SAVE POINT 22
Reloading A Snarky Dragon-Non-Dragon...77%...100%
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1105681458170966016/7d89745f-fdd8-4eda-8bff-be2602186140.png][https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1105681458493923358/db692d06-8d2e-4c90-8b9a-ec988a67ace3.png]
Rosabella
"You're not—a dragon?" The words fall, shocked out of my mouth and I, suddenly, feeling like crying—like caving in on myself.
I'd killed the silver beast. Was that one a person too?
Did I kill a person? What kind of twisted game is this?
The dark-skinned man studies me, his lips sliding into a grinning chuckle that instantly has me off balance. "For having a mega hard-on for creator magic, you really don't know anything about it or dragons, do you?" His eyebrows crease with a know-it-all flare deep in his lined forehead.
...That's when I feel the flush—the blush of strawberry, magenta monstrosity creeping up my neck and cheeks.
Was it that obvious?
Did I give away all my cards without even knowing it?
The stranger laughs, a bizarre, barking noise that spurts up his throat and through his lips like he's not used to it. "You're kinda cute when you're not trying so hard," he tells me, "Listen—"
He extends a hand.
"Hi, I'm Sparo, and, yes, I'm a dragon and I'm in on your deal...the one where you let me kill the asshole who tanked my prison job," he clarifies quickly, shaking my now limp hand.
***Covenant Sealed***
I gape at him and the neon words floating over our grasped hands, quickly retracting my fingers when he's done.
"...So, you are a dragon?" I stutter.
"Are we going to sit here all day discussing minutia or are we going to go kick some ass and take some names?" he spits, suddenly full of vigor.
I balk at him.
And he simmers down to a faint boil, waving his hands in apology, "I know...I know, I'm a lot." Standing there, with his dark braid falling over the tattered cloth of his cut-off shirt, he kinda looks bashful about it. He rubs his hands on his black jeans like he'd rather be anywhere else. And he looks...he looks...human...
"So, you're human then?" I ask again, my eyes scanning his shadowed face in an attempt to connect the dots that I'm not entirely convinced I can even see.
"You humans are sl—ow," he complains loudly.
"So, you're not human?" I ask unsteadily.
He rolls his eyes.
Would he just tell me—
"Answer the question!" I don't mean to yell it, but I do; the words explode out of me. I'm losing my patience.
"I'm a dragon," he finishes abruptly, his chin falling slightly, "Dra—gon—you understand?" He speaks slowly, enunciating the words as though I can't follow him. "But you fancy Game Makers aren't the only ones who can create, you know—"
"I don't know," I say blankly and bluntly. There's no more hiding it; this guy has to catch me up to speed.
"Well, then you'd better learn—you are NOT in Kansas anymore," he quips. But his eyes light with a fire that draws me in as he starts again, "I know why you want the magic. Ooooh, holding magic just warms your soul. That's why the dragons stole it. We all are a lonely breed. ...And magic... It feels like happiness—am I right?"
I remember. The silver dragon's magic had felt like home—like everything was right for those few seconds I was in its basking glow. But I was so far from both 'home' and 'right' that it wasn't even funny anymore. "I told you, want it to fix The Game," I tell him quietly, like admitting it even to myself.
He snorts—like a laugh to himself. He winks, "Right, I'll take that lie and tuck it right in here," he gestures to his pocket.
—Is he not listening to a thing I say?
I throw my fists down at my side, "I mean it."
I don't know if it's the frustrated tilt of my expression or the wild fury probably in my eyes, but his face straightens faster than fabric under the hot steam of an iron, "Oh."
He shuffles his feet on the concrete floor for a minute, looking down at them while he speaks, "You see, that's the difference between Game Makers and Dragons. Dragons can wield creator magic but—well, we're selfish. We just use it for ourselves. Game Makers make the world a better place. Damn..." he hangs his head, "When I say it like that it makes me feel like a total gnat for using your magic to transform into this human body—"
I almost flip out on him, "You used the magic?!"
I need that magic.
To reverse what Goran's done to The Game world!
To avenge my parents' death!
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
To save Joy from the creeping darkness—
"Relax, it's rechargeable," he waves a casual hand at me, "See, it fills right back up once you wait a few minutes." He swipes a hand to the left, mid-air, and a purple bar appears, inching upward with each minute:
The breath whooshes out of me in relief as I watch it tick all the way back to full:
Rechargeable creator magic, who knew?
"Magic would be no good if it just leaked out of you and never came back," Sparo says in way of some kind of a scientific explanation which really doesn't sound like one, "...Plus, check out the biceps I made!" He flexes, flashing a brilliant smile at me.
I would laugh if the entire weight of The Game world isn't currently resting on my lungs and stomach.
"...So, you're going to help me?" I clarify, slowly, "You're down to do this trade?"
"I shook on it, didn't I?" He looks a little offended.
"So, you'll give me the creator magic, then—your part of the deal," I start.
"Ohhhh no, no, hold on just a minute. Dragons don't like other dragons just waltzing into their area, if you know what I mean," he rummages in a pile of gold pushed against the side wall, quickly retracting several items including a tote bag that he shoves everything into except a pair of dark sunglasses which he lowers over his face, "I gotta be gangsta...incognito...fly under the radar in this human form so that territorial diva doesn't get any flame-throwing ideas, you get me? You and your whole 'save-the-world' stint are no good if you are barbequed."
I swallow, but shake my head, suddenly realizing what I've been watching him do.
"Did you just make those sunglasses for yourself with the creator magic?" I huff, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.
He coughs, his eyes darting away only for a minute. "A man's gotta have accessories," he protests, flashing the bag at me.
I roll my eyes. "You are unbelievable..."—is this really what I'm dealing with here—"You're going to use the creator magic you promised me to make sunglasses instead of giving it to me like we agreed—"
"What I'm doing is saving your ass, sweetheart," he croons, lowering the glasses slightly so I can see the whites of his eyes which he batts obnoxiously at me, "That dragon you're hung up on is over the hill. I gotta guide you there. Can't have the sun streaming into these pupils. I'm used to the darkness down here."
"Whatever you say," I tell him, "But you'll hand over the creator magic once you help me defeat this other dragon?"
He nods.
Curtly.
Luckily, just enough to allow me to finally relax a little.
I did it. I actually convinced the dragon to give me his magic in a trade instead of killing him!
...Instead, I was all but kill Goran but...
My stomach knots at the thought; I try to shove it off without any luck.
"Come on, then," I wave Sparo towards the exit, "...if you have all of your accessories." I'm being sarcastic, but the man doesn't seem to notice. Excitement fills in every pocket of his face.
"Ooh, we're walking there! This is going to be fun. I can't remember the last time I walked anywhere. Plus, I think I'm rather portable in this body, don't you think?"
I chance a glance over at his bulging biceps and shake my head. 'Portable' is not a word I'd use to describe one inch of the guy.
***
The tall grass thrashes against my legs as the band of us move up the sloping ground and towards the blue silhouette of the mountains lining the horizon. I've wrenched my hair up into a bun on the top of my head, and the hot sun beats down on my neck, making it tender and red as sweat beads on my forehead. How long have we been walking?
...How long has Sparo been talking?
After all the work of attempting to keep him alive, Joy looks like she's ready to kill him. She keeps clenching and unclenching her hand around the hilt of the scary-looking sword on her belt. ...Just like she's clenching and unclenching her jaw—I see the muscles working there as she glowers at both me and the man interchangeably.
The dragon-non-dragon is now launching into a particularly grating recounting of why he has enough vacation days saved up to be able to be out on this jaunt with us. Dormouse is the only one who seems fascinated with the beast. He keeps asking him questions that promote another long rant. I'm about to pull the kid aside and tell him enough is enough when Rainer sticks a solid hand out, catching my wrist and tugging me back to match his lumbering stride.
"He gave you the magic?" the man growls low, under his breath.
I hedge but decide I shouldn't lie to the guy; he's always been nice to me.
"Kind of," I say through my teeth.
"Rosabella?" His eyes flash warning in my direction.
I clutch my hands into fists at my side. "Just trust me on this," I say, beseechingly, "He says we need him to get the magic from the other dragon—that dragons get other dragons—"
"He says an awful lot of things..." Rainer mutters sourly under his breath.
I open my mouth to agree, when something catches my eye.
Something dark.
Below us—in the valley—now that we've crested the hill.
In a rounded crater of earth.
"Hold up!" Callen shouts, holding out an arm over our group as we come to a stuttering halt where the earth slopes downward under our feet.
In the silence of our uncertainty, I hear a hum hushing the valley.
Soft.
Grating gasps and cries.
It sounds like suffering.
And it matches what my eyes see as I scan the darkened hole below our feet—not darkened with rocks or brush. Darkened with Darken. A swarm of zombies, blotting out the dirt and landscape.
Stumbling against each other in a massive herd, stuck in the crater, their heads lolling to the sides and their arms limp—their mouth gasping. The darkness—the black magic—has taken over their flesh, ripping it into melting boils and wounds. Their hair is as limp as their lifeless limbs and the torn clothing still hanging on their thin bodies.
And they walk.
Jumbling into each other.
There must be hundreds of them...
And, over them, a purple dragon lounges in the sun on a rock outcrop that looks as warm as the beast's yellow eyes are cold. It's massive claws toy, clipping at the air below the rock like it can pick up and play with the swarming Darken below even though it is much higher than its talon's reach.
"What fresh hell is this?" Joy wants to know, her face constricting in an even deeper frown than normal.
"Why are there so many of them?' Dormouse wonders.
They all turn to Sparo for answers.
The dark-skinned man barely flinches; he only shrugs, looking down at the valley with an unreadable expression. "I'd say it's pretty obvious," he starts, flicking his sunglasses up to take a better look, "she's hording them."
"...I don't understand," I say, "Hording them? What would anyone possibly want with Darken?"
I'm just the one who said it; I can read the same question in everyone else's shocked faces.
"Hording them...for fun," Sparo clarifies grimly.