Crowds jeered as the executioner locked Bronwen into the stocks, its wood cheap and splintered. She winced as the frayed edges rubbed against her wrists and fragments of the wood fur caught and buried themselves into her skin. She craned her neck upwards, looking out to the crowd to see the faceless mass calling for her death. She had been caught in the act of piracy, having set tens of the kingdom’s ships ablaze in the past month. Finally, they had her, the arsonist of the seas.
She was found amongst the remains of a great merchant galley, having been knocked unconscious by the impact of a cannonball. It had been fired by another royal vessel, against their own allies, to ensure her capture. Her ribs were broken, and her left leg had been left lame from being caught directly by the ball of iron, but the people wanted to see her burnt for her crimes. Death by dragon fire, her final sentence. A fitting end for a firebrand mage.
Now, at the edge of the world, on a cliff that overlooked the great oceans, she awaited her fate. The sea brought with it a bone-chilling cold, and she couldn’t help but fidget in the stocks, leading to ever more splinters finding their way into her arms. There was no point in fearing the end, she thought to herself. This life was only hers due to a failure to end it once before. Forced to cling on to what little she had by another, to protect her kind, and master her power. For their sake, not hers.
“It is time!” a cloaked man stood at the front of the stage, commanding the audience with great fervour. “As Torak’shitar comes, the accused will beg for mercy, for forgiveness for her transgressions! I ask you all to follow the guard back down the cliff, so that she may be bathed in the righteous fires of the dragons.”
The crowds did as they were told, shuffling down and away from Bronwen, leaving her alone at the top of the hill. Her hair billowed in her face, and the salt spray from the sea showered her in ambivalence. Only the wind’s howling and the crashing of the waves accompanied her now.
At last, the dragon’s cry echoed out from on high, from the mountains to the east. Torak’shitar, or so the crier said. She’d never heard of them before, despite being well versed in the dragons that existed within the area. After all, it was a wizard’s duty to know the dwellings of the progenitors of magic, the strongest beings on the planet. On great metallic wings, the dragon swooped down from the sky, cutting through the clouds like a ship through sea foam. They hovered a few feet from Bronwen, their winds threatening to blow the stocks away with her in them, down into the jagged rocks below.
“Fear not,” the dragon spoke to Bronwen. “I know of your mother, of your heritage.”
She looked up and gazed upon Torak’shitar. Her wings gleamed with brilliant crimsons, and her head was bowed to Bronwen.
The dragon approached with fine precision, stopping inches from her face. A tongue, forked and rough, licked away the hair that covered her eyes. Bronwen felt the tears roll down her cheeks, having been saved by yet another stranger, another that sought to see her fulfil her duty. She was not worthy. But Torak’shitar did not care. She lifted Bronwen from the stocks, holding the girl gently between her claws. Then, with ease, she released a glut of fire and bathed the stocks and gallows in dragon’s flames, causing a chorus of cheers and exultations from the crowds at the bottom of the hill. On Torak’shitar’s wings, Bronwen was carried to safety, and returned to her home amongst the sea.
A response to the writing prompt on reddit here: