Wings of Fire: Revisiting an Old Favorite Series in a New Time
By Chessie Bovasso
On a boring day of standardized testing ten years ago, I picked up a book that changed my life. With no time to pick up an installment of Diary of a Wimpy Kid, my only option, besides sitting in silence, was Wings of Fire: The Dragonet Prophecy. Four years prior, my mom had picked the all-dragon adventure novel up from a book fair, and, seeing the age range of 8-12, read it to my sister and me as a bedtime story. This particular bedtime story came to a premature end when the main villain of the prologue, a dragon named Princess Burn, stabbed another dragon through the head and threw his body off a cliff (to this day, I have no idea how these books have such a low age range). Facing my old enemy as my test concluded, I begrudgingly read past the prologue and into the fictional world of Pyrrhia.
On the other end of that gruesome beginning was a story beyond my imagination. Looking back, the premise is more disturbing than I remember. Five dragons from five tribes are taken before hatching from their families and raised underground by three abusive guardians until, as a prophecy demands, they are let out to stop a 20-year war. In the prologue, the prophecy is seemingly broken when one of the eggs is shattered by Burn and has to be replaced by a dragon of a different tribe. When the replacement is discovered and threatened with death, the main character, Clay, must break his friends out of their prison, only to be met with more danger on the outside. The worldbuilding was rich, with tribes representing dragons from all ecosystems, the characters were relatable, and the stories hit close to home. I was an angry kid, and I heard a lot of yelling and threats in school. To see the characters stand up for themselves and fight back against those mistreating them let budding tween me feel seen. The series got me through the bullying and awkwardness of middle school, and my love for it lingered past my childhood. It’s given me a connection with my campers at summer camp as I watch them become their own people the same way I once did.
Like the books, life felt fantastical when I first started reading. It was the summer of 2016, and I would swim and do archery with friends at summer camp before coming home to more dragons and adventures. The world itself seemed to go on without a care. Jokes about the economy were scarce, the future seemed hopeful, and anything as ridiculous as “building a wall” felt like nothing more than an internet meme. The only mentions of politics I remembered were my parents complaining about Clinton’s running mate while driving to Maine. I didn’t know what was coming; almost nobody did. Life was pure serendipity for all I knew, and yet, serendipity always has its cracks. I was more conscious than most people of the fallout of that year when it started, but I was just a child, hidden away in my dragon books.
Ten years later, the world had turned on its head. I survived a pandemic and its psychological aftermath. I watched my country rapidly approach fascism. I began forging a career in a growing field that was stomped out (by unprecedented federal funding cuts that threatened my graduate school and job prospects) less than a year after I declared a major. My sister was sending my family videos from college of her walking home from hockey practice past a fleet of ICE cars, just days after a woman was gunned down an hour north of her. Yet, for my 22nd birthday, I was called upon by my old passions. Out for lunch, reuniting with family at the mall, I came across a Barnes & Noble with a familiar face sitting among the new releases. I had heard a new book was coming out, but I had not been running to buy it until I finally saw it. I left the mall giddily with an early release of the newest Wings of Fire book, The Hybrid Prince.
The second the crisp smell of the paper hit my nose, everything felt the same way it did years ago. College graduation, finding an apartment for work, the state of the world–it all faded into obscurity. I relived the same twists and turns and fantastical adventures from my past. This time the story centered on an island prison enchanted to be inescapable without unveiling the prison maker’s secret. As the main character, a stowaway named Umber who got trapped with his sister, tries to find a way to escape the prison, he also becomes embroiled in turmoil that is the opposite of magical. The prisoners' families have lived on the island for thousands of years, and, contrary to the monarchies typical of the dragon world, had created a democracy. After a dragon named Beryl loses her election, she contests the results, storms the government, and overthrows them, becoming queen with her husband and, against his will, her son, the hybrid prince, at her side. As Umber fights to leave the island, he also fights against the dictator that threatens to turn him, a former soldier, back into a weapon for her secret police force.
Perhaps the books never were the pure fantasy adventures I remember. Over time, I have come to understand that alongside the adventures and powers of the dragon tribes comes a series of deeper themes. The first book’s arc, about ending the war, pulls a twist on viewers that the prophecy upon which the entire series was based was a lie, made up to justify a colonial invasion of another tribe’s land. The second book’s arc features an omnipotent immortal magic dragon who uses his charisma to become king and try to wipe out another tribe, reigniting a two-thousand year war. The third arc is a creepily on the nose representation of systemic segregation, with the revolutionaries accidentally unleashing a zombie apocalypse on their continent. Looking back now, a lot of the deeper messages about bigotry, cultural tolerance, and changing the oppressive status quo, feel increasingly real. Yet the earlier books still manage to maintain a sense of adventure and distance from the real-world implications through magic, prophecies, royal dramas, and special powers given to each “chosen one.”
This time felt different. The second the twist was revealed, I was thrown out of the story in shock. Even with the magical undertones of the island, suddenly there was nothing fantastical about contested elections, storming government buildings, banning books with government-opposed ideals, a backsliding democracy, and a secret police that made perceived enemies–dragons who had come to the island seeking refuge–disappear. For the first time there were no magical superpowers, real or purported, making the main villain win. Just ten years later, the tyrannical rulers I once would have found incomprehensible now felt disturbingly easy to understand.
The latest story–spoiler alert–ends with the dictator being overthrown by the people, democracy reinstated by dragons who understand their worth, that they didn’t have to stand by and let their nation fall. It is hopeful, with the main character escaping with the titular prince in tow. I wonder what my campers this summer will think if, years later, they look back at this book. Perhaps they’ll see the similarities, and realize that The Hybrid Prince has recorded the history they were too young to see. I hope for myself that it ends the same way it does in these fantasies. Until then, I am waiting for it all to fall apart, standing in solidarity just as the author, Tui T. Sutherland, does in her dedication: “for the librarians, teachers, booksellers, authors, students, and everyone else working to protect our freedom to read—thank you.”
