The dragon had every reason to laugh at me, to find amusement in my predicament and my persistent denial of what I was becoming. Dragon Blood Depletion Syndrome didn't belong to this modern era—an age devoid of dragons, where such magnificent creatures existed only in legends and carefully preserved historical texts. This was an affliction from a bygone time, a relic of the past when dragons had roamed the world freely, their massive forms casting shadows across entire valleys as they soared through ancient skies.
Back in those distant days, dragons would forge contracts with humans through a specific ritual: allowing chosen individuals to drink their blood. The blood itself wasn't inherently problematic—in fact, it was highly sought after for the extraordinary benefits it conveyed. But dragons, being both wise and wary, required absolute, unquestionable loyalty from their human vessels. This necessity arose from a simple truth: humans, by their very nature, are remarkably fickle beings. Their allegiances shift like sand in the wind, their promises dissolve under pressure, their convictions waver when tested. Dragons, having witnessed countless instances of human betrayal and changeability throughout their long lives, developed deep skepticism regarding human reliability.
So the only method they trusted to ensure genuine loyalty was the blood bond—compelling humans to consume dragon blood, which created a connection that transcended mere verbal oaths or written contracts. And humans participated in these rituals willingly, even eagerly, because drinking dragon blood came with its own considerable advantages. These weren't minor benefits that could be easily dismissed or overlooked.
For these ancient magical beings, blood carried profound healing properties that bordered on miraculous by ordinary standards. A single draft of dragon blood would cure virtually any disease, no matter how virulent or advanced. It could heal a blade-inflicted wound in mere seconds, knitting flesh and bone back together as though the injury had never existed. For those who had consumed dragon blood, this meant effective immortality against violence and illness. You would not die from fatal wounds that would kill ordinary humans instantly. You would not succumb to plagues or infections or any type of disease that ravaged populations. You would simply live until the natural span of years allocated to you reached its conclusion, at which point you would die of old age—a painless death described in the old texts as being equivalent to falling asleep when the time you had been allotted finally came to its peaceful end.
It sounded like an extraordinary gift, a blessing beyond measure. And in many ways, it was precisely that. But as with all things involving dragon magic, there was a price to be paid, a potential complication that could transform blessing into curse under specific circumstances.
There existed a particular syndrome that could be activated in those who had ingested dragon blood—a condition with potentially fatal consequences.
Dragon Blood Depletion Syndrome manifested when certain specific conditions were met. The primary trigger occurred when the dragon whose blood you had consumed flew away to somewhere far distant—beyond a certain threshold distance that varied depending on the strength of the blood bond and the power of the dragon in question. When that geographical separation occurred, the syndrome could activate with devastating speed.
The mechanism behind this affliction was both fascinating and terrifying. Dragon blood, you see, possesses a form of sentience. It's not conscious in the way that humans or dragons are conscious, but it carries an awareness of sorts, a fundamental knowledge of whose master it serves. And it obeys that master with absolute, unwavering loyalty—never questioning, never hesitating, never deviating from its purpose. One might think of it as similar to an extraordinarily loyal dog that follows its master everywhere, that becomes anxious and distressed when separated from the person it's bonded to.
So when the dragon master flies away to some distant location—perhaps across continents, perhaps to another realm entirely—the blood naturally wants to follow. It's compelled by its very nature to remain close to its source, to reunite with the dragon from which it originated. But there's a fundamental problem: the blood no longer resides within the dragon's body. It lives instead within the human vessel who consumed it, trapped by biology and circumstance in a foreign form.
Unable to physically follow its master but driven by an overwhelming compulsion to do so, the blood attempts to escape the only way it knows how. It begins consuming the carrier's own blood, depleting the human's natural blood supply in a desperate attempt to gain enough power and substance to break free and return to its master. This process is extremely rapid and invariably deadly if left unchecked. The victim grows pale as their blood is literally devoured from within. They weaken dramatically, becoming bedridden as their body struggles to function with a rapidly diminishing blood supply. Eventually, if the syndrome progresses to its natural conclusion, they simply die—drained from the inside out by the very gift that was supposed to protect them.
In the ancient times when this syndrome was more common, dragons generally had no real regard for human lives. Humans were tools, resources, occasionally amusing companions, but rarely valued as equals or cherished as individuals deserving of protection. So most dragons simply allowed the humans under their dominion to wither away and die when the syndrome manifested. It was viewed as an acceptable loss, a regrettable but ultimately inconsequential side effect of the blood bond.
However, there were exceptions. A few dragons—very few—possessed enough compassion or pragmatism to develop and employ a curing ritual. This ritual could replenish the afflicted humans, stabilizing them and preventing death from the syndrome. It required effort and a willingness to expend magical energy for the benefit of lesser beings, which most dragons found distasteful or simply not worth the trouble.
One such exceptional dragon had been Aiona—the last dragon, as history would later record her. She had maintained the curing ritual for those who served her, ensuring that her human allies survived even when she traveled far from them.
But here was the crucial point that made the current situation so bewildering and so terrifying: this syndrome should be completely impossible in the modern age. There were no true dragons living beneath the skies anymore. They had all perished or transcended or simply vanished into whatever mysterious fate had claimed them when their age came to its end. And the dragon blood that flowed through Draganian veins—diluted by countless generations, weakened by time and genetic distance—wasn't supposed to be potent enough to trigger such effects.
It had never been particularly impressive to begin with, truth be told. What we carried was merely a reminder of ancient lineage, a genetic marker that indicated our ancestors had once forged bonds with dragons. And that connection hadn't even originated from being born as a dragon's direct offspring. It came simply from the first queen drinking dragon blood on her marriage ceremony, along with whatever minor magical enhancements that consumption had provided. It was a thoroughly diluted version of what true dragon blood should be—weakened, diminished, reduced to little more than symbolic significance.
There had never been any recorded instances in all of Draga's carefully maintained historical archives of anyone suffering from Dragon Blood Depletion Syndrome. Not one case in over centuries. It existed in our texts as legend, as myth, as something that belonged to the misty past but had no relevance to the present. It was categorized alongside other ancient afflictions that modern Draganians simply didn't need to worry about anymore—historical curiosities rather than practical medical concerns.
The fact that it was manifesting now, in this era, in my homeland, could mean only one thing.
I was becoming what my ancestors had feared most. I was transforming into a monster, into a dragon—an actual, true dragon rather than a human with diluted dragon blood running through their veins. My presence in Draga, my physical proximity to people who carried even trace amounts of ancient dragon blood, was acting as the trigger. Their blood recognized me as a dragon master and wanted to follow me. When I had left Draga to journey to the South, I had inadvertently activated the syndrome in everyone whose bloodline traced back to the original blood bonds.
The realization made my heart thunder in my chest, beating so hard I could feel the pulse in my throat, in my temples, behind my eyes. The truth I had been avoiding, the transformation I had been denying, could no longer be dismissed or rationalized away. I was becoming a dragon. Perhaps I already was one, at least partially. The evidence was irrefutable.
And even in that moment of terrible understanding, faced with the undeniable reality of my transformation, what I wished for most desperately was just one single thing:
Please let the curing ritual work! Please, even if it means I'm becoming fully dragon, even if it confirms every fear I've harbored, may I not fail in this. Please don't let my people die because of what I'm becoming. Please.
---
At the dawn of the fourth day of our brutal journey, we finally reached the gates of Draga. The familiar walls rose before us, and despite my exhaustion and anxiety, I felt a complex surge of emotion at seeing my homeland again. We had pushed ourselves and our horses to the absolute limits of endurance, riding through days and nights with only the briefest stops to rest. Both humans and animals were haggard, worn to the bone, but we had made it.
A Draganian soldier stationed at the gate quickly approached for the standard security check, but the moment he recognized me, his eyes widened dramatically. He immediately signaled urgently for the gates to be opened, shouting orders to the guards manning the mechanism. We were quickly admitted inside, the massive gates swinging open to accommodate our party.
I was escorted directly to the main hall with all possible speed, my party following behind. As we entered that familiar space—a room I had stood in countless times for both ceremonial occasions and casual gatherings—I saw a figure pacing back and forth with visible anxiety. She was an ethereally beautiful woman with delicate features and golden hair that caught the light streaming through the high windows.
This was Sara, Salime's fiancée.The moment her eyes landed upon my arriving figure, she walked toward me with urgent, almost desperate speed. She reached out and grabbed both of my hands in hers, her grip tight enough to be uncomfortable.
"Please save Salime," she begged, her voice breaking slightly. "And the others too, please." Her blue eyes brimmed with unshed tears, and desperation was written clearly across every feature. She looked as though she hadn't slept properly in days, dark circles shadowing her eyes, her face drawn with worry and exhaustion.
"I will," I responded immediately, my voice firm with conviction despite my own fatigue. I squeezed her hands briefly in reassurance before releasing them and turning to address the gathered servants who had assembled upon hearing of my arrival.
"Prepare a huge quantity of porridge in the biggest pot you can find," I barked out orders with royal authority, my voice carrying through the hall. "The porridge can be made from oats, barley, or any grain ingredients you have readily available. I don't care which—use whatever is most abundant. Start the fire immediately and begin cooking it right now. This is urgent."
The servants in Draga, accustomed to following orders efficiently, responded with immediate obedience. Their feet moved quickly as they hurried off to fulfill the unusual request, though confusion was evident on many faces. Porridge seemed an odd priority in a medical crisis, but they trusted that I knew what I was doing.
"And you," I said, turning my attention back to Sara, "I need you to obtain a silver knife and a silver barrel—the largest silver barrel we have in storage—and bring them to my chambers. Can you do that?"
She nodded quickly, determination replacing some of the desperation in her expression. She released my hands and left immediately to gather the requested items, clearly grateful to have a concrete task to focus on.
I let out a long, tired sigh and looked back at Arvid and the soldiers who had accompanied us on this exhausting journey. They all looked as drained as I felt—covered in road dust, swaying slightly with fatigue, their eyes red from lack of sleep.
"Please, all of you, go and rest," I told them, my tone gentler now. "This will be over soon. You've done more than enough by getting me here so quickly."
I gestured to nearby male servants, barking additional orders for them to accommodate our guests, to provide them with rooms where they could wash and sleep, to bring them food and whatever else they might need.
"I'll come with you," Arvid offered, stepping forward. His protective instincts clearly outweighed his exhaustion. He wanted to remain at my side, to ensure I was safe and to witness whatever I was about to do.
But I immediately declined his offer with a firm shake of my head. "Please rest," I told him, meeting his eyes so he could see I meant it. "This is going to be over soon. I promise. But what I need to do... it's better if I do it alone."
He looked as though he wanted to argue, his jaw tightening with reluctance, but something in my expression must have convinced him not to push. He nodded slowly and allowed himself to be led away by the servants, though he glanced back at me several times before disappearing around a corner.
I watched him go, knowing I had just told him a partial truth at best. Yes, the immediate crisis would be over soon. But the hardest part—the most dangerous and potentially devastating part—was just beginning. He didn't need to know that. He didn't need to worry about what this ritual might cost me, what it might confirm about my transformation, or what risks I was about to take.
Some burdens are meant to be carried alone.
---
After I made my way up to my chambers—those familiar rooms that now felt strangely foreign after weeks away—Sara followed shortly behind, carrying the items I had requested. She had a deeply confused expression on her face as she set the silver barrel down carefully. It was indeed large, perhaps capable of holding several gallons of liquid.
"Why do you need these?" she finally asked, unable to contain her curiosity and confusion any longer. The question was reasonable. What possible use could a queen have for a silver knife and barrel in treating a mysterious illness?
I had learned long ago that it's almost always better to show than to tell when dealing with things people find difficult to believe or accept. Words can be dismissed, rationalized away, or simply not understood. But actions—direct demonstration—leave no room for doubt.
I sat down in the chair positioned in front of my dressing mirror, but I turned it so that I faced away from the mirror and toward Sara, who stood opposite me with the requested items. The morning light streaming through my windows illuminated the room clearly, ensuring she would be able to see everything that was about to happen.
"Set the barrel directly in front of me, on the floor," I instructed calmly.
She did as she was told, positioning the silver vessel between us, though her confusion had only deepened. Her brow furrowed as she tried to puzzle out what I intended.
I gestured silently toward the knife she still held. She handed it to me with obvious reluctance, and I could see her hands trembling slightly. She sensed that something significant was about to happen, even if she couldn't yet imagine what.
Without allowing myself time to reconsider or to dwell on what I was about to do, I made a quick, fast, deliberate cut across my left wrist. The silver blade sliced through skin and flesh with shocking ease, and blood immediately began flowing from the wound in a steady stream.
Sara gasped in absolute horror, her hand flying to her mouth. She lunged forward instinctively, reaching out to stop me, to grab my arm and staunch the bleeding, her healer's instincts overriding everything else.
"Don't!" I commanded loudly, my voice sharp with authority that stopped her in her tracks. "Don't touch me, don't interfere, and don't try to heal this wound yet."
She froze, her eyes wide with shock and confusion and growing understanding.
"This blood is the most important ingredient in the cure," I explained, keeping my voice steady even as I felt the first wave of lightheadedness begin. "Without this, they will die—all of them, including Salime. They're probably somewhat stabilized now that I've returned to Draga, now that I'm physically close again. But that's only a temporary reprieve. We need a permanent solution, and this is it."
I positioned my bleeding wrist over the rim of the barrel, allowing the blood to flow directly into it. The sound of liquid hitting the bottom of the empty container seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Sara stood frozen, watching with an expression of horror and fascination as my blood began to pool in the silver vessel.
"I have to bleed a considerable amount," I continued, though speaking was becoming more difficult as the blood loss began to affect me. "This isn't going to be pleasant, but it's necessary. Please... please give me the strength to hold on until the end of the ritual."
That last part I wasn't sure if I was saying to Sara, to whatever gods might be listening, to Aiona within me, or simply to myself. Perhaps to all of them simultaneously.
Time became strange after that. I couldn't accurately gauge how long I sat there, watching my blood flow steadily into the barrel. It felt like hours but was probably only twenty or thirty minutes. The world gradually took on a distant, fuzzy quality. Sounds became muffled. The edges of my vision began to darken and close in. My head felt impossibly heavy, and keeping my eyes open required tremendous concentration.
Finally—finally—the small silver barrel was full. I could see that my blood had reached nearly to the brim, a disturbing quantity that would have killed most people several times over. I was dizzy beyond anything I had ever experienced, the room spinning violently around me even though I was sitting completely still.
"Sara," I called out, though my voice sounded weak and distant to my own ears. "Sara, now. Heal it now."
She had been standing motionless, transfixed by what she was witnessing, perhaps in shock. But my words jolted her back to action. She rushed forward immediately, her hands already glowing with the soft golden light of healing magic. She pressed her palms against my wrist, and I felt the familiar warm tingle as the spell took effect. The wound began to close, flesh knitting back together, the flow of blood slowing and then stopping entirely. Within moments, there was only smooth, unmarked skin where the terrible gash had been—nothing but a faint white line to indicate anything had happened at all.
But closing the wound didn't immediately restore what I had lost. I was still desperately weakened, my body struggling to function with what little blood remained. I forced myself to focus, to push through the fog that threatened to pull me under into unconsciousness.
"Listen carefully," I told Sara, speaking slowly and deliberately to make sure she understood despite my compromised state. "Please wait outside this room for approximately fifteen minutes. Don't come back in before that time has passed. When you do enter, I will very likely be unconscious. Don't panic when you see that. I'm going to be fine—I just need rest. Ignore my condition entirely and focus on the task."
I paused to draw a shaky breath before continuing.
"Take the barrel to wherever they're preparing the porridge. Pour all of this blood into the pot—every last drop, don't leave any behind. Stir it thoroughly to ensure it's evenly distributed. Then serve exactly one cup of the blood-enriched porridge to each patient who has fallen ill. Make absolutely certain that every person who has consumed dragon blood in the past, or whose ancestors did, receives a serving."
Another pause as waves of dizziness threatened to overwhelm me.
"After you've distributed portions to all the patients here in the capital, set aside two additional cups—no more, no less. Send a trusted messenger to Ferne immediately to deliver those two portions to Yoyenne and his wife. They will have been affected as well, given their lineage. Do you understand all of that? Can you remember the instructions?"
Sara nodded, her face pale but determined. "I understand. One cup for each patient here, two cups sent to Ferne for Lord Yoyenne and his wife. I won't fail you, my queen."
"Good," I managed to say. "Now go. Wait outside. Fifteen minutes."
She nodded again and moved toward the door, casting one last worried glance back at me before stepping out into the corridor and pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click.
The moment I was alone, the last reserves of strength that had been holding me upright simply evaporated. I slumped sideways in the chair, no longer able to maintain my posture. The room spun violently, and darkness crept in from all sides.
My last conscious thought before unconsciousness claimed me was a desperate prayer: Please let it have been enough. Please let them live.
Then the darkness swallowed me completely, and I knew nothing more.