Durest:

  I clap at the end of Gareth’s story. I don’t really know why, but it seems like the right thing to do. He raises an eyebrow.

  “What?” he asks. I’m about to answer, but the caravan bumps up and the cart shakes violently.

  I grimace, then write something in my ledger: ‘Nothing. Good story.’

  “What, that’s it?”

  I write again: ‘What do you expect Gareth, a standing ovation?’

  “I just poured my life out to you,” he argues, anger lilting his last words.

  I shrug. ‘Sorry.’

  He reads as I write and grunts: “Elaborate.”

  ‘Look I get it,’ I write, using a short script now. The words come out more muddled, but he’s smart enough to understand. ‘You keep telling me about Hui, I understand she’s supposed to be great. You don’t need to keep reminding me.’

  Gareth reads that last note outloud and looks as if he’s about to protest, but he’s cut off before he gets the chance.

  “He’s right, Rathkar!” Cozo calls from the front of the party. The Spirit Child of the Bulls now hangs from the cart’s side and gives us an amused look. Well, he always looks amused—it’s a perpetual feature of his scrunchy face. He met us along the road, on his own steed. Part of Hui’s band as well, apparently. Now both his large destrier and my Qaswa take the caravan to Hui Long, Gareth’s lover. “You’ve been harassing the poor lad ever since the journey began. Let him be.”

  “I’m just–” Gareth cuts himself off, taking a deep breath, as if calming his own temper. “I’m just,” he hisses now, “trying to ingratiate him with us further.”

  “Well you’re doing a piss-poor job at that.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Love you too, Rathkar!” Cozo answers, all smiles and laughter. I smirk, once again finding myself perplexed and amused by this group’s dynamics. The Great Heroes of the West—the Dragon Slayer Troop. I’d heard about them even before coming to this continent. But, I never thought that I’d meet them, let alone fight beside them to kill the knight. I shake my head at the thought: how did I end up here in the matter of a few days? It feels surreal. But then again, my journey has been… tumultuous to say the least.

  We ride on the open road, through a rolling hillside sparse with grass topped with remnants of yesterday’s snowfall. The sun casts its mighty gaze over the land, vanquishing the whiteness for the green. But soon, the full onset of winter will make such a feat far less easy. Snow may pile up to our knees. Travel will be hell. All the more reason to accomplish your task in the dreg ends of fall.

  “Was the story good at least? Be honest,” Gareth asks, almost pleading for some praise. He’s quite the earnest man really. Almost to a fault. He would never survive in my business, my industry of liars and cut-throat mercantile dealings. Well, he could always intimidate some business out of them—his brutish stature does that already.

  ‘It was good. I liked the battle. But, I have a few gripes.’ I scribble, before wiping away the marks and starting again on the same, well-used page. My quill presses down on the paper, pausing as I think of a response. He watches me with rapt attention—as if I’m some master of this craft. I’m really not, but Gareth likes my stories and fancies himself a chronicler.

  ‘For one, what happened to all the knights? All the other guards who protected the castle? Did ALL of them die before you got to fight the dragon? This whole fight between you and Aragor feels a little contrived. And the way you tell it makes you look stupid—’

  “Hey, that’s real harsh you know—”

  I look at him. ‘You asked me to be honest. Besides, I know you’re NOT stupid, its just the way you tell it.’

  “Right. My bad,” he says, shrinking away.

  I sigh and tap the quill against my chin, trying to remember what I was saying. ‘Look. For one, why did you think, as a fifteen year old boy, that you could take on a Bronze Dragon?”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “I… uh, had an overly inflated opinion of myself. I thought my foresight would win me any battle. And well…” he looks as if he’s about to elaborate but then pauses, considering me.

  ‘What is it?’

  He sighs, rubbing his neck. “I always wanted to be like my father—The Gray Army Commander. He killed his first dragon a year younger than me. And that one was silver.”

  ‘See? That’s interesting. Next time, put that it in the story—it helps me understand why you are such an idiot—’

  “You have quite the attitude for someone who can’t talk.”

  ‘And you have quite the attitude for someone who jumped from the top of a high tower to strike at one of the most infamous bronze dragons to ever have terrorized the goddamn western—’

  “Alright alright, I get it. Don’t cramp your hand just to insult me.”

  Reflexively, I try using knuckles, but then I remember he doesn’t understand the secret language. So, I just grin and give his shoulder a conciliatory pat.

  Even though I tease him, Gareth’s courage is commendable. Aragor is a name I’ve heard time and time again ever since coming to this continent. He’s famous for being one of the first dragons to participate in the Dragon Wars. Immensely viscous and cruel. Often, he punched above his weight, taking on opponents that were more suited for the silver class of dragonkind. So, for Gareth to even last a minute against him…

  And for Hui to kill him so easily…

  I shudder at the thought. These people are the real monsters.

  Just be glad you’re on their side.

  …

  Hui Long:

  After I woke up from the witch’s dreamscape, I was a right mess. Not only did interfering in her dreamscape fatigue me greatly, the whole situation left me confused. I remained in my tavern room for a few days, taking some rest while Gareth went off to rendezvous with our other party members. Our remaining party members.

  Meanwhile, I drew up routes and battleplans for when we pass through the Boar Ranges. Another tip on Basilbane came soon after the dream—pointed him to one of the major cities in Fimbul. If that tip hadn’t come, I might’ve gone back North to take on the witch, along with Raiten. She’s an agent of Basilbane evidently. But I have a feeling she’s more of a distraction piece—a smokescreen for his flight South.

  Oh how I miss Tuvol and Maria. They truly were the mid-rangers of our group. Now we are left down to our bare parts: Cozo, who fights in his bull forms up close and personal. Gareth, another close-ranged brawler and seer. And of course, our archer, Nimra. Maria’s loss has especially been felt: she used to be our healer. Now I am the only one capable of that.

  I’ll make Basilbane pay for cutting off her head and tossing it to my feet.

  Then, I’ll finally be done.

  No more after this.

  I sigh, stretching out and leaning back on my chair. Raiten. He was about to tell me something, before the dream ended. I wonder what it might’ve been.

  He seemed calmer, after letting it all go. Like he was at peace.

  But how can anyone be at peace after… that? All of that hell and horror? I shiver at the thought of those masses, those hordes that came from the depths of his nightmares. I left him to that.

  The West is wrong. I’m no hero.

  There are no heroes. Not anymore.

  There are only soldiers, marching against one another in an endless, fucking relentless war. There’s always another thing to kill, another beast to maim, another villain to destroy. First it was the Gold Dragon General, then the Dragon Prince, then the King, and now, Basilbane. Well, so be it. This will be my last campaign regardless—and at the end of the day, it's just a revenge tour. After this, I can finally go—

  Go where?

  You have no home.

  That thought is sobering.

  Before I can ponder that further, however, I hear the clomping of hooves and a whistle sound from outside. Setting the chair down, I wave off the dusty air and go to the window, peering out to see Gareth waving his hand to me.

  I wave back. I suppose he is my home.

  Nimra rides the horses upfront—her arm is in a sling, which worries me. Cozo leans from the side of the caravan cart, wearing his all-too mischievous grin. But oddly, there’s another, dark olive-skinned passenger sitting besides Gareth. I scrutinize the young man. He has this far off, haunted look to him—a look that I recognize, because I see it in my own reflection often. But with him, it's amplified.

  Who is that? And why, of all the times, is he with us now?

  Eerily, as if sensing my gaze, the man looks up to me. And, all of a sudden, he’s smiling and waving as well—the switch is jarring.

  I shrug and wave back.

  Well, now I know he’s a damn good actor.

  And that makes him dangerous.