposite the door as he exited. He cursed under his breath and rubbed his hip, wincing slightly when he ran his fingers over the length of what was sure to be a bruise.

Laurent's eyes became glazed with thoughtfulness as he walked, gaze glued to the floor before him instead of wandering towards the cityscape spread out beneath the arched windows.

"First Maudiin," he said, tearing up. "And now this. Is the whole world conspiring against me? Or am I just going crazy?" He ran a hand through his hair so it wouldn't stick to his face, taking care to wipe the tears from his cheeks in the same movement. He stumbled against the wall, fingers curling instinctively around the edge of the glassless window. His eyes were inexplicably drawn to the eternal horizon. What lay out there, beyond the edge of his world? Beyond the edge of Dracodar and beyond the edge of the edge? Did the sky even extend that far? Were there other countries, other worlds like his own, or were they the only life in the endless sky?

His questions filled him with a burning desire to see for himself. He wanted a taste of something foreign and exotic, some action and adventure for a change; court was boring. And besides, he wanted, no, needed to get away from this place, where unpleasant memories were beginning to form. The castle was beginning to haunt him with its emptiness. Or was that only the emptiness he felt inside himself without Maud, the hollowness that reflected in his expressive green eyes, the aching pain of heartbreak the showed itself in the quivering of his full lips? Whatever the cause, the effect was still the same. Laurent was leaving home.

His lips pressed together into that same thin line, his customary stubborn expression, and the dimple in his chin appeared. “Tonight then,” he murmured to himself. Tonight I leave, under cover of darkness. I’ll take up a new name, find passage on a merchant ship, and get away from this place. I’ll see the world and leave this life far behind me. As of now, Prince Laurent Eoin Tydus no longer exists. I am just Laurent of Thelsamar, Laurent of Thelsamar and no one more.

Laurent could no longer see the city that spanned the whole of the island. His descent into darkness had come as swiftly as the night had fallen. The crushing blow that had landed so heavily upon his shoulders was wearing heavily down on him now, and that was the reason he could not see the faint lights of the city in the night. He blinked and the silhouettes of buildings came into blurry focus before fuzzing out as another wave of fresh tears overflowed onto his cheeks.

“It ends,” he muttered dejectedly. “Father will not make me marry that brute; I will never again feel the comforts of Maud’s warm skin. A new beginning, but a bitter end.” He sighed and grabbed his bag, slinging the strap up and over his head. It stood in stark contrast to the freshly pressed white linen shirt he now wore. It was too showy for a commoner, and if he had had the option, or even the courage, to go to Maud, he would have taken some of his clothing, even if it would have been too big on him. Maudiin had always told him he looked good in baggy clothes. The memory made him smile wanly, his lips pale against his pretty skin.

His rawhide leggings chafed against his skin as he moved through the halls; his bag of spare clothing and money banged against his already bruised hip. He winced with every step, already regretting his hasty decision. Laurent was a prince. He was used to the cushy life. He had never ridden a horse or gone fishing. He had never learned to fight with his fists or with a weapon. And the only reason his chest was so well developed was because he had a strict physical training regimen that he followed religiously. “Sky,” he groaned. “This is going to be worse than Petty Court.”

He jogged down a vast flight of steps, running his fingers over the stone walls to keep himself grounded, eyes straying to the outside world and the fat blue moon that was rising above the edge of the island. Lights flashed in his peripheral vision, the dull yellow of candle flames and the bright and flickering orange-red of torches.

Another hop down onto the floor and he was almost running. What he was running from, he did not know. His breathing remained strong and even up until the stables, when it suddenly stopped.

There was a high-pitched giggle followed by a deep, earthy voice that Laurent knew well, in a tone he had known even better.

“Alayna,” Maudiin chided half-heartedly, laughter in his voice. “Quiet, you’ll wake the stable master.”

There was another giggle and the prince pushed himself back into deep shadow, ears straining to hear the mute conversation going on around the corner. It was mostly in vain, and partly unnecessary, as the two had stopped talking.

Laurent’s stomach twisted into hard knots when he heard the giggling and moaning. Without warning, his knees gave out beneath him and he fell to the hay-strewn floor, eyes crumpling into a mask of inconceivable pain.

“All this time,” he whispered in horror. “All this time and I never knew. He had never loved me. He was never like me, was he?” He muffled his cry of anguish with his bag. Color bloomed in his cheeks as the tears poured relentlessly down his face; his nose stuffed up and his lips quivered spasmodically.

“Maud…” he whimpered.

One of the horses whinnied, interrupting the couple and Laurent’s pathetic crying. He wiped away his tears with a fisted hand, flared cuff irritating his already inflamed skin. He could just barely make out Maud’s hushed words, but hearing those words of love and endearment on his lips only served to further depress the prince.

Eventually it grew quiet again and Laurent was able to push himself to his feet and stagger out into the relatively cool air of the night. It cleared his head and dried his tears as they fell, and he was able to breathe more freely now that he was getting further away from his old life.

He walked with his head down, so as not to attract attention. But in doing so, his mind began to wander and he lost track of where he was. The streets began to all look the same, blurring into one image around him.

After all that he had promised to give me. After all those times he had said he loved me, was it all just a lie? Am I really unlovable? Was he right in saying that I had no actual power over him? Laurent’s self-doubt was a hungry thing. It devoured his insides and twisted his thoughts, pushing him further towards the edge of depression than he would care to go. Or was that the problem? Did I cause this to happen by ordering him around all the time?

He was suddenly seized with a tender flashback, though the lancing pain ricocheting through his body was anything but.

The flickering flames of the candles cast their long shadows on the wall. The fire that had been roaring in the grate an hour ago was close to extinguishing, all that remained of it being a few dismal embers. The room itself was large and opulent, sparsely decorated with naught but a large four poster and a few scattered settees.

Maud and Laurent were twined together like one being, each with their arms around the other. The blonde was gentle, his tongue curiously probing Laurent’s mouth, his hands tangling into the prince’s hair.

Laurent hitched his leg up around Maud’s hip, hesitantly, with a tangible nervousness. Even after the last hour, he was still uncertain of himself, of what he was doing.

“Laurent,” Maud whispered into his lover’s ear, nibbling on his lobe.

The prince chuckled as Maud ran his tongue over his cheek, rolling over on top of him. He was careful to hold his weight away from Laurent’s body, just far enough that he could feel every hard, muscular line of him.

Thelsamar’s royal heir brushed away a few dangling locks of Maud’s hair. “I think I love you,” he murmured shyly, eyes reflecting his inner turmoil.

Someone rudely bumped into him and he snapped back to reality. “Hey!” he cried in surprise, that royal tone creeping into his voice. “Return my belongings at once!”

He took off after the nimble thief, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch him, nor was he familiar enough with the streets to find his way out of the maze of deserted roads. He came to a slow stop and put his hands on his knees, panting heavily. The stitch in his side stabbed him with fiery pain for every deep breath he took.

“Damn,” he cursed, wincing and rubbing at his bruised hip. Laurent was at a loss for what to do. He hadn’t even been in the city for an hour before he had lost his things and his way.

Yes, he was definitely regretting the hasty decision to leave. But when he thought of the reasons for his departure, he didn’t feel quite as bad about the leaving, only worse about the hurt.

He leaned weakly against a nearby wall and tilted his head up towards the sky. He could no longer see the moon, but the night was cut through by an ebon swathe of cloth that was dusted with a faint glimmering of stars.

“Somewhere from up there, Mother is watching me. Or so they have told me. Mother, if you really are there in the sky, I hope you are watching me forge my own path. Is that not what you told me I should do? I may not like this, but I am trying. I am trying for you and for me, because I could never try for anyone else.”

Laurent shoved away from the wall and loped off in a random direction, hoping that it would lead him to the air-ship docks. His lips were set into that determined line again, though his eyes were still curiously blank and haunted. He could feel that; he knew it instinctually. The prince had suffered a wound that would take a long time to heal, and at the time, he didn’t think it ever would.

As he had hoped, the road he had taken had lead him straight to the air-ship docks. At least something had gone right that evening.

The sight was breathtaking, heart stopping. He had never seen anything so monstrously beautiful in his entire life. Ships of every size and type lined the docks, all earth-shatteringly lovely, only to the untrained eye. Most of them were low-class merchant ships, manned by sorry excuses for sailors, and so rickety that they should have been decimated years ago. Parts were literally falling off of the masts and hulls.

There was a ship as large as the palace itself, one of the fancy new passenger liners he assumed. Lights twinkled in the portholes and windows of the hull; tinkling laughter and gay music could be heard drifting through the corridors.

Off in the distance behind it, Laurent made out something far away and sparkling. That was what stole his breath and his heart, for he knew that that was the direction his destiny lay.

As the ship drew nearer, it began to pick up speed, as if it were intending to crash into the liner. Panicked and terrified screams whistled through the air like an arrow. “It’s the Silver Dragon!” he heard. He was instantly seized with a kind of ecstatic fear.

The Silver Dragon! No one who saw the Silver Dragon ever lived to tell the tale. It was one of the most infamous, notorious pirate ships in all of the Great Sky, and none knew who captained it. But what was it doing here? in a relatively quiet city with nothing to offer except wine, women, and nobles for the slaughter?

Ah, therein lay his answer: nobles for the slaughter. The Silver Dragon was on a raid in his city, his city! No. He shook his head. It wasn’t his city anymore. He owned nothing but the clothes on his back now.

“I owe no allegiance to a city and people whom have betrayed me,” he uttered into the chaotic night.

Screams echoed all around as the Silver Dragon crashed into the liner, smashing it into smithereens. A fire suddenly roared into life, not thirty feet from where Laurent stood. He watched it, transfixed by the dancing flames, so unlike a real fire. They were too bright, too hot, or was he only imagining it?

People began to flood the streets to see what the commotion was all about, and then pandemonium broke loose. Screaming and yelling, trampling, biting, pushing and shoving everywhere. Laurent was jostled to and fro, from person to person, amassing a collection of dark bruises, until the crowd finally managed to pull him under the tide, crushing him beneath their frenzied bodies.

Thunder roared overhead, at least he assumed it was thunder, and he cringed mentally and physically. He had never liked storms.

Someone stepped on his hand and he screamed in pain, feeling bones shatter and snap. After that he curled into a ball to minimize the target, as he had been taught to do in an assassination attempt.

The trampling began to slow. The screams intensified and an inferno of heat blazed all around him. He smelled burning flesh and singed hair; the scent made him gag as he slowly uncurled himself to find the whole of the city burning around him.

People ran through the streets, crying for loved ones, cradling bleeding stumps against chests, bodies pillars of flame. Blood ran in rivers through the streets, staining the stone red. Fire ate away at the dead and dying. It was chaos, pandemonium, true fear made real.

Laurent pushed himself to his knees, cradling his broken hand gingerly against his chest. He hissed in pain when he accidentally moved his fingers too much. Tears were running in torrents down his cheeks, his skin red and blotchy, eyes clouded with pain and fatigue, mouth opened in an undignified O of surprise. The color drained from his face; in the midst of the flames, he saw the familiar form of Maudiin.

“MAUD!” he called hoarsely. “Maudiin! No!” He staggered to his feet and sprinted to the man who had once loved him, falling to his knees, body shaking.

“Maud,” he croaked, gently cupping the blonde’s cheek in his undamaged hand. “Oh, what did they do to you?”

Maudiin’s throat was ripped away to the bone, his chest covered in deep gashes and lacerations. Half his face was burned away and the rest of his body was smoldering, slowly incinerating. A steel long sword was fused to his hand and it was all Laurent could do to keep from howling in anguish.

“Raze it to the ground, boys!” came a captain’s sharp command from over the roar of the blazing inferno. “Burn it all! Captain Grall leaves no man, woman or child alive!”

His men answered in unison with a “For the Black Dawn!”

The Black Dawn? Had he heard correctly? Hadn’t the people yelled earlier that the incoming ship was the Silver Dragon?

The Black Dawn was a worse ship than the Silver Dragon. It’s captain was a vicious, cruel man, who razed villages to the ground for the fun of it, not for the plunder.

Laurent’s heart sank. It was that exact moment that he was cuffed in the back of the head; darkness claimed him. (4697)