‘Pour me another one.’

‘You’ve drunk enough.’

‘Come on, I’m not on my watch!’

Draggan grunted and reached for the little barrel of ale behind his back. The last remnant of what they had brought from Velardhar. He ground his teeth. Too much was lost at that blizzard-struck town.

He passed the barrel to Mörgirr who clicked his tongue, satisfied.

‘You’re not drinking?’

‘I’m not,’ said Draggan, and shook the leather cup, then slammed it onto the small stone plate. A triplet of Hammers, but nothing else of value. Rough round to win.

‘But today was great! We didn’t meet with beasts, no one died, and we could even bathe in this lake.’

‘He argued with the Chief again,’ grumbled Asryd, the blonde scout. The woman frowned as she watched Draggan putting three dice by his plate. She tried to peek, but the little fire they lit cast long and dancing shadows around the small wooden table on which they were playing. Draggan put his hand by the plate, content when he saw Asryd pursing her lips.

‘Bad omen,’ muttered Mör, and he downed his tankard.

‘You realise that’s the last of our ale, right?’ snapped the woman at the warrior.

‘Was.’

‘Froshta hjedlír,’ cursed Asryd.

‘Why are you provoking her? The Chief?’ Mör waved his tankard at Draggan.

‘We’re not having this conversation.’

‘Yes, we are, because she doesn’t need your crap, especially now.’

‘He’s right, you know,’ Asryd smiled for a moment when she looked at her dice. She quickly hid her emotions, then passed the leather cup to Mör. ‘She’s in a terrible situation, and if anything, we should be tolerant.’

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

‘She needs to toughen up,’ Draggan murmured, taking a glance across the camp. Small fires were burning by all the tents, all their brothers and sisters were outside apart from the night sentries. Draggan smiled bitterly. That is, all the twelve people here. But Mjel was nowhere. Likely to be hidden in her tent. The low clamour the citizens of that wretched town made filled the night air—judging by the faint splashes of water, they were in the lake.

‘I don’t know, Draggan,’ Mör hiccupped, and he tried to collect his dice from the grass since he swept it all down from the table with a careless wave of his hand. ‘I saw her jumping on an Ice-damned giant from a fucking tower. I’d say she’s pretty tough as she is.’

‘You’ve been fine with Chief-in-second for years,’ Asryd wondered. ‘Why’s the sudden change of heart?’

Draggan grunted. You don’t understand. You don’t see it. Velardhar’s decaying because less and less of our traditions is being honoured. If Mjel’s called to be Warchief after nearly losing the whole band, what’s the point in all of this? He grabbed the cup and shook it with the remaining three of his dice. He sighed, frustrated. A claw, a fox, and a shield. So much for winning back his dinner.

‘Seems like we’ve got company,’ Mör muttered. Draggan glanced up at the shadows to see the vinedresser approaching, limping to his left. He struggled to drag something heavy behind him.

The Shadow—Draggan was convinced he was one of them— stepped into the light, wiping his brow with his bloodied glove.

‘What do you want, vinedresser?’ Draggan spat the word as though it was a curse. The man shrugged, face unreadable.

‘Thought you might use it for something.’ He pulled his package among them; Mör backed away with disgust, Asryd reached for her dagger.

‘Why?’ Draggan simply asked. He kicked the dragon’s carcass with his boot; it was only its head and its long neck but was nonetheless repugnant.

‘Chief’s orders.’

Draggan glanced at the man, lifting an eyebrow. Did Mjel make you her lapdog?

‘Impressive.’ That was all he said.

‘Do whatever you want with it. Pass it to Idamin if you’d like or put it on a stake and wave it like a flag. I care not.’

He turned to leave. Mör watched the creature’s head, frozen; Asryd slowly leant in to examine the carcass from closer.

‘That’s … really impressive.’ She looked up at Draggan. The man frowned. Why would he …? He had to admit it, though, that the Shadow had … class.

‘Reylynn!’ he shouted after the man. He stopped and turned, waiting in silence. ‘This alone won’t be enough.’

The vinedresser looked him in the eye seriously, then slowly nodded. Draggan nodded back, then the Shadow left.

If the man wanted to gain the trust of the Velardhari, he had better work for it, for it would not be easy. Draggan looked at the dragon’s severed head. Its tongue hung grotesquely, the eyes, red, now stared at the void. Draggan smiled. It would not be easy, but the man might prove to be more intriguing than he had first thought.