In the sixth year of my life as a Scale-Stripper, I finally gathered the hundredth vial of Dragon Breath Essence.
I knelt before the altar, cradling the crystal bottle in both hands. The golden light swirling within it cast a warm glow across my scarred knuckles. Six years — six years of wandering the most dangerous battlefields of the Five Clans and the plague-ridden wastelands, using dragon breath to heal the wounded. For every person I saved, I had peeled away a living scale from my own flesh, baring the raw, bleeding meat beneath.
Seven scales left on my back.
Only seven.
But as long as it saved my brother Lucien, it was worth it.
Six years ago, during the Dragon Slaughter War, our parents had been assassinated by humans. An ancient curse had struck Lucien; his scales were crumbling away, day by day. He told me that only a hundred vials of Dragon Breath Essence could break the curse.
I held the crystal bottle out to him, my voice trembling with barely contained emotion. "Lucien, a hundred vials. We finally have enough."
Lucien took the bottle and glanced at it.
Then he tossed it off the altar without a second thought.
I went rigid.
Lucien stood at the top of the altar.
"I was never cursed," he said.
My hands were still cupped in the shape of holding the bottle, all ten fingers suspended in midair.
"Our parents never died, either."
"The Dragon Slaughter War six years ago, I planned it. The only one left crippled, with broken wings, was you."
