The Unmaking
Maekrux was disillusioned. His children had been harmed and he was not able to stop it. His lair had been invaded, his life taken, and he could not avenge it. He had been given the one thing he wanted above all else: a child of his own blood. But that was the worst offense of all. He had committed the same sin his father had done to him: he had tried to force the life he wanted on his son. Maekrux sat and pondered this on his empty terrace, void of the life that once lived there, the happy, joyous cry of hatchlings.
Drulkar himself had given him Kaevaeri and Kaezala. Maekrux couldn’t have children of his own; he had lost that ability trying to find a friend lost in the Rift. Irradiated, divine intervention was the only hope for Maekrux. But Drulkar hated Maekrux and Maekrux knew this. He was the last of the Keepers. Why then? Why had Drulkar given him what he desired the most? When it first happened, Maekrux thought it was simply to keep him from his duties as a Keeper.
Now he knew differently.
Maekrux leapt from his terrace and took to the air. His mind was swirling with rage and despair in equal, untenable parts. Far to the north he flew from Harton Valley, over the rocky mines of Aughundel, the cold plains of Kirascant, the warm hearths of Mahagra. Into the storm of the northern isle he dove, the powerful, freezing winds biting into his scales. “This is what must be done!” Maekrux shouted into the howling wind. The wind seemed to smile at him, but perhaps it was only Maekrux’s twisted imagination.
His flight turned into a sharp ascent as he approached the Tower of Sorcery, his heavy wings laden with ice as they powered up into the sky. That same ice seemed to cover his maw, but who could say if it was from the wind or something else. At last he broke from clouds to the pinnacle of the massive spire and crashed back down upon it, gripping the lightning rod. Ice fell like glittering stars into the hateful, blowing breeze. “Is this what you want of me, Drulkar? Have you shamed me enough? Is there still more that you must take from me?” the blue demanded of the wind, but the wind never answered.
Maekrux could not forgive himself. He had lost so many children. So many had Faded. Was it only the Gift? No, he thought now, it had to be him. He had made the mistake. He was the unsuccessful father. No son of his had ever risen to wings without flying away from his family and name. He had forever cursed himself the moment he had left his father’s keeping, abandoned his father. Now all of his sons were doomed from birth or adoption to the same. And he, HE was the cause of it! Nothing burned him more.
How could he maintain his place as a Keeper? He was unfit, as unfit as the Council had become. The old days of the dragon were dead and even the last ditch effort of the Council, to return dragonkind to its place of perfection by seeking perfection of form, had failed. The world was changing. Perhaps for the better. Perhaps not. But it could never be the same.
“I know why now. The Rite of Unmaking, do you think I have forgotten? All others have, but I remember, Drulkar. I remember.” And he did. Maekrux had learned this from his father, once a Keeper of this great Prime Barrier. How, years ago, when the Age of the Gods had come to an end, that spell had been used by Drulkar himself. How the great Flame God, angered by the acts of his progeny in their usurpation of his rivals, tore open the newly formed barrier and left forever from the realm, leaving only the Gate of Embers behind in case his spawn should ever regret their action and seek his guidance again. For near six thousand years, they had no regret but did seek his wisdom.
“Have you learned in those years, Drulkar? Have you plotted this since that day? Then let me not stand in your way! If this world is to be reclaimed, then it shall be!” Maekrux’s hands tore at the blistering cold sky and the storm immediately stopped. Daylight burned down onto the massive spire and burned like fire. The air grew dim, darkened, and then ripped apart into a haze of flame and fire that coated the sky. To the unaware below, it looked as though the most beautiful sunset had ever fallen across the whole of Istaria. It had.
Down came the Prime Barrier that for six thousand years had protected the realm from outside influence. Maekrux had not committed some great sin in truth. The barrier had been torn asunder by the Ritual of Life-Ever Lasting, the Blight and Aegis, and the subsequent arrival of those from the stars. But to him, who had maintained this role given to him by his father whose name he was no longer worthy to speak, he had broken everything he held dear. Never would he be able to restore his father’s bloodline. Never would he continue his own.
“A new dawn rises over Istaria. And like the Phoenix, this birth must be through fiery death. May the gods have mercy on you.” He sneered, breaking the rod he gripped. “But Drulkar, all bets are off now. I have no reason not to tell them the truth of what they have done… and to give them the tools to repair it.” Maekrux took once more into the still air, returning to his lair to begin the teaching of his second and last blood child.
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