Chapter 1: I don’t exist

In a sunlit corner of Halfhill’s marketplace stood a man with a vivid imagination and crude interpretation of truth. He had drawn a crowd and, to a certain young Aer’s surprise, not a single overripe tomato or rotten apple sailed through the air. Few storytellers dared to take the market-stage. While small flying produce was considered an occupational hazard, an adult dragon could lob a rotten pumpkin surprisingly far.

A combined group of Dragons and humans lead to strange sights for those new to the Kingdom of Sawaila. The crowd shifted like a colorful amalgamation of monotone tunics and wings, ranging from the metallic sheen of the Metia to the fiery hues of the Sol.

A young Aer dragoness weaved through the crowd with the nimble grace of a dancer or a duelist. Her head only reached up to a human’s throat, but she already brimmed with muscles that put others her age to shame and stood in stark contrast to the slender frame of an Aer. Her scales shimmered in sky-blue, like a clear horizon in spring.

She found a nice open space between a bored looking human woman and a concentrated Tira. The stout dragon twice her size, with scales the color of peat, strained his eyes as though he would miss a word if he blinked. That or his forward curving horns had grown into his field of view. Tira lacked wings that could touch her by accident and humans were quite good at keeping all of their limbs where they wanted them to be, so both of them made for perfect seatmates.

With her behind planted on the cold cobbles, tail neatly wrapped around her four legs, and personal space free of others, she started to watch.

The human storyteller pranced around on top of various wooden vegetable crates that were as diverse and colorful as the crowd and just as mismatched in height. She had never seen him before. Long and slim with bright hair, he looked like a fabulous stick of asparagus.

He was the first to draw such a large crowd in ages. Not even old Zamians' horrific horror nights caught the attention of that many. From what she picked up earlier, he recalled the story of Void for the thousandth time and closed in on the finale. Rise of Void, they called it lately as the focus shifted to making Void more monstrous than ever. It got worse every time they renamed it. Although something had grabbed the crowd’s attention and curiosity drove her to find out why.

“With an earth shattering boom, Void broke through the mountain-high temple doors and stood face to face with our two heroes!” The storyteller’s words commanded all attention back towards the stage. She had to give him credit for using his voice to full effect, raising and lowering it to a degree only the fine ears of an Aer could pick up on. But his prowess did not change the fact that he already forgot one hero. She shook her head. This didn’t bode well.

The storyteller hurried to the opposite side of the stage and his long, blonde hair struggled to keep up. “We will not let you destroy our world,” he barked, failing to imitate Dalian’s voice by making him sound like a barbarian with a sore throat. She snorted at the image in her head. Dalian’s intimidating voice might spook a wyvern on a windowsill and only if he really tried.

The storyteller sprinted to the other side and raised his arm to threaten his imaginary opponents. He lowered his voice to a deep, guttural growl and turned to the crowd. “You can’t stop me. I will sacrifice my daughter’s soul to collapse this world! Muhahahah.” He threw his arms wide open. “Sylph, smallest, broken and most frail of my clutch shall be your downfall.”

She smirked to herself. His voice work was impressive, but nobody could hope to achieve a voice as deep as Void’s, especially not a human. They forgot how big the black Sol had been. A fully grown dragon reached the size of a big draft horse, their heads a few inches above a human. Void could have fit an entire cavalry division under his wingspan. And yet a horse terrified her more than Void ever could. Their fleshy, long faces seemed eerily familiar and their deep black eyes looked frightened and unpredictable. It was like staring at a deadly ill dragon; the image sent a shiver down her spine.

The storyteller had switched sides once again and grasped at imaginary branches. “Stop!” he yelled, high-pitched as a lovesick teen.

She knew this was supposed to be Veria, and the desire to step in grew in her chest like a small flame. But maybe she should let him embarrass himself a little longer. She turned to look at the crowd. His mockery of a tale had their full attention.

“I have never told you I love you! You do? Yes!” the storyteller pressed his hand to his chest and stretched his arm out again.

She could vividly recall that day, and she’d rather not. The sight of twisted, charred bodies lining the cave floor, some of them still retching for breath, audible only to her. The image haunted her dreams for years until it faded into an emotionless fact. This idiot made it sound as though it had been romantic.

“Void jumped and pinned Veria to the ground. No! Magic blast!” The storyteller grinned as he raised his arm to the sky in triumph. A slim tendril of white light snaked out of his sleeve, coiled itself up his arm like a strand of web and formed a glowing ball on his fingertip. Sylph’s thoughts tumbled over themselves. Magic. He was a pathwalker. That was why he attracted the crowd.

The ball of light contracted like a beating heart and exploded in a flash that stirred her memories. She had an airship to catch and a surprise to deliver; she had no time to hang around watching age old performances. Then again, exposing his idiocy would be worth having to hurry later.

The crowd went wild. They cheered and laughed as they rubbed their eyes. The noise rose to unbearable, but her ears quickly closed up, dulling the crowd as though she had put her head underwater.

The storyteller pretended to fall off stage, hopped down and collapsed on the floor in a theatrical manner only an awful actor could pull off. “Nooooo!” The crowd clapped and only stopped when he returned on stage.

A pathwalker that told stories. That was nothing she had seen before. Most of them were scholars and spent their days in the guild. She took another look at his clothes. He wasn’t wearing a colored robe. Pathwalkers were normally very into color coding themselves.

“And that was the end of Void, and our two heroes lived happily ever after. Dalian married Veria and-”

His story, however, was utter wyverndung. “Let me stop you right there.” The words dropped from her mouth and echoed through the crowd like only critique could. They sucked in the cheers and left only silence in their wake.

The storyteller stopped mid-sentence, straightened up, and brushed back his luscious hair. He scanned the crowd for the person who would dare interrupt his performance. “Who said that?”

Her seatmates shot her a deadly glance, and the Tira took a generous step backwards to fully expose her to his gaze. “You, who might you be to interrupt my story?” He crossed his arms.

She took a confident step forward. Her heart beat quickened. She loved this part. “I know you change the stories, but this is awful.”

The storyteller crossed his arms even harder, then waved her complaint away with the swipe of his hand. “Maybe you should’ve been here from the beginning. No wonder you didn’t get it.”

Her gums twitched and revealed a row of blinking sharp teeth. She drew a scant breath before spitting out the next words. “I have heard enough. Why do all of you insist Veria married Dalian? That’s wrong on so many levels I lost count. You can ask them, they aren’t dead. They live in Carthia.”

She exhaled and turned to the crowd. They shrugged as a whole, unimpressed. A silent murmured spread through the ranks that mostly concerned her wings. “Shut up. Continue,” a Sol yelled in the back and she marked down the voice as one to remember. All eyes focused on her and the storyteller.

He cleared his throat. “Let me tell you how I know. I walk the path of Myria, of truth and law.”

“And light and illusion,” she added, “Your childish light-show has nothing to do with my question.”

“And I suppose a random Aer knows more about being a pathwalker than me. Am I right?” He asked the crowd, that chuckled slightly. His smug grin looked more and more slash-able the more words poured out. “I know a man in Carthia who saw it happen.” He turned away and focused back on the group. “You are simply too young to remember anything about the war and Void. I was already crafting exquisite tales on my father’s desk when the war came.”

Her claws scraped along the cobbles as she stepped closer and exposed her throat to him and the audience. “I am not that young.” She lifted her right pfod, her front paw, and scraped away at a thick layer of paint. A nasty pink scar that circled her entire neck emerged beneath. “And of course I know better.” She left a tense pause on purpose until she was sure every dragon and human listened. “I am Sylph, I was there.” She smiled as all attention gathered on her. They would start booing him in a few seconds.

The storyteller waved away her grand reveal with a single swipe of his hand. “A scar on your throat doesn’t make you Void’s daughter.”

Her tail twitched and smacked the floor. “I’m not Void’s daughter, that’s another part you got wrong,” Sylph hissed, “I am Veria’s daughter.” She lowered her head slightly, unintentionally. “Void saved me. That much is true. And no, he didn’t sacrifice me either. You are making him worse than he was.”

The storyteller broke out into laughter and a large part of the crowd joined in. Sylph stared at them in confusion, and heat crept up to her face. She was right; she had been there, she’d done this a few times before. It never went like this.

“Now, that’s a wild interpretation if I’ve ever heard one. Void killed thousands of people, had the dead on his side, and supposedly shoved someone’s soul into someone else. He was a monster.”

“None of these are wrong, but he had a good reason.” Sylph felt the glances harden on her back.

“Come on people, don’t get angry at someone for their interpretation of a story, as absurd as it may be,” the storyteller said. To her surprise, the crowd listened to him and focused back on the conversation. “Let’s give you the benefit of the doubt and see.” His gaze lingered on her. “I will assume the dragoness part is true, because I really can’t tell,” he said, and prompted a quiet snicker in the listeners.

“Yes, hilarious. Nobody can ever guess with us Aer. I have never heard that one before. Seriously, very impressive. You are truly a master of wits.” Sylph turned her side towards the stage and pointed at her back. “And look at that, I am pale-blue like story Sylph too. What a coincidence. Now wait until I tell you where I was born.”

“All Aers are built slim and long with scales in shades of blue,” the storyteller said and recrossed his arms. “That doesn’t help you. Sylph was described as tiny and a slave to a tribe far north.” His gaze lingered on her face, traveled up her barely twisting horns and then along her body. “You do not look like a slave.”

She could not deny that she grew quite muscular during the last years of intense training with her mother. Not resembling a slave anymore was something to be proud of.

“It has been fifteen years. Don’t ignore my wings.” She opened them just enough to not be painful. Aer’s wings, beautiful and massive, waved in the wind like silk as they dodged and weaved like no other dragon could. Hers looked like two old washcloths hung from a broken line. She could maybe fall at an incline, and even then the pain would be excruciating.

“I am sorry about that,” the storyteller said, “But it still doesn’t make you Sylph.”

Her eyelid twitched. He and the crowd blatantly ignored her every fact. All of this should’ve made her past very obvious, especially the scar around her neck and crippled wings.

“I do have a paper that tells you, but I forgot it at home,” she said and scratched her neck.

“And what’s it going to say? That your name is really Sylph because your parents liked the story?” he laughed. “I guess everyone dreams of being a hero in the Rise of Void. But honestly, choose someone else, no one wants to be Sylph.”

The crowd giggled behind her.

No one wants to be Sylph? The words hit her like a brick. She didn’t have the flashiest part of the story, rather the worst one. Her stomach sank down to the cobbles. She was never the hero.

“And Veria is your mother? And Dalian, your father, I suppose? You are not even of the same species.” The crowd’s laughter intensified. People laughed and pointed and a chasm opened up inside of her. She felt her scales grow hot.

Sylph hid her frown beneath a scowl. Being Sylph was all life gave her. “We aren’t the same species. How’d that even work?” She drew a single, long breath. She should leave this maniac and his abomination of a story. Others would know, they would know, who she was, who Sylph was. She turned to leave.

“See, we aren’t even talking about the right Veria and Dalian. Once again, the truth prevails.” The storyteller spoke with the smug voice of a cheating winner. “In a battle of wits, the truthwalker is unchallenged.”

Sylph turned back around, her tail twitched uncontrollably left and right and her dragonheart smoldered hot in her chest. It would be so easy to jump up and fry this idiot’s brain with a good jolt to the head. It was oh so tempting. He couldn’t stop her, not physically and not with his pathwalker light show.

No, remember what Veria told you. “Strike first. Strike fast. Win.”

Okay, maybe remember what Oasis told you instead. “Never let your anger get the better of you.”

She drew another deep breath. “Veria loves Dalian, but not like that. They are inseparable best friends, but Veria is about as straight as a circle. She has a wife, Oasis. Who do you think is the gentle Sol standing next to her in all these celebrations? Her roommate? Her long-lost sister?” Sylph smirked. That fact had to be corrected, and now it was time to leave.

The storyteller coughed. “Who is Oasis? That has nothing to do with the story. Can someone please take that nuisance away? Guard!” He waved for a man wearing the town’s colors, gray on green, watching from the edge of the marketplace.

Sylph shook her head as the guard closed in. Getting into trouble with the city watch, again, would only get her in trouble with her mothers. “I invite you to visit us. Carthia, on the marketplace, can’t miss the house. You can come and see how wrong you were about everything. Even creepy necromancy Arastra exists.”

“No,” the storyteller sneered in sudden anger that surprised her. “Now you listen. You are some obscure dragon pretending to be Void’s daughter, but all you do is mock people’s hard work. The storyteller’s guild is debating if Sylph even existed or if she was made up. Why would Void give his daughter to a bunch of slavers?”

“Because I am not his daughter, you wyvernfu- you pig-brain!”

“See, you admit it.”

“I’ve been saying nothing else!”

The storyteller fumed. “Maybe Sylph existed and was indeed some pathetic slave Void didn’t kill. That would make her even less important than she already is.”

A thought hit her like a cold bucket of water. “You are a pathwalker. What kind of pathwalker doesn’t know Dalian? He is a big part of the guild. You are not only a bad storyteller, you are also a fraud.”

“Don’t make this personal! I am not obliged to join them. My point, before you so rudely interrupted me, was that Sylph doesn’t matter to the story. It works without her as it does without Ronnie, or that Arastra nonsense,” he said and turned back to the crowd.

Hearing the words was like taking a punch to the gut. He was an asshole, but he wasn’t exactly wrong. She was merely Sylph, a leftover picked up on the way.

“But-”

“No buts, go back to your mother or father, whoever they may be.” He didn’t even face her.

For once in her life, she had nothing to say. Leave, it echoed in her head. Sylph turned and walked away from the glaring crowd. The guard followed with some distance. She headed towards the harbor like she had intended before the crowd caught her attention. Her head hung low, and she stared at the dirty gray cobbles.

They debated her existence? Of course, she had very little impact on the story. She had been a hatchling, and a rescued slave who didn’t dare speak a word. She had never thought about how little she mattered in the grand scheme of things. But without the story she’d be even less, a nobody, just a random Aer. Who could she be but Sylph, the broken dragoness from the story?

She had walked down the road towards the harbor more times than she could count, but today she spotted a sign on a small shop she had always overlooked. The Deeponds and daughter.

No, she hadn’t overlooked the sign; they had added the 'and daughter' part. The paint still blinked, fresh like morning dew. It sparked a strange determination inside of her, one that had brewed beneath her very scales for some time but had never dared to crawl to the surface. Until now, that her mind opened to anything that would make her feel better.

Whoever my mother and father may be, it said.

She kept telling the world that she was Veria’s daughter, but she was with them because nobody else had wanted her. Not even Veria wanted her back then.

Her real parents remained a mystery. She hatched in the icy hands of slavers. No, not even that. Her very first memory was opening her eyes in complete darkness and being all alone. She could still feel the cold cling to her wet scales and that gnawing dread of knowing something was wrong, but not being able to figure out what. Life should not start all alone, with nobody reacting to your tiny cries.

She picked up the pace towards the harbor and barred the oldest memories. All would’ve been different if she had hatched with her actual parents. She recalled asking Veria once before and being comforted with lies and non-answers. That was many years ago. She was a dragoness now. Veria had to tell her. She could find them. Her chest brimmed with fire. She had a lot of questions for her real parents. How and why and then some.

Shops closed for midday and she realized she was late. Time hadn’t stopped for the stupid performance. She had places to be and an airship to catch. Sylph reached for the buckle on the bag slung around her left shoulder and tightened it against her chest. She jerked it to make sure none of the contents would come flying out if she ran and made a dash down towards the harbor.

As soon as she saw the airship’s propellers turning sluggishly in the wind, she slowed down and caught her breath. Slim and sleek, the airship rested on the gray stone harbor like an elegant wyvern. She remembered the old bulky airships from a few years ago. The new generation looked smaller and slimmer, with a hull that appeared so smooth you wouldn’t guess it was wood. Veria would not stop praising how much better she felt about them compared to the old ones. She was proud to barely throw up the whole time it flew. Veria, suffering from airsickness, while common for dragons and especially Metia, was something the storytellers also never believed.

Sylph boarded her ship, showed her passage paper, paid her fare and found a spot in the corner to curl up. She let her wings droop and coiled her tail around her as she watched the clouds below and above roll by.

Some days the sight might’ve been nice, with the endless horizon stretching between and the endless shapes open for interpretation, but today it only brought up bad thoughts. An Aer should fly, she wouldn’t even need an airship for some of the closer islands.

The sky wasn’t hers to take, not with crippled wings. She spread them out, realizing they hadn’t grown bigger and longer since the last time she checked. Her muscles and joints ached as she brushed her claw against the thin layer of rough paint on the underside. It didn’t budge. A smile played over her lips. Her wings weren’t useful for flying, but this, this would come as a surprise.

A Sol bumped into her with his ochre wings as he dragged a sack of cabbages past her. His accidental touch sent needles into her skin that crawled into her insides like sharp worms. She recoiled. “Watch it!”

“Yeah, sorry,” he mumbled and continued on.

She caressed the scales on her side. She hated being touched, hated people coming too close to her. How people enjoyed these things, like hugs and twining tails, was a mystery to her. How’d they know the other wouldn’t bite or stab them when they weren’t paying attention?

Her mothers thought it was strange too. They looked so disappointed every time she stepped away. It’s not like she didn’t want to. Her body simply revolted at the thought of being close to another person. Only in duels it didn’t feel wrong. She would happily wrestle and pin someone to the ground. Nobody could hurt you when you rested all your weight on their joints.

No one wants to be Sylph.

Maybe the storyteller was right. Who wanted to be the flightless Aer? Who wanted to be the broken slave? Who wanted to be the left-over daughter?

There was so much wrong with her it was almost comical, if it wasn’t true.