I had watched those same shells be catapulted against the walls of Jewel of the Northern Sea and seen the white flame, merciless and bright, burn its way through stone and steel and any poor soul that stood in its way. Hungrily, it had devoured everything, like boiling water through ice, hissing, and pulsing in rhythm with the relentless drums.
Even from afar, on the hill where I stood, over the deafening sounds of the drums, I could hear the screams of terror from those who met their end in the white flames. I could hear the cracking of the ancient stone, echoing as thunder. I could see and hear and smell the devastation this ancient magic wrought on a city previously unconquerable, now falling apart in front of a force so ancient and powerful they never stood a chance.
Even for a seasoned soldier, it was haunting. Had the Old Gods still had their eyes on the continent, I suspect they too would have shuddered at the sight, even if they no longer cared for those who dwelled here.
And it had all been for this. For this… feeble, old man, his face covered in blood, his once white robes shredded and charred to dirty grey, his arms hoisted above his head in chains, forcing him to stay on his feet. His eyes, however – piercing dark blue and alert – were fixed on me in a way that made me question whether he truly appreciated his position.
It was almost jarring. All that death, all that destruction – for this. For a fleeting moment, my thoughts wandered to the small boy whose passing I had eased mere hours before. A child who would never grow old, would never see the sun rise over his city again. And all of it, all this ruin, for a decrepit old man in filthy robes.
Was this truly worth it? A part of me recoiled at the thought. Even my Mother’s logic, ruthless as it was, seemed strained by such a grotesquely disproportionate cost.
And yet, it wasn’t the first time. Cities that bent the knee still burned. Villages dragged their elders forward, trembling, thinking it would spare them – only to watch the fires take root anyway. Sometimes prisoners were caged and sent off, their names forgotten by the time the ashes cooled. But this… the precision of it, felt different.
I approached slowly, the acrid smell of smoke and blood swirling in the air between us. Despite his condition – his frailty, the chainsdigging into his wrists – the old man stood tall. His eyes never wavered from mine, sharp-edged, as if he knew something I didn’t.
“Is this what she sends her daughter for? To chain an old man?” His voice was oddly soft, gentle almost. There was no fear in it. I didn’t quite know what to make of this old man, but I knew better than to underestimate the enemies of my Mother.
“You tell me.” I said, arching an eyebrow. “Would the Sorcerer Queen burn down an entire city just to find a feeble old man to toy with?”
The old man smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of joy – it was something deeper, something unsettling. “The truth cannot be spoken in haste, child. It is learned and uncovered, piece by piece.” His eyes narrowed slightly, as if considering me. “I wonder if you will learn it in time.”
“I’m not the one who’s running out of time.” By now I had breached the distance between us, faster than I had thought I had, and more annoyed than I thought I would be. My Mother always spoke in riddles, speaking endlessly without saying anything, and it had always made me feel dull-witted and dense. And I knew she did it deliberately: I had not inherited the ancient magic she wielded and therefore could not possibly understand the musings of great minds who could cast fire into shells and fear into drums. I was a disappointment and a shame to the name of her great house. Perhaps that was why she kept the truth so close. Whatever drove her to burn so much and explain so little, she never offered. Sometimes I thought her wrath simply outpaced her logic – a decision made before thought had time to follow. I’d seen it – the lash before the challenge, the fury before the question.
“Not everyone can be blessed with the Dragon Fire.” Mother would say, her voice dripping with finality. I heard those words more often than any praise.
The Dragon Fire. It was said that this magic was stolen long ago from those fiery creatures. For centuries, it had passed through thedaughters of my bloodline, shaping rulers of great cities, seekers of knowledge, advisors, and even warriors who tipped the scales of war.
For countless seasons, however, the Sisters who wielded the flame became a whispered legend, their practices hidden, their presence rarely glimpsed. Only the Sorcerer Queen, my Mother, had broken their long silence, her fire a terrifying beacon across the lands.
But I? I carried steel instead of flame. A soldier, not a savant. A blade, not a burning legacy.
And even this was by my Mother’s design: “But anyone can wield a sword and die at the end of one. You should master that at least and make yourself useful.”
And I had. While my Mother’s power came from magic as ancient as the very foundations of the earth, mine had to come from something else – something far more tangible. It was made clear to me from a young age that the magic of our bloodline that had been expected to be my birthright would never burn through my veins, no matter how many hours I spent in the shadow of her power. But if my Mother wielded flames to control her dominion, I would command respect through something far more practical: the art of war.
My training began long before I was old or even fit enough to hold a blade. I was cast into the barracks, into the dust and dirt of the training grounds, alongside the very men and women who would one day serve under me. No special treatment was afforded to the Sorcerer Queen’s daughter. If anything, the expectations were higher. Every mistake was a mark against me, further proof that I lacked what would make me a worthy heir in my Mother’s eyes. And she never failed to remind me of it.
I knew what she wanted – what she had hoped. The barracks were not meant to shape me; they were meant to break me. She would have preferred that I crumble under the weight of failure, just another reminder of her disappointment. But I hadn’t. Every gruelling hour,every bruise, and every drop of blood spilt on the dirt only made me stronger. The weight of steel grew lighter, not because the blades had changed, but because I had.
Where my Mother saw war as a tool to enforce her will through terror, I saw it as an honest craft. Steel didn’t lie. It cut, it broke, it killed, but it didn’t deceive. In that, I found a purpose magic could never offer. War was not merely something I learned; it became something I mastered – the rhythm of my days and the measure of my worth.
I was a soldier, forged by the same trials as those who fought beside me. Their loyalty was not born of fear or title but earned through sweat, blood, and shared battles. I was their General because I had stood with them, bled with them, and led them – not because I carried her name.
Each victory, each scar, was earned in battle, not through the fickle whims of magic. My soldiers came to respect me because I did not hide behind the name of the Sorcerer Queen, nor did I cower in the shadow of her power. I became their equal, not by birthright, but in fellowship and kinship.
There were nights when I lay awake, the ache of battle seeping into my very bones, wondering if she would ever see me as a daughter instead of a disappointment – an heir without the birthright of magic. But in time, those thoughts had quieted. I needed her approval as much as I needed her magic, and that was not in the slightest anymore.
I was not the daughter my Mother had wanted, but I was the General her armies needed. And this old man, now standing in front of me, would show me the respect I had earned with my blood and my pain.
I raised my blade next to his ear, the vibration of quickly unsheathed steel ringing sharp and close. “So, speak. What does the Sorcerer Queen want with an old man in filthy rags?”
The old man’s expression remained unreadable, but his eyes, sharp and unyielding, seemed to pierce right through me. “The Sorcerer Queen sends her daughter because she is afraid.”
I froze, the blade still hovering but a breath away. “Afraid?” The word tasted strange in my mouth when paired with my Mother. I did not think she was capable of fearing anything. Loathing, yes. Scheming and abusing, yes. Fear? I don’t think I had ever seen her even flinch. Not even when she conjured horrors from the aether that would have driven most men insane.
She saw things none of us did – in fire, in ashes, in blood. And whatever she saw, it made her burn entire cities to dust.
I stepped back slightly, enough to look him in the eyes without the threat of steel between us. “You speak in riddles, old man. Speak plainly.”
