Dragons, Mermaids, Elves.... and Kitsune?: Keeper of Dragons: Aprella Academy

PROLOGUE

Iwas standing near one of the ornate columns in the throne room, fiddling with the edge of my half-finished kilt. At seventeen, I didn’t even have my full Woland colors yet—just faint crimson scales that sometimes peeked out when my emotions ran high. My father, Prince Alerin, had insisted I stay to witness the daily meet-and-greet, but I was almost nodding off. Then, out of nowhere, I heard a thud and startled gasps.

My gaze snapped toward the dais. Jago—the strongest Woland any of us knew—had dropped to his knees. His dark-red hair brushed the marble floor, and he struggled to look up, red eyes glazed with pain. A strangled cry left my throat before I even realized I’d made a sound.

Jericho, newly named High Commander, reached him first. Tension bunched in Jericho’s shoulders as he gently turned Jago onto his back. My cousin’s voice came out ragged:

"Save them… all true beings… We’ve… forgotten."

He clutched Jericho’s uniform, eyes darting wildly. Queen Fiona rushed to his side, tears already forming. My uncle, King Myder, commanded the healers forward, but it was clear they had no idea what to treat. There was no blood, no visible wound—just a horrible pallor to Jago’s skin and a strange emptiness in his gaze.

My mahier, Jago gasped. It’s gone.

A chill washed over me. Dragons do not simply lose their mahier. It fades only when death is near—or through some unspeakable magic. I felt my own scales tingle, half-expecting them to appear in a surge of panic. Around me, I sensed the entire court holding its breath.

Despite the healers’ best efforts, Jago’s eyes slid shut. My aunt, Queen Fiona, let out a broken wail that echoed off the vaulted ceilings. And in that moment, an icy finality settled in my chest: Jago was gone.

I don’t think I moved from that spot for a good minute or two. My father and mother hurried over to comfort the King and Queen, while Jericho darted off to secure the island at King Myder’s desperate request. I just stood there, fists clenched, trying to force air into my lungs.

Growing up, I always admired Jago—my older cousin who exemplified everything a Woland should be. I’d dreamt of the day my own dragon form would match his in power. Now, as I stared at his still body, all I could think was: How could he die without a fight?

Slowly, the throne room emptied of everyone but the King, Queen, and a handful of councilors. I finally forced myself to turn away, fleeing into the corridors. Whispers filled the air: no enemy had been detected, no perimeter alarms triggered. If something killed Jago from within, none of us knew how it got past our wards.

That afternoon felt like a bad dream. Dragons hurried through Ochana’s streets, unsettled rumors crackling like lightning. I caught snippets of conversation—some believed it was a curse from the Goddess Aprella, punishing us for turning our backs on the outside world. Others insisted a hidden foe must be lurking somewhere in the skies around Ochana.

By evening, the official bereavement ceremony was announced. Though hardly a day had passed since the festivities, the mood had shifted violently from celebration to mourning. Thousands of dragons, in human form, lined the route from the castle to the command center. My parents and I stood with the royal family, waiting for Jago’s body to arrive.

The Woland guard, led by Jericho, carried him on a wooden plank draped in rich red-and-black cloth. Rubies had been placed over his closed eyes—tiny specks of crimson that seemed to mock his unstoppable might. Every hush and footstep echoed like a dirge.

We stopped at the edge of the command center, near the great waterfall that cascades off Ochana into endless clouds. There, the Keeper of the Book of Aprella, Meeka, began the eulogy:

"Prince Jago, Elder of the Wolands, devoted son, brother, cousin, and protector…

We honor his courage, strength, and love for all true beings…"

Her words blurred in my ears as I stood trembling, eyes locked on Jago’s motionless face. One day, I’d thought, we’ll stand side by side in our dragon forms. But that day would never come.

At Meeka’s final pronouncement, the Woland bearers shifted into their dragon forms. Massive wings spread in unison—blazing red scales shining under the fading sun. They rose as one into the air, Jago’s body lifted on a plank between them, until they breached the cloud barrier. When they were almost lost to view, they released him to the sky. My breath caught painfully. I felt the world tilt beneath my feet, as though Ochana itself were mourning.

Then a surge of flame illuminated the clouds—a simultaneous burst of Woland fire. The spectacle was awe-inspiring and heartbreaking. Once the flames died out, they drifted back down, shifting again into their human shapes. Jericho landed last, tears glistening in his scarlet eyes.

As the crowd dispersed, King Myder spoke in a tone I’d never heard from him before—grave and final.

For Jago’s sake, we cannot expose ourselves to this hidden threat again. From this day forward, Ochana shall remain sealed. We will no longer risk our lives for a world that has only brought us sorrow.

Even though I was just a prince far from the throne, the impact of those words shook me. I knew Jago had spent his final breath urging Jericho to save all true beings. Yet the King’s command meant we would turn inward, away from the very allies Jago wanted to protect.

A tear slipped down my cheek, quickly followed by another. I couldn’t stop them. I wanted to scream that this was wrong, that Jago’s death should push us to re-engage, not hide. But seeing the raw anguish in my uncle’s eyes, I bit my tongue. Fear clung to the air like mist off the waterfall.

ONE

THE DECISION TO DEFY

Adamp chill clung to Ochana’s courtyard in the moments before the ceremony. High above the clouds, the floating realm of dragons was bathed in a pale twilight that made its waterfalls glimmer like distant stars. The courtyard’s polished stones—normally a bustling space for flight practice and festivals—had been cleared to host a single, somber gathering.

Rhyden stood among the crowd, his posture rigid. He wore the formal kilt of the Woland—deep crimson checks threaded with black—and though he was only days away from being eighteen, the weight of being royalty pressed upon him. He was the King’s nephew, his father being the King’s younger brother. More importantly, he was Jago’s cousin. And today marked exactly one year since Jago’s mysterious death.

One by one, rows of dragons in human form assembled, each wearing kilts denoting their scale color: emerald-green Leslos, cobalt-blue Galians, mirror-like silver Siens, and the fiery-red Wolands like Rhyden himself. At the head of the courtyard stood the King of Dragons—Rhyden’s uncle. Flanked by four councilors, he gazed out at his people with grief etched into his proud features. When Jago died, so did much of the hope that united dragons with the outside world. On that day, the King had led the call for retreat, believing isolation was the only way to keep his remaining family and subjects safe.

The King’s voice resonated through the courtyard. Today marks one year since we lost Jago. Since then, we have remained within Ochana, hidden from a world that does not value our protection.

Rhyden’s chest tightened. He could barely look his uncle in the eye. Jago—brave, charismatic Jago—had been the crown prince and a Woland as well, but more than that, he’d been a friend and role model. With the tragedy still raw, many blamed humans or suspicious forces in the outside world for his demise. Rather than dig for the truth, the dragons had locked themselves away. It went against every principle Jago stood for, against everything Rhyden believed in.

As the King continued, attendants stepped forward to snuff out the ring of torches encircling the dais. The courtyard dimmed in unison with the final words of the speech, a symbolic gesture that mirrored the dragons’ retreat into shadow. Not a whisper broke the silence until the ceremony ended, at which point quiet murmurs and hushed footfalls filled the courtyard.

Rhyden lingered at the periphery, feeling suffocated by the heavy atmosphere. He adjusted the folds of his kilt, running his fingers over the crimson pattern. Even though his true dragon form hadn’t fully manifested yet—he’d only caught flashes of red scales on his arms when his emotions flared—he was undoubtedly Woland. Each day closer to his eighteenth birthday, the draconic power inside him had grown more restless. Now that he had come of age, his instincts were stronger than ever, pushing him to challenge everything he’d been told.

The murmurs that followed the ceremony reminded him that to the rest of Ochana, he was still a prince—one with responsibilities he hadn’t asked for. He might not be next in line for the throne, but he carried enough royal blood that every eye in the crowd lingered on him a moment longer.

Moving away from