At night, when the tribe pitched camp – the desert was so silent that it could only be described as eerie. Nothing moved or squeaked in the dark. There were no leaves to rustle or brooks to babble. The desert was a place of death and quiet.

Bo sat on a fold-out stool beside his tent, gazing out into the blackness. His mind swam with so many conflicting thoughts that he felt like he was drowning.

There were many things he regretted about his confrontation with Ethron. But picking Qui as a guardian god wasn't one of them.

Bo had studied the myriad scrolls Fran had unearthed from the sands over the years and had an inkling that there was more to this world than the desert he lived in. To him, the dragons represented that.

"Bo." a whisper came from beside his tent, where Fran sat by a campfire, poking aimlessly at the embers. In the soft glow, she looked tired and worn – weathered by the storms of time into the old lady she really was. Sometimes Bo forgot that. Sometimes, he forgot just how old Fran really was. But that night, he could feel it.

"Yes," Bo replied, picking up his chair and bringing it over to the campfire as the last remnants of heat fled into the night.

"Are you sure…" Fran paused. "Are you sure that this is the right thing for you?" She finished, sounding drained.

Bo took a deep breath and nodded. "I am."

"And it's not a whim? You aren't doing this because of something I said? Right?" Fran asked nervously.

After a moment's silence, Bo responded with another question.

"Do you remember the story of the Bard?" He asked quietly.

Fran smiled slightly, allowing a little warmth into her solemn face. "Of course I remember – I told you that story myself."

Nodding, Bo brought his chair beside Fran and leant his head on her shoulder. "Well... I don't really remember it, to be honest."

Gasping in mock outrage, Fran pushed Bo's head away and pretended to huff. "I didn't know my stories were so boring…."

Bo laughed softly, his eyes twinkling. "Well, I do remember the gist of it." He paused, collecting his thoughts.

"There was once a lonely Bard who travelled far and wide - singing songs for those who would spare their time or a penny. He fought off hunger and bandits on his endless odyssey, spending years at a time on the road."

Frowning, Fran chimed in. "I'm sure there was more to the story than that."

A grin crept across Bo's face, and he continued retelling the story. "The Bard was always in search of an audience, and when there was no one to listen, he played his music to the moon. On the nights when he played, the forests came alive, and dragons danced in the starlight, swaying to the Bard's tune."

"There was definitely more to the story than what you're telling," Fran pointed out frustratedly.

Bo smiled and nodded. "Yes, of course there was. Kings and intrigue, the follies of men and all that good stuff." He grinned, seeing Fran's incredulous reaction as he glossed over the bulk of the story.

"But to me, that story always stood out because of the simple fact that dragons were in it. They were in the forests and beneath lakes, buried under the soil and drifting through the sky. Dragons were so common that they weren't even notable. To the Bard, they were simply another audience to play to, much like any other human."

Fran's eyes widened, and understanding crept across her face.

"You see - if they were so common and so friendly to humans… where did they go? Where are all the dragons?" Bo asked quietly, gazing up into the lonely sky, where dragons once danced among the stars. Now, there was only celestial light, lonely without winged company.

"To me, they represent what Guarda once was. And what it could be again someday. I believe that dragons – the mightiest of all creatures, must surely have had the mightiest of gods. And perhaps, with my help – they might return one day."

Fran smiled, seeing the intensity in Bo's eyes. He had grown up listening to her stories, devouring every scroll she could find. And in the process, he had truly grown up. Bo wasn't the little kid she needed to carry when his feet got sore. He had a dream and hopes far loftier than hers had ever been.

Somehow, as she watched him gaze out into the beyond, Fran felt that Bo would do exactly as he said.

"Well…" She said after a long moment of silence. "I believe that you can do it. I really do."

Bo turned his attention to Fran and nodded. "Thank you." His voice cracked a little. "I won't let you down."

As the night wore on and Bo began to grow tired, he prepared to head for his tent.

"Off to bed?" Fran asked, with a trace of a smile on her lips.

"Yeah, you?"

She shook her head, looking down at her wrinkled hands. "These old bones ache whether I'm asleep or not... so I'll stay out here for a little while longer."

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Bo gave her a hug before heading off to bed. She smelled like ink and old leather, with the distant trace of lingering smoke. For the brief moment they hugged, he felt like a child again – safe within her arms. She was shelter. She was home. She was Fran.

But eventually, the hug came to an end, and Bo trudged off to bed. He lay in the tent, gazing up at the cloth ceiling as he tried to force himself to sleep. He would need to be well rested in the morning for what he had in mind.

Everything was riding on it.

----------------------------------------

In the end, Bo did not get much sleep. He lay awake for most of the night, wondering if that might be the last he spent alive. For all he knew, the Sarpa would kill him, and that would be the end of it.

No more Bo. No more dragons.

As the early morning sunlight punched through the holes worn in the tent fabric and stabbed his weary eyes – Bo roused himself.

He supposed that the night hadn't been a complete waste. Since, at the very least, he had managed to come up with the skeleton of a plan. It was bare bones and not much of a plan at all, but something was better than nothing, so Bo would take it.

Clambering out of his mat, Bo pulled open the tent flap and busied himself packing everything away. Every morning, around sunrise, the Karak would begin moving again. For the moment, they were heading north - towards fox mountain.

This was a tradition of theirs that went back countless generations, and every year, like clockwork, they made this same journey.

"Hurry up, everyone!" A gruff man shouted, rousing those that still slept and hurrying those that didn't. "We're on schedule, but only just! If we slow down now, we'll miss the fox entirely!"

With a collective groan, the tribespeople packed their tents and sleeping mats – rolling them up and strapping them to their sledges. It was a process they had repeated so many times that most tribe members could be out of their tent, with their sledges ready, in at most, five minutes.

Breakfast wasn't much. Bo had a Horus shoot, a dark greyish thing packed with a sickly-sweet resin. The Horus was the only plant that grew in the desert, or as far as Bo could tell – anywhere. It didn't need water or soil or food of any kind. He had no idea how the plant even survived – let alone thrived the way it did.

The Horus was probably the single most important thing in the tribe's way of life. It was their only reliable food source, and more importantly – the juice of the Horus fruit was what they used to do their tattoos. The fruit itself was a velvety red and stuck out against the yellow backdrop like a sore thumb.

Nobody knew who had first discovered the Horus fruit's most crucial property, but a widely accepted theory was that the Horus was a gift from the gods. Sent from on high, the Horus was the key that unlocked the gods' blessings and something the Karak could not live without.

Blessings themselves were a rather simple process. Once a Karak had selected their god of choice, they must follow the set pattern or symbol of that deity and receive a corresponding tattoo. This tattoo would connect them and their god in some way, granting them abilities beyond the scope of human means.

Bo had read - in a particularly damaged scroll – that there were more fruits than just the Horus. But he had yet to discover any of them, nor could he understand how they might be used.

He finished the shoot, and, after packing everything he owned onto his sledge – he joined the procession as they marched out into the desert. The only thing they passed on their journey that wasn't sand or rocks was the occasional Horus plant.

When one of these was spotted, a nearby Karak would run up and pick any ripe fruit, as well as any ripe shoots. The plant itself, however, was left alone.

One rule the Karak followed religiously was to never uproot a Horus plant. The fruit had no seeds, and the plant didn't grow back. Every Horus cut down was a Horus lost forever.

Bo dragged his sledge behind him and pondered on his present circumstance. He had planned to ask some of the more experienced hunters about the Sarpa, but Ethron had thwarted that by gathering them at the front of the procession, making it difficult for Bo to get near.

Occasionally, the old man would turn and frown at Bo before proceeding to scowl at Fran. He was very good at it.

"Why is he like this?" Bo groaned. He had no idea how he was supposed to kill a Sarpa if he was going in completely blind.

Fran shook her head disdainfully. "He's an old wretch – that's why." She was generally a very composed woman, but when it came to Ethron, she often lost her cool.

A little girl – who was hitching a ride on her father's sledge - giggled at Fran's comment. She was only a few metres ahead and watched them with intense curiosity. "Are you really going to do it?" she asked.

Her eyes were transfixed on Bo as though he were some rare artifact, precious gem or even better - food. She leant forward on the sledge, causing it to tip slightly.

"I am." Bo nodded, smirking behind his shawl.

"Can I come too?" The girl asked eagerly.

"Well…"

"No. You can't." Her father butted in, turning and shaking his head at Bo. His tanned skin glistened with sweat in the sunlight, making his red tortoiseshell tattoos stand out all the more.

"But daddy…" The girl whined.

"No." The father - a middle-aged man called Pirin – said conclusively. "It's fine if he wants to run off and die, but you can't go with him. What could you even do against a Sarpa?"

The girl shrank back a little... "I could cheer him on…." She said quietly, sitting back down on the sledge.

With a huff, Pirin turned back around, not deigning to look Bo in the eye.

When Bo was sure the man wasn't looking, he caught the girl's attention and winked. "As long as you're cheering me on, it doesn't matter where it's from. I need all the support I can get right now."

The girl lit up a little, nodding quickly. "I'll just have to cheer extra loud then," she said seriously, crossing her arms with stubborn resolution.

Fran smiled sweetly at their interaction and patted Bo's shoulder with an old, leathery hand. "I'll cheer for you too," she said.

"And me," A boy walking just to their side added. He was barely ten – not old enough to drag his own sledge, but old enough to walk by himself. He seemed to have wandered off from his mother, heading back to eavesdrop on Bo, who was infinitely more interesting than gossip about his aunt and uncle.

"Us too!" Tor and Leo chimed in, slowing their walk and falling into step beside Bo and Fran.

Leo shook his head. "I don't know if you can do it, man. But I'll be rooting for you all the same."

"Yeah," Tor said with a grin. "But really... have you got any idea how you're going to do this?"

Bo sighed. "I wanted to get the opinion of a proper hunter first, but Ethron has pulled them all to the front." He dramatically mimed a rude gesture at the old man's back, eliciting a giggle from the younger children and a disapproving glare from Fran.

"Why don't you try Gale? I know he doesn't look it now, but in his day, he was quite the hunter," Fran added thoughtfully.

"Old man Gale was a hunter?" Bo asked in genuine disbelief.

"Seriously?" Leo blurted. "The old man Gale?"

He pointed to a withered, old stick of a man with a bald head. Instead of a sledge, Gale wore an immense backpack far too large for him, and It looked for all the world like he might be crushed at any moment.

"Yes, Gale was a truly talented hunter growing up." Fran nodded.

"Then…" Bo glanced at the old man, noticing what was impossible not to. His eyes were drawn like magnets to the metal hook where the man's hand should have been.

"What happened?"