Destiny

The castle was veiled in shadows, inside and outside. The only light that endured Garnathor’s darkness was the moonsilver gem upon Elizabeth’s staff. She walked alone, with purpose, her every step echoing in the monstrous hallways. Cavernous and functional, Catherine’s Hold was intended to garrison thousands of soldiers, which in turn meant it was the perfect lair for a Dragon.

Elizabeth was quite pleased with what Garnathor had found, in terms of lodging, these last few centuries. It was… congenial, if nothing else. Other adjectives came to mind. Gargantuan, brutal… Garnathor could traverse the main corridors without breaking the bastion apart. Lonely, too. When she had first arrived, four years ago, she was weary of the dragon’s disposition. Never in their entire history had he asked for her help in such a forthright and desperate manner. Before settling in, Elizabeth had thought that perhaps she would have to fight Garnathor, or at least, subdue the Thread of Twilight in some way or another. Yet, the castle was pretty nicely kept–for a ruin, that is–and the Dragon was polite and civil. He thanked her for coming and asked only that she examine his condition. Elizabeth herself chose to stay, after that. Something about Garnathor gave her hope for a better tomorrow. The last few centuries had changed him. He was still haunted by his father’s death, thousands of years later, yet he was not so… wretched, as before.

There was a time, Elizabeth remembered quite clearly, when the Black Scourge raged against mortalkind, using the Thread of Midnight and his divine power to lay low nations entire, should they prove corrupt, or evil, or whatever else he thought justified his actions. He believed himself the judge of all that came after the Gods. The one thing he did not understand was the complexity of mortalkind. Some darkness is to be expected, in their societies, if only to contrast with their glow. The brightest light casts the largest shadows. Only the Teng could put a stop to his rampage.

If Garnathor was the same as he’d always been, he would have razed Iskendar to the ground before settling in Catherine’s Hold. The capital, at the very least. Its corruption, its dishonor, its lies; those were the exact motivators that had led him to act countless times before. And yet, of his own accord, he chose a faraway location, a bastion taken over by undead, to live out his most worrisome years.

That is what convinced Elizabeth to stay. Even after all he had done, he deserved some grace. And of course, if it wasn’t for the Tears of the Moon she so dutifully provided, Garnathor would have been taken over by twilight and darkness long ago.

It was indeed the fact he no longer indulged those wicked tendencies that rotted him so. The Thread of Midnight was restless. Garnathor had snubbed it for too long. And Elizabeth was proud of him for that. As long as he showed that resolve, even if it was barely a spark, the Princess would nurture it until it became a flame. She still held faith, not only in mortalkind, but in her old friend, the firstborn of Marduk, champion of the Gods.

They were running low on Tears of the Moon. At this rate, she would have to create almost a hundred vials per year. And of course, the “honorable knights” situation was draining both Garnathor and her. There were so many of them lately. She had to keep track of each one, know when they would arrive, and prepare the play. Elizabeth was determined not to kill them, though truthfully, that would have been a much easier solution. So, she had proposed an act. A theater, to chase the knights away.

It worked, most definitely. Yet perhaps the increasing rate at which knights and armies marched on Catherine’s Hold had something to do with Elizabeth’s role. She had joked about it in the early morning, but both she and the Dragon knew it had some truth about it. The Iskendarian knights wanted her.

Perhaps they thought she would pine desperately for them, after having saved her from the fearsome dragon. Perhaps they thought she would be a very interesting political asset for their plays of power. Regardless, the number of knights that came to liberate the hold had increased substantially in the last several years.

They would have to rethink their strategy, but for now, she would continue playing the helpless victim, at least for the Purple Knight. Meeting the knight’s expectations of what a dragon, or in fact, a captive princess, would look like was paramount for the Iskendarians to run away. Once or twice, Garnathor and her tried to welcome the young men with open arms and explanations, but it just became more trouble than it was worth. Mortals did not budge on their ideals, even when confronted with direct evidence. They always found an explanation to maintain their false view of the world. “Oh, she must be under his control! He charmed her! Poor girl… What a devil you are, dragon! Die, wicked devil-dragon!”

And they went on and on; even after being explicitly told she did not want to leave the castle, that she was there by choice. Once, Garnathor hid in the east tower while Elizabeth tried to deal with the would-be heroes. She ended up having to knock them out, as they attempted to forcefully remove her from Catherine’s Hold. They were so sure about it, too, as if their pretentious heroism gave them the right to choose for her. A princess that ends up in a castle with a dragon as her sole companion and remains there for several years is clearly not a helpless girl.

The fact of the matter was this; better to stoke their delusions than to attempt to change their rigid minds. Humans were indeed quite interesting, in that regard, for they lived so little in comparison to immortals such as Garnathor or Elizabeth yet believed they had figured out the whole of existence in 50 short years. And those were considered the wise ones. Most knights that came to Catherine’s Hold were barely twenty. Young and foolish and deathbound. As if the most important thing they would ever do was die in some… heroic way.

In truth, they fascinated Elizabeth to no end.

The Princess arrived at the main hall some minutes before the Purple Knight was due to enter. He would push open the black double-gates of the Hold, at the far end of the hall, and find the Princess trapped in a cage of black iron. They had the whole thing rehearsed. Garnathor would swoop down through the cracks in the ceiling and the play would begin.

The main hall was a spacious, ruined room, a garrison meant for a thousand soldiers. Torn banners, their colors faded and worn, stirred faintly, as a small wind, like the whisper of a ghost, wound through the forsaken space. In the gloom, the remnants of a once-magnificent throne lay shattered to the other side of the gates. Elizabeth sat in that crumbling seat, raising her moonsilver staff in an illusory spell. Black bars appeared from the ground, dripping in tar, as if conjured from the darkest pits of hell, surrounding her in what appeared to be a spiked, evil-looking cage. Though light such as hers could reveal, it could trick the eye just as easily.

There she remained, alone in the dark hall, waiting for the other actors to join her theater. Though she was born of moonlight, she much enjoyed the dark, especially in moments like these. The shadows that clung to her frame as she waltzed through the Hold. The veil that hid her in perpetual night while she slept. The enveloping, reassuring twilight of Garnathor that hug her like an old friend. The Thread might have been volatile, difficult to handle, and somewhat dangerous to carry, but it quite enjoyed Elizabeth’s company, much like the Dragon himself.

Divine domains were so complicated. They carried such sentiment. They changed their wielders profoundly, sometimes even turning them into a tool for their own purposes. Garnathor carried Twilight, just as she carried the Moon. In times past, when the Threads were commonplace and their bearers celebrated, they were called Wielders of Divinity. Elizabeth often thought of those years.

The Princess let her staff disappear in white mist. She was to appear helpless, after all. Her marble eyes were fixed on the black gates, yet she saw so much further than that. Blessed with the revealing gaze of the moon, her sight pierced Garnathor’s overbearing twilight, through darkness and flagstone. She could see all that occurred in the Dragon’s domain; she only needed to focus her eyes and, wherever moonlight reached, she could see.

There he was. The Purple Knight crossed the ruined bridge with haste, having defeated the twilight spawn around the castle quite easily. His armor was magical, Elizabeth could tell. It covered him from head to toe in gleaming mauve plate, shimmering even through the deep twilight that surrounded Catherine’s Hold. The princess was impressed. Magical plate meant the knight was probably not from Iskendar, though that wretched kingdom always seemed to make exceptions for magical items, should they benefit their interests. Elizabeth’s gaze, powerful as it was, could not pierce through the knight’s armor, which meant it had some traces of protection against spells and other effects. Advanced sygaldry. The mysterious hero did not ride a horse, which made his early arrival that much stranger.

The Purple Knight carried a sword in one hand and a shield in the other as he pushed open the black gates of the hold, charging in without a second thought. Elizabeth smiled, excited for the coming encounter. She would be lying if she said she did not enjoy the pesky knights.

The newcomer stalked through the hall, slowly shifting his gaze across the darkness. A powerful wind ran through the open doors and howled against the vaulted ceilings, shifting the layers of dust and enveloping the knight in a cold embrace, as if extending the Hold’s very own chilling welcome. The slow dripping of water on stone, the powerful winds of the mountain pass, the ever-present ghastly glow that filtered through the twilight; it was most assuredly a sight to behold, a melody to remember. Elizabeth remembered the first time she walked through those doors, the abandoned hall of Catherine’s Hold extending her that same melancholic invitation. A forgotten, buried place that still believed itself alive, reaching for the living with desperate tendrils of obscurity, wanting to somehow be used, once more, as it had been centuries ago. To be filled with the roar of laughter, to be celebrated with feasts and parties, to house thousands of lives within its sturdy walls. It was quite fitting that Garnathor chose such a place to settle in.

The Purple Knight had yet to see her; the twilight of the room was still too dense for a mortal’s eyes to see very far. He raised his sword, looking from side to side. Suddenly, the gates behind him shut closed in a violent swing that reverberated through the hall. Darkness gathered at the feet of the knight, and a powerful growl bellowed across the hall. A pretty cheap trick, Elizabeth thought, but quite an effective one. Then, the echoing growl became a resounding chuckle, that slowly faded across the darkness, as if the dragon had already taken note of the intruder. Garnathor had practiced his evil laughter many times before, perfecting the ominous and arrogant tone that preceded his arrival. Elizabeth was, frankly, quite proud of him, taking into account how terrible his acting was the first few times. Once, he was so ashamed of his performance he asked her to modify his memory, if only to be able to try again uninhibited.

When the laughter faded into echo, Elizabeth let out an anguished wail. She was ready to enter the play.

“Oh, noble knight!” The Princess spoke with an almost comical amount of distress in her voice. “You must run! Run while you still have the chance! The Dragon… he is coming!”

The knight turned, taking notice of her for the first time as the twilight became less prevalent. Elizabeth looked at the knight with a well-rehearsed, desperate expression, extending one hand through the made-up bars of black iron, as if reaching for the newcomer. The knight began to move towards her with purpose, his expression unreadable beneath the plate armor. His actions, however, conveyed a profound resolve, a soldier’s determination. He was on guard and had not been shaken by the act so far. Elizabeth was impressed. By this point, many others usually began loudly calling out to the dragon in defiance, as a way to mask their own crippling fear. The Purple Knight was showing the mark of a true warrior.

“Who dares…” The booming voice of Garnathor suddenly echoed through the ruined hall, startling even Elizabeth, who was very much aware it was coming.

“WHO DARES TRESPASS IN MY CASTLE!?”

From the jagged fractures in the once-magnificently arched ceiling, the slithering form of Garnathor plunged like a dark mass, followed by a shadowy afterimage of blues and reds and purples, almost indistinguishable from each other because of how terribly dark they were. Living shadow seemed to drip from his scales like oil, black smoke rising from his nostrils like a chimney. His maw, filled with jagged, obsidian-like teeth, parted to release a low, guttural growl that reverberated through the ruins as he gracefully descended into the hall, shaking the ancient stone walls with his landing.

Garnathor stood proud between the purple knight and the captive princess. Even though he would deny it, that moment, that instant of villainous greatness felt incredibly satisfying. That was another reason why Elizabeth pushed for the Dragon to follow through with this little act of theirs. Even though they were pretending, playing a role, allowing Garnathor to let go of his inhibitions every once in a while… It tempered his psyche. It was cathartic for him, as well as for the Thread.

“It’s too late, hero! You must run! This was all a trap!” Elizabeth screamed over the rumbling sounds of Garnathor’s gargantuan form, slowly marching towards the purple knight. “Go away, please! I cannot bear the blood of another noble and fearless man on my hands!” That was often enough for the young and foolish to relent. Faced with the terrible shadow-forged dragon and urged by the princess to save themselves, the instinct of self-preservation tended to… well, prevail. Garnathor made himself look even bigger, his massive wings unfurling into shades of night and twilight, their edges dissipating into misty tendrils of darkness. With a bat of his wings, dark winds howled across the main hall, whipping up a storm of dust, uprooting stone debris, and opening the black gates in one powerful burst. That was the moment when most decided to make a run for it, chased by the dragon until they were far away from Catherine’s Hold.

Only, this knight did not budge. The powerful wind didn’t even seem to push him back an inch. On the contrary, the silent, determined hero continued to run straight into the maws of the dragon. Both Elizabeth and Garnathor were a little taken aback.

“You…” the shadow-scaled Wielder of Twilight took a step back. “Wait!”

The man did not care at all. He charged, his shield up, his sword raised. He was a little bit too fast. Elizabeth got up from her seat, bewildered. Garnathor did not have much time to think and instinctively swiped at the knight with his claw. The attack enveloped the knight like nightfall, smashing the would-be hero to the ground in one fell swoop. There was a moment of silence, as the dust settled around Garnathor’s massive claw. The knight had disappeared beneath the dragon’s appendage, like a bug squashed under a boot.

“Did you kill him?” asked Elizabeth in disbelief.

“I…” Garnathor willingly stopped himself shimmering in shades of twilight, the two pits of red that were his eyes slowly turning back into his usual golden gaze. “He just… he ran at me like…”

“Oh… Oh moon. I think you killed him.”

Garnathor straightened and shifted uncomfortably. “What did you mean for me to do? He jumped at me, blade aloft. He was going for my heart.”

“And you are a dragon, Garnathor. A DRAGON!” Her voice was suddenly flooded with anger. “A sword can hardly scratch you!”

“I did not… It was instinct. A bug can hardly harm a human, but you swat them away all the same. Are you telling me I should have let him go for the kill? Who knows what sygaldry his blade–”

“I’m telling you to raise your blasted claw, Garnathor. Let me tend to the fool.” Elizabeth dispelled the iron bars and ran towards the knight, hoping that somehow, that magical suit of armor had saved the man from the weight of a hundred elephants. Garnathor quickly pulled his claw up…

But there was nothing. Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks. The dragon quickly looked around. There was a flash of purple light, and suddenly, Elizabeth was pinned to the ground, her arms held behind her back. She felt brilliant shackles coalesce around her wrists, and suddenly, her connection to the arcane dulled. She could no longer use her magic. She tried to move, but the chains were too tight.

“I’m sorry dear. You don’t get to play.” An aged, firm voice whispered in her ear, before the weight on her back subsided, leaving only the heavy, antimagic chains around her arms. It was a woman’s voice.

“Elizabeth!” Garnathor turned, fast as a shadow. Somehow, his distressed voice was a thousand times more menacing than the one he had used in his villainous act. The Dragon’s tail fell upon the intruder with enough power to shatter moonsilver.

The purple knight then proceeded to do something Elizabeth didn’t know was possible. She caught it. She caught the tail with both her arms, barely moving, stopping the powerful strike with one, equally powerful heave. This was no ordinary Iskendarian “hero.” Elizabeth cursed herself for not having noticed it. She was supposed to watch for potential threats. And yet, though the knight had seemed quite strong during her ascent towards Catherine’s Hold, it never occurred to Elizabeth that she could be this capable. This… unnaturally strong. It was clear the intruder knew she was being watched and did not show her true abilities, if only to catch the Dragon and the Princess by surprise.

“You!” Garnathor growled, his tail still in the hands of the Purple Knight. With a grimace, he pulled against his opponent, wrenching his spiked tail from the knight’s grasp. “Get. Off. Her.” Garnathor bellowed, his scales beginning to shimmer in shades of twilight. His golden gaze flickered, and in its stead, pools of red shone like bloody rubies in the dark.

“Oh, don’t make such a fuss, dear. It’s not like I would hurt her. For now, anyway.” The Purple Knight raised her sword, before stabbing it into the flagstone, missing Elizabeth by a hair. Garnathor let out a powerful roar, throwing himself unto the knight. In a flash of dark, Elizabeth felt the dragon pass right above her, grappling the Purple Knight with both his claws, and taking flight within the massive hall. Garnathor slammed the intruder against a wall, then flung the purple woman across the room and right unto one of the pillars that held up what remained of the arched roof, destroying both the column and bringing down part of the ceiling in the process.

“Get out of my bastion. GET OUT!” His voice was as deep as Elizabeth had ever heard it. She could feel the dragon’s rage, how the Thread of Midnight basked in Garnathor’s unrestrained fury. It was bad. It meant another episode. Elizabeth tried to stand to no avail. She fell face first into the rubble, her wrists tied with what appeared to be magical chains, coiling and twisting even harder when she tried to struggle.

“Garnathor!” she tried to speak, inhaling a mouthful of dust in the process. “Garnathor! She uses magic! She uses–” Elizabeth was cut off by a coughing fit. She spat some blood unto the stone. Garnathor was too far. He had taken flight once more and was now digging through the rubble like a mad dog. The Princess tried to stand, once more, yet found herself tripping over the chains. She felt frustration swell behind her eyes, as she struggled to free herself.

“So, this is the famous Wielder of Twilight. I’ve heard so much about you, dear.” A shimmering, purple light appeared near Elizabeth, as if opening a rift in reality. Before it, the Purple Knight, taking her helmet off to reveal a mass of long white hair. Garnathor did not seem to notice that his prey was elsewhere, still doggedly determined to find the intruder under the debris.

 Elizabeth met the stranger’s eyes. She had deep, violet irises, slightly creased cheeks, and a slim smile as she dropped the helmet to the ground. She had the audacity to wink at her, before staring straight ahead, focusing her gaze on the black dragon. “I am here to rescue you.”

Elizabeth scoffed.  “I don’t need any rescuing!”

“Oh, I was not talking to you,” rebuked the Purple Knight, taking a few steps forward, and speaking in a louder tone. “Your brother sent me here, Garnathor.”

The dragon turned abruptly, focusing his rageful gaze on the intruder. His rampage ceased, yet his shimmering scales meant that the Thread of Twilight was taking hold of his temperament. He would need a dose of Tears of the Moon, fast. Elizabeth struggled against her binds. “Whoever you are, lady, you need to free me and leave. You hear me? You need–”

Elizabeth was cut off by Garnathor’s mighty roar. The twilight realm around Catherine’s Hold began to glow in dark, ghostly shades of blue and purple. The color of corruption. The color of the dying light. The color of despair. Garnathor faced the intruder with a snarling, half-opened jaw, and eyes like twin pools of malevolent crimson, glowing embers casting an eerie light across the hall’s shattered pillars. There was no way to avoid a fight now.

In contrast to Elizabeth’s growing despair, the purple knight seemed even more focused than before, her sly smile turning into a determined frown. “He cannot control it, I see.” She spoke calmly, in a motherly sort of way. Her stance shifted, prepared to the coming storm. The Princess struggled again against her binds.

“Don’t be foolish!” Elizabeth pleaded. “Don’t fight him! Free me, I can calm him down, I swear!”

“If he cannot control the Thread, he is lost,” continued the woman, ignoring Elizabeth’s request. “Join us, if you can manage to get out of those binds.”

As Garnathor was preparing to pounce, the Princess gave the intruder an astonished, indignant look. “Who do you think you are? You think you can decide for him? You think it’s your call to make, you old, arrogant goat?” Elizabeth strained her voice and was struck by another harsh coughing fit. The purple knight smiled at the Princess’s words.

“Trust me,” she murmured, right as Garnathor broke into a mad dash, rapidly closing the distance between them. “Someone has to make the call, and at least I know what I am doing.”