Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

[🎶 Afterlife – Illenium ft. Echos.]

"HAIL CORYNTHIA!"

At the sound of the bugle, the congregation in the dome rose to their feet, cheering as the gates opened to usher in the four riders and their great dragons. "The Tournament presents," started the games announcer again, "Trisha Turnbull and her dragon, the Golden Bellerophon!"

"Yeeeaah!" The Griffins in the crowd hailed for her, waving gilded flags that sparkled in the rosy morn. The girl made poses to their loud applause, giving those in the crowd air kisses and backshots in her tight gold flying leathers. Her poses were picture perfect. And it was granted that her behind was quite robust; the form-fitting pants made a lusty exaggeration of her arse.

Rafel watched her wave like royalty to the crowd. 'Can they get any panties under those trousers?' he wondered at the girls. They had to be wearing thongs or totally commando under there, else the pantyline would show. Since Trisha was a Griffin, no one was surprised at her vanity and desire to get all the attention at the theatre.

The games moderator allowed her a moment to soak up all the praise before continuing in his high glass pedestal above the tiers to announce the rest of the riders.

". . .Bolta Olympian and her blue storm, Coronis!"

Bolta's dragon let out a fierce shriek and flapped out its marine wings. A great air whipped up dust from the sands, surging it up the levels into the faces of the crowd. This action made Coronis's size more evident as the largest of the four beasts. The horns rose to the uppermost seats of the arena. And each of the scales on the blue dragon was big as a dinner plate.

Bolta silently stood at Coronis's side.

"Ugh! Show off!" Trisha rolled her eyes from Bolta's left. The Fourth Year wingleader ignored her. She was certain Trisha's face was brimming with green envy. Coronis's mountainous bulk would be a welcome advantage when they took flight. It was much harder to best a giant dragon.

"She thinks her blue dragon's big, huh? The beast's only fat. That fat bitch." Trisha Turnbull cursed in a spiteful glare. And once again, Bolta ignored her, only petting the long neck of her beast as it dazzled the crowd with more shrieking. The clapping seemed to go on forever.

"Next comes the pale rider of Raven Arc, Salome Smallbone!" The girl stepped out into the arena, only raising her head like a soldiers to the roars of the tumultuous students. It was mostly taunts. Her own faction members tried to dull the naysayers. Salome wasn't bothered in the least. She was here to battle with her dragon, not carve up favors and loose faith.

In fact she was rather happy many in the Colosseum many jested.

It would make her trumping the other riders much more appealing a defeat.

The announcer's tone was a bit judgy when he went on: "She appears in purple halo with the offspring of the Abyss, the beast she shalt ride, the deathly Shredder."

Shredder was the only dragon upon the sands who stood behind his ride, like a loyal dog. Though the creature was dozens of feet taller than Salome, Shredder was sleeker and smaller when compared to his kind. Frighteningly sharp were the spikes on its back. The purple in the dragon's eyes were cut across the sands to Bellerophon especially. They were both locked in some kind of staring contest.

Automatically, their riders hated each other too.

The games moderator moved along from Salome and her gothic creature to call up the final rider for the Tournament, the only male and the only First Year. Quite a feat, considering he was going up against a seasoned sentinel and other two femme fatales, both of whom had seen one of such Tournament—and knew what to expect.

"And finally. . .making his second appearance in the games, our champion of the Hunt, Israfel Blüdthïrste, and the red queen, Zarathustra. Give it up Corynthia for the Crimson Champion and his ruby Raide! Give it up. .

.FOR YOUR DRAGON RIDDDDEEERRS!" All of the dome went up on their feet. Rafel had become quite the fan favorite after securing gold in the first round of the Games. And it helped his competitor profile a lot that he was hot. He could see his friends on a row in the middle levels; Aya Naamah clapping the loudest.

"Fuck 'em up!" Ravenna yelled across.

"RA-FEL! RA-FEL! RA-FEL!"

Even some Griffin Golds amongst the ranks held up red flags, rooting for both he and Trisha at the same time. Either winning was fine. Rafel raised his eyes up the long, fat crimson and forked tail, churned in vermillion scales up to luminous amber eyes that were already staring down. He raised his eyes to Zara at his right. He sent telepathically,

"Who are you most uncertain of?"

For a moment, he didn't think Zarathustra would hear him directly out of his mind. But then she blinked once, looking down at him.

"Shredder," she replied.

No one but the [Phoenix Arc] rider and his dragon heard this dialogue.

"Hail Corynthia!" The Tournament's moderator called in his mic glyph to settle the ruckus. The flood of students fell into their seats again. One serpent lad close to Corazón mumbled jealously, "Israfel might've been champion of Athena's hunt, but he does stand a chance in the skies with Coronis. Bolta has ridden upon eleven dragons. She is a wingleader of the Sentinel Corps. Her father is a god.

Have you seen the size of Coronis?"

Cora shot the young boy a look.

"Had you been in actual combat you would know that size doesn't win wars. Bellerophon might be witty and proud. Shredder might be ruthless. And yes, Coronis is enormous. But they have not what Israfel has with Zarathustra: the perfect union of hearts between a dragon and her rider. I believe in him."

This shut up the lad's forked tongue in his mouth.

Above the arena where the dragonriders and their beasts stood, the moderator vanished off the perch as the academy's headmistress rose on her own ivorystone seat. Nicara was well-wrapped in her opal robes and gold bangles from Florentia on her arms. She raised a hand for all to see. And a deadly quiet fell over the entire stadium.

At that moment, if a loose stone dropped into the sea, the island would hear it.

"Alright riders," said the beautiful headmistress, "mount your dragons!"

All four beasts went down to the ground for their riders to climb. Zarathustra bent her giraffe neck down to touch the sands, and stayed perfectly still as Rafel clutched to the aids and climbed up the ladder-like leather grips to the saddle. He sat astride on her, just at the hollow where her neck slimmed out into large-boned shoulders.

Rafel picked up the reins, fastened his stirrup, double-checked his flame helmet, and clutched his thighs around the saddle.

"Comfortable?" Zara offered telepathically.

Rafel offered back a smile she couldn't see but felt.

"You are unusually soft for a dragon." He said.

"Careful now, red one. I might just throw you off."

"No you won't."

Zara wanted to turn back and catch his smirk on his face but the trumpets blasted. In grand, military style. The crowd turned to steel in their seats, not wanting to miss a single moment of the action.

"RIDERS!" The voice of the Corynthian Academy's headmistress boomed. "TAKE FLIGHT!"

Rafel immediately pulled on Zara's reins.

She extended her great, red wings. A swift leap up from the ground, and they were in the air.

Flying.

It was nothing like riding a pegasus—no offense to Agamemnon.

Riding Zara, controlling her, becoming one with her; it was beautiful. He gripped tighter to the reins as she took them higher into the enchanting blue of dawn. The skies parted for them, and it was wondrous. The flapping of the giant wings of four dragons had left the arena briefly blocked out in a dust and windstorm.

But the colosseum cleared as Griffin faction members summoned an easy gale to weave the dust away.

The crowd of students and tutors looked up into the heavens to see the blue of Coronis, the red of Zarathustra, the black of Shredder, and the gold of Bellerophon gliding and twining in the air, and with each other. The clouds turned to mere white smoke as they tore into each one, bludgeoning out in a furry of snow white.

All the First Years had wide eyes.

"Oh my Martyr! It's so beautiful." Rosamunde said. "I have only ever known dragons to cause plunder and devastation."

"Yes it is. I have seen one Tournament like this, but it still gets me, every single time." Ravenna replied beside Rosa.

She had not even finished speaking when in the sky, Salome lunged Shredder into Bellerophon. The gold dragon wailed at the sudden attack. Shredder's dagger talons caught it in its left wing. Trisha, Bellerophon's rider struggled in her saddle while the beast shrieked and flapped on one wing. The other was limp, bleeding at its side.

Shredder had cut right through it while everyone was busy admiring the beauty of the blending sky.

"Cunt! Fucking cunt!" Trisha yelled at Salome.

But Shredder and his female rider weren't done with the gold dragon yet. Salome pulled on the reins of her black beast and it climbed up the skies in a streak. Well above Bellerophon and Trisha now, a scarlet churning began to glow in Shredder's belly. It grew and moved up its throat.

The whole arena below knew what was coming.

Fire.

It blasted in a stream of intense green heat from Shredder's open mouth. The roar of the flames broke apart clouds in its way like a streak of lightning. The first wave of emerald flames speared into Bellerophon's side. The dragon wailed, struck ablaze in a green death inferno.

Trisha saw the flames coming, and her eyes widened. There was no steering her dragon away.

Shredder's poison green fire enveloped the both of them in a vortex as the black beast continued to spew more raw volcanic heat. Bellerophon's injured wing hissed with the sound of blood steaming on the severe gash ripped into its limb. The smell of burning was acrid as both dragon and rider were consumed in the acidic melt.

And with a final bloodcurdling shriek, Bellerophon fell from the sky.

The gold dragon landed with a clashing thunk to the sands of the arena. It hit the earth so hard several seats jumped.

"Holy shit." Someone whispered. "Is it dead?"

The dragon's broken wing slowly opened, and there was Trisha. She was unrecognizable. Her flamboyant blonde tresses were burnt to her scalp. Half her face was red and raw. Her lips were cracked and her jaw looked. .

.out of order. Her expensive golden flying leathers was burnt into her skin, the nylon melted into her flesh. She lay, sizzling like a human barbecue beside Bellerophon.

The unmoving dragon and rider were burned brutally. Healers instantly rushed from the mobile clinic with kits in hand.

Three hundred feet above, in the firmament of heaven still brimming with the heat of the green fire, Shredder floated. He let out a puff of smoky dragonsbreath and grinned evilly. On its back was his rider, Salome Smallbone. She too smiled upon the steaming pile in the center of the Colosseum.

"Burn in Hel, bitch!" She spat down below.

Swiftly, she turned Shredder around—all but forgetting the Griffin Dragonrider she had just incinerated—and leveled her eyes on the other two riders remaining between her and victory. Bolta upon Coronis, and Israfel upon Zarathustra.

Rafel looked in cold rage. Zara had been right.

Shredder was the one to fear.

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