Quieter Than Night
"Hah... hah..."
The last man left alive from the village kept walking.
In truth, calling what he was doing walking might have been an insult to the word itself.
One leg would not move properly. One arm hung limp, without a shred of strength left in it. His throat was scorched by fire, scraping raw with every breath as if he were swallowing iron filings, and smoke still seemed to linger deep inside his lungs.
Even so, he moved.
He crawled. He fell. He got up again. He dragged his body forward.
Even when his fingernails snagged on tree roots so hard they nearly tore free, he did not stop. Even when his knees split open on stones, he did not stop. Even when the soles of his feet clotted with blood and dirt, he did not stop.
He had to live.
He had to survive and speak.
That there had been a witch. That there had been a witch who commanded dragons. That the monster who burned the village had bowed its head before that woman. That the black dragon had halted at a single word from her lips.
He had to tell someone that truth.
That woman. The witch who commanded dragons.
He had never asked her name. He had not wanted to. To him she was not a person who possessed a name.
Silver hair. Red eyes. A beauty that made everything else vanish from sight. A gentle voice. A devil. Far closer to that than to anything human.
She had not shouted. She had not howled. She had offered no excuses. She had simply spoken, quietly, as if she already knew everything, as if she understood it all.
Live.
Breathe.
A name does not burn completely until the living speak it.
Those words had stayed strangely fixed in his mind. He did not want to believe them. He did not want to carry even one of her sentences. He did not want to nod at anything that woman said.
And yet, every time his feet refused to move. Every time his breath seemed about to break. Every time he wanted to fall and simply close his eyes—those words rose again.
A name does not burn completely until the living speak it.
"Milia…"
He called his daughter's name through lips crusted with dried blood. Almost no sound came out. The name scattered smaller than the wind. But he spoke it. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Milia."
Each time he said it, his chest tore open. Still he spoke. Not because he feared forgetting. He could not forget. He spoke to keep confirming that he would not forget the unforgettable—the uniquely human bastardry of refusing to look at every sin he had committed and seeing only what he had lost.
The forest was long. The road from the village to the city had never been short even at the best of times. A healthy man on foot needed half a day; a cart would only reach the foot of the walls after the sun had begun to sink. Now he had no cart, no horse, and no working legs.
His burned clothes clung to his body. Blood from his wounds clotted and split open again and again. Ash and sweat mixed and hardened on his skin. Still he walked.
Night arrived. The sun dropped behind the mountains and the forest's shadows stretched long across the ground. Birdsong vanished; the sounds of insects took their place. Darkness settled slowly.
An ordinary person would have feared that darkness. But he had already seen something far more terrifying. He had watched houses burn. He had heard people scream. He had seen an entire village end when a dragon exhaled. After that, the dark of the forest was nothing. It should have been nothing.
And yet something felt wrong. He looked back again and again. He had the sense that someone was following him. It might have been the wind. It might have been his senses dulled by too much blood lost. It might have been leaves stirring, dry branches snapping, night animals brushing through the undergrowth.
But it was strange. There was no sound. If someone were following, there should have been sound. Footsteps. The crack of twigs. Breathing. There was nothing. And the nothing made it stranger still.
He stopped. He swallowed hard. His heart pounded inside his ears.
"Who's there…"
Almost no voice came out. There was no answer. Leaves stirred. Far off, a night bird cried. He stared into the dark a long while, then turned again. He had to go. He had to reach the city. Walls. Guards. Light. People. A place where people were. A place where someone would listen. He had to get there.
He walked again. His steps grew slower and slower. Pain climbed his thighs with every stride; something inside his ribs felt ready to tear. His body kept listing to the right. Time after time he caught himself against a tree. Bark drove into his palms. He still would not let go. If he fell, he was not sure he could rise again.
"Milia…"
He called the name once more.
People never know the last time. They eat a meal without knowing it is the last. They close a door, wave a hand, say see you later—and only much too late do they learn that later never comes.
He clenched his teeth.
"I'll tell them."
He spoke into the forest.
"I'll be the one to tell them."
He did not know whom he was addressing. His dead daughter. The burned village. Or the witch who had let him live.
"I'll live and speak, just like you said."
He exhaled roughly.
"And after that, I'll come kill all of you."
The forest gave no answer. Only, from very far away, a wind rose. And within that wind, a strange sound seemed to mingle.
Sagak.
He stopped. That sound just now had not been the wind. Not leaves brushing. Something like metal scraping very thinly. Something sharp just grazing the air as it passed.
He turned his head slowly. There was nothing. Only darkness. Trees. Undergrowth. Black spaces the moonlight never touched. He swallowed. His throat burned dry.
"Who's there."
This time he spoke a little more clearly. No answer came. He held his breath and waited a long while. Nothing happened. Yet it was strange. The forest was too quiet. The insects that had been calling moments before, the small animals that had been moving in the distance—all of it was gone. As if the entire forest were holding its breath.
He edged backward. His foot came down on a single twig.
Crack.
He startled more at that sound than anything else. Gritting his teeth, he turned forward again. He had to keep going. He must not stop. The city was close now. The forest was growing lower. Between the trees a faint light showed. At first he thought it was starlight. It was not. The swaying glow was torchlight. Night fires set along the tops of the walls.
The city.
His eyes went wide. He could see it. Beyond the dark, low walls. Shadows of people moving along the battlements. Still far, but visible. His cracked lips split and bled, yet he smiled.
"Milia."
He called the name almost as if weeping.
"I can see it."
He only had to reach the gate. Tell the guards. That the village had burned. That there had been a dragon. That there had been a witch. That dragons were hiding beyond the mountain range. That people had to be sent at once.
No.
Should they not be sent?
He wavered for a moment. If they went, more would die. Knights, mages, an army—any of them would die if they met those dragons. That black dragon. Those golden eyes. The small woman who had stood before them. The instant he remembered, the torchlight on the walls suddenly looked far too weak.
Human fire is small. It lights a village, shows the night road, warms a pot, thaws cold hands. Dragon fire is different. It ends a village. He had already seen that truth.
Still he had to speak. If he did not speak, nothing would begin.
He moved again. One step. Another. The light on the walls drew a little nearer. Now he could even make out the flags beside the gate, stirring slowly in the night wind. He lifted a hand. He had to raise his voice. It was still far, but if he shouted, they might hear.
"He—"
His throat split. The sound would not come properly. He dragged in another breath. His lungs felt as if they were tearing.
"Here—!"
That was the moment.
Sagak.
A very small sound. This time it came from right beside him.
Before he could even turn his head, he felt his body toppling forward. At first he thought his foot had caught on a stone. Then he thought the ground had given way. Then he understood. The pain arrived far too late. A wound that passes too cleanly is something the body does not immediately grasp.
A beat late, he looked down. His legs were gone. From the knees down, they had vanished as if they had never been attached at all. Blood surged only afterward.
"Aaaagh!!!"
The scream tore through the forest. He collapsed onto the earth. His fingernails clawed at the dirt. He tried to drag himself, but his legs would not follow. Pain crashed over him all at once. His burned throat tore open again.
"Aaaagh! Aaaagh!"
The torchlight on the walls swayed far away. Had someone heard? They had to hear. Please. Someone had to hear. He stretched out a hand. Toward the city. Toward where people were. Toward where the living were.
"Here—!"
The words never finished. The air in front of him rippled. At first he thought it was tears. That pain was shaking his vision. It was not.
Under the moonlight, space that had held nothing slowly peeled away.
Charr-rr-rr-rrk…
Scales flipped and light twisted. The air split. A silhouette that should not have been there took shape. Steel-colored scales. Cloudy silver eyes. Thin, sharp lines running along the edges of wings. The invisibility was dissolving.
There stood Masor.
Without sound. Without breath. As if he had been there from the beginning.
The survivor's eyes went wide. He had never seen this dragon. An invisible dragon. A dragon quieter than the dark of the forest. A dragon that only revealed itself after severing his legs.
Masor looked down at him. The emotion in those eyes was too faint to read by any human measure. Only one thing was certain. Masor had come to stop him. To stop him from entering the city. To stop him from speaking.
The survivor's lips trembled.
"Wi—"
Witch. He tried to say it. But his throat locked. Blood and pain and terror tangled together; no words came.
Masor stepped closer. Or rather, it was hard even to call it a step. There was no sound. It was impossible to tell whether his feet had touched the ground at all. Yet the distance shrank.
The survivor tried to crawl backward. His nails dug furrows in the dirt. Blood ran from the stumps of his legs. His body would not obey. The city's lights were still visible. Too close. Cruelly close. He stretched out a hand.
"S-save…"
He did not know whom he was begging. The city. Masor. Or the woman who had sent him away alive.
Masor did not answer. He was a dragon who could not speak. Instead, his scales gave a small vibration.
Sagak.
That sound resembled nothing in memory. It was like a blade leaving its sheath. Like ice splitting in the thinnest possible sheet. Like a living thing realizing its own end.
Tears ran down the survivor's face.
"Milia…"
He called his daughter's name. This time very softly. In a voice that could never reach the walls.
"I'm sorry…"
Masor's eyes moved the slightest fraction. Whether he understood the meaning of that name was impossible to know. Likely he did not. Masor did not know human names. Masor did not know a child who hated the crusts of bread. Masor did not know the hands that had pounded on a cellar door. What he saw was something else entirely.
A human who had cursed his mother. A human who would speak of the Dragons' Valley. A human who had nearly reached the city. A threat. Dragons do not leave threats alive for long.
Masor had heard many of Lakia's words.
Being invisible doesn't help.
Don't stand behind me without a sound.
Don't go too far.
If you go so far I can't find you when I call, you're in trouble.
Little ones aren't toys.
Think before you kill.
He had heard them. For five hundred years he had heard them. But Lakia was not here now. Lakia's hands were not here. Lakia's eyes were not here. Lakia's gentle voice was not here. If she had been, she would probably have stopped him.
"Masor."
She would have called him that way.
"No."
And then Masor might have halted. But Lakia was not in the forest tonight. The city's lights were close, the survivor's mouth was not yet closed, and Masor had already finished thinking.
The survivor tried to scream again.
"Here—! Sa—!"
Sagak.
This time the voice cut off. Very briefly. Very cleanly.
The forest grew quiet once more. The torchlight on the walls still swayed. Far away, one guard seemed to turn his head, but he saw nothing. Night wind stirred the leaves. The smell of blood spread low along the ground.
Masor stood there for a time. With his cloudy silver eyes he regarded the forest path that ran near the city. Lights. Walls. People. And the road that led toward them. He looked at that road, then slowly turned his head.
Moonlight slid across his scales. The steel-colored outline began to blur again. The tips of his wings vanished first. Then the line of his neck, then his claws; the cloudy silver eyes lingered last before melting into the dark. Invisibility unfolded once more. It looked as if nothing were there at all. Only, on the forest path, broken footprints and blood that had stopped flowing remained.
Masor turned without a sound. He was returning to the valley.
Lakia did not know. In the middle of the burned village, the Lakia who had vowed not to forget the survivor's name and his daughter's name did not know. That the person she had spared had stopped before the city. That his mouth had closed. That the easiest path she herself had refused to take had been walked in her place by another of her children.
Dragons are not evil. But neither are they good. Dragons learn. Yet older than anything they learn is instinct.
Masor loved Lakia, his mother. So he stopped it. Masor believed the valley had to be protected. So he cut it short. Masor did not know the name of that man's daughter. So he did not hesitate.
Sagak.
In the night forest, one more very small sound of scales rang out. And then was gone.
"What was that noise just now… ugh… uwaaagh…!"
The corpse was not found until long after Masor had already reached the valley.