Chapter 58: Beast Tamer

Armored Dragon Calendar Year 418 – Ash

—

[Ash POV]

The egg was warm beneath my palms.

Not just physically warm, though it was that too, radiating heat like a stone left in summer sun. A pulse beneath the shell. A presence that responded to my touch with what felt like curiosity.

“She likes you,” the handler said.

I looked up from the speckled surface. Handler Maris was a weathered woman in her fifties, scarred hands testament to decades of working with creatures that could burn your face off.

She ran the breeding program that Arbalest had established three months ago. An ambitious attempt to develop mounted rapid-response capability.

“She?”

“Female. Fire type.”

Maris studied the egg with professional appreciation. “Rare combination. Fire drakes are usually male. The females are smaller, faster, smarter, harder to bond with.”

“Then why—”

“She chose you.” Maris shrugged. “When we brought you in here, her heartbeat changed, started responding to your presence. That’s unusual. Most eggs need weeks of conditioning before they respond to handlers.”

I looked back at the egg. It was maybe the size of a large melon, its surface a mottled pattern of orange and red that seemed to shift in the firelight.

Beautiful, in a way I couldn’t quite name.

“What do I do?”

“Keep touching her. Talk to her, let her learn your voice.” Maris stepped back, giving me space. “She’ll hatch soon. Hours, probably. You’ll want to be here when she does.”

I spent the next six hours with my hands on that egg.

Talked about nothing in particular. My childhood in Quellec Village, before the parents died.

The years learning beast taming arts from the survivors. My time with Arbalest.

The people I’d met. The life I was building.

The egg pulsed steadily throughout. Listening, maybe.

Learning.

When the first crack appeared, my heart stopped.

—

The hatching took an hour.

Tiny fissures spread across the shell. Orange light leaking through like sunset breaking over mountains.

The pulse beneath my hands became frantic, then rhythmic, then determined, a creature fighting to enter the world.

I didn’t help. Maris had warned me that interference during hatching could damage the bond.

The drake had to break free on her own, prove her strength, establish that she was capable of surviving.

So I watched. And waited.

And whispered encouragement that she probably couldn’t understand but that felt right anyway.

The shell shattered.

A tiny head emerged, scales glistening wet, eyes that burned gold in the dim hatchery light. She was beautiful. She looked at me, and something in me settled into a certainty I hadn’t expected.

“Hello,” I breathed.

Chirp.

The drake made a sound, halfway between a chirp and a growl, and crawled from the remnants of her shell. Her wings were folded wet against her back.

Her tail was longer than her body. Her claws were tiny but already sharp, leaving scratches in the wooden table as she moved.

She moved toward me.

I held out my hands, and she climbed into them. Her weight was nothing, a few pounds at most.

Her heat was significant, warm enough to be noticeable without being painful. Her eyes never left mine.

“She’s beautiful,” I said.

Maris nodded. “She’s yours.”

—

Charizard ate three chickens before noon.

This was, apparently, normal for a newly hatched fire drake. Their metabolism ran hot, literally, and they needed constant fuel to maintain their internal temperature.

The breeding program kept a steady supply of small animals for exactly this purpose.

What was less normal was her sleeping on my pillow.

“Drakes usually prefer stone,” Maris observed when she found us. “Heat retention. They like warm surfaces.”

“Then why is she on my pillow?”

“You sleep on your pillow. She likes you. Therefore, pillow.”

The logic was irrefutable.

Fwoosh. Also, my pillow was now on fire.

I stared at the small flames licking around Charizard’s sleeping form. She looked entirely peaceful, curled into a ball, smoke curling from her nostrils with each tiny exhale.

The fire didn’t seem to bother her at all.

It bothered my pillow significantly.

“That’s also normal,” Maris said. “Fire drakes can’t control their flame production when sleeping. You’ll want fireproof bedding.”

“Where do I get fireproof bedding?”

“The quartermaster has some. Previous handlers needed it.”

“Previous handlers?”

“Their drakes didn’t survive.” Maris’s expression was matter-of-fact.

“Fire drakes are difficult. High mortality in the first few months, but if she made it this far, she’s probably strong enough to reach maturity.”

I looked at the tiny creature destroying my sleeping arrangements. Strong wasn’t the word that came to mind.

Adorable, maybe. Chaotic, certainly.

Strong would come later.

“How do I keep her alive?”

“Feed her constantly. Keep her warm, let her bond with you.” Maris paused. “And don’t let her eat anything important. They’ll try.”

“Try to eat what?”

“Everything.”

She wasn’t exaggerating.

—

Day three: Charizard ate my sword.

Not the whole thing, she was too small for that. But she chewed through the leather wrapping, gnawed on the crossguard, and somehow managed to crack the blade itself before I realized what was happening.

“That’s not normal,” Maris admitted when I showed her the damage.

“You said they try to eat everything!”

“They try. They don’t usually succeed with steel.”

She examined Charizard, who was looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Her flame sacs are developing faster than expected. She’s generating more internal heat than typical for her age.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she’s special. Or dangerous. Probably both.”

Charizard chirped and tried to eat my belt buckle.

“She’s perfect,” I said, prying the buckle from her jaws.

“If you say so.”

—

Training began in earnest on day ten.

The theory was simple. Drake and rider trained together, building trust through repetition and reward.

Commands were taught through association, specific sounds linked to specific behaviors. Food was the primary motivator.

The practice was considerably less simple.

Week one: Charizard refused commands. All of them.

“Sit,” I would say. She would stand.

“Stay,” I would say. She would run.

“Come,” I would say. She would go in the opposite direction.

Maris assured me this was normal. “Fire drakes are independent. They don’t follow orders, they negotiate.”

“How do you negotiate with a creature that can’t talk?”

“Very carefully.”

Week two: Charizard responded to “Charizard, no!” By doing the forbidden thing harder.

If I told her not to eat anything, she would eat it faster. If I told her not to climb somewhere, she would climb higher.

If I told her not to breathe fire indoors, she would breathe fire more enthusiastically indoors.

My tent was no longer a tent. It was a pile of partially burned canvas that I slept under.

Because I couldn’t afford to requisition another one.

“She’s testing boundaries,” Maris explained.

“She’s destroying boundaries.”

“Same thing, for drakes.”

Week three: We negotiated.

The breakthrough came when I realized that Charizard responded to incentives, not commands. She didn’t want to obey me, she wanted to benefit from cooperating with me.

Extra meat for good behavior. Extended flight time for following directions.

First pick of the food supply for staying close during exercises.

It wasn’t obedience. It was a business arrangement.

“She’s learning,” Maris observed.

“We’re learning,” I corrected. “Both of us.”

Week four: First flight. Three seconds.

Crashed into a barn.

Week five: Ten seconds. Crashed into a different barn.

“Maybe stop flying near barns,” Maris suggested.

“There are a lot of barns around here.”

“Then fly higher.”

Week six: We stopped flying near barns.

—

The first real flight happened on a clear morning in early summer.

Charizard had grown significantly over the past weeks. No longer a tiny creature that fit in my palms, now she was the size of a large dog, wings spanning nearly eight feet when fully extended.

Her scales had darkened from orange to deep crimson, and her eyes burned with intelligence that sometimes made me nervous.

She knew things.

The bond between us had grown beyond simple training into deeper connection. A link that transcended the commands and rewards of our daily exercises.

I mounted her in the training field. Securing myself with the harness that Maris had designed.

Charizard’s muscles tensed beneath me, her wings unfurled.

“Ready?” I asked.

She answered by launching upward.

The ground fell away. Wind rushed past my face.

The camp below shrank to toy-size, then smaller still, until individual people became specks moving between buildings that looked like children’s blocks.

We climbed. Higher than the training flights.

Higher than the barn-crash altitude. Higher than I had ever been on anything.

And then we leveled off.

Charizard’s wings beat steady and strong.

Each stroke carried us forward with power that seemed impossible for her size. The world spread below us like a tapestry.

Forests and fields and the winding thread of the river that supplied the camp.

I laughed. Couldn’t help it.

Pure joy escaped as sound before I could decide whether to let it.

Charizard roared in response. The declaration of a predator claiming the sky as her domain.

We flew for an hour.

When we landed, I was crying. Didn’t know why.

Didn’t care.

“Good girl,” I whispered into her neck. “Good girl.”

She chirped and tried to eat my hair.

—

The command meeting was held in the main hall of the Arbalest compound.

I had been summoned specifically, which was unusual. Claude rarely called individual members to leadership meetings, he preferred to work through his division commanders, letting information flow through proper channels.

But here I was, standing at attention while Claude and his lieutenants discussed the future of Arbalest’s rapid response capability.

“We need eyes in the sky,” Claude was saying. “Ground patrols are effective, but they’re slow. By the time we confirm a threat, by the time reinforcements arrive, the situation has often already changed. We need faster information gathering, faster response.”

“The drakes,” Mike said. It wasn’t a question.

“The drakes.” Claude nodded.

“Maris reports that three of our breeding pairs have produced viable offspring. Charizard is the most promising, but there are two others showing potential. With proper training, we could have a small aerial unit within the year.”

“Small,” one of the lieutenants observed. “Three drakes isn’t exactly an air force.”

“Three drakes can cover more ground than thirty scouts on horseback. They’re faster, harder to ambush, and they can go places that ground troops can’t reach.”

Claude’s eyes moved to me. “Ash, report on Charizard’s capabilities.”

I straightened further. “Sir. Charizard is nearly four months old. She can sustain flight for approximately two hours before needing rest. Her speed is roughly twice that of a running horse. Her endurance is still developing, but she shows excellent stamina for her age.”

“Combat capability?”

“Limited. She can breathe fire, but control is inconsistent. Her claws and teeth are effective against unarmored targets. Against armored opponents, she would need to rely on speed and mobility rather than direct attack.”

“Acceptable.” Claude nodded.

“You’ll lead one of the mobile teams.”

The words didn’t register at first. Then they did.

“Sir?”

“You and Charizard, plus two other drake riders once they’re trained. Your unit will handle rapid reconnaissance and emergency response. You’ll report directly to division command.”

“I’ve never led anything.”

“You’ll learn.”

“What if I’m not ready?”

“Then you’ll get ready.” Claude’s expression didn’t change, but his voice softened slightly.

“I’ve watched you, Ash. You handle Charizard well—better than well, you’ve built a real partnership with her. That’s exactly what leadership requires: understanding your people, working with them, not just commanding them.”

“Charizard isn’t people.”

“No. But the principles are the same.”

He stood, signaling the end of the discussion. “You have three months. Get your unit operational.”

I saluted, still not quite believing what had happened.

A unit leader. Me—the orphan from Quellec Village who had stumbled into Arbalest by accident and stayed because there was nowhere else to go.

“Sir?” I asked before he could leave.

“Yes?”

“Why me? There are others with more experience, better training, actual military backgrounds.”

Claude considered the question. “Because you and Charizard trust each other, and because I trust you. That’s enough.”

He left.

I stood in the empty meeting room, trying to process what had just happened.

Then I went to find Charizard. She needed to know about our promotion.

She celebrated by eating my boot.