"Do not pretend that we are the same – who among us would wish to be a dragon? Our truest power is the strength to remain pure, undiluted, completely human. So it is only our second greatest power that will defeat you." -Lolloch, Court Wizard of Shorehold

"If by 'strength' you mean bullishness, then yes, it is your truest power." -Secuuldacarr the Gold

As the last light of power shone beneath the office door, and a muffled sob followed it, Ian looked up from his book. He was surprised she lasted so long. The tailor was either an exceptional talent, or she had been pacing herself exceptionally well. What a waste. The candle flickering beside him was the only remaining source of light. Night had fallen, he wasn’t sure how long ago but he hadn’t exactly been paying attention. His attention had been split between his book, the lengthening, disquieting cries from the office, and the noble. Ian regarded him, not for the first time tonight, and certainly not the last. His face was cast in shadow, at the edge of the light, and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. You could be some backwards savage, from some tribe living out in the wilderness, one that gives children more than the one name. That could explain the hairlessness. But it wasn’t likely. Nobles did strange things in the name of fashion, and that was without consideration of culture or ceremony. Besides, what isolated tribe gives a kid two, completely normal, first names? Will George? It’s like the start of a bad joke. More than likely, his ancestor died earning a noble position and the name passed on. Ian didn’t like to gamble. He’d lived through enough danger, and there always seemed to be more just ahead.

“Ian?” The tailor and her seamstresses were watching him from the office door, though he hadn’t noticed it open. She looked almost as composed as when he first saw her, but she held a candle, and the light made her tears stand out, like tiny stars on her cheeks. He decided not to bring it up.

“Lady Tailor,” Ian stood, setting down his book, “thank you again for the help with my pack earlier.” She waved absently and her seamstresses filtered out around her, carrying all sorts of tools and sacks. I wonder if they’ll carry the body out next. I’m surprised I can’t smell it already. I’m no fan of the smell of blood, but it’s preferable to corpses at least. They did not carry out the body, instead locking the door and handing the tailor the key. That makes her both tailor and jailer now, the secrets of the dead kept under lock and key. Suitably dramatic for a sewing circle by candlelight. I suppose it should be my turn to dig up some mysteries.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again. Did you run back to see me after your pack ripped on the trail? Needles and thread are not expensive, and such repairs are not complicated, are you sure I can’t offer you any?”

“No, Lady Tailor, thank you but no. I do not carry needles.” He paused, looking to Will. “Do you know anything about the George family, by chance?”

* * *

Willaartauraxx did all he could. He practiced. He would’ve slept if he could, he wasn’t accustomed to hard work, but his mind wouldn’t quiet and there was nothing else to do. Whatever they’d done to him, it had essentially left him paralyzed, with a notable exception. While the rest of his body was forced to relax, he learned to split his attention and strain his focus, to move a few muscles at the same time. He’d done so earlier, when he tried to tell the giants his name, and more importantly his title, but it had been exhausting. He’d gone slow then, holding the muscles in place while he worked through the words. Now he struggled to control his entire face. Tightening half his face at once was manageable, but much more left him with a pounding headache. He did have frighteningly precise control, better than he could manage before he woke up and met the giants.

A test of his jaw’s range of motion ended when it almost popped out of the socket, pain flaring in his face like fire. When he focused on just one muscle, he might be able to break a bone if he wasn’t careful, and it was no more difficult than massaging a muscle into a hair width twitch. He knew which he preferred.

Willaartauraxx thought he’d take a sharp breath, and it made him feel even more out of place in his body when he didn’t. He could feel that his Well was full. He had been preoccupied, but he’d also been waiting. The larger giant, Ian, was alone with him, asleep even. He was going to snare it in a net of Enthrallment so thick, so tight, so binding that there would be no escape. He felt the power flow from his Well, but it emerged as Power. There was no Enthrallment, no Poison or Vegetation, no Obscurity even. It was a crushing defeat. Even my Well is crippled? He didn’t think it was possible. He thought to try again, but his Well was empty. Not only that, he found his Well shrunken. It was emaciated, the size of a pebble. It was all gone. Everything he ever had. His body, his wealth, his power, all, without exception, had been taken away from him. The anger, the hate, the rage boiled and fumed inside him.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Ian stirred, and he tried desperately to move his fragmented talons, to lunge and rip out its throat, or scratch a painful line in its hide at the very least. He could feel that energy draining away, the futility oppressive and smothering. Ian’s eyes opened, and it watched him strain. His head was buzzing, his eyes felt like they might explode and his ears like they would gush with blood. He saw the same thing Ian did. Faint twitching beneath the cloth.

He pushed harder, and the very tip of his broken talon, veiled in shadow, broke free from the folds of the cloth. That was when the fight left him. He was a dragon, and a dragon knows when he is beaten. Even hatchlings mind the difference. The strong take, and the weak take from those weaker. He had been strong. He had felt strong, separate from the squabbles of his kin, distant. Then he lost. It felt like he would collapse, but he hadn’t moved much, and the limb barely shifted as it fell. Opening or closing his eyes took effort, but they stayed however he left them. Like his lungs in a way, or his heart.

Since his eyes were stuck open, he watched as Ian’s face twisted. It stood, staring at him, stepped forward, and pulled away the cloth. Beneath it, he looked just like Ian. All light flesh and awkward limbs. It wrapped his paw in its hand and stared into his eyes. They both had hands. He knew he’d been crippled, but the reality was worse than he’d ever imagined. The old man hadn’t left him for dead, or delivered him into the talons of some crazed giant hatchlings. He’d been changed, warped and distorted, body and soul.

He focused on his human fingers, and it took the last of his energy. It was stupid, and spiteful, and success might mean death but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He managed to flex them, barely, to try and dig the nails into Ian’s skin. He couldn’t even scratch him. Ian’s face changed again, and then it let his hand drop. As it turned away, he felt cold. Sleep fell over him, eyes wide open.

* * *

The cart was a tight fit in places, and wouldn’t fit at all down some of the narrower streets, but Ian did his best to steer the horse.

“Well Will, no one round here’s heard of you either.” He said it out loud, but no one was listening. Why am I doing this? He asked himself the question often enough, though his answer hardly changed. When I find his family, whoever they are, they’ll reimburse and reward me for the trouble, probably. At the very least he’s helpless, and no one else is gonna look after him. Seamstresses aren’t nannies, not that a nanny would be cheaper. If I’m lucky they might have a library. They could reward me with rare reading material. His stomach rumbled, and he was acutely aware of just how light his coin purse had grown. Carts weren’t overly expensive, but horses certainly weren’t cheap, and feed was its own expense. Too few places were suitable for grazing, and merchants were more interested in buying his horse than selling him feed. A cynical man might think they were hiking prices, trying to buy my horse out from under me. Perfectly amenable merchants, ones he’d been friendly with the first time he came through town, had turned downright devious. Oh, Ian, come buy from my stall. I see you are alone, with naught but a horse, an injured man, and dreams. Please, I insist, special deal just for you… Ian sighed. Not quite full of snakes…

Halswel was the third town he’d checked. He bought what he needed in Eren, took a vial full of purple water from the river, and left before sunrise. Only children slept that night, so he politely knocked on some doors and tipped a little extra. He regretted that now. Now, he was out of options. He was almost out of money and he’d caught neither hide nor hair of any trail, and the fabulously wealthy usually leave a trail. He would have to turn back. He would have to go all the way back to Eren, then he’d have to try his luck on the trail to Ismahill. He wouldn’t go through the gorge if they paid him, and he was hoping someone would, but he could sell the cart and try going around. Will still couldn’t walk, but he’d wear him like a backpack if he had to. He needed that money.

* * *

Willaartauraxx woke suddenly, the light shining sharply into his eyes. There was a pit in his stomach, a kind of grinding ache, one he’d only felt so strongly as a hatchling. He was hungry. He moved to rise, to stretch his wings and leap into the air, to glide to the forest floor. He was weightless. Then he fell, landing hard on his back, and the pain brought him back to reality.

“Sorry about that bump, did I wake you?” Ian’s voice carried easily and clearly, but the sound didn’t hurt his ears anymore. None of the sounds did. The light hadn’t truly burned since he first opened his eyes, and though it was no less bright, its painful edge had dulled. He could see the clouds. The sky, blue and beautiful, and he took the time to blink. He’d fallen asleep with his eyes open, and it provided a welcome relief. It was easier than before too.

The world jolted, as if coming to an abrupt stop. “Whoa there, easy girl, that’s it, take the time to rest.” He recognized the sound of a horse, groaning and snorting, he’d eaten enough of them. “How’s it going back here Will?” The ground trembled as Ian climbed into view. For his part, Will decided not to do anything. It was an easy decision to make, inaction, especially since he had so much practice. But something was wrong. More than hunger, there was a kind of pit in his stomach. Did he say something unusual? Ian busied himself, ducking in and out of view. Nothing appeared out of place, not in the face of everything else he’d suffered, but that feeling wouldn’t go away. He’d thought of Ian as ‘he’. He could have laughed at the prospect, but they weren’t even equals. He was lesser than Ian. Under normal circumstances, it would be natural to treat him as a respected rival, until he could usurp him at least. But Will’s life was over. He’d never been a fighter, never worked hard for anything, and he was proud of it. And that feeling lingered. A part of him felt that everything was right, as it had been before. And that was wrong. It was like ice against his spine, a cloying, insidious poison veiling the truth. He searched the sky with his eyes, what little patch he could see, as well as his memory. Ian chose that moment to speak again.

“Alright Will, porridge or soup?” And that was it. His name. It wasn’t possible, it shouldn’t be, but he knew. He knew, inexorably, that his name was not Willaartauraxx. It just didn’t fit anymore. “Well,” Ian said, “porridge, or soup?”