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A dragon's-eye flight over Thanasis, the City of Dragons - Malakath. (Ciraxis POV.)
The wind was sharp and high, cold enough to bite even through her pale scales. Ciraxis soared above the world, wings stretched wide enough to catch the sun’s first gold. From beyond the Wall, she could see everything - the bones of the land, the veins of the living city, the pulse of the people and dragons who called Thanasis home.
Below her, the Wastes of Malakath stretched for leagues upon leagues; an endless sea of cracked ochre stone and shifting sands. Jagged peaks tore at the sky where the earth had erupted long ago, and among them lurked the Jarlax, the monsters that crept from old stories into new nightmares. The white dragon coasted over the shadows of The Spires, a tall crown of blackened mountains with a molten heart, where the Rising took place each year. A glimmer of movement drew her golden eyes; wild dragons, their hides shimmering like scattered gems, rising on the updrafts and vanishing into the clouds.
She turned her head to the west, and there, carved into the dunes like a fortress half-swallowed by the desert, stood The Forge, where she and Briseis still trained. It rose from the sands in towers of sandstone and steel. The training fields were alive with motion, young riders and dragons weaving through formations.
Ciraxis banked eastward, leaving behind the golden dunes for green and stone. The land softened into forests and foothills, where the Stille folK made their camp in their painted wagons. She caught glimpses of them through the trees, fires burning, music carried on the wind.
And then, ahead - the great city. Thanasis.
The walls glimmered white in the morning light, streaked with the royal banners of crimson and gold. Ciraxis dipped lower, wings beating slow and steady as she glided over the lower quarter, a tangled web of narrow streets, crowded homes, and bustling markets. Smoke rose from cooking fires. Merchants shouted. Children pointed skyward at her in their usual amazement, their laughter rising above the hum of the waking city. Beneath the surface noise, Ciraxis could sense other things too; the thrum of clandestine affairs, the roar of fighting pits beneath the streets, where men and small dragons clashed for coin.
Further in, the streets grew wider, cleaner, paved in pale marble that gleamed like water. Houses grew grander, separated by gardens and walls. The scent of spiced breads, oils, and burning incense filled the air. She could see the plazas blooming with life; stalls draped in silks, the markets overflowing with fruit, trinkets, and fine metals.
It was a festival day - The Day of Reforging, a celebration of the city’s rebirth after the Jarlax’s recent assault. Music thundered through the streets, drums and flutes and the rise of countless voices singing in unison. Banners rippled in every colour. In the central plaza, where once a gaping wound had scarred the heart of the city, now stood a statue of dragon and rider, wings spread, heads bowed to one another. At its base, flowers had been laid in memory of those who fell in the defense of Thanasis.
Ciraxis’s shadow passed over the noble estates, gardens perfumed and guarded by stone gargoyles shaped like dragons. And then, rising above it all, the Royal Palace. Its towers pierced the clouds, gilded roofs catching the morning sun. She circled it once, low enough to glimpse the courtyards and the balcony where her rider stood, smiling up at her.
The dragon’s heart ached, an emotion so old and deep it was beyond words.
With a mighty beat of her wings, she rose higher, leaving behind the city’s roar for the whisper of the wind and the glimmering blue stretch of the Thanasian coastline. The sea was warm and bright, dotted with sails and islands. Along the beaches, huts and villages rested among the palms. Beneath the waves, sea serpents rolled and coiled, their scales flashing in the sun like molten silver.
Ciraxis let out a cry that split the air - a long, mournful sound that scattered gulls and sent ripples across the ocean below.
This was Thanasis - the City of Dragons and men, born from dust and dragon fire, rebuilt time and again from the ashes of its own ruin. Her city. Her home.
The wind was sharp and high, cold enough to bite even through her pale scales. Ciraxis soared above the world, wings stretched wide enough to catch the sun’s first gold. From beyond the Wall, she could see everything - the bones of the land, the veins of the living city, the pulse of the people and dragons who called Thanasis home.
Below her, the Wastes of Malakath stretched for leagues upon leagues; an endless sea of cracked ochre stone and shifting sands. Jagged peaks tore at the sky where the earth had erupted long ago, and among them lurked the Jarlax, the monsters that crept from old stories into new nightmares. The white dragon coasted over the shadows of The Spires, a tall crown of blackened mountains with a molten heart, where the Rising took place each year. A glimmer of movement drew her golden eyes; wild dragons, their hides shimmering like scattered gems, rising on the updrafts and vanishing into the clouds.
She turned her head to the west, and there, carved into the dunes like a fortress half-swallowed by the desert, stood The Forge, where she and Briseis still trained. It rose from the sands in towers of sandstone and steel. The training fields were alive with motion, young riders and dragons weaving through formations.
Ciraxis banked eastward, leaving behind the golden dunes for green and stone. The land softened into forests and foothills, where the Stille folK made their camp in their painted wagons. She caught glimpses of them through the trees, fires burning, music carried on the wind.
And then, ahead - the great city. Thanasis.
The walls glimmered white in the morning light, streaked with the royal banners of crimson and gold. Ciraxis dipped lower, wings beating slow and steady as she glided over the lower quarter, a tangled web of narrow streets, crowded homes, and bustling markets. Smoke rose from cooking fires. Merchants shouted. Children pointed skyward at her in their usual amazement, their laughter rising above the hum of the waking city. Beneath the surface noise, Ciraxis could sense other things too; the thrum of clandestine affairs, the roar of fighting pits beneath the streets, where men and small dragons clashed for coin.
Further in, the streets grew wider, cleaner, paved in pale marble that gleamed like water. Houses grew grander, separated by gardens and walls. The scent of spiced breads, oils, and burning incense filled the air. She could see the plazas blooming with life; stalls draped in silks, the markets overflowing with fruit, trinkets, and fine metals.
It was a festival day - The Day of Reforging, a celebration of the city’s rebirth after the Jarlax’s recent assault. Music thundered through the streets, drums and flutes and the rise of countless voices singing in unison. Banners rippled in every colour. In the central plaza, where once a gaping wound had scarred the heart of the city, now stood a statue of dragon and rider, wings spread, heads bowed to one another. At its base, flowers had been laid in memory of those who fell in the defense of Thanasis.
Ciraxis’s shadow passed over the noble estates, gardens perfumed and guarded by stone gargoyles shaped like dragons. And then, rising above it all, the Royal Palace. Its towers pierced the clouds, gilded roofs catching the morning sun. She circled it once, low enough to glimpse the courtyards and the balcony where her rider stood, smiling up at her.
The dragon’s heart ached, an emotion so old and deep it was beyond words.
With a mighty beat of her wings, she rose higher, leaving behind the city’s roar for the whisper of the wind and the glimmering blue stretch of the Thanasian coastline. The sea was warm and bright, dotted with sails and islands. Along the beaches, huts and villages rested among the palms. Beneath the waves, sea serpents rolled and coiled, their scales flashing in the sun like molten silver.
Ciraxis let out a cry that split the air - a long, mournful sound that scattered gulls and sent ripples across the ocean below.
This was Thanasis - the City of Dragons and men, born from dust and dragon fire, rebuilt time and again from the ashes of its own ruin. Her city. Her home.
