A Language of Dragons

by S.F. Williamson

A poster stares out at me from a tram stop, the image of a respectable family smiling obliviously while a gun-clad rebel with a dragon’s tail snatches their child from behind. The young protesters Marquis and I saw must have been victims of radicalization, but my parents can think for themselves. So how did it come to this?

Your languages saved you, Vivien, and they’ll save you again, Dad told me.

People get judged on their accents all the time, which is why I speak carefully, elongating my vowels and clipping my tone. I want people to make the right assumptions about me—in other words, the opposite of the kind I’ve already made about Atlas King.

One must ask: What possible good can come from daughters who converse with dragons?

It would be evident to anyone reading this that the author genuinely cares about the welfare of dragons and their place in society. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. Whatever reason Mama had for joining the rebels, it must have been a good one.

“You don’t have to forgive yourself,” Chumana growls. “Not yet. But you can offer yourself a second chance.” A second chance.