Prologue ❖ The Stranger
It was the kind of hot day you'd expect in the Kingdom of the Sand.
Of course, everyone knew it would be hot; it was kind of obvious. You'd have to have had your brain eaten by geckos or the dark or the bone-biting cold to possibly think it would be a perfect beach-temperature, la-di-da, all nice and cozy with a rainbow in the cloudless sky to symbolise how perfect it was.
Okay, maybe she was exaggerating – but even Jerboa had to admit that today was uncomfortable.
And that was saying something, considering she had been living in the gigantic desert for over a thousand years.
There were days she wished her mother, the "original" Jerboa, hadn't done the things she had.
Name Jerboa after herself, for one. She really disliked how she always had to be referred to as "Jerboa II".
Making her immortal was another thing she sometimes disliked her mother for.
Don't get her wrong; Jerboa loved her mother like any dragon loved their mother.
But really.
Immortalisation?
Call it a symbol of her love for her daughter; call it sweet; call it a sacrifice; Jerboa didn't care.
Sometimes, living forever was annoying.
Because you're alive to experience weather like this.
That was what Jerboa was thinking as she was flying from her isolated oasis hut to the markets in the Scorpion Den.
The chocolate-coloured camelskin pouches bounced against her yellow chest, the dark straps complimenting the brown triangles on her paler wings.
She knew the other dragons probably won't recognise her; most of them didn't know her, which was a relief. But that didn't stop Jerboa from feeling uneasy roaming the marketplace in the Scorpion Den, though.
The SandWing touched down a little ways from the entrance, making sure not to draw attention to herself. Jerboa ducked her head and padded in, kicking up sand as she went.
Everywhere she turned, there were marketers and shoppers alike, the stall owners luring in unsuspecting shoppers with their promises of quality goods ("Roasted croc, twelve apiece!" "Best rugs in all of the Den!" "Getcha weapons and tools here-a!").
Jerboa smiled when she saw the familiar yellow tent, perched in between two other, darker-coloured tents about three feet away: one with red tarp selling torches and working resources, and the other adorned with brown material selling dragonflame cacti masked in rolled up blankets.
She wound her way through the crowd to find the rough, broad-shouldered shopowner fussing about the wreath on the top of his stall. He righted himself when he saw a potential customer coming his way – then relaxed a bit when he saw the familiar triangle markings that visited him once a month.
"What canna do fer ya, Jojoba?" Diamondback asked in his gruff voice, using the false name Jerboa had given him when they first met. "The usual?"
Jerboa nodded. "Yes, thank you," she replied in a quiet, calm voice, dropping the golden coins into the shop-owner's awaiting talons.
Diamondback gave her a grin, then disappeared briefly into his tent. He came back with four candied goannas wrapped in slightly-worn and sand-discoloured white cloths.
Jerboa thanked the friendly SandWing as he sliced the lizards into quarters, then handed them over to her in the cloth.
"Is Pangolin doing okay?" Jerboa asked hesitantly, pocketing the slices into her camelskin pouches.
Diamondback nodded, his face warm. "He's enjoyin' his apprenticeship, if tha's what ya mean. He's good at talkin' with customers an' barterin'." He smiled. "Ya don't hafta worry 'bout yer son. He's fittin' in wonderfully well. Today he's gone to retrieve more product from our sellers."
Jerboa returned the smile, happy with the news, and bowed her head goodbye to her friend.
The secretive SandWing turned and walked towards the Scorpion Den's entrance, each step leading her away from her friend and deeper into the fray.
The shoppers and dragons around her were vibrant in shades of yellow and brown, their chatter making the air indiscernible. As Jerboa caught a stranger's eye, a jolt of familiar panic sparked through her. Even as the stranger glanced around, seemingly looking for something, Jerboa's wings twitched. She picked up her pace to as fast as she could go without bumping into anyone and drawing attention to herself.
Jerboa burst out the entrance to the Den and kicked off the earth, flying as fast as she could. She had to get away. She couldn't risk being seen. Recognised.
The sun blazed high in the sky, irritating her eyes as she flew over the sandy expanse. Dead bushes dotted the ground below her. Each flap of her wings pulsed the fear through her system, coursing it down and pushing it out of her skin. She began to calm down.
Far off to the right, when she strained her ears, Jerboa could hear an approaching sandstorm – a large one at that. It sounded like it was coming towards Queen Thorn's Stronghold.
Jerboa snorted. Sandstorms don't just appear out of the blue, she knew. I haven't seen any signs of one brewing. Someone's been meddling in magic they shouldn't have.
Then in her mind appeared the words to the enchantment, so loud she could hear them: "Give me thunder. Give me rain. Bring me a storm.
More. I want lightning."
Jerboa shuddered. "Yep," she cursed aloud. "Some cleverclaws has gotten ahold of the weather."
I hope the Queen is okay.
Why would someone want to summon a storm to the palace?
Jerboa concentrated, retreating back into her own mind, tapping in to the faint tingle in her talons that was the mark of her magic. The thin wire that connected every animus, delicate and fragile not like a vase but like an explosive.
The SandWing found no more words, but she did hear the distant sandstorm roar up another level.
Oh dear, Jerboa thought. Nobody better die. Queen Thorn is strong and wise; she knows what to do to control the panic of a sandstorm.
Allowing the whorl of the sandstorm to become an offhand tune in the back of her mind, Jerboa focused on flying. After a long time of soaring and flapping, the SandWing saw her oasis come into view.
Jerboa made a dive for it and landed in front of the brown door, her arrival sending grains of sand over the tarp that covered the plentiful pool out the front of the hut. The odd bird screeched at the sudden disturbance, tightening the tension in the atmosphere like a thin line being pulled taught.
"Armadillo!" Jerboa called as she opened the door, desiring to feel safe in the comfort of her son's voice. "I'm back!" She stepped inside.
Jerboa's eyes widened at what she was met with.
Armadillo looked to her upon her arrival, patting a wet cloth to the forehead of an autumn-coloured dragon who was badly bruised and lying unconscious on a bed of fronds. Two sharp, maple leaf-shaped wings fell at the stranger's side, bringing to attention a very important matter:
The dragon was like nothing Jerboa had ever seen before.
"Who," Jerboa's voice was awestruck, as she somehow understood that her life was about to change, "is that?"
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