The king sits on his throne, despair now a part of him, visible in the hunch of his shoulder blades and curvature of his spine. His hands are blistered and raw from digging through the rough stones, from trying desperately to rebuild what has been lost. The luminescent mushrooms dotting the cavern’s interior bathe him in a bitter glow even as they cause beautiful colors to dance in the dust, reflections of the iridescent minerals in the rock.
Perhaps he ponders the dignity of dying now, or wonders what his life has been worth, or maybe he thinks nothing at all. It doesn’t matter because his calm acceptance of the inevitable death of his people is pierced through by a newborn’s scream.
It has been decades since an egg has hatched. The nursery had gone defunct, as their people continued to perish and no lives came to replenish them. Now, in the royal section of the nursery, where the King and Queen’s eggs lay, a babe wails.
Actions cease, tired bodies freezing as they slowly recognize what they’re hearing. The king leaps from his throne, running to see if his kingdom has a future after all.
Torn from the inner sack of the egg, surrounded by glistening white fragments, was the boy. His cherry red coloration and golden gem eyes proved that he was indeed royalty, the hereditary signs all in agreement. The salamander emitted another wail, his frail body suffering from this sudden exposure. There were no nursery workers to move him to a nest and blanket him in warmth, no meal prepared for him to eat. There was only the dank structure of the nursery and the trembling hands of the king, hid father, reaching out to him. His birth was a miracle.
Slowly, his membranous eyelids lower and raise, the spell of quiet broken as exhausted vassals peer into the nursery, crowding for a chance to glimpse this marvel of life. The king had but to cast his eyes toward the crowd for them to begin preparations for their new prince.
**Pallas stands in front of the throne, a little boy of sharp edges and stony silence. For the umpteenth time, the king wondered, was his son like this because he had no mother? He was constantly landing himself in fights with his caretakers, to the point that they had been authorized to use violence against him. Now, here the child, only eight, stood once again with scratches on his arms, a bloodied lip, and cut cheek. No words get through to this child who stares with cold defiance. The king’s eyes narrow and he does what he never believed he could - he turns his flames on his own son.
There is a short cry of agony from within the fiery maelstrom, but it ends suddenly. The air is filled with dancing embers and sparks which crack and pop as the smoke lifts up into the vaults of the cavern, but there is no sound except sizzling heat…then, the king sees him.
Though his skin is partially burned, Pallas is grinning in delight, arms widespread as the blistering heat curls around him, the flames still engulfing him. His golden gem eyes turn to the king, narrowing in thought. In this moment, the king knows, from that egg was hatched a tyrant.
**There is fire in his veins, and he stands in the nursery, waiting. Why have no other eggs hatched? He wonders. He wants other children to play with. His teeth pierce the meat of his arm and he waves it like a wand, blood splattering onto the multitude of eggs. The king enters, but the question on his lips dies before it can even be born as a blaze kindles from the blood.
”No!” The king shouts, shoving his son aside in an effort to reach and contain the flames.
”It was too cold,” Pallas chides, brazenly dismissing his father’s fear. His face has the smug arrogance of someone who has figured out the answer to the riddle first. The use of his power has turned his eyes golden, a mirror to his father’s.
As the flames begin to die away, there is a crackle, multiplying into a cacophony of sound as salamanders break free of their eggs with shrieks of life. The king stands, shocked into silence. How could this be? For decades, they have waited for new hatchlings, and believed their race was doomed to die. This solution is too simple, too mundane. The temperature has never changed before, how could it be the key?
As if telepathic, Pallas speaks, his voice ringing clear over the crying newborns, “They were waiting for me.”
**Blood drips off his knuckles, glistening and cool in sharp contrast to his flushed, heated skin. The body broken on the ground before him shudders, still alive, and is unceremoniously hauled away. Pallas turns to his father, his king, and asks, “Do you believe me now?”
Though the salamanders are once again rising, their enemies attack in spurts, pillaging and raiding their stores, killing their women and children. These kobolds are their opposite: gray, hairy, cold, little more than deformed garden gnomes come alive with only destruction and death in their hearts. Pallas believes they can be easily broken in war. The king does not.
But this demonstration of Pallas’ does seem to galvanize the soldiers in the restored courtyard serving as the stage, and thus the king has no choice.
They go to war.
**It ends as it began: in blood and flames. Corpses, salamander and kobold alike, are strewn throughout the vast cave which serves as killing field. The kobols have been annihilated, but at a high price - 3/4ths of the salamanders are dead, and the race is dying once again in an exponential free-fall.
Pallas stands, as prince, upon a mound of bodies. It is no exaggeration to say he did most of the killing, for each drop of his blood spilled seemed only to ignite greater tenacity within him. He enjoys killing to secure the future of his people, even with the unimaginable toll.
He casts out his hands and burns. Bodies smoke and smolder, the carnage rendered to ash in the span of five minutes.
But there will be no celebration for this.
