Gareth Rathkar:

  The first thing I remember of that day is fire.

  Flames dancing across the city.

  A scaly shadow ranging over the castle, raining hell and death upon my old home.

  A Western Dragon.

  Covetous and greedy.

  I was fifteen—that age when you start thinking yourself invincible. I thought myself a hero already, fresh off my first war campaign with my father. So, what’s a dragon then?

  I soon figured out that a dragon… well a dragon is a hells-damned dragon.

  …

  “In here! Now!” I yelled, cracking open the pantry room door. The kitchen maidens, in their grease-stained aprons, filed in one by one. All whimpering and crying.

  I didn’t understand why they were so scared. All I could do was smile; this was everything I ever wanted. Everything.

  I was almost glad that Father had left me to fight in the 51st legion—despite my initial outcries. Now it gave me an opportunity to make my own legend. To slay a dragon.

  My mother came in last. She looked at me, my axe-bearing hand, my stupid smile, and I could see the realization come to her.

  Her face went dead: “Gareth, no,” she begged.

  Her hand reached out to mine. I withdrew and sprinted down the halls, waving her goodbye. “I’ll be fine!” I told her as I ran off.

  She yelled something—I didn’t hear it. I was too busy careening down the castle halls, laughing to myself while my eyes searched for the orange glow of dragonfire.

  I knew the castle like I knew every contour, every carving in my axe. I was the son of a battle commander and I grew up surrounded by a wealth of heroes. My education was of war and legend.

  I thought myself ready. I thought myself a prime warrior.

  A prime warrior with a fifth-circle affinity to foresight, that is.

  I took to the North Tower, climbing two steps at a time. From one of the windows, I saw the snarling, drooling maw of the fat dragon that bellowed about, spewing flames that licked up the throne room. He had decimated our guards at the battlements. Their scorched bodies laid strewn about across the castle grounds, all slumped and half mangled.

  “Aragor!” I yelled just as I came to the battlements. The dragon didn’t hear me the first time, so I yelled his name again and again.

  “Aragor! You fat stinking bastard! You stinking turd! You petulant little—”

  “ENOUGH WORM!” The dragon roared, his brown scales rattling as he turned, eyes narrowed and blazing fury.

  Good, I thought. The heat from the smoking castle-grounds vented up to the tower’s top as well, making me sweat my nerves off. Let’s end this.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I took a step on one of the flag stones. The dragon’s bulbous neck craned out, leveling with the tower. He regarded me with those cruel black eyes of his and smiled, yellow fangs glistening in the light.

  I closed my eyes for a moment. Rather than darkness, I saw half a second into the future—such was my affinity. Overuse of it would make me temporarily blind, but short bursts in battle gave me such an edge. As it would here.

  Thankfully, foresight told me that this dragon liked the sound of his own voice.

  “WELL, YOU AREN’T EVEN A GROWN WORM! YOU’RE JUST A LITTLE WORM WITH NO BALLS BETWEEN HIS CHICKEN LEGS! NO MATTER, I WILL MAKE IT QUICK WORM. I HAVE A CASTLE TO BURN.”

  “And I have a dragon to kill!” I roared. Then, I planted my feet down and pushed off my heels, arcing high in the smoke-ridden wind.

  I raised my axe and blinked. Fire next then I guess. So… latch onto the snot and push off, then drag your hatchets along his wings.

  Aragor fluttered his wings mockingly and grit his teeth, a trail of smoke and burgeoning fire forming from the seams of his gums.

  “HAVE AT IT THEN WORM!”

  …

  Two minutes later, I lay half burnt, back broken, against the crumbling walls of the throne room.

  Aragor laughed at me, swinging his belly fat around while swishing his tail across the battlements—cracking stone in his uproar.

  “OH THAT WAS FUN, THAT WAS GREAT FUN LITTLE WORM. YOU PROVED MORE ENTERTAINING THAN I THOUGHT. QUITE UNPREDICTABLE. BUT ALL FUN MUST COME TO AN END WORM. WHAT IS YOUR NAME? I WILL GIVE YOU THAT HONOR AT THE LEAST.”

  Well this wasn’t how it was supposed to go, I thought. I was supposed to be a damn hero. I was supposed to save everyone. But there I lay, half dead.

  Foresight is handy to an extent. Sometimes, it can be damn mocking. Like when it shows you an unavoidable attack and you open your eyes to take the real thing. It's like rubbing salt in the wound.

  “Go,” I coughed up some blackened blood. Burnt blood. “Go to the hells.”

  “WHAT A WASTE OF WORDS WORM. I SUPPOSE YOU—”

  “I don’t know, I thought his choice of last words was perfect actually,” a voice called, cutting through the battlefield. The dragon spun slowly, eyes searching for the caller.

  “IS THAT YOU BIG WORM?”

  “Yes, it's me, Aragor.” The response sounded annoyed, as if meeting some casual acquaintance.

  A feminine figure dressed in a Western war uniform and donning an Eastern, red-black cape landed in front of me. The cape flapped in the smoky wind.

  Even through the pain, I could see how beautiful she was. Her white hair flowed in the hot air, a silver light against all that black smoke and fire.

  “OH BIG WORM. I MISSED YOU. COME FOR A REMATCH?”

  The woman turned to me, and I saw a face unlike any other I’ve seen throughout the Western lands.

  She smiled at me. “Don’t worry.” Then she drew forth a sword that pulsed with energy. From its tip, came forth a sleek, snake-like dragon of wood that curled up around me, almost protectively.

  “She will heal you,” the girl said.

  “BIG WORM? ARE YOU IGNORING ME?”

  “Yes,” the girl said, once again acting as though the dragon was no big deal. “Just give me a second.”

  “I DON’T LIKE SECONDS, BIG WORM. I EAT FIRST, NOT SECOND.”

  “No idiot, that’s not what—” she sighed. “You know what? Fine Aragor. Let’s just end this quickly.”

  “VERY GOOD BIG WORM. I HOPE YOU’VE IMPROVED SINCE LAST TIME. IF YOU HAVEN’T YOU WILL SURELY—”

  In a flash, the girl was gone.

  She ran across the castle grounds, sword outstretched. Aragor snorted and flapped his wings, backing up on his stumpy feet while spewing fire to scorch the castle grounds beneath. But the girl summoned another snake-like, wingless dragon—this one of ice. She leapt upon it and the beast swam into the air, circling around Aragor. Before the big bastard could spit more flame, the girl leapt off the ice dragon and made a clean, swiping cut.

  Then, Aragor’s fat-neck was sliced through and his head fell to the ground, eyes dead, maw curled into an eternal smile.

  And that is how I met Hui Long. The love of my life.