Dragonheart Core

Of all ships on the Ilera Sea, none could beat the Golden Ghost. The pride of ungoverned waters sailed with oars powered by vast mana-gems and sails spelled to capture wind in empty skies, slender and streamlined to punch through any storm; no current could withstand her bow, no wave could harm her hull.

And she was losing.

Varcís Bilaro gritted his teeth. He dug his fingers into the cracks of his ship, pushing another spark of his mana into the wood; the Ghost groaned, sails snapping out as an intangible hurricane pushed her faster than he'd ever asked her to go, splinters spraying from the mast's base.

Godsdamnit. He should have stolen from a stone-drake—he'd have had centuries to prepare for its arrival.

"Captain!" Lluc, hand planted firmly to keep his tricorn hat on, clawed his way closer and jabbed an unnecessary finger towards the horizon. "It's gaining too fast—we'll have to turn and face it!"

One last turn around the mountains and he'd be at the Cove, black sails on full display in the high noon and the whole of Calarata to see his fight. It couldn't be more than a mile away.

The Ghost preferred averaging ten knots. She could hold herself together at fifteen.

"The last I checked, Lluc," he said, "you were the first mate and I was the Captain. Unless you'd like to change that?"

His shadow thrashed.

Lluc's face blanched and his hand slipped, hat disappearing in a flash of wind. "I– of course not."

"Then tell the crew to push her faster. If I find a drop of mana left in anyone when we arrive, I'm throwing them overboard."

The man fled.

Varcís pulled up his own mana, coiling to readiness at his fingers; he threw it over the surrounding sea, telling numerous pitch-sharks and umbral serpents that they were not to attack. Their consciousnesses drifted, hazy and unfocused, but begrudgingly settled back to the ocean floor. It wasn't yet their time.

The sea-drake's hoard had held nothing in terms of useful treasure, not even a mana-gem to aid in holding his ship together, and only served to weigh it down. If this had been a normal mission, he would have killed the dragon as it slept unawares and ferried its silver home at a far more reasonable pace.

But his goal was for a different prize today.

The Ghost roared, timbers splitting and lacquer flaying off her hull, but her crew's mana dug deep and pushed. She flew over the waves, sails straining under magical winds, oars slicing through mana-fueled water.

Behind them, the dragon bellowed.

Crew members dropped as they depleted their mana stores, blood weeping from their ears, but the Ghost charged under their combined might and rounded the corner of the Alómbra Mountains. The sea-drake was less than a mile away.

The last of his crew collapsed as they arrived in the Cove, blood from their ears blooming over the deck. Varcís nodded. They were still loyal to him, even if he had to reteach Calarata that particular lesson.

The Dread Pirate would not be forgotten.

Only Lluc was standing, face pale and streaked with red–he clung to the railing, watching the approaching dragon with pupils like pinpricks. But even then he did not look at it with the fear of a man preparing to die, nor the terror of the unknown; only the instinctual horror of seeing a creature so many rungs above him in the food chain of the world. He trusted his captain.

Varcís faced the dragon and extended his hand.

Darkness bubbled and his shadow rose at his heels, laying a spear in his grasp. His weapon of choice hummed at his touch, edges trembling like morning mist, wavering like it wished to escape. Its very presence darkened his surroundings to dusk.

Varcís turned to face the sea-drake flying close enough he could see the silver of its claws.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd killed an impossible beast.

-

I roared, untamed mana spilling from my jaws. With every passing second my fury rose to a crescendo.

The bastards had stolen my hoard.

My wings punched through the waves as I crested, the lash of my tail kicking up a tsunami; I pursued those tacky black sails with all the grace of a hurricane. They headed for a cove formed by two cradling mountain arms, the white of a city beyond– maybe they thought on-shore ballistas would defeat me, or even that I would be too scared to enter shallow water.

I bellowed loud enough the ocean quaked.

The greatest of the sea-drakes would not be stopped by mere humans.

One man stood on the bow of the ship, mana coiling over his hands. Wings snapping out, I took to the air, erupting from the waves in an explosion; though I might not have the breath weapon of my primitive cousin fire-drakes, I had no need for such uncivilized destruction. My claws would be enough.

They always had been before.

For a moment I hovered overhead, his ship a mere dot on the sea I had incited into a fury, the man no more than a wisp of colour. I would demolish his ship and take my hoard back from his corpse, and then raze his city and all who dared steal from me–

A black lance met the air.

I swerved, great wings shooting me above the miniscule weapon; his pitiful attempt at an attack flew underneath me and I roared, tucking into a mocking loop, preparing to fall upon his insipid little ship–

Mana. Some far richer than any I had felt before, nearly untainted, raged to life about me; I swiveled back and the spear, writhing with twists of shadow, stopped its errant throw–something intangible grabbed its shaft, stopping its flight with a shudder. It hovered, untouched by wind nor weight. I paused.

It twisted and flew back to me.

I bellowed, twisting away from the attack; even with its second wind I wouldn't let it hit me, spitting unshaped mana in its path with an explosion of force. I felt my own scales rip from the blast, wingtips fraying; I shuddered under the pressure but searched to see the spear explode-

It punched directly through my chest.

I froze. My wings splayed but I couldn't direct my mana to them, couldn't heal the hole through my scales—whatever magic the lance was made of bit and tore into the core of my being, gnawing at my soul. It had speared my heart.

Shuddering, I fell.

Wings thrashed and tail writhed but still I fell, clawing heedlessly at the air, only able to see the approaching mountain in brief glimpses—I would crash into it and die on impact or plummet to the bottom to bleed out instead, mana crippled and useless, killed by an incompetent, meaningless human who dared to–

I focused. No.

My eyes closed, blocking out the looming approach of the cragged mountains; I shut out the sounds of the screaming wind and howling descent; I forgot the taste of blood coating my fangs and the scent of sea breeze. Tearing away the pain of death and failure I fell, closed off from the world. My presence turned inward, to the heart that powered my mana, to the vile lance through it.

I would die here, smote against the mountain like some mongrel beast, if the man had his way. He would escape with my hoard and live free. My mana spiked, the last dredges I still had control over, anger writhing with true power. I took hold of it, cradled it.

I refuse.

My last act alive was to rip my heart from my chest.