The Throne of the Scaled One

The following short story has been inspired by the weekly Iron Age Media literature prompt "The Warden" for April 12, 2023.

A cool maritime breeze swept across the small strand of sandy beach, its caress doing little to ameliorate the stifling heat of the day that had just died, giving way to the faint moonlit glow that shined down from a sky of aligned stars. The beach bustled with activity. The island roared back to life after a quarter of a century lost to all who would search for it. Tribal warriors gathered there that night, carrying themselves with confidence born of youthful ignorance, but their boisterous company held no interest to the older man who sat apart alone, roasting his meal of freshly caught fish over a small campfire.

The breeze brought to the man the words of a shaman, who addressed the gathered warriors. The crackling of the many small bones of his elaborate headdress punctuated his every word, as he relayed to his crowd the sacredness of what would transpire there that night and the days that followed it. Though even the fiery energy of gathered young warriors was briefly smothered and turned into reverent attention, the words meant little to the jaded figure that stood alone beside the fire.

Raising his arms, the shaman pointed at the sky. He spoke of the alignment of the stars, of their revealing power, how they pointed and made clear the path to this most sacred island, hidden in the mists beyond the sight of men.

The old man stirred the flames. Though he was much older than the warriors at the beach, his was not the body of a man diminished by the ravages of age, although time had carved lines into his face. Faded tribal tattoos decorated his body, much as they did those of the younger man hearing the shaman’s words, theirs being the fresh and proudly displayed markings of their accomplishments. Still, the old man’s frame was that of one accustomed to grueling physical activity, and his movements seemed measured and well trained. His fish was almost ready.

Turning from the warriors standing on the sands, the shaman looked inward towards the island, bowing his head in veneration of the mythical power that roosted there. The volcano at its center loomed high, and under its shadow the shaman spoke of the great beasts that lived within. Death carried by wings. Hellfire and raw, primal power. As if awakened by his feverish exultations, a mighty roar echoed from deeper within the island, shaking the trees that stood as a wall separating the world inland from the world outside and filling the air in contemptuous defiance of those that gathered at the beach. Some of the warriors bowed alongside the shaman, even their pride brought low by the thunderous display. 

The old man ate, strengthening his body for the trials to come. His hands were also tattooed, but these were not the markings of achievements or rites of passage. From the lower half of his forearm to the tip of his fingers, his hands were completely dark. Tearing up chunks of fish, they fed the man oblivious to the sacred ritual that transpired nearby, for he had heard these words before and they no longer held sway over him.

Brought to tranced ecstasy, the shaman kneeled before the island, his voice now flowing forth from his throat in a burst of delirious fervor. It spoke of that most sacred site to all the tribes of the archipelago. The seat of power from which one from the tribes could commune with ancient powers and impose his will over the winged monstrosities. The voice rasped, as if uncertain of being worthy of uttering the words… The Throne of the Scaled One.

Finishing his meal, the old man turned his attention to his gear. He checked his trusty knife, fashioned from the long bones of some slain beast and expertly carved into a sharp point, before sheathing it into his leather belt. Hanging over his right thigh was a small hatchet, its stone head having been recently resharpened by its wielder, whose legs were protected from any scraping by thick hide pants. Leather straps held another small blade sheathed over his bare upper chest, this one made of wickedly sharp obsidian. Over his shoulders, the old man hung a small unstrung bow, his focus then automatically turning with instinct born of training to check the quiver hanging from his left hip, quickly examining his bone and obsidian tipped arrows for any damage. Topping off this veritable arsenal, he strapped another long bone blade across his back. This one however, was not unsheathed and inspected. A furled roll of leather or hide, secured on his lower back, went similarly uninspected. 

The shaman’s ritual reached its zenith, his voice now seeming to take a will of its own, his mortal owner merely a vessel used to convey the will of the gods to the warriors gathered around. The voice spoke, at last, of the one who sat upon the Throne of The Scaled One. It spoke of the Warden. Once a man such as these gathered under the stars, the Warden had surpassed all the warriors of his own time and claimed the Throne from the previous Warden. Only when the stars pointed the way could the way to the island be found, only during the alignment could the Throne be reached and only when the stars were right could the Warden be challenged. He who unseats the Warden may himself sit upon the Throne and be transformed, claiming its power. The gathered warriors began chanting, each evoking the ancient songs and spirits of their own tribe. Seating upon the Throne of the Scaled One was the ultimate honor in the archipelago, one which brought immeasurable prestige and unquestionable authority to the tribe of the current Warden. Until he was deposed by a worthy challenger, that is. 

Upon mention of the Warden, the old man finally seemed to acknowledge the gathering. He looked up from his work, his tattooed hands absent-mindedly touching the ivory amulet hanging around his neck, its small white form contrasting against the sun-tanned skin. Fire burned in his eyes, and it was not the reflection of the campfire, but rather a fire from within, one the old man had kept burning since last he had stepped on these shores.

At last, the shaman’s voice simmered down, the headdressed head slumping forward and bringing along the rest of the spent body, blanketing the beach with silence. The chanting died down and the warriors exchanged a few glances before dispersing, gathering by tribe affiliation.

The old man turned an attentive gaze towards the warriors now, his experienced eyes sizing up his competition. Three tribes seemed to be represented in this cycle, he noticed. Less than in his own time. Not all tribes manage to find their way into the island in time for the trial, for the window to challenge the Warden was small. 

The largest group of warriors gathered closest to the water, about a dozen or so. They were also the loudest, laughing and jabbering in apparent relief after the ritual had finally come to an end. Their shaved heads and bodies covered with gray body paint marked them clearly as members of the savage Blood Shark tribe. Even at a distance, the old man could see their teeth filed into points as the men threw back their heads in laughter. “Fools”, he thought to himself. Believing that numbers would ensure that at least one of them sat upon the Throne, the Blood Sharks had sent men who were clearly not ready in mind or spirit for what was to come.

Shifting his eyes towards the tree line, his brow furrowing, the old man squinted. There, their presence barely visible, covered as they were by their black body paint, blending into the shadows cast by the trees, was a pair that caused him concern. Their tattoo markings were difficult to discern under these conditions, but the bone decorations piercing the throats of the man and the woman sitting concealed in the gloom clearly marked them as stalkers from the Shadow That Walks tribe. That tribe’s rites robbed these elite hunters of their voices, but the old man knew that they could effortlessly and silently communicate through signs, coordinating a lethal rain of arrows with unseen precision. Though he had never had to fight such a deadly duo before, he knew these would be challenging adversaries. 

His eyes darted to his side as the warriors of the last tribe present at the beach approached him. There were four of them, huge men with bulking muscles, carrying enormous clubs with heavy stone heads. Their skin was marked with intricate white tattoos and their shoulders and back were draped with the furs of great white gorillas. The largest of the four, a mountain of a man, stepped forward towards the old man. 

“Who are you, who shuns the sacred ritual of awakening?”, he demanded with a booming voice.

The old man remained silent, his eyes meeting those of the warriors before him and then lowering to his campfire. 

“I am Maunga, of the White Apes, first to the island! You will answer me, old man!”, the warrior raised a massive foot, pushing the old man onto his back on the sand. 

It was forbidden for the challengers to the Warden to fight before the dawn of the first day on the island, and Maunga was almost straddling that line with his aggression. The old man, cognizant of his precarious standing with regards to his presence there that night, could not take such risks. Gritting his teeth to contain the burning sensation growing in his chest, he rose, dusting the sand from his body. 

As if captured by an inescapable whirlpool, four pairs of eyes were drawn to his tattooed hands. Maunga’s eyes widened, his expression turning from outrage to disgusted contempt. The men beside him murmured amongst themselves as the giant warrior spat at the sand in front of the old man.

“Exile! Do not think you can wash away your crimes by reaching the Throne. This sacred soil shall drink of your blood and your accursed life shall end before stars shift once more.”

Spitting again, Maunga turned from the exile, followed by his fellow White Apes. The band distanced themselves from the old man, the air around him seeming heavy with infectious possibilities, for he was a man marked as proscribed by all tribes. His hands were blackened by crimes so terrible and unforgiving that his very presence was a threat. Still, even without the aid of any tribe, there he stood, having found his way into the sacred island in time for challenging the Warden. Though no tribal elder would be able to recollect such an occurrence, the old laws did not forbid this. The old man fixed his eyes upon the White Apes with searing intensity, his hands touching his amulet, muttering to himself.

“No, it is you who will fall. All of you are dead men walking. The Warden is mine alone.”

**********

A tropical downpour hit the island that night. The men at the beach were no strangers to facing nature’s most wrathful outbursts, and shelters were quickly fashioned from the nearby vegetation. The warriors huddled together, the preservation of warmth a more valuable resource than comfort or personal space. Under his cover of leaves weaved over a trellis of twigs, the exile shifted his position on a small patch of dry sand, unable to sleep.

Frustrated, he sat up. If slumber escaped him, then he would put his time to better use. He stretched, releasing the tension accumulated in the awkward position as he had tried to avoid the worst of the rain. Taking deep breaths, the old man sought to relax as his mind worked out the likely scenarios that the nearing morning would bring. 

From his previous experience at the island, all those years ago, he knew that the challengers to the Throne would depart from the beach in the order in which they arrived. Maunga, in his boastfulness, had provided the exile with the information that the White Apes would be the first to venture into the island. The old man had reached the shores on his canoe and found the pair of Shadow That Walks stalkers already there, so that meant they would go second and he would go third. 

That is what it would mean, but his condition as an exile had again brought about a snag. The White Apes seemed to have informed the shaman of his tattooed hands, and the mystical man had approached the exile and decreed that he would be last to go into the island, even after the latecomer Blood Sharks. Feeling the eyes of the many warriors upon him, all the exile could do was begrudgingly acquiesce. “Hypocritical charlatan”, his rage simmered silently, as the shaman walked away, headdress clicking with bones. “Pretending to cling to traditions and laws, while your most ‘sacred’ Warden treads on them and you are too cowardly to act”.

Determined to make the best of these circumstances, the old man thought about the long way he would have to traverse in order to get to the Throne of the Scaled One. Reaching into memories a quarter of a century old, he pictured the mangrove just beyond the shore, making an effort to recall how to best navigate its treacherous paths. The dense tropical jungle under the shadow of the volcano would come next. The dry ground would be a welcome respite from the wetlands, but the exile knew it teemed with dangerous wildlife, and its darkened depths could be hard to travel through during the night. He would have to hope to make good time during the day, for the next challenge would be a steep and difficult climb up the volcano itself. Noxious vapors and unstable ground would make the way up strenuous, but he was confident he remembered a way to bypass the longest part of the climb. It would be risky, but the reward would be worth it.

At the very center of the crater laid the prize all sought to claim. The old exile could see it, the image of that Throne seared into his mind. A decorated platform of stone, its surface richly carved with the forms of wyrms, the ancient stone worked by hands of otherworldly skill. Atop it, stood the seat of power that granted absolute control over the dragons that roosted on the sacred island. Its unknowable form blurred the lines of possibility, part structure and part living flesh. Twin draconic wings flanked the Throne, lending it even greater grandeur, if that was at all possible. A massive scaled tail coiled around the platform, terrible spikes jutting from it, moving as if the Throne itself breathed. And atop the mass of scales and horns that formed the seat itself, there would always be the Warden, for the Throne was never empty. 

The thought of the Warden made the exile’s heart thump faster in his chest. No mere man could sit on the Throne and command such power, and so the Throne molded the one who sat upon it. The old man thought back to the moment he laid eyes on the previous Warden, all those years ago. He could not remember what he had expected to see, but the primal power exuded by the figure had given him pause then. Tall and regal, the Warden was powerfully built, his imposing frame clad in a deeply ornate shell of metal. His weapon was equally as awe-inspiring, a barbed spear made from the same material that covered his body, doubling as a ceremonial symbol of his station that even the most opulent tribal chieftains could not dream of matching. For this was no longer a mortal man, but an entity transformed by the power of the Throne into the Scaled One. The feet that rested atop the stone platform were clawed, much like the hands that held the scepter-spear. The few gaps in his metal shell had revealed a body covered in hard scales, but even all this magnificence paled in comparison to the vision that awaited the exile when he had mustered the strength of will to look upon the Warden’s face. 

It was not the face of a man that looked down upon his insignificance back then, but the face of the gods’ will made flesh. Scales covered that face, twisting the visage into a draconic shape. An array of horns protruded around it, framing The Warden’s dragonlike snout as if it was a crown. Above all, it was his eyes that commanded the most respect. Burning like the glow of the molten rock that bubbled in the depths beneath the Throne, those eyes spoke of a power of equal magnitude to a volcanic eruption. 

The exile’s blackened hands held his amulet. He had been relieved he did not have to face those eyes alone back then, but now feared what he might see when next he gazed into them.

Shaking his head to dissipate his reminiscing, the old man snapped back to the rainy night, refocusing on more immediate concerns. The mangrove would be his first trial, right on the heels of the Blood Sharks. He reassured himself with a confident smile. 

“Time to thin out the competition”.

**********

The sun blistered the skin of the Blood Shark warriors while they trudged across the mire of the mangrove. Progress through the difficult terrain was slow, solid ground being at a premium as the band had to sidestep raised roots, constantly test the ground ahead and occasionally backtrack when the way ahead proved impassable. 

The cheery disposition they had displayed the night before at the beach, thinking their large group held a definite advantage over the half a dozen or so adversaries racing for the Throne, had also started to sink into the wetlands. The culling of their numbers had already begun. Two of the savage warriors had been waylaid by crocodiles, dragged screaming into the water and torn to shreds. Another had found himself constricted by an enormous snake, as he grabbed a branch that proved to be a bit too lively while the party advanced through a tract of chest high water. His fellow tribesman had come to his rescue, but by the time the serpent had been cut down to free its prey, the unlucky man drew no more breath, having spent it all fighting underwater.

The remaining Blood Sharks knew they had to be more careful. If more of them fell to the land as they tried to reach the Throne, what hope would they have of defeating the Warden? The leader of the band sent forward his best scout, a man of keen eyes to detect any dangers before they sprung upon them. The remaining eight men followed a short distance back, moving along the path the scout deemed safe. 

At some point, however, they lost sight of him.

“Kanohi!”, called the Blood Shark leader, the incessant buzzing of mosquitoes his only answer.

“Curse this bog, not again…”, he drew his weapon, a club studded with bits of obsidian, and motioned for his men to follow as they forced their way through the thicket. 

“Kanohi!”, they called, eyes scanning the path ahead as they advanced. The maze of raised roots and mossy vines gave way and opened into a small pond. Masses of twigs, branches and rotting mud-caked logs dotted the edges of the water, and at its center floated a body, gray body paint washing off its back and shaved head face down into the pond. 

The leader rushed forward, tightly holding his club, fearful of losing it, though the water was only waist high here. He tentatively tried the muddy ground beneath his feet, inching his way towards his scout, praying to the gods he was still alive. Four of his men entered the water with him, while three remained at the edge, eyes frantically darting around, searching for what danger from this hellish mangrove could have felled their fellow warrior.

At about an arm’s length from the body, the Blood Shark leader’s next step led him over a deep depression on the ground. Bending forward as he was in his efforts to reach it, the warrior could not stop himself, and with a short startled cry the waist high water turned into brief submersion into the loathsome waters.

Seven pairs of Blood Shark eyes turned to the commotion, and another pair opened by the entrance to the pond, where the unattentive warriors had only seen a mud-covered log.

Arms flailing, one hand holding fast to his club, the leader of the warriors forced his way to the surface. The pond had become a cacophony of screams. The four men in the water with him were going back the way they came, plodding along with weapons drawn. Wiping the dripping water from his eyes, he looked that way and to his surprise saw the old man from the beach, one hand holding a bow while the other pulled a bone knife from the neck of a Blood Shark. Two more of the gray warriors lay dead at the water’s edge, arrows sticking from their neck and chest, sharp toothed mouths agape in an expression of pain and surprise.

The exile moved quickly, slinging the bow over his shoulders and darting away through the thicket and into another nearby pond, knowing exactly where to step. The Blood Shark leader swam in desperate effort to free himself from the water’s grasp, falling behind as his men gave chase, ducking through vines to follow their assailant. 

“No, stop! He is leading you into another trap!”, his warning went unheeded, the warriors possessed by vengeful bloodlust, chanting their savage tribal war cries. 

Moving as fast as he could in that mire, he could barely see his men through the thick vines as they chased after the old man. His better training and more sensible mind might have saved them, had his eyes been able to pierce the vegetation, but the four savage warriors failed once again to see the concealed form of their much more experienced opponent. 

Rising from the ground, his mud-covered body blending with the environment, the exile drew his bow and loosened another arrow at the furthest of the men who had unwittingly passed him by, killing him instantly. Dropping the bow and sprinting ahead before the other three could turn their heads in his direction, he drew both his knives, plunging obsidian and sharpened bone into the backs of two of them.

The surviving man raised his stone axe, swinging wildly at the exile, who stepped aside, easily avoiding the strike. Fury consuming him, the Blood Shark charged madly again, but this time the old man countered with his twin blades, jamming his sharp obsidian blade into his opponent’s wrist, while the bone knife carved through the muscles of his arm.

The outmatched gray skinned warrior fell to his knees, screaming, his other hand struggling to grab the axe from his disabled arm in a desperate attempt to fend off the attack. 

The exile did not give him the chance. Sheathing the obsidian blade, he took his own stone hatchet and cracked the injured man over the head, sending him down limply.  Glancing back through the mass of vines and roots at the sole remaining Blood Shark, he submerged under the waters and disappeared from sight once more.

Straining his vision to try and not be caught by surprise once more by this elusive opponent, the Blood Shark warrior snarled as he approached the edge of the pond with trepidation. His aspirations of reaching the Throne and claiming the position of the Scaled One for his tribe had crumbled, giving way to the more primal and urgent fight for survival against a clearly highly skilled adversary. Club in hand, he moved slowly, senses stretched to their limit. 

His hearing caught the faintest sound of movement in the water behind him. He swung around, his club arching in a swift blow that hit nothing but air. Was his mind conjuring ghosts?

The very real and excruciating pain that shot from his groin quickly dispelled that notion, as did the sight of his own blood bubbling to the surface of the water, painting it red. The warrior’s mind reeled in confused pain, as he struggled to get out of the water and away from what surely must have been another snake attacking him. A serpentine attack would have given him a better chance of surviving, but instead a very human form rose from the water, bloody bone knife in blackened hand, having impossibly found his way behind the sole survivor of the Blood Sharks. His eyes promised only death, and offered no quarter or chance of escape. 

The Blood Shark advanced with a limp, adrenaline overtaking him and staving off some of the pain. His every move released expanding clouds of blood in the water, as he swung his club again and again, in a desperate attempt to land a solid blow against the old man who expertly dodged the attacks. 

Wincing, the bleeding warrior could feel the strength of his arms leaving him as his life’s essence drained off into the pond. Putting all he had left into his next blow, he finally managed to make contact with the exile, but not as he had hoped. The old man had reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, blocking his last-ditch attack. Having lost so much blood, the younger man’s superior physical strength had faded away. A quick and violent upwards strike at the elbow by the exile’s hatchet sealed his fate, the sickening crunching of snapped bones being drowned by screams of pain as the defeated man let go of his weapon.

“How?”, he asked, staring incredulously at the one who had defeated nine warriors by himself. 

The answer was delivered in the form of a hatchet blow to the side of his head that sent his sharpened teeth flying. The last of the Blood Sharks’ body joined that of his fellow tribesmen, soon to become a feast to the beasts that lurked the waters.

The exile dove into the water once more, crossing the underwater passage that led back to where he had killed the previous men. Looking around at the carnage wrought by his hands, he nodded approvingly while retrieving his bow from where he had dropped it, satisfied with his progress so far.

“So much for the Blood Sharks”, he mused, as he continued the path into the jungle.

**********

The oppressive darkness of the jungle floor seemed to swallow every sound as the exile rushed through the foliage, dodging branches and large trunks under the almost pitch-black cover of the trees as his left shoulder throbbed in pain and blood trickled through the improvised dressing. The treetop roof allowed only a faint portion of moonlight to filter down into the jungle floor, which had become the board of a deadly game of cat and mouse.

Playing the desperate part of the rodent, the exile scurried underneath a small rocky outcropping, hoping it would give him some small measure of cover from his pursuers and a brief chance for him to catch his breath and consider his options.

The body of the White Ape warrior he had found shortly after entering the jungle over a day ago should have been a clear sign that his traverse would not be trivial. Face down on the tree covered ground, dried blood streaking from a series of puncture wounds, the mighty warrior appeared to have been killed by a force much more fatal than mere animals. The definite proof came when the exile rolled the body over and noticed it was missing an ear, carved out with a precise cut. The Shadow That Walks stalkers were keen on taking such trophies from worthy prey, collecting that which had failed to hear them coming. It seemed they were on the prowl in the gloomy jungle.

Slowing his breathing, the exile quickly tended to his injured shoulder as he glanced at the small fragments of sky visible through the tall trees, trying to estimate the time. He had spent far too long on this back-and-forth combat. The time to reach the Warden was running out, and the fact that he had not come across any more signs of the White Apes could only mean they must have cleared the jungle and were well on their way to reaching the volcano. The exile knew that, somehow, he had to reverse the roles and become the hunter instead of the hunted.

Twice now he thought he had them, but twice he had been outsmarted. The stalkers were in their element, their movements quiet and their silent coordination impeccable, with deadly results. During the night before, shortly after coming across the slain White Ape, the old man had heard a soft sound of movement in the underbrush. Approaching with caution, hoping to overpower his dangerous foes in a surprise attack, he had fallen straight into their trap.

Reaching the source of the muffled ruffling, he found it to be a small monkey tied up in vines, its throat pierced with a slender splinter of bone that rendered it mute. The whistling flight of arrows coming from up the nearby trees offered his reflexes the barest chance to avoid the unseen attack, but not enough to prevent one of the projectiles to painfully lodge itself on his left shoulder. Taking flight through the foliage, the exile had since taken part in this hunt as prey to the pair of stalkers.

The following day, having exhaustively fled from his pursuers throughout the night, the old man once more sought to take the fight to them. High in the sky, its light laying bare the jungle floor even through the thick cover of leaves, the sun had allowed his eyes to see what until then had been the domains of the stalkers, their eyes much more used to the darkness. Catching sight of movement along the trees ahead of him, the exile pressed himself against a large trunk, pulling his long bone knife and lying in wait, wary of pitting his aim with the bow against the superior marksmanship of the man he had spotted coming towards him. Steeling himself, he heard attentively, waiting for the right moment to spring an ambush of his own.

It was his sight, however, that had saved him from falling yet again into a trap. Sneaking up from behind him, her encroaching advance revealed by the midday sunlight, was the woman that hunted him alongside her bonded mate. Her lithe form approached, bow in hand, and the exile seized the opportunity to strike before the stalkers completely cornered him. Bursting into action, he charged at the woman, moving from tree to tree as he took cover from the arrows she loosened. 

Before his unrelenting advance, the woman raised a small bone whistle to her lips and let out three sharp notes. The foliage behind the exile exploded in a racket of movement as the other stalker rushed to her aid. The woman assumed a defensive posture, an arrow always nocked at the ready as she moved back in a trained retreat. Knowing his attack was doomed, the exile was forced to once more flee into the jungle, lest he face two opponents of such skill coming at him from opposite directions.

Since then, no other opportunity of attack had presented itself. The stalkers, true to their tribe’s name, had followed him as shadows, always managing to catch his trail. For all his experience, the exile could not escape them for long before being relentlessly laid upon. 

Blanketed in darkness under his rocky shelter, injured and tired, the old man knew the hunt might soon be coming to an end. If only he could find a way to take them on one at a time!

A thunderous roar shook the night as a massive shape flew overhead, the beating of tremendous wings creating a gale that caused branches to rain down from the treetops and sent small nocturnal animals scurrying. The exile did not need his eyes to see the scaled behemoth that turned the small visible fragments of stars into blackness as it passed. The Warden was sending his beasts. The White Apes must be nearing the Throne.

As if to punctuate this notion, the dragon’s roar was echoed by a deafening thunder, as a flash of blueish-white lightning fanned out across the blackness above the jungle. His ears overwhelmed by the dual display of primal power, the old man’s eyes caught a glimpse of something when the night was made clear in that briefest moment of fulgurous fury, before the shadows poured back to fill the jungle with their silent dance.

A pair of bright yellow eyes peered atop a tree, in alarm over the cacophony. The exile froze as his tired mind absorbed the image relayed by his own, widened eyes. A black panther, deadly and graceful, stood perched on a high branch a few dozen meters back the way he had come. Miraculously, the predator had not attacked as the old man had passed. The exile stood still for a few moments, barely daring to breathe, his hands at the ready to draw his weapons, until finally becoming convinced the beast did not intend on jumping him. 

Sheltered in his dark refuge of stone, he thanked his luck for not having yet another stalker added to the duo that hunted him, as suddenly an idea dawned on him. If he could not match his pursuers in the hunt, perhaps he could find another way to even the odds. 

Looking around for a suitable tree as best as he could under the dim light, the exile drew his obsidian blade, setting himself to work with deliberate and slow movements. This hunt was about to end, one way or another.

**********

Savoring the night’s air, her whole being engaged in the act of the hunt, the woman paused for a moment. Hidden in the lush foliage, her eyes scrutinized the way ahead, searching for signs of her quarry. Her shadow piercing gaze was second to none, save nature’s greatest nocturnal hunters. 

Her predatory eyes zeroed in on a slight movement beside a small rocky outcropping that jutted from the ground up ahead. There, flat against the jungle floor, back turned to her, she made out the form of the man who had thus far managed to escape her and her hunting mate. The man’s body was covered in leaves and branches, but she could see right through such an attempt at camouflage. A sly smile formed on the woman’s lips as she notched an arrow and took aim, her trained eyes quickly forming a mental image of the target as she took aim for his heart and lungs. Drawing her bow, she sent death flying swiftly through the air.

The shot flew true. Her prey let out a loud cry of pain and surprise, writhing as the stalker’s deadly precision sent a second arrow flying to join the first. The man squirmed for a few agonizing moments and then stood still, the gloomy jungle swallowing his final gasps for life. 

Flushed with the satisfaction of a successful hunt, the woman abandoned her concealed position, striding forward as she drew her knife, eager to add another grisly trophy to her string of ears.

A low growl and the rustling of branches above stopped her in the tracks, and the hunter became the hunted.

The panther descended upon her like a living shadow. Proving itself to be the superior predator, the great cat struck with murderous intent, snapping its jaws on the flailing woman’s neck, quickly sealing her fate. Though she feebly tried to fight back, the weak slashes with her knife were not enough to make the panther relinquish its prey. Light soon faded from the woman’s eyes, as her blood flowed freely from her grievous wound.

As her life ended, the exile’s body sprang back into action. As he rose to his feet, the leaves and branches that hung from his shoulders fell to the ground, revealing the many layers of sturdy bark that laid underneath. Blood trickled from his back, as his protection turned the otherwise mortal wounds into much more superficial ones.

Wasting no time, the old man took his own bow, notched an arrow and pulled back the bowstring. His wounded shoulder ached and protested as he took aim for the bloodthirsty feline mauling the female hunter, but still he managed to hit the creature's flank. The panther roared and hissed, taken aback by the sudden attack, and was driven away into the jungle. 

Hurrying for his fallen assailant, the exile dragged her mangled lifeless body and placed it against a tree. Searching her quickly, he found the bone whistle she used to signal her partner. He brought it to his lips, letting out three high pitched notes, much as the woman had done when he almost managed to overpower her earlier that day. His ruse set up, the old man hid himself amongst the bushes and waited.

A few moments later, he heard movement up ahead. From around the rocky outcropping, came the Shadow That Walks warrior, bow in hand, eyes wide and wild as he sacrificed stealth and care in his rush to come to his mate’s aid. As the exile had hoped, upon spotting her bloody form sitting up against the tree, the last vestiges of caution left the stalker, and he dashed forward and kneeled next to her. 

Seizing his opportunity, the exile shot an arrow from where he was lying in wait. Though he was consumed by desperation and driven by concern, the stalker still possessed honed reflexes. Jumping aside at the sound of the attack, the hunter managed to prevent the arrow from striking him square in the back. Instead, the deceptive strike hit him in the leg, hobbling the man, who looked around with a snarling face in search of his opponent.

Rushing from the underbrush, his body crouched down as he ran up, the exile tried to avoid the stalker’s arrows as he closed in for the kill. Once the hunter shot, wincing at his wound, closely missing the old man as the distance between them halved. Twice the hunter shot, in disbelief as the exile deflected the arrow midair with his stone hatchet, crossing the last bits of ground between them. Thrice the hunter would have shot, but the blackened hands were already upon him, wielding the stone hatchet in a strong blow that tore the bow from his grasp, sending him down on one knee.

Wounded and deprived of his primary weapon, the stalker still fought on. Drawing a thin bone dagger, he thrust forward, his good leg propelling him upwards in an attempt to skewer his adversary. The older man, now fighting on his own terms, parried the attack, countering with a horizontal strike aimed at the stalker’s head. The agile hunter ducked under the sharpened stone weapon, rolling away to create space between them, but his wounded leg flared up in pain, leaving a deadly opening in his guard.

Once more seizing his opportunity, the exile tackled the stalker to the ground, holding down the hand holding the thin dagger as he let go of the hatchet and pulled his own bone knife, more suited for close quarters combat. 

The stalker struggled, trying to find his feet and escape the grapple, but his opponent offered him no such chance. Driving the bone knife upwards into the hunter’s stomach, the old man twisted the blade, delivering the killing blow.

Disentangling from the dying man, the exile walked back a few steps before collapsing, sitting down in exhaustion as the dying warrior pulled the knife free from his bowels. His hands held the wound in a futile attempt to prevent the inevitable. 

Staring around with a blank expression brought from shock, the stalker’s eyes met the body of the woman, his mate, still sat up against a tree. His face coalesced into a mix of weariness, resignation and supplication, as he turned to the exile, who was gasping for breath a short distance away. 

Raising his hands weakly, a stream of blood gushing from his wound, the mute hunter signaled to the old man in the strange gestures employed by the Shadow That Walks stalkers. He motioned towards the woman, then towards himself, to the exile and finally to the sky. 

The exile sighed heavily. “I understand”, he nodded, picking his stone hatchet from the ground as he stood up to grant a worthy opponent his dying wish. 

The stalker smiled feebly, lowering his head as the old man loomed over him, hatchet in hand. Another powerful lightning flashed in the night sky, and by the time the last echoes of thunder had died down, the exile stood alone, both stalkers dead at his feet, his hands thoughtfully holding his bird shaped ivory amulet. 

He let out another heavy sigh, shaking his head free of his thoughts. He could not afford to waste any more time. Ahead of him stood the massive shape of the volcano, its mountainous form revealed in the flash of lightning, now a dark shape against a darker sky. Somewhere on its slopes the White Apes warriors were climbing up, his last rivals for reaching the Warden. The exile continued on ahead. He was not about to give up now. 

**********

At the very edge of a windswept section of stone high atop the volcano overlooking the island, a black tattooed hand gripped with failing strength. It was soon followed by another hand, and together they pulled up the weary body of the old exile, as he laboriously climbed up onto the small horizontal platform of rock at the side of the mountain. 

Haggardly, he slumped onto the platform, taking in the early afternoon view as he caught his breath. The climb up the volcano had been grueling, the breakneck pace a necessary self-imposition to make up for the head start the White Apes had over him. Looking down at the island, he traced the path he had taken these last few days. 

Underneath the tall volcano, the lush jungle spread like a rug of deep, rich greens. The exile’s eyes scoured the long distance he had traversed under the shadows of the trees, until the vegetation started to become thinner and more entangled as he looked towards the shore. The twisting paths of the mangrove, treacherous as they were, would be a welcome respite in comparison to the exhausting climb. And the sea, the cold, refreshing waters of the sea, leading back to real life beyond the fabled island, beyond the mists that would soon reform as the mystical stars shifted their position, secreting the roost of dragons from the world of men. A world that held no place for an exile.

The old man stood up, stretching his aching muscles. His reminiscing had once more brought forth unpleasant thoughts, and he forced himself to move on. 

Moving his injured left shoulder, he tested his range of motion, grimacing as pain shot down his arm and across his chest. He had treated the wound as best as he could while not being able to afford slowing down. The Shadow That Walks stalkers’ aim had cost him, however, claiming a price of speed and strength as the wound turned a difficult climb into an ordeal.

Once more, however, the exile had counted on his experience to give him the necessary edge. When last he had climbed these rocky cliffs, a rockslide had blocked off the most obvious route up as the mountain quaked in anger, like a great beast shaking off a bothersome insect, in an attempt to prevent him and his companion from reaching the Throne. Their search for an alternative path had revealed the narrowest path circling to another face of the volcano, where a steep and difficult climb up the vertical stone wall, with little in the way of handholds, was rewarded with a much smoother trail up. The sinuous path beyond the blockage of heavy boulders, visible down below after the shortcut had been taken, had ultimately seemed much more troublesome in comparison, proving their choice right at the time.

The now much older warrior made that same choice, already midway up the steep vertical climb. He hoped his experience would compensate for the advantage of youthful vigor his rivals had over him. The hulking White Apes were not subtle about their passage, the signs of their heavy footprints easily visible on the dirt as the exile tailed after them. Only his uniquely superior knowledge of the terrain had given him a fighting chance in this race, but he knew that he would have to face his adversaries sooner or later. 

Unable to give his strained body any more time to rest, the exile resumed the climb. His hands searched up slowly for any crevice where they could find purchase, as he methodically repeated the cycle of pulling himself up the wall and finding a foothold to balance himself onto, on and on. Search, pull, balance, and up he climbed, his mind too numb from exhaustion to even consider the height he was perilously perched atop.

Suddenly, the empty vastness below threatened to pull him down, as the minute stone his right foot was balancing on crumbled away. His fingers dug in desperately on the small crack they were holding onto, hands stretching to the limit or their strength and shoulder screaming in pain, as his legs blindly kicked and scraped the cliff in search of support. 

After a few frantic moments, his life hanging in the balance from his precarious perch, his right leg at last found what felt like a thin strip of rock protruding from the wall. Tentatively testing it before trusting his weight to it, the exile balanced himself onto the lifesaving foothold, only then relaxing his twinging hands.

Gasping at his close brush with death, his heart thumping violently, the exile stood there for a short while, hugging the wall. A few birds flew closely by, their calls mocking that strange creature that dared go so high without wings to carry it. Steeling himself, the old man resumed his ascent, reaching safety at the top of the wall, where the vertical climb mercifully ended onto a stretch of horizontal ground. Before him, a rough trail led up to the volcano’s crater, where the Throne of The Scaled One and the Warden awaited him.

The old man once more struggled to catch his breath, his limbs quivering from a mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline. There was no rest in store for him high atop the volcano, however, for glancing down from the edge he could see the much longer climb he had bypassed with his dangerous shortcut, and the forms of three huge men painstakingly making their way up. 

Having against all odds managed to catch up to those that had first set foot on the island, the exile now set upon his final rivals. He would fulfill the quiet promise made at the beach days ago, and have the Warden all for himself.

Pulling his bow from his back, he finally put to good use the weapon that throughout the climb had been a hindrance. The angle was awkward, and he had to approach the edge far more than his still shaky legs would prefer, leaning over it as he took aim at the White Ape furthest up the wall. Drawing his arrow, he sent it flying down towards the unsuspecting warrior.

The brute’s demise did not come at that moment. The arrow went a bit over his head, plunging into the distant ground below. Alarmed, the warrior cried out to his companions, who looked up and saw the shape of their attacker atop the mountain. Exposed and with nowhere to take cover, the White Apes redoubled their efforts to move up the wall, their heavily muscled bodies bursting into motion to speed up their ascent.

Cursing the difficult shot, the exile notched another arrow, daring to lean a bit further over the edge. He loosened, compensating his aim, and this projectile found its target on the uppermost warrior's massive right shoulder. Caught mid-climb, the man’s grasp slipped with the strike, and he let go of his handhold with a terrible cry, falling down past his companions. 

The exile’s satisfaction turned into perplexity as the White Ape’s fall to his death was cut short by the largest of the trio, who reached out and grasped his injured ally by the arm while clinging to the wall with a single hand. The pair dangled there, swinging on the wind, that carried up to the exile the booming voice of Maunga, the warrior who had confronted him on the beach. 

Seeing an opportunity to bring down two foes with a single blow, the exile took one of his few remaining arrows and once more took careful aim. 

Before he could take the shot, a tremendous boom resonated in the air. The ground shifted under his feet as he struggled to maintain his balance at the edge. Looking up, he saw that a great explosion seemed to have torn a hole on the mountainside. Smoke spewed forth from that wound, a great, dark cloud of noxious fumes near the top of the volcano. Fire raged within it, red and orange flashes surfacing from the cloud, evoking images of the volcano’s awakening fury in the exile’s mind. The fiery death that emerged from the smoke, however, was carried on wings.

Freeing itself from the volcanic depths, red scales glistening as it took to the air, the mighty dragon let out a powerful roar, molten residue still dripping from its jaws. Its massive wings sent powerful gusts of wind with each beat, and the great beast swiftly soared through sky, circling back as his glowing reptilian eyes locked onto the intruders that dared trespass its domain and challenge its master. 

The dreadful sound of cracking stone followed the dragon’s appearance. The exile forced himself to tear his sight from the abominable creature and look up the mountain once more in time to notice a shower of stone raining down on him, as the section torn up by the dragon collapsed into a rockslide. 

Close to the edge as he was, the old man was left with but one desperate chance for survival. Tossing aside his bow, he hung himself from the edge, grabbing on to try and avoid the worst of the falling boulders. Hoping his arms would not be crushed under their weight, he was soon engulfed by the deluge of stone that rumbled over him, deafening the screams of the men below as the dragon descended on them like an eruption of primal fury.

Only when the avalanche had stopped did the exile notice he too had been screaming. The wings of the dragon were beating still, lifting that living furnace of destruction in another wide arch as it maneuvered to squash the last of the bugs crawling through the mountain. 

Bringing himself over the edge, the exile’s heart flared up with a glimmer of hope. The falling stones amassed where once was the platform he had been standing on, but a narrow crawlspace had been formed by the way the boulders leaned on each other. 

Summoning all of his remaining strength, the old man lifted himself up and squeezed through the tight gap. The beating of wings got louder, and a shadow fell over him like a shroud of death. Forcing his body into that small passage, he ignored the scrapes and cuts as he sought to incase himself with an armor of stone to separate himself from the draconic rage. His blood ran cold as he heard a deep inhalation of air, and he struggled to reach the roll of leather on his back, but the confined space limited his movements far too much. Then, with a last glance at the red-hot maw through the gaps in the rocks, all was fire.

The dragon belched forth a stream of magma, nearly causing the exile to pass out from that roaring conflagration. The rocks surrounding him glowed, some melting off as the lava wormed itself into his protection. Rivulets of molten rock fell around him, and the panicked warrior contracted himself as much as possible to avoid their burning touch. 

After a few terrible moments of despair, the rocks cooled off slightly, congealing into a thin layer of resolidified stone. The glow died down and the exile was left in darkness as the beating wings distanced themselves, the dragon convinced none could survive the infernal destruction it had wreaked. 

Moving as if in a dream, still unsure of his own survival, the exile heard intently until he could no longer make out the sound of the flying beast. Gingerly, he took his hatchet and forced it against the still scorching surface of newly-formed stone. Gradually applying pressure, he pressed until a small gap was formed, the molten material sputtering as the afternoon air rushed in, cool in comparison to the boiling temperature of the cocoon of rocks. The old man worked on, each push ruining his hatchet more and more, but his spirit was rekindled by hope with each opened gap. Finally, he managed to carve out a big enough opening and carefully passed through.

The exile savored the cool air of his freedom, drenched in sweat from the heat and exhaustion and dropped his bent and destroyed hatchet as he looked around at the devastated mountainside. Save for the small cocoon of rock that had kept him safe, the dragon’s fury had releveled the fallen stones, creating a new, still smoldering platform. Taking care not to step on the most dangerous patches of resolidifying rock, he turned to the path to the crater, the final stretch of his journey. 

The sound of grunting and movement near the edge stopped him in his tracks. Turning slowly, he watched incredulously as the giant form of the White Ape warrior Maunga climbed onto the platform, having made his way up from what should have been certain death. Slightly bent from exertion, his white gorilla fur singed at the shoulders, the giant of a man still managed to stand tall as he looked down on the exile.

“You!”, he shouted, irate, as he unstrapped the great club from his back. The exile noticed the wooden weapon was darkened and twisted, though it still looked solid enough to bash his head in. He drew his own weapons, twin daggers of bone and obsidian at the ready. 

“You do not deserve the honor of sitting upon the Throne! Exile, outcast, tribeless dog! You will die now!”, the enormous warrior charged from the edge, swinging his massive club in a blow intent on shattering the exile’s ribcage into pieces. Ducking narrowly under the deadly attack, the exile rushed past his foe, slashing with his blades and leaving deep gashes on the White Ape’s chest. 

Apparently impervious to such wounds, Maunga grabbed the exile’s right arm in a bone crushing grip, twisting it and causing him to drop his bone knife. The White Ape pushed him towards the edge, threatening to send him falling down to his death. Reacting quickly, the old man stabbed at the grasping hand with the obsidian blade, the razor-sharp material tearing through bone and flesh, forcing the bigger warrior to release his grip as pain finally penetrated his frenzied fury. 

With his weapon stuck through his foe’s hand, the exile dodged to the side, retreating as Maunga swung his club clumsily with a single hand, still trying to throw him down the mountain. The exile caught a brief glimpse at the man’s back as he turned, a terrible sight of scorched flesh and burnt fur, but even those ghastly burns could not slow down the proud warrior. 

Stepping away from the edge, moving slowly with his eyes fixed upon his dangerous opponent, the old man reached for the long bone blade strapped to his back, untouched since his arrival at the island, and drew his last remaining weapon, one that had cost him his former life to obtain.      

Pulled free from its leather sheath, the long piece of sharpened bone coruscated briefly in the sun, leaving a faint trail of red as it cut the air. Its surface was marked by small crimson veins, and the entire weapon hummed with intrinsic power in the exile’s hand. This was not a weapon just any warrior could obtain, much less dare wield, for it was not fashioned from the bones of any natural beast, but that of a dragon, a servant of the one who sits upon the Throne. Maunga’s eyes widened as realization dawned on him of the crime committed by the blackened hands that held that weapon.

“Disgraceful! You dishonor all of the tribes with your foul deeds.”, the White Ape pulled the obsidian blade free from his hand, grasping his club as he advanced upon the exile. “I shall cleanse this sacred ground from your blasphemous presence, and when I sit upon the Throne I shall make sure none such as you will defy me!”

The great warrior moved more cautiously now, his previous ferocity as he attempted to squash an adversary he thought beneath him now tempered by the knowledge that he had been strong enough to kill one of the sacred beasts in order to obtain his formidable weapon. Sizing each other up, the two warriors circled in their arena atop the world.

Maunga made the first move, but the exile was ready for it. The stone head of the great club was stopped short from crushing his left shoulder, the overhead attack parried by the dragonbone blade, its surface flaring up with power as the two weapons clashed, but the exile’s injured shoulder could not withstand the force behind it, and the older warrior stumbled. 

With speed that belied his great size, Maunga whirled the heavy club around for another blow, this one aimed for the exile’s head. Dropping to the ground from his lowered position, the old man avoided the attack and stabbed at the White Ape’s abdomen. The blade sunk deeply and easily, burning through flesh and muscle as it flared up with the power contained within.

Maunga roared in pain and rage, the smell of charred flesh wafting off with dark smoke, but still shrugging off wounds that would have laid low lesser men. Too close to his opponent to bring his club to bear, he grabbed the exile by the throat and delivered a thunderous headbutt that sent him staggering back to fall onto his back. 

Triumphant, righteous exultation washing over him as he stood over a foe guilty of the worst crimes, Maunga’s pride rushed back in to fill him.

“The gods’ justice is served here today.”, he gloated. “You were foolish to believe you could face me, exile. I shall defeat the Warden and sit upon the Throne, and you will be nothing but bones beneath its greatness, as it should be.”

Dizzy, the exile’s vision swirled. Sky, mountain and the looming form of the White Ape dancing before him. He gripped his dragonbone blade tightly. After all those years, he had come so close! His vision settled on the stone ground, and there he found his hope.

Standing up slowly, his footing still unsure, he looked upon his executioner, framed against the sky as the afternoon died down, and a smile of resigned mockery formed on his lips. 

“I expected more from a champion of the great White Apes.” Maunga’s eyes squinted at the unexpected display of defiance, as the exile took faltering steps towards him. “Your tribe must not have sent its best. Do they not take the challenge seriously? If one such as me could almost best you, surely you are not worthy of the white fur you carry.”

“Silence, dog!”, shouted back the proud warrior, hands tightening around his heavy club, as veins popped on his neck.

The exile continued his approach, stopping a short distance from the other man, with shaky balance. He raised his free hand, presenting the black sign of his crimes. “It was by these hands that your tribesmen fell. It was these hands that have wounded you, and they will be the last thing you see in this world.”

Rage overflowing, Maunga rushed forward and let out a furious cry, his club raised to crush the exile from existence. The old man cast aside his act, jumping backwards with sharp reflexes as the heavy stone head of the club struck the ground on the exact point he had been standing a heartbeat ago. The exact point where he had spotted a faultline in the rocks, created by the combined efforts of the rockslide and the dragon’s breath. The exact point that cracked and crumbled, falling into the abyss below thanks to the strength of Maunga’s blow and the blindness of his pride. 

The great warrior’s eyes turned from rage into despair, but for all of his might, gravity was not a foe he could vanquish. With a long scream, he fell down the mountain, joining his fellow White Apes in their rocky grave.

The exile looked down as the rocks settled. Satisfied, he turned and made his way up the small trail that led to the volcano’s crater. The Warden awaited him.

**********

Night blanketed the island once more, the stars that revealed it to the world of men still shining, until the coming sun would take them away, covering the path to the Throne for another quarter of a century. 

The cool air did little to alleviate the discomfort of the exile, as he completed the final, short climb and came at last into the crater. The sulfurous air was nearly unbearable, filling almost the entire space as it rose from deep within the earth and vented from open cracks as the volcano’s fury bubbled thinly beneath the surface. Pools of boiling liquid dotted the crater, their steaming contents reflecting a twisted image of the sky above while they vomited forth more noxious fumes to poison it. 

Navigating this hellscape with certainty, the exile made his way to the center of the crater. The path through the boiling waters and the deadly vents had been seared into his mind, as he had replayed over and over in his mind the scene of his betrayal by the one he had trusted most. He made his way to the center, to the Throne, and to the one sitting upon it. For the Throne was never empty.

At last the final stretch was conquered, and before him, emerging from the fumes, was the Throne of the Scaled One, much like the one that haunted his dreams. The very same platform of carved stone, depicting the flying monstrosities that were sacred to the tribes of the archipelago. The same fusion of stone and scales, horns and spikes crowning it, great tail coiled around and two majestic draconic wings spread out over it in awe inspiring splendor. And there, eyes closed, not the same as he remembered, sat the one he had come for. The Warden.

“Hello, brother”, greeted the exile, standing before the Throne with his dragonbone blade in hand.

The Warden of the Throne of the Scaled One stirred. His dragonlike visage seemed unconcerned with the one who, amongst many, had managed to reach the sacred seat of power and challenge him. Scaly lids lazily parted to reveal the piercing glowing eyes underneath, his gaze still not focused on the exile. His regal form shifted slightly under the decorated metal carapace as the Warden turned to address his challenger. An ivory amulet shaped like a bird rested on his chest.

“You have bested many trials to stand before me.”, the Warden graced the exile with his voice. The earth and the air at the crater marked his every word, answering to their master’s voice with echo and breeze. The gemmed scepter-spear held by his clawed hand shimmered.  “Know that you now have to face your greatest trial yet, for only the worthy may sit upon the Throne.”

“Worthy?!”, the exile sputtered. “You speak of worth? You!? The one who stabbed his own brother in the back, and all for what? To gain power? To become this?”

The Warden hit the steps of the throne once with his scepter-spear, and the crater demanded respect. The wind picked up, sending the noxious vapors swirling dangerously around the exile. The ground shook, and the temperature seemed to rise as the pools emitted more steam. 

“Should you stand victorious, do you swear to uphold the sacred duty of watching over the tribes, ensuring the gods’ will flows from the Throne and through their might made manifest in the form of wing and flame?”, continued the Warden, the act of addressing the exile’s outburst of irreverence beneath him.

“You will not speak of duty in my presence! Have you forgotten what you have done?”

The Warden’s gaze fixated down upon the insignificant man who dared speak back in such brazen defiance. The penetrating eyes would have commanded other men to fall to their knees and plead for mercy, but the old man’s anger had been simmering for far too long, and he would have his say.

“You have perverted your station, cast aside all notions of holy duty! You do not serve the gods, you serve yourself! Have you forgotten how you turned your beasts against your own people? How you have burned villages to the ground when they refused to worship you? You! Not the gods! You are nothing but a petty tyrant, a pretender wielding a power that should never have been yours.”

Unmoving, the Warden maintained his gaze, his face an inscrutable mask of scales and horns. Defying the eyes’ authority, the exile searched them madly for a sign of recognition or a shred of humanity. He found neither. 

“Answer me, brother!”, shouted the exile, weapon in hand.

The Throne quivered slightly under the Warden. The scepter-spear hit the steps once more, the sound now echoing thunderously throughout the crater. Though the wind no longer blew, the vapors cleared away, retreating as the Warden rose to his feet. His clawed feet clicked on the stone as he directed all the intensity of his attention to the exile, who could not help but take half a step back.

“I recall it now”, said the Warden. The exile tensed, thinking his words had pierced the veil and reached the man underneath the scales, the man who had once been his brother. The Warden quickly dispelled that hope. “You look frailer and feebler now, as you mortals are prone to do in time, but I recognize your eyes. You are the one who refused my will, the will of the Throne.”

Descending slowly from the Throne, the Warden made his way towards the exile, scepter-spear in hand. Even though every step brought him lower, his form seemed to grow larger and more menacing the closer he drew to the exile. 

“I see you have paid for your crimes, outcast.”, he remarked, glancing at the tattooed hands holding the dragonbone blade. “But still your black hands carry the fruit of your blasphemy.”

The Warden towered over the exile now, his powerful and regal frame in stark contrast with the tired old man. The scepter-spear struck the ground for a third time, and the exile had to muster all his will not to fall to his knees as the Warden spoke once more.

“I deem you unworthy. The Throne will not be vacant this cycle, and I shall brook no more of your defiance, worm.” He raised the scepter-spear, its red gem gleaming as its authority imposed itself on the exile. “Now, kneel before me in adoration”. 

The old man’s weary knees buckled, the combined effect of the previous days of exertion and the oppressive weight of the Warden’s power too much to bear. His right hand quivered, the dragonbone blade twitching in its blackened grasp as the exile fought to control himself. His desire for vengeance, for justice against the despotic would-be dragon god, burned within him. Kept alive for a quarter of a century, that flame would not be denied. It grew, it bubbled over and it rose. And alongside it, rose the man. 

Defying the Warden’s command once more, the exile lifted his blade and attacked. A dim semblance of human emotion flashed across the reptilian face, as the Warden blocked the attack with his scepter-spear in mild surprise. The clang of dragonbone and metal resonated inside the crater, and sparks flew from the bone blade as it was blocked by that symbol of absolute power over dragonkind.

His vigor rekindled by his righteous rage, the exile threw blow after blow against his former brother. Each strike of the formidable weapon could have killed an experienced warrior, but the Warden was no ordinary foe. Repelling each strike with ease, he kept an impassible expression as he fended off the exile’s every attempt at hitting him, without so much as giving him ground. 

Again and again the dragonbone blade danced and whirred through the air, but the defense was impregnable. The Warden seemed content to let the old man’s attack crash against him like feeble waves against a great rock, not even dignifying his inferior opponent with an attack of his own.

Frustrated, the exile drew back for an instant, before launching a new attack in the form of a feint his brother had never been able to parry properly when they trained together during their youth. Striking low, he twirled his wrist mid-swing and turned the blow into a diagonal slash aimed at the Warden’s right shoulder. 

Some of the man he once was must still have dwelled inside, for the scepter-spear narrowly missed its parry, much like the exile’s brother would have in the past. However, unlike his former self, the Warden was much too powerful for such a trick to work on him.

Thick black ichor trickled between his clawed left hand as it held the blade aimed at his shoulder. Whereas the exile’s expression was one of surprise that the blow had been blocked by bare hands, the Warden’s face showed only aggravated scorn. Twisting his hand, he brought his unearthly strength to bear, and with a loud crack splintered the bone blade, reducing the carved bone to a fragment of jagged bone, held uselessly by the exile.

“You dare? You dare?!”, the Warden raised his voice, sending the exile staggering back a short distance as raw primal power emanated from the enraged dragon man. “For the crime of drawing blood from your god, I shall reduce all of your accursed tribe to ash!”. He rose the scepter-spear high in the air, calling upon its power, calling his dragons.

An earth-shattering roar answered the call from beyond the fumes that encircled the Throne. The exile could hear the sound of wings and feel their rhythmic beating within his chest as death approached. 

“I shall scour these islands of your defiance, and any more to come.”, the Warden continued his curse, as an ominous shadow blocked out the stars. The space around him and the exile was crimson, as the red gem decorating the scepter-staff shined with an evil light. “Any shadow of who you once were shall drift away as ashes on the wind. Any place you have been, any person who has heard of all, all traces of your existence will be reduced to cinders. Starting with you!”

The winged monstrosity fell upon the old exile, its open mouth letting out a stream of scorching flames and molten rock. Unable to escape, all the hapless man could do was curl up into a ball as the inferno washed over him, consuming all the air inside the crater for a few atrocious moments, until nothing but a blackened heap remained where he once stood.

Soot and ash danced in the air as the dragon flew away, roaring once more, having fulfilled his master’s command. The crimson light of the gemmed scepter-spear dimmed down, and the Warden sauntered closer to his challenger’s remains. 

“Such is the fate of those who defy me”, he decreed, in his supreme authority. “You can choose to worship or you can…”

His words were cut short as the darkened pile of what had been the exile’s remains stirred and moved impossibly. Before he could act, the blackened mass was flung aside in a burst of movement. Soot fell from it as it flew in the air, revealing the bright red scales of the dragon skin the exile carried on his back, now unfurled. Covering himself with it in the nick of time, the crafty old warrior had avoided certain death with one of the few things that could withstand any fire. Even a dragon’s.

“Die!”, he completed the Warden’s sentence, plunging the jagged piece of dragonbone he still held deep into his brother’s heart.

The island immediately reacted as the death blow was struck against its master. The ground quaked with tremendous magnitude, sending both of them tumbling down. The wind howled fiercely in an eerie lament, as the Warden’s own lips struggled to let out his dying breaths. The volcano shook beneath them, and all throughout the island the air was filled with the roars of dragons as their master’s life flowed from his chest.

As the Warden died, so too did the mystical power of the Throne over him. Gradually, his form reverted to that of the man he had once been. His clawed feet and hands twisted back into those of a human. His ornate armor fell to the ground as his form shriveled, the imposing body wasting away into that of a man whose years finally caught up to him. The majestic scepter-spear fell from his now feeble grasp, clattering to the ground as his wielder was no longer worthy of carrying it. The horns around his head turned to dust, disappearing in the wind. All the scales fell off from his skin, and his eyes lost their unnatural glow, revealing the pained and regretful face of a man deep underneath.

The former master of the Throne laid dying at the crater’s center, a far cry from the power he commanded mere instants before. He looked up with pleading eyes as his brother rose to his feet beside him.

“Brother… please…”, his every word spent chunks of what little breath he had left. “Please, forgive me. The Throne, it changed… Was not me… Forgive me…”.

The exile stood over him as he died, unmoving and unmoved. As the last wisp of breath left his brother’s lips, the old man bent down and tore the ivory bird amulet from his neck. 

Letting out a heavy sigh, he looked up at the stars above. He had accomplished what he had set out for, but he feared too much of him had died alongside his brother. The fire that had kept him going all these years was extinguishing, replaced by the coldness of sorrow over what had taken place. He wished things could have been different, but there was no sense mulling over it all now. He had done what had to be done.

The stars sparkled in the night sky as he allowed himself to notice their beauty for the first time in a long while. Before him, beyond the body of the dead Warden, the Throne of the Scaled One quivered and beckoned, inviting him to seat upon it and claim its power. There must always be a Warden, for the Throne was never empty. 

The exile tore his gaze away from the Throne, looking back the way he had climbed to reach the crater. He thought of the long walk he would have ahead of him, back to the world of men and as good a life as it would grant him. 

The exile placed one foot in front of the other.

For the first time, the Throne would remain empty.