Fire and stone. That was my world. The cold, damp stone of my cell and the fire that burned eternally in my gut. Outside, the roar of the hairless apes echoed, a meaningless, celebratory thunder that grated on my nerves. They were celebrating my impending death. Or theirs. It was all the same. Another day, another fight, another pointless spectacle for the creatures who caged us. Let them shout. Their noise was nothing compared to the inferno I held within me.
But today, another noise intruded upon my solitude. It was not the sound of the crowd, but a chorus of whispers in the shared space of our minds, the psychic cage that bound us captives as surely as the iron bars. The others—the Nadder, the Gronckle, the Zippleback—were projecting again. Sending me their pathetic, fawning visions.
I saw it all through their eyes. The small one. The runt of the litter. The one they called Hiccup.
I saw him through the Nadder's eyes, felt the strange, pleasant scratching under her chin, a sensation that bypassed her pride and went straight to a place of purring bliss. I saw him through the Gronckle's eyes, tasted the sweet, intoxicating grass he offered, a forbidden treat that spoke of peace and plenty. I saw him through the Zippleback's two sets of eyes, the bewildering but calming effect of his focused attention, turning their usual bickering into a state of confused harmony.
And with every vision, they pushed the scent at me. A psychic aroma so potent it almost felt real. The smell of fresh soil after a storm, of life stirring in the deep earth, of a power ancient and absolute.
« Guedo, » they whispered in my mind, their thoughts dripping with a reverence that turned my stomach. « The Life-Giver is here! He walks among us in a small shell! »
Heresy. All of it.
I rejected their visions, their feelings, their pathetic, groveling worship. I am fire made flesh. My scales are shields, my claws are swords, my breath is the world's end. My god, the god of my understanding, was a being of similar might. A night fury of cosmic fire and cataclysmic force. The one who forged our mighty race in the heart of a star, who tempered our scales in nebulae and gave us the gift of flame. That was a god.
Not this… this thing. This walking fishbone. This soft, squawking, fragile little creature. The idea that the divine essence of the Great Forger, the mighty Guedo, would choose to inhabit such a pathetic vessel was more than wrong; it was a profound insult. An cosmic joke. The others were weak, their minds addled by captivity. They were desperate for any sign of hope, and so they had latched onto the first strange thing they encountered. They mistook pity for power, tricks for miracles.
But I would not be so easily fooled. I would hold to the true faith. I would not bow to this false idol, this blasphemy in human form.
The shouting outside reached a crescendo. The heavy wooden bar on my gate groaned as it was lifted. This was it. The final exam. My turn to face the runt. Good. I would expose him for the fraud he was. I would meet his tricks with pure, unadulterated fire. I would burn this heresy from the minds of the others and show them what true power looked like. I would be the righteous fist of the true Guedo, striking down this imposter. I stoked the furnace in my chest, my entire body thrumming with righteous fury.
The gates swung open.
And I saw him.
He stood in the center of the arena, a small, lonely figure against the vast expanse of sand. He was just as the visions had shown him. Scrawny. Awkward. Utterly insignificant. My fury surged. This was the thing they worshipped? This twig?
But as I looked at him, a new feeling, cold and unwelcome, began to trickle into the furnace of my rage. It was a feeling I had not experienced since I was a hatchling, small and vulnerable.
Dread.
It was not a fear of him. I could incinerate him with a single, casual breath. It was a deeper, more insidious dread. It was the fear of the zealot forced to confront the possibility that his faith could be a lie. The visions from the others… the scent they projected… it had felt so authentic. Too authentic. What if they weren't mad? What if I was the one who was wrong?
The thought was a crack in the foundation of my soul. I didn't want to be right. I needed to be right. If he was truly Guedo, then my entire existence, my pride, my very identity as a creature of fire and strength, was built on a misunderstanding. If a god could be this small, this fragile, then what did my own power mean?
I remained in the shadows of my cell, a statue of defiance warring with a rising tide of doubt. I didn't want to go out there. I didn't want to face him. I didn't want to know. It was better to live in the certainty of my righteous anger than to risk the shattering of my world.
The crowd began to murmur, their bloodlust turning to confusion at my inaction.
Then, he moved. The boy began to walk towards my open gate. Not with the swagger of a warrior, but with a slow, deliberate calm that was more unsettling than any threat. The murmur from the apes grew louder, more agitated.
He walked past the shields, past the weapons racks. He continued until he stood directly in the light spilling from my doorway, a mere stone's throw away. And then he did something that defied all reason. He unstrapped the shield from his arm and let it fall to the sand with a soft thud. He pulled the small, sharp knife from his belt and tossed it aside. He stood there, empty-handed. Defenseless. An offering.
A great shout came from the stands, from the big one, the leader with the ridiculous red beard. It was a roar of pure, panicked urgency, ordering the small one to get back, to arm himself.
The boy ignored him. He took another step, and another, until he was standing right at the threshold between my darkness and his light. He looked at me, his green eyes holding not fear, but a strange, sad understanding. And he slowly, so slowly, extended his hand. An open palm. An invitation.
This was the moment. The test.
My pride screamed at me to incinerate him. To prove him a fool. To end this farce and restore the proper order of things. But the dread, cold and heavy, held me fast. The visions of the Nadder, the Gronckle, the Zippleback… they all ended here. At this gesture. This was the point of their conversion.
My legs felt like stone, but I forced them to move. I took a hesitant step forward, my head low, my mind a battlefield of faith and fear. The chatter from the Vikings grew frantic. They sensed, as I did, that we were on the precipice of something world-altering.
I was a breath away from his hand now. I could feel the warmth of his skin. I could see the fine lines of his palm. My pride fought its last, desperate battle. It's a trick. A final, foolish gesture before I kill him.
But I had to know.
I extended my snout, the horns on my nose nearly brushing his fingertips. I inhaled.
And the world ended.
It was him.
The scent. It wasn't a memory, not a psychic echo from another dragon's mind. It was real. Here. Now. It flooded my senses, a tidal wave of reality that washed away every pillar of my doubt, every fortress of my pride. It was the smell of creation, of life, of a power so absolute and fundamental that my own fire felt like a flickering candle in a hurricane. It was the scent of my god.
My knees buckled. The strength fled from my limbs, the fire in my chest dwindled to a pilot light. The great and terrible monstrous nightmare, the incarnation of flame, the heretic who had denied the truth, was brought low not by a weapon or a blow, but by a simple, undeniable fragrance.
It was truly him. My god. And I had been so very, very wrong.