A Wraith in Winter

The Bloodstone Scepter sat propped up in the rocks, seemingly watching the volcano through the pulsating red stone atop the staff. The haft, made of rough, purple crystal, rested easily within Ember’s reach. She could feel the strange magic glow around it, calling to her in the back of her mind. Her claw twitched and she resisted grabbing it. Her father would know if she held it, even for a moment.

Ember’s father, the great Dragon Lord Torch, continued carving out stalactites from the cavern inside the volcano, taking great care in placing them along his so-called ‘gauntlet.’ His tongue stuck out between mismatched teeth as he concentrated on placing the rocks perfectly. He grinned as the lava flows pushed them together in a rhythm.

He’s never smiled like that for me. Ember curled her tail against her leg and looked away. For fifteen years, her father had labored on this challenge, neglecting his hoard and his only surviving daughter. “It is the duty of the Dragon Lord to choose his heir,” Torch had proclaimed to her when she was just a wingless whelp. He held the Bloodstone Scepter between carefully pinched claws and lowered it to her side so she could see it.

Ember had been entranced by the staff, but not for its beauty. “Why is it so small?” she asked.

“It was made like that,” Torch said dismissively with a great snort. “The first Dragon Lord hid it away in his hoard, as I’ve said before.”

Ember didn’t believe him then, and she still didn’t believe him now. Her father was over a thousand years old, one of the oldest and largest dragons in the world, and there was much he would not tell her of the past. Torch would not speak of her mother, or if she had any siblings. The great dragon rubbed his faded blue scales against the side of the cavern, scratching an itch with a grimace that seemed more pained than pleased. His rocky crown brushed against the ceiling.

Ember rubbed her own arm against the rock face, carving another small furrow with her claws. He hadn’t noticed she was there yet, like the past few days. You have an heir, and she is being wasted. Her father didn’t care about her, only his great project. When she threatened to leave last year and explore the world, he turned to his hoard and retrieved a small bundle from the strangely small piles of gems and gold.

“Take your gift then, and make your own hoard, as is custom.” It was the only gift he had ever given her, a suit of armor, made of gold and humming with pony enchantments and magic.

“I don’t need armor,” Ember scoffed and rolled her red eyes.

“There are beasts that can cleave through a dragon’s scales like butter, and magic that can make blades do the same,” he had replied simply and thrust the armor out with a huge claw. “If you don’t want it, sell it.”

Ember kept it out of spite. The other young dragons called her ‘Princess’ Ember mockingly, laughing through their fangs, once it was clear that Torch would not pass the scepter to her, not without winning his gauntlet of traps and challenges. The worst of all of them was Garble, the young, boisterous red dragon that created her nickname.

According to Dragon Law, which Ember suspected her father made up as he went, he needed to pass the scepter to a new Dragon Lord, the worthiest dragon to follow him. His ‘Gauntlet of Fire’ would be the ultimate test of strength and endurance, a race through the active volcano in the heart of the Dragonlands, dodging specially made traps and obstacles along the way.

Ember watched her father struggle again to squeeze an arm through another cave opening to adjust something. What’s the point of all this? The Reader isn’t even participating. The Reader was the second-oldest dragon Ember knew, a white drake the size of a castle with faded gray eyes. Torch had forced her to go to him for nearly a decade, just to be lectured on math and history.

Ember went to him again last week, the first time in years. The dragon squinted and backed protectively against his hoard, a trove of old scrolls and books on shelves carved against the back wall. “Hello, Ember.” The dragon blinked slowly. "Are you finally here to finish your letters?"

“What is my father doing?” she challenged.

“Whatever the Dragon Lord desires, as is his right.”

“No, the Gauntlet of Fire. What is it?”

“Ah,” the Reader sighed. “You wish to win.”

“Of course!” Ember snarled. “Why don’t you?”

“I’m too old to participate in these kinds of things,” the dragon replied sadly. “I’m too big to even appreciate many of my books. You should go out into the world and fine more. Knowledge is the best treasure.” The dragon waved his claw at the shelves.

Ember had heard that throughout her life, far too many times. “Dragons rule by strength, not books. What is this challenge?”

“It is a tradition as old as position of Dragon Lord itself. Your father beat Black Maw’s challenge a thousand years ago.”

“What was the challenge? How did he win?” Ember pressed.

The Reader laughed, then stopped and waved a claw through the smoke before it could reach his shelves. “It was before my time. There is an account in the books, if you wish to read them.”

Ember’s muzzle twitched. It was a deliberate provocation from the older dragon. She glanced over at the wall near the cave’s mouth, where she tried to scratch her name as a whelp. The shallow carvings had faded, both to the weather and time, but Ember could still make out her squiggles in the rock. “What about the other dragons? Who’s the strongest?”

“I cannot say,” the Reader answered. “I have few visitors these days. Perhaps Grimclaw, if he still lives.”

“What about the others? What about the dragonesses?"

“The Dragon Lord has always been male,” the Reader answered with a frown. “The dragons will come when your father calls them. I cannot say more.”

His phrasing stuck with Ember. ‘I cannot say more.’ Did that mean he had more to say?

“Ember,” a great voice rumbled above her, shaking the loose stones and the Bloodstone Scepter.

The dragoness looked up with lidded eyes. “Dad.”

“What’re you doing here?” Torch asked with a warning growl, but there was no strength in his sharp frown.

“Guarding the Bloodstone Scepter, since you left it out in the open.” Ember responded and gestured to the staff. Her claws brushed the stone haft. “Any dragon could claim it now.”

“Not until the challenge,” Torch snorted. “None would dare.”

“Even Grimclaw?” Ember asked.

Torch’s eyes narrowed and he shifted his great wings, causing dust to scatter across the mountain. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Around,” Ember said vaguely. “The other whelps are gossiping.”

Torch stared at her for a long moment, then shifted away. “Grimclaw is long dead,” he rumbled. “Struck down for his pride by vengeful griffons.”

“Then I have a chance,” Ember replied evenly and held a claw over the staff.

“No,” Torch said, not turning back. “The Dragon Lord is always male. It is Law,” he intoned gravely.

Ember’s claw trembled over the scepter, but she pulled it away and leapt off the ledge. The small dragoness flapped her wings and flew away before her father could spot her tears. She flew over the lava fields to her own, small cave in the side of another mountain. A group of young dragons, barely more than whelps, gathered below to skip rocks in the lava or wallow in the geysers. “Well, Princess Ember,” Garble greeted from below. The red, hooked-nose dragon was seven years younger than her, but still outsized her by a head. “Back so soon from daddy?” His boulder-headed friends laughed along with him.

Ember ignored it and marched into the cave, rolling a rock aside and pulling out her dusty armor. She breathed a gout of fire over it, burning away the dust and debris. The metal held strong and glowed in the heat. Pony magic has its uses. She strapped the greaves around her legs, then adjusted the tail bands. The chest plate threw off her balance, so she took a moment to adjust to the weight. The helmet slid over her white horns and fit snugly. There were only narrow slits to see. Ember stumbled around the cave, but adjusted her footing and began to flap her wings. I’ll need to practice. I’ll prove you wrong. I’ll prove them all wrong.