I suppose you want me to be a bad-ass dragon tamer.
Bad news. I’m not. I ran from it for a long time, and the idea that I can tame dragons is wholly exaggerated and, well… uneducated gossip. Don’t get me wrong. It’s true in a manner of speaking. I’m a Scriflight, which also happens to be my last name. Yet it’s more like being able to talk dragon, and ask — very nicely — for their co-operation.
It’s my experience that if you don’t ask nicely, they bite, but they don’t normally kill humans, elves or dwarves.
Jinn on the other hand… They really hate jinn. And who can blame them? They came to our realm through human nightmares. Our brains were used as portals during the Jinn Onslaught. Whenever a human dreamed something that scared them, a jinn would claw its way through their brain and into the home. Then, starving from the journey, they’d go on a killing spree, killing families and in some rare cases, whole villages.
That’s where my family — the Scriflights — and a few other families stepped in.
But that’s not the story. Our tale is the one I’ve run from all my life. Granted, I’m not super-old yet, but… Well. For a Scriflight, I should have more dragons under my so-called spell. Yet another misconception by the people we protect.
We being the royal use of the word, because right at the start, my father died, making me the kingdom’s last defender with Scriflight blood.
Grab hold of your saddle horns. This story’s about to get really… scale-y.