The Council responded, with some unfortunate delay, to Alghamior’s request. Each member sat on their seats, each member held its limbs in a different manner: anxiety, tiredness and frustration tugged upon their hands, urging them to surrender to their bidding. The power within those sensations far outmatched his brethren’s defenses. Who could blame them?

  “Mighty king,” Garkalon murmured, acknowledging Alghamior from across the Throne, “we offer you our apologies for being unable to return at a more suitable moment. The tasks upon our shoulders proved more… concerning than we initially anticipated.”

  Alghamior snapped his head upward. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Garkalon shared uneasy glances with the present councillors, forcing Alghamior to frown. “Answer me, councillor,” he demanded.

  “Balance is wrapped into a losing battle, far more troublesome than we initially believed, our mighty king.”

  A new unseen scar split damaged more of Alghamior’s essence. Such wounds are only extending, becoming an insatiable force that feeds on whatever Alghamior still has. “Deliver me the details, brother. What is happening?”

  “Our essence is depleting. And what remains isn’t suitable.” He gestured toward the expanding Materium. “The minions lack the resources needed to take form and prosper.”

  Stars fail in taking shape, and now another issue arises: planets are lacking the proper nourishments. Alghamior set his jaw, fighting the desire to despair at the words his ears can’t escape. “I suppose the Starmakers tried exchanging essence by now.”

  Orequelon nodded and raised one limb. “Some tell us they attempted it. But… considering the lack of proper rest and the increasingly high rate of death our brethren endure, plus the diminishing cycles of the existent stars, it made no difference.”

  “It was always a temporary solution, nonetheless,” Alghamior whispered then sighed. “How many planets do our recent galaxies have and how many more do we need to populate them?”

  “Sectors Valuria and Farimin in the Aregum galaxy are decently supplied,” Orequelon replied. “But the Umon, Eupin and Qamper galaxies are almost empty. The five hundred Starmakers assigned to them were fulfilling their tasks adequately. Before the curse appeared, that is. Afterward… the work they accomplished has fallen spectacularly.”

  Alghamior shut his eyes, sighing dreadfully. “Why then do I even treat the Lightstealers with such disdain, when they are correct in their assumptions and attitude?” he asked in a whisper, prompting his brethren to inquire about what he just said. “Life is losing, brethren. Death is mocking us and succeeding without even lifting a limb.”

  “A solution must exist,” Bauruloun intruded. “We can’t watch the Materium fall without taking action. Does your mighty wisdom believe there are absolutely no alternatives to this calamity?”

  “My mind hangs on a surface about as sturdy as the aftermath of a brother’s failed attempt to morph into a star,” Alghamior replied flatly, prompting the discussion to come to an unexpected end. “I am paralyzed and forced to yield to my own strength. And the threat of war has arrived in our kingdom.”

  “The Lightstealers won’t pursue such a solution, mighty king,” Orequelon whispered. “Their words came merely out of desperation.”

  “You were not here to witness that ‘desperation’ you so confidently believe in, Orequelon. You were not abandoned to fend against shadows of death and tremble before their display of strength. I was.”

  “Mighty king, we apologize for the delay, but surely that isn’t what you’ve felt.”

  Alghamior regarded him with a crinkled snout. “I won’t continue this topic if you wish us to tread it. Lean on what I've already spoken. Desperate or not, their words invaded my ears, even if I would’ve rather heard a black hole tear apart one of our kin. War is another burden added to the piling stack.”

  Garkalon shifted on his seat. “Preparations ought to be made. Aslakahm cannot be left defenseless against the Lightstealers. Rahmanegol knows no boundaries to the violence he displays.”

  Orequelon raised an arm. “Preparations for what precisely, brother? The guardians we have are decaying. Few Starmakers know or want to help them. And we are not warriors.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “We must ensure they are ready,” Garkalon replied, squinting his eyes. “Falling to their feet is the last thing our kingdom should endure. No more humiliation.”

  “Your boldness is admirable, Garkalon,” Alghamior said, “but reality shows a diverging truth than the one you speak of. The blessing of physical strength lies not with us.”

  “To believe we once shared the same space within this Materium…” Furieon said with a sigh. “The Tribunal broke our communion and now left us to dangle up from their mouths.”

  “The Error hasn’t yet returned,” Orequelon remarked. “Is it even alive anymore?”

  “It bested Jila before, as others like it have,” Alghamior said, a scowl arising on his face. “Whatever tools help them accomplish this, it should keep it alive there. Our quest must defeat Jila’s hunger.”

  “Shall we call upon it? Find out what news it bears?” Orequelon continued. “Perhaps it found some traces of the Tribunal. Perhaps it can bring some resemblance of hope.”

  “Refrain from foolish optimism, Orequelon,” Garkalon said. “Despite the task given to it, the Error remains what it is. The Tribunal certainly wants nothing to do with it. Even if he ought to find our parents, they would rather desire to further flee from it.” Contempt escaped through his voice like the explosion of an ancient star.

  “Refrain from speaking on behalf of our creators, councillor,” Alghamior interrupted. “Your wings, last I remember, were not bestowed with carrying their unsaid will.”

  Hearing his words, Garkalon bowed his head in apology. “I demand your minds to cast aside personal beliefs regarding the Error,” Alghamior said, regarding all the present dragons. “It is subject to our will.”

  “May your knowledge usher the path existence must traverse and hold Materium in balance,” the council voiced in unison, heads maintained low.

  Alghamior raised himself on two legs, spreading his wings in a showcase of unleashed beauty. Hums of awe erupted from his councillors’ mouths. Truthfully, whatever they were witnessing as he stretched his body, Alghamior failed to understand. How much are your fading eyes deceiving you, brethren? How much of a forced astonishment are you willing to display for me?

  “I shall call upon the Error,” Alghamior bellowed, his voice sending a discreet shockwave upon the quiet kingdom beneath. His kin’s nests may grant them hibernation, but the king’s voice remains a force that disrupts even the deepest of slumbers. It used to, at least. Alghamior was unsure if it maintained the same characteristics presently. “News must come forth from within his mouth. If not, then perhaps he can prove to be the key to stalling or disrupting the Lightstealers until we find a proper solution.”

  “Mighty king, the Lightstealers clearly have no intention of abolishing their desires. How can the Error even hope to stand against them?” Garkalon asked.

  Alghamior acknowledged him calmly, his body descending into its initial position. “Rahmanegol’s thirst for battle must be satiated. The Error is the nutrient destined for such a thing. An excellent occasion, I say, for the Error to put to use its mockery of a body. Who knows what surprises the Lightstealers shall face against?”

  “Rahmanegol will tear it apart, with or without powers,” Orequelon said. “Surely you understand this.”

  “The Error may lack a distinct usefulness. But the pressure of demise brings forth even the best or worst out of mockeries. And that won’t be our concern.”

  “Wise choice, mighty king,” Bauruloun said, then lifted his upper wings to reveal the honesty behind his words.

  Is it truly a wise choice? Tossing another from their kingdom into such a humiliating event is not one of the choices Alghamior was known for. It’s merely an act of desperation.

  Alghamior lingered to prepare his message and reach the Error, while his councillors departed to return to their duties. He pressed his limb into his seat, the golden glow expanding. Suddenly, his mind was being transported through the Materium with unprecedented speed. He witnessed the Jila and upon entering, his mind slowed, as if something dragged it backward, holding it from achieving its goal. Alghamior strained himself, finally glimpsing a body amidst sheer chaos. “Return, Error,” he commanded, and felt the dragon halt its wings at once in a perplexed manner. A tremor seized Alghamior and forced him to end the communication immediately. This curse hinders even aspects pertaining to the Throne itself. The Jila may be chaos incarnate, but it shouldn’t drain him so much to send one mere message through it.

  A tingle bothered his arm. Alghamior raised it as if he just discovered he had one and cried at the sight. Bits of ash stood where once a hand existed. The powerful hues that once belonged in that place fell into disarray, as if trying through all their strength to replenish what was lost, but ended up destroying more of what was not. Fragments soared within the Materium, fragments belonging to a king, fragments that called upon the tremble of before to worsen. Why is the Tribunal doing this? What sort of sin must a dragon commit, for such punishments to be forced upon it? Why are you doing this to me, Tribunal?!

  He spun, rage latching onto him, pressuring his jaw to clench beyond what it can endure. A mighty light beamed in the distance, his eyes snapping toward it. It grew, as if the Materium fueled it itself, pushing it to overcome its own defined brilliance. Then followed an explosion, mighty enough to dance across Alghamior’s body in a spectacle of blue and white. Wrath dissolved alongside the show of colors before his eyes, and a whimper comforted Alghamior as his head sank.

  Thus, one of the three brightest stars within the Materium has ceased to be.