Dragon of Wind and Flame (The Elementum Book 1), page 1
Copyright © H. M. Clarke 2025
All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
First published in The United States of America in 2025
HMC Press, Dayton, Ohio.
Cover design – by Deranged Doctor Design
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
As always, this book is dedicated to my two beautiful children, Keith and Ariadne.
Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
Also by H.M. Clarke
About the Author
Chapter one
The man was dead.
Ny Keena didn’t need to move closer to confirm it. She could feel the truth of it in the stillness that clung to his form, the pale pallor of his skin beneath the sunlight. There was no smell yet. He hadn’t been there long. Her eyes swept the beach, seeking, but the only movement was the sea birds gliding in lazy circles above the golden sandstone cliffs. The bluffs loomed like ancient, jagged teeth, clenched in some eternal grimace, but there were no signs of life beyond the birds. Not even the scavengers had found him yet.
No, he hadn’t been dead long.
He lay on the glittering sands, half-cradled by the sea as if the ocean had rejected him, cast him back onto the shore like some unwanted, broken relic. The briny scent of salt and seaweed filled her lungs, sharp and familiar. Ny Keena stood still, staring down at the body, the sea’s ceaseless murmur the only sound in the world. Then she turned her gaze to the water’s edge, where frothy balls of sea foam tumbled from the grip of the waves, propelled by the wind. They danced across the sands, heedless of the lifeless form lying there.
She could walk away. The thought came as a whisper, as light and fleeting as the sea breeze tugging at her hair. She could turn her back, return up the narrow path carved into the cliff, and leave the dead man to the mercy of time and nature. This wasn’t part of her day, part of her life. She hated disruptions to her routines and hated anything unplanned.
But as she closed her eyes and let out a long sigh, the weight of what she could not ignore settled into her bones. The man deserved a burial, deserved more than to be left to the elements and the scavengers. What kind of person would she be if she left him here, unclaimed, forgotten?
With a reluctant breath, Ny Keena stepped closer, her boots sinking into the damp, yielding sand. The sea lapped at her feet as she bent low to examine the man. He wasn’t dressed like a sailor. His clothes, heavy linen and thick wool, were too fine, too foreign, for the Parsan summer, stiff with salt but unfamiliar to her eyes. Perhaps he had been a passenger on one of the great trade ships that passed by these shores. Perhaps he had fallen, unnoticed, into the unforgiving sea during the storm that raged the night before.
She wiped her hands absently on her cotton tunic, her mind already racing ahead, trying to piece together the mystery of his death. But no visible wounds marked his body, no signs of a struggle. He had likely drowned, his life stolen quietly by the sea’s cold embrace.
Ny Keena crouched there, unmoving, feeling the soft push of the wind against her face, brushing strands of her long brown hair across her cheeks. Something tugged at her, an intuition, a soft whisper in the back of her mind. It had been there all morning, nudging her toward the beach. Her instincts rarely led her astray, but standing before this lifeless stranger, she felt a growing unease.
Then, a flicker of movement. Red against the muted colors of sand and rock. Her head snapped up. There, further down the beach, a strip of crimson cloth fluttered, caught in the jagged rocks. The wind had worked it free, but some unseen force still anchored it in place.
Curiosity stirred within her, and she rose to her feet, her gaze fixed on the fabric. As she approached, the cloth revealed itself. A long, torn strip, stiff with dried salt, once a vibrant red now dulled by the elements. The weave was fine, too fine to be discarded so carelessly. It might have been part of a blanket once, or perhaps something more precious.
Ny Keena grasped the end of the cloth, tugging at it. It slipped free from the rocks but remained stubbornly anchored further down the shore. With a frown, she followed its trail, gathering the cloth in her hands as it led her across the sands. The path ended in the shadow of a towering rock, standing like the tooth of some ancient sea beast. And there, tucked behind its jagged edge, she found him.
A man, alive. Barely. His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths, his face pale beneath the dark, sea-soaked curls that framed it. He, too, wore black wool and linen, but his clothing was embroidered with gold and silver thread, glimmering faintly in the sunlight. These were not the garments of a common sailor. His boots were fine, polished black leather, still clinging to his feet. He had not been lost to the sea in the night when he was asleep in his rack.
The red cloth she had followed was wrapped tightly around his torso, binding a small, ornate chest to his body. It must have been important. Important enough to risk everything to keep it safe. Ny Keena knelt beside him, her fingers brushing his face. His skin was cold, but not the icy chill of death. He was still with the living, though barely.
Her mind raced. She couldn’t leave him here. The sun was already climbing, and he would surely die from exposure if she didn’t act. But how could she carry him? He was too heavy, too fragile.
Her gaze drifted back to the dead man further down the beach. His cloak! Perhaps she could use it. And the belt…
She stood, walking slowly back to the lifeless figure. As she knelt beside him, the sand gritty beneath her knees, she whispered softly, "My name is Ny Keena. I’m sorry that you are gone. But I will take your cloak, as you no longer need it, to help save your companion. I will return for you, to lay you to rest and free your spirit. This I promise."
With a solemn breath, she unfastened the clasp of his canvas cloak, her fingers lingering for a moment in silent respect before she slipped it free. She rolled the cloak in her arms and unbuckled his leather belt, adding it to the bundle. Then, with one last glance at the dead man, she returned to the living one.
Carefully, she worked, wrapping him in the sea cloak, securing his ankles and waist with the belts. She looped the red cloth around his torso, fashioning a makeshift sling. When she lifted the chest, she was surprised by its weight, or rather, the lack of it. It was light, impossibly so. She secured it to her waist with her own belt, threading it through one of the handles and tying it tightly.
The man lay silent and still as she worked, oblivious to her efforts. When she was finished, she stood over him, her breath steady, her heart pounding with the weight of what she had to do. She would take him home, tend to him, and hope that he would wake. The dead would wait. She had a living soul to save first.
With a determined grunt, she slipped the sling over her shoulders and under her arms, then began to pull him across the sands. The path up the cliff loomed ahead, steep and unyielding, but Ny Keena pressed on, dragging him toward the safety of her home, the sea whispering its secrets behind her.
Chapter two
He drifted back to consciousness slowly, reluctantly, like a man surfacing from deep water. And as soon as awareness came, he regretted it.
A dull, relentless throb echoed through his skull, every pulse a reminder of how close he had come to death. His face felt tight, and raw, as if the salt of the sea had scoured it, and his skin burned with a deep, uncomfortable heat like he’d spent too long by a roaring fire. Every muscle screamed in protest, aching with a bone-deep weariness as if he’d endured weeks of brutal physical training in a single day. The pain was a living thing, twisting remorselessly beneath his skin.
Yet, beneath all of that, there was an odd sense of comfort. The surface he lay on felt impossibly soft, cradling his battered body like a cloud. Far softer than any bed the guild had ever granted him. And certainly, far better than the narrow, hard rack aboard the ship...
The ship.
His mind jolted back, images flashing in the dark of his memory. The storm. The lightning, The crashing waves. The wind howling like a beast unleashed. He remembered Gerber, hastily binding the small chest to his body, wrapping him in blankets torn from their berths, preparing for the worst.
/> And now... now there was no ship. No sway of the ocean beneath him. His stomach turned cold.
The worst had happened.
He groaned softly, pushing against the sharp, lingering ache in his limbs as he forced his head off the pillow. His vision swam for a moment before finally settling. The surrounding room slowly came into focus. It was large, airy, and bathed in sunlight. The windows, open wide, let in a cool breeze that whispered across his fevered skin, soothing the burning sensation. The fresh scent of blooming flowers and the faint aroma of baking bread floated in with it, a strange comfort amidst the disorientation. Beyond the windows, a verandah stretched out, offering shade from the relentless sun.
His mind snapped back to reality. The chest! He looked frantically around the room, his eyes searching for the small, precious box. And there, resting on the bedside table, was the chest. Relief surged through him like a cool wave. He reached out, his fingers brushing the smooth wood, feeling its warmth seep into his skin. Even through the oak, he could feel the familiar, gentle hum of power. The energy within, still alive, still pulsing. Safe.
The knot of fear that had twisted in his chest since he woke finally loosened. He let out a shaky breath and sank back into the pillow, the tension in his body ebbing away, leaving behind only the dull, throbbing ache of his physical wounds. For the first time since he opened his eyes, he allowed himself to relax.
Now that the panic had subsided, he took stock of himself. His skin had been washed clean of the sea’s residue, and he had been dressed in crisp white linens, the scent of soap faint on the fabric. He raised a hand to his neck, instinctively feeling for the leather necklace and pouch he always wore. Relief flickered again as his fingers brushed the familiar shapes. At least that, too, was still with him. But there was one thing missing. Gerber.
Surely Gerber had been found with him? He racked his brain, trying to recall the last moments aboard the ship, but it was all a blur. Had they been separated? Had the sea claimed his companion while sparing him?
The rattle of a doorknob snapped him from his thoughts, and he turned his head just in time to see the door swing open. A woman entered, her long, brown hair catching the light as she moved with graceful efficiency, carrying a large wooden tray. She didn’t seem surprised to see him awake. In fact, there was a calm certainty in her demeanor, as if she had expected this moment.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice soft but steady, as she set the tray on the bedside table.
He blinked, still disoriented, but managed to rasp, "I’m... alive." His voice was hoarse, rough from salt and sea. He watched her pull a chair from against the wall and place it beside his bed, close to the tray. "Though my body might tell me otherwise. Where am I? Was Gerber found?"
The woman’s face darkened slightly at the name. Her eyes flickered with something, regret, perhaps, or sympathy. "Gerber?"
"My companion," he clarified, his voice thick with concern. "We were traveling together."
She hesitated, then sighed. "I found you washed up on the beach near my home. There was another man with you, but..." She paused, and the weight of what she was about to say seemed to press down on the room. "He didn’t make it."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His chest tightened painfully as the shock spread through him, each breath suddenly feeling too shallow. Gerber, dead. It seemed impossible. They had survived so much together, fought through storms, skirmishes, and worse, and yet here... the sea had claimed him.
"I buried him," she continued, her tone gentler now, as if sensing the storm brewing inside him. "At the base of the cliffs, under a cairn of beach stones."
He swallowed hard, nodding numbly. "Thank you," he whispered, the words hollow and distant even to his own ears.
A silence stretched between them before he finally asked, "Where am I?"
"You’re on the south coast of Parsa," she replied, glancing toward the open window, where the sunlight danced across the floor. "My home is far from any safe harbors."
"Parsa..." He let the name roll on his tongue, grounding himself in the reality of it. At least he had made it. He had survived. "I made it to Parsa," he murmured.
The woman nodded, though her expression remained neutral. "You did, but it’s a remote part. I don’t get many visitors out here. I only go to town once a month for supplies. If you need to send word to anyone, it will have to wait. I just came back from my last run a week ago."
He grimaced, his body too weak to move, too weak to even consider traveling. "I’m in no condition to ride."
"I know," she said, her voice softening. "I just wanted you to know why you can’t send word yet. To inform whomever you’ve come by ship to see that you’re safe. That you’re not lying dead on the bottom of the ocean, feeding the fish."
He stared at her, surprised by the frankness of her tone. And yet, there was something comforting in it, a casualness that didn’t try to soften the edges of the truth.
"As you can see," she added, gesturing to the chest beside him, "your box is right there. I haven’t tried to open it."
"Thank you," he muttered, his gaze drifting to the tray of food she had brought in. His stomach growled softly at the sight of it.
Noticing his distraction, she lifted the tray and placed it gently on his lap. "Here," she said, her voice matter-of-fact but kind. "Some water and soft bread with butter. Nothing too heavy yet. If you can keep that down, I’ll make you some broth later. Though fair warning, I’m no cook. It won’t be a feast, but it’ll keep you alive."
He nodded, unsure what to say, and took a tentative sip of the water.
She rose from her seat, brushing her hands against her tunic. "Eat what you can, and if you need me, just shout. I’ll be in the next room."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and left the room, leaving him alone with the quiet hum of the sea breeze and the weight of his thoughts.
Chapter three
For the past few days, Ny Keena had woven the care of her unexpected guest into the rhythm of her solitary life. Her time was usually dedicated to her craft. Each brushstroke and quill mark a delicate dance between ink and parchment. She was a Master Calligrapher and Illuminator, her work sought after by nobles and oligarchs who wished to immortalize their stories in rich, illuminated volumes that would sit untouched on shelves, collecting dust in opulent libraries. A commission from a council member in the capital, Kamran, had consumed her daylight hours, the intricate designs of a hunting scene demanding her full attention.
Her guest, thankfully, had not intruded on her work. For three days, he had slept, brooded, and occasionally eaten in silence, leaving her to the tranquil sanctuary of her craft. She used the cool morning light to refine the finest details, while evenings were spent preparing for the next day's work by grinding the powders for her pigments to be mixed with the size in the morning. She found solace in the predictability of her routine and the quiet of her surroundings enabled her to concentrate solely on her work.
But today, it seemed her guest was restless. The quiet acceptance of his situation had shifted, and when Ny Keena brought him lunch, he tried to engage her in conversation. She had been brief, unwilling to break her concentration, there was still the intricate lattice of a stag’s antlers to finish before the sunlight began to fade. Yet as the evening’s coolness crept into her home and she carried his meal tray into his room, she knew a conversation was inevitable. He had grown stronger, and it was time to learn more about the stranger who had washed up on her shore. She didn’t even know his name.
Balancing the tray in her hands, she pushed the door open with her back, slipping into the room. The hope that he might be asleep vanished as she saw him sitting up, waiting for her. His eyes, once dull with exhaustion and pain, now followed her movements with alert curiosity.
"Good evening, Ny Keena," he greeted her with a warm smile. "Did you have a good day?"
She placed the tray on the bedside table, casting a quick glance at him. His skin had recovered from its patchy pallor, now holding a healthier hue; soft pink, like the first bloom of spring after a long, cold winter.
"It was... productive enough," she replied, her tone clipped. "I finished what needed finishing."
