1-2: THE SECOND DAY, THE DAY OF PREDICAMENT.

The morning light pried apart the curtains of his crusty eyelids, and Jack awoke in the rustic age-old attic of his home. Its construction was a haphazard unity of timber and patchwork, through which sunbeams streaked upon the dinghy floorboard like strands of molten gold.

He struggled to a seated stance, scratching his head, his gaze wandering the scenery. Nothing had changed here. "Weird dream," Jack muttered, although somewhat impressed with his own imagination. He had not fancied himself a dreamer of such fantastical visions. "Ugh", a groan escaped him as he endured the post-alcohol tremor, and his mouth was as dry as sand.

"Goddess, help me."

Jack lingered, allowing the cool morning air and the warm sun's glow to wash over him. He had thought that it would be enough to rejuvenate his spirit, yet fatigue clung to him like a shadow. With resolve, he summoned the will to stand, his steps sluggish and reluctant. Sustenance, he knew, would be his elixir. He just needed a cold, hearty meal.

Jack descended to the ground floor, a familiar routine of his existence, but just as he turned around…

"Good morrow to thee."

"Holy Goddess!" cried Jack as he recoiled, slamming his back on the ladder. His eyes must be playing tricks on him! Seated with a regal poise upon a chair was the very same woman inside his dream—black dress, golden mane, and dark horns. Or, had it ever been a dream? Or perhaps, he was still dreaming now.

"Y-you're real!" said Jack.

"O? ‘Tis plain that I exist, as clear as day," she said.

"This can't be real! You're supposed to be in my dream. What are you doing here?"

"Prithee, did we not converse on this matter yesterday? Or perchance hath it escaped thy memory?"

"Ah, no…" Jack froze himself for a while to collect his thoughts. "So I ain't dreaming. Agghhh…" A lance of agony thrusted through his temples, compelling him towards a nearby bench. He propped his weary frame against the accompanying table, one arm serving as his pillar, whilst the other soothing the throb beneath his skull. The touch beckoned a curious anomaly—a bruise in the middle of his forehead. Memories returned, the ghostly trauma of a blunt force that knocked him out cold. But what in Dameth's name did he hit last night?

Settling by him on the bench, the strangely beautiful implored: "Pray thee, how much dost thou remember from yesternight?"

"You were here last night," Jack scratched his head, "you nabbed my hand, and…" Jack raised his body and covered his left forearm with his other hand, "you put something in my arm, like a glowing symbol. What's all that about? Some sort of magic?"

She shook her head, "I didst not put aught on thee, thou always hast it on thee. What I didst was merely an incantation to reveal it—the first prerequisite. And now, I must inquire of thee regarding the second prerequisite. What I seek is a sword of royal lineage. Pray tell, dost thou possess such an artefact?"

Sword?! Could she be talking about that sword? But how? Had she found out about the basement?

"I don't know what you're on about," instinctively, Jack replied, avoiding her gaze. The sudden prospect of revealing his hidden sword unsettled him.

"Hm? Art thou certain of thy words?" she smiled strangely. "If so, then mine apologies for the mistake. I shall take my leave, then."

But as she began standing up, "Wait a minute!" Jack exclaimed. "Just wondering, let's say that I do. What does that make me?"

"Hm… Should it be true, thou wouldst be the long-lost son of King Karel," Lust'eyes said.

"..."

The… what?

Jack was frozen on the spot. Son of... King? Karel? Did she mean the 'Karel' of 'Karel village'?

"K-King Karel?!" Jack shouted, rising from his seat. "You mean like Prince Karel? The one who once saved the village from bandits? He's a King now! Well, figures he would... And you're telling me I'm his son?!"

"Oya, I'm not acquainted with Karel's tale with this hamlet. But verily, if thou dost possess the twain requirements I mentioned, thou art undoubtedly his son."

"I-I…" No word could come out of his mouth. How could this be? His mother was a mere farmer, while his father, he had little knowledge. Karel, the valiant erstwhile prince who once saved their village, could it be that he had somehow intertwined his destiny with his late mother? Could it be that the sword in his basement, whose opulence far surpassed any trinket in this humble hamlet, was once within his grip?

A tender touch upon his shoulder roused him from his reverie. Lust'eyes drew near, her smile hazy, "Pray tell, once more, dost thou possess such a weapon?"

"Hold on. If, if I'm truly Princ-" Jack stammered, "King Karel's son. What's to become of me?"

"Verily, I shall lead thee back to Karel, but most vitally," Lust'eye sat upright. "if thou art his son, thou art also the chosen master of Realing Lïght, the Sword of Dragon's bane."

Master of… what?

Twice now, Jack found himself dumbfounded, each revelation more earth-shattering than the last. "What is that?"

"In this realm, doth stand Realing Lïght, one of seven War Enders, a blade of storied repute, aye, verily so. Each War Ender holds sway to quell a certain conflict, yet solely in their chosen master's grasp shall they be brandished. In such a case, Realing Lïght bears the strength to quell the strife against Dragons, a mighty foe indeed."

"What? Yer jokin'. That's just right out of a fairy tale."

"Indeed, every word be true. Though Karel be King, he doth presently hide in secret. The kingdom hath been seized by Avillar, of the Pendragon descent. Long ago, the Pendragons were banished by Karel for their treacherous deeds. However, lo and behold, upon the blessed birth of Karel's son, they return with an army of dragons. Dragons, a force that Karel could not contest, and thus, he was compelled to flee."

Jack stayed silent; a real-life legend was unfolding right in front of him.

"Then 'twas revealed that Karel's son hath been chosen to wield the legendary sword of Dragon's bane," Lust'eyes continued. "Even Avillar, whose strength lieth in his host of dragons, did covet the child chosen by the sword, and thus, in a despicable act of theft, he snatched him from Karel's grip. Such tidings swiftly spread like wildfire to the realms nearby, and each did hoped to lay claim to the sword's master for their own safeguarding. From that moment hence, the child was toss'd like a pawn from one powerful hand to another, so oft that anon, his whereabouts were inevitably lost. That is, until now. Verily, until thou dost present unto me Karel's sword."

Jack winced, "You expect me to fight dragons?! But, ain't it too heavy of a task for someone like me. I'm a farmer, I dunnae how to slay no dragons."

"O? I did not utter that thou shouldst be the one to slay dragons. Such is the duty of Karel's son. Or art thou declaring that thou art his true-born scion? If so, wouldst thou be so kind as to present to me his sword?" she leaned towards him.

"Just hang on a tick, will ya?" Jack leaned away. "I think, I need some time to mull it over."

"What means thou by needing time to ponder? Either thou hast the sword or thou hast not. Nay, there is no need for such contemplation here."

"That ain't what I meant. I mean-"

"Dost thou possess the sword?"

"I uh… You wouldn't get it!" said Jack as he stood up, "Goddess! I just remember I have to sort out something. Gotta go!"

"Hark! Hold thy step!" she said as Jack fled from his own home.

He ran, heedless of direction or destination. He ran, through the village's winding dirt path, til his breaths were torn from him in tattered sighs. His hand, draped in sweats, became intimate with his own quickening heart's beats, and the cold metal of his key, the chilling harbinger of his unasked fate. He knew, if he ever opened that door again, his life would change forever. For the better? For the worse? The uncertainty was what frightened him.

Meandering down the village's gravel road, his eyes wander the gentle golden waves of wheat, a sea of harvest stretching to meet the world's end. World's end indeed, for their world ended at a great mountain range to the north, and a long stretch of rocky sea cliffs to the south—a duo of unwitting protectors, but nevertheless, imprisoners. Their hold on the land within was omnipresent, save for a narrow ravine cleaving through the northern barriers. Yet there, accursed bandits awaited, seizing those who dared traverse their domain. No one could leave nor enter, still the earnest folks here persisted, living off the land that generously blessed them.

As Jack arrived at the smithy, "Morning, lad," Rup greeted. "Haven't set my peepers on you since morning. What's your fancy today?"

Before long, Jack found himself tending the forge. He watched the flame dance idly, the words of the mysterious woman echoed in his mind like thunderclaps. The two prerequisites—the crest on his arm, and the sword of regal lineage—loomed as the heralds of his lost identity, the long-lost son of King Karel, the chosen of a legendary artefact, the emancipator of his father's kingdom, the slayer of dragons.

Dragon slaying…

He longed for vengeance, to rid the mountains of bandits and bring freedom to his village. Yet, once this quest was done, he only wished to live the rest of his days in peace, and if fate permitted it, with a fair maiden whom he could love. He was doing just fine right here. There was no reason for him to help someone kill dragons. How could he even kill these monstrous, giant, flying, fire-breathing creatures?

"Rup! Where the hell is my wine?!" a hoarse voice shouted from the back of the shop.

Jack roused abruptly from his reverie, and realised that it had been close to midday, the usual waking hour of Rup's alcoholic mentor, Wordy, a strange man who stumbled into the village decades ago. On occasions, Jack did wonder whether Rup's apprenticeship was naught but a scheme—a free hand to tend the forge, while the old man wallowed in his own indulgence.

"I'll get it for you in a jiffy!" Rup shouted back, before casting a glance towards Jack. "Oh, by the Goddess," he chuckled. "Come, let's have lunch at the tavern, and, while we're about it, fetch him some wine, too."

Jack and Rup took their leave, and ere long, the rich scent of brewing yeast welcomed them at the tavern's threshold. The meal they ordered was not the most delicious, yet it was hearty, and the folks here treated them with amity. In truth, Jack's life was a contented one, save for one disdainful stain. Without those vermin, it would be the best life he could ever ask for.

But that didn't matter anymore. His life was about to change. Could he ever stop it from happening, if he just never opened that door anymore?

Before long, "We're back!" Rup shouted as he opened the door to the forge as they returned, but not before purchasing a case of wine—Wordy's little offerings.

"We got wine!" said Jack, but there was no response.

Jack stepped deeper into the building, and unceremoniously stashed the case of wines away. Browsing through Rup's previous crafts, he retrieved a dull blade and a slender scrap of metal—a crude replication of his heirloom sword—before heading to the back garden.

There, the lush expanse of green and brown welcomed him, a stage to a weathered, yet familiar scene: a middle-aged man, tending to a brace of horses. His hair and beard were unkempt, his garments ragged, his eyes bespeaking an unceasing sorrow, and he reeked of alcohol. Often he would drown in Dameth's nectar, yet in the rare moments of sobriety, taught Jack the arts of combat.

"Oi, Master Wordy," Jack announced his presence.

"What now?" the old man grumbled hoarsely, not bothering to glance back.

"You know what I want. Got a bit of spare time, ain't I? Only makes sense to spend it brushing up with you."

"I'm not interested."

"Just a quick tussle, I swear. Maybe two? I brought you wine, ain't I?

The old man sighed deeply. "Let's just get it over with," he conceded.

"Yes, sir," smiled Jack as he tossed the blunt sword to Wordy, before taking a stance with his chosen battle instrument.

"Still fixating on fighting with that needle? Why don't you fight with a normal sword for once?"

"I just fancy it, alright? Or what, you got the shivers?"

"Hm," Wordy chuckled. "Weak taunt, kid. You don't really think that'll work on me, do you?"

*CLANG*

Without warning, their swords clashed—a brutal resonance.

"Still making mistakes, huh?" Wordy stood still while eyeing down Jack. "A straight block is ill-advised for the type of weapon you are wielding."

"I know that. You just had the drop on me, that's all," said Jack.

"That's the way of warfare, kid. In a battle, no one is going to wait for you."

Jack decided to stop talking, his mind a monolith of focus, his fingers coiling around the hilt of his 'sword'. More than ever, he wanted to win, he wanted to know that he was capable, that he was deserving. He wanted to know that he could.

The two duelists circled each other, their gazes narrowing at the looming tip of their opponent. Wordy's stance was relaxed, his dull sword extended forth with one hand. In contrast, Jack, whose muscles tensed with anticipation, moved the tip of his sword restlessly, seeking an opening. His sword, he learned, despite its ability to cut, was strongest at the thrust; leaning on such prowess was his only chance to win.

Jack executed one two quick steps, a feint designed to unsettle his opponent. Yet, Wordy, ever the veteran, remained composed, the tip of his dull blade an obnoxious shadow to Jack's own. Jack engaged, and steel met steel in a metallic clamour, then with a pivot, his blade skated across Wordy's and twisted around, driving towards the opponent's chest. His mentor withdrew, and at the heel of this retreat, Jack launched another attack, lashing at his opponent's right upper arm. But with age-defying finesse, Wordy swept his sword behind his shoulder, blocking the onslaught. He receded yet again, twirling the blade and realigning it forwards.

Jack's heart was beating like mad, the sweet taste of victory brief on his tongue. He knew his blade was longer than Wordy's own; he only needed to keep his distance and strike. Distance and strike, he chanted inwardly, a lullaby for his internal tempest. Wordy now held his sword with both hands, and his aura shifted; nonchalance turned into menacing control. Distance and strike, the mantra spun within Jack's mind as they circled each other once more. Wordy strafed forwards; Jack stepped backwards, their blades meeting in a clash that resonated tremors along the spine of his steel. Distance and strike. Forwards pushed Wordy, and sidewards went Jack, each of his mentor's swing a demonstration of power and precision, unexploitable to his unkeen eyes. Distance… The thought was fleeting, as blow upon blow, Jack found himself slowly losing grip. No, he couldn't lose here. Surely, Wordy was bound to slip up. He only needed to… Distance and strike. The concert of steels rang discordantly, quickening, second by second. He must keep up.

Once more their swords kissed, but Wordy, with a decisive push, skated his blade down Jack's own and sent it askew, leaving him completely open. In that same breath, the sole of his shoe slipped off the betraying earth, and…

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

*THUD*

He tumbled onto the dusty earth, weeds prickling against his skin. He looked up and saw Wordy's blunt tip looming over his neck. The result was clear, but…

It's not over yet!

"One more round," he cried, vaulting to his feet.

…

*THUD*

Once again, Jack found himself tumbling on the cold, cruel earth. The score, a stark 5-0, came as no revelation; victory had never been his. A history of duels, seven years in the making, each reached the same conclusion. How could he be a chosen one, not being able to win a single battle? "Another one!" he called out, springing back to his stance with a dwindling fervour.

…

*THUD*

"One more!"

…

*THUD*

"Enough!" Wordy exclaimed. "We're done here."

"Don't worry, I can still go on," said Jack, his breath tattered.

"No! Sit your ass down. It's been eleven rounds in a row. You can't go on like this."

Wordy sat down, and at that moment, Jack let go of his 'sword' and collapsed to the ground. The relentless clashing of blades had numbed his right hand. He couldn't even make a fist without shaking like mad.

"You are frustrated, I can tell it from your swordsmanship," Wordy said. "What is going on with you today?"

Jack stayed silent. Before him was a confidant who might ease his burden, yet was it fair to subject him to another one of his mires? That grumpy master, ever quick to show his irritation, nonetheless stood by and taught him invaluable skills, a debt Jack has yet to repay.

"Suit yourself." Wiping the sweat off his face, Wordy continued, "I'm not your father, I'm not obliged to solve your problem."

Silence fell upon them, their unspoken words lost in the rustling of leaves. At length, Wordy spoke again, "Are you that eager to kill those bandits?"

"Of course," Jack breathed, a courteous answer.

"Revenge, huh? Always a great motivator."

"It's bigger than just revenge. Whole village would be better without them. Without that lot, we'd finally be free at last."

"Well, it is good that you have something to work towards. The real challenge is knowing whether you will regret it or not."

"When it comes to them bandits, I reckon I won't be having no regrets. But right now, I'm not too sure, I don't." Jack bent his head downwards.

"I didn't mean to discourage you, kid," said Wordy. "There is just no way to tell that you will regret it if you haven't done it, and that's the cruellest part. But if you don't know, then you can only keep doing it."

He understood Wordy. Facing against the bandit, Jack had already discerned his two fates, and his heart had steeled itself in acceptance of either. But, not this time. This time, the world he would plunge into was a sea of the unknowns, wrought with immeasurable powers and expectations. Regrets, those shadows cast by the light of what has passed, could not take shape without a deed being done. So how could one anticipate their emergence without knowledge of the outcomes?

"Oi," Jack said, "what if, one day, someone comes up to you and says yer someone special, that yer meant for something grand, that destiny has got a plan for ya, what would you do?"

"Hm? That's a bit too vague. But if someone told me I'm special, I guess I would be quite pleased with it."

"You should, right? But what if, it comes with a price, and you have to do something reckless?"

"That depends on how reckless it is."

"Take, for instance, something like," Jack stammered, "like killing dragons."

"That's absurd. What kind of person would expect you to kill a dragon, unless you are-"

Wordy stopped; his gaze, rising in alertness, veered towards Jack with an excruciating ascent. "What do you mean, kid?" he said darkly.

"Let's say you have been chosen, by something, like an artefact, and it says that you are some sort of important figure, but then you've got to live up to yer name by doing something grand, like killing a dragon or some sort, 'cause that's what's expected of you. I know it sounds like a fairy tale, but let's just say that it happens to you…"

As more and more words escaped from Jack's rambling, Wordy's eyes widened, his hunched back began to straighten. "Hey kid," he interrupted, "can you give me your hand?"

"What?" The familiar phrase evoked in him a strange trepidation. "I'm right as rain, thanks. My body is fine."

"Just give me your hand."

"I'm fine, really."

Wordy lunged forwards. Jack recoiled backwards, only to realise that he had little strength left in him, and thus, his wrist was swiftly ensnared by his master's rough fingers. "Insignea!" the man exclaimed.

And so it came to pass that upon Jack's arm, a sigil emerged, glowing blue light. Flabbergasted, Jack tore himself from the clutches of Wordy, his other hand shamefully covering the crest.

"How did you-!" Jack gasped.

"Tell me, do you happen to possess a regal-looking sword?!" Wordy grabbed Jack by the shoulders, his eyes were bloodshot. "It's like a beautiful sword! A sword clad in gold and gemstones and rich wood! Do you have something like that?"

Jack pushed himself off Wordy's grasp, flustered, "How did you know about- I mean, I have to go now. Sorry!"

Once again, Jack fled, escaping the garden, passing Rup who could only holler a few words into the void. Nowhere was safe, not even Wordy was safe. He should have known, he always thought Wordy was a strange man. He should have known.

As the sun bled its crimson light onto the firmament, Jack veered off the beaten path and plunged into the depths of the forest. He pushed through the thicket and emerged in an everglade, where a sliver of waterfall serenaded a crystalline pool at the centre. The land around it unfurled in a grassy expanse, peppered with a myriad of blue flowers. Amid the cooling air, green fireflies flickered like miniature constellations beneath the imminently dimming sky. Here, Jack found refuge, a secret sanctum of his own.

Jack fell on the grass, and as the excitement of combat wore off, he realised that his body was aching all over. His thoughts, unrelenting, circled back to Wordy and Lust'eyes. Both knew about his sword and the sigil on his arm, there was little chance now that it could be fictitious. How could he, a mere boy, slay a dragon? An attack on its eyes seemed plausible, but alas, he had not the skill of an archer. If only he had been warned earlier; he could have had some more time to prepare.

Shedding his garments, Jack submerged himself in the cool embrace of the pond. The water washed away the grimes on his body, but not the worries in his heart. Still, within its tranquillity, he found a semblance of calmness. The hour was fast approaching, he'd have to return home, to give her the answer she deserved.

With the last light of the day dwindling, Jack wended his way homewards, his mind labouring over the words to say to Lust'eyes. He wondered if she was angry, or that she was still there. She might have stomped off in a huff, a part of him hoped.

His abode loomed into view, its windows aglow with hearth fires. He signed—no other path but to face his destiny. Nearing the front door, his nose discerned a fragrance of cooked meat and vegetables.

As Jack opened the portal, "Ah, welcome back," Lust'eyes greeted him with a smile, glancing over her shoulder.

There she stood, mistress of the simmering cauldron, her form silhouetted against the firelight. Positionally, Jack beheld her from behind. Anatomically, he beheld her behind. The sight struck him with an awe he could not deny. Her dress revealed her tone and fair back, and upon it, another gaping scar could be seen in the middle.

"Pray tell, humans partake in sustenance during this hour of the day, nay? Thus, I have prepared a repast for thee to consume," she said.

"You know how to cook?" said Jack.

"I believe so. As I surveyed the ingredients in your home's pantry, a recognition awoke within me. It seems I once mastered this art of cooking in days of yore, but have since lost the memory."

"You're a strange one," said Jack.

"Sit thee down and partake, 'tis done," she smiled innocently.

Settling at his modest dining table, Jack felt a melancholic stirring within. The simple revelry of a meal shared was not unknown to him—Rup's household had often played host to such occasions. Yet within these walls, which had known naught but solitude since that day of shadow, a scene like this was but a phantasm of a bygone time.

Burgeoning with gratitude, Jack turned to Lust'eyes, who was presently lost in the depth of her own musings; his sentiment shifted into tender mirth. "Hm… Perhaps… Ah, right… ‘Tis the one," she pondered. It took her a full minute to come to the simple conclusion that the stew must be transferred to another bowl for proper eating.

Eventually, a bowl of rich and creamy soup was set at his place upon the table. Lust'eyes sat nearby, eyeing at Jack with a hopeful glint. Her scrutiny—somewhat tactless, yet genuine—evoked in him a tinge of discomfort. Nevertheless, he soon treated himself with a spoonful of her cooking, his expectation middling.

"What say'st thou of its flavour?" she asked.

"Not bad," said Jack demurely. The flavour wasn't the best. He had tasted better, perhaps even made better, and yet…

It was still delicious.

"Such words from thee do ease my troubled mind. I had feared that I might have erred in the cooking process."

"You should have a bite, too."

"'Tis no need. I hast told thee before, I doth not need to eat to preserve myself."

"It's odd, all right?" said Jack. "Don't sit right with me, being the only one eating."

At his behest, her lashes fluttered with a childlike wonder, the moment brief. "Very well then," she smiled gently, "I shall partake with thee."

Lust'eyes served herself a portion of steaming stew. Yet upon her first spoonful, perplexion etched upon her complexion. Turning her gaze at Jack, "Oh my, thou art too kind," she smiled bashfully.

"It's good. Don't worry."

"I shall seeketh guidance from a proper cookbook the next time."

They dined in silence, caught listening to the unwitting symphony of the ambience—the partakers' gluttony, the gentle tinkle of cutlery, the hearthfire's flummery, and the wind's hushed reverie. The flame warmed him from the outside, and the stew, from the inside. Many questions he still had for her, but for now, he was content with the meal.

Afterwards.

Adjourned by the table, they basked in the afterglow of a meal well eaten. Lust'eyes seemed oddly at peace, her lush lashes draping her eyes in repose, even though he had braced himself for the onslaught of her questions. This time, the silence turned him restless.

"First of all, how in Cyrene's name did ya manage to get here?" Jack broke the silence. "Don't ya have to cross a ravine to get here? And that place is crawling with bandits."

"I flew hither."

"What? Flew? How on earth did you do that?"

"With my wings, verily."

"Wings?" Jack leaned towards her. Just as he suspected, he didn't think this person right here was a normal being. "Are you even a human?"

"Hm… I see no harm in revealing truth. Nay, I am not of humankin, but rather a dragon."

"..."

A… what?

His maw was agape; frozen by the nonchalance of the thunderbolt she had cast.

"I doth presume thou art confounded? Fret not. As I have declared before, I shall not bring harm upon thee"

"D-d-dragon?! Like those with wings? And tail? And big claws? And they breathe fire?"

"Not all dragons exhale flames, though indeed, I am a Fire Dragon."

"What are you even saying? I can't believe it, as in I actually cannot believe it. You don't seriously expect me to believe that you're a dragon just 'cause you say so."

"Pray, I had no objection to displaying the evidence, though it be cumbersome to do so at this juncture and location. Nonetheless, my draconic nature holds no relevance at this moment. It is thou that art of utmost importance."

Her words took him aback. One should not say such words of affirmation so thoughtlessly to a growing boy like him. The horn-like crown on her head, what he once thought to be eccentric ornaments, might have been real after all.

"Fine, then how did you find me?" Jack dragged himself back to the topic at hand.

"In verity, I was bestowed with a spell that permitted me to sense an object that hath come into prolonged contact with Karel. In other words, I am able to discern the location of items that have Karel's scent."

"Huh?" startled Jack. "Then that means…"

"Aye, I know that there is an object of the like beneath us, pray tell?"

"Who knows?!" Jack avoided her gaze. Goddess, she already knew. His resistance was pointless from the start.

"Perchance, I'm beginning to apprehend thy hesitance," she gazed at him warmly. "Thou art afraid of the notion of abandoning this life and plunging into a life of ambiguity, where thou wilt no doubt encounter numerous hazards. Forsooth, should a mortal be informed he must confront dragons, fear would undoubtedly grip him, would it not?"

"I dun get it. Aren't you a dragon urself? Why're you so keen on me slaying dragons?"

"Not all dragons are of one feather. Some are good, others not so. Besides, I spake naught of slaying dragons. The Sword of Dragon's Bane, Realing Lïght, holds a might that exceeds mere dragon-slaying. It represents dominion over Dragons."

"In any case, I don't reckon I'm kitted out for such a task," said Jack.

"Nay, prithee, bethink thee." Lust'eyes cupped both hands under Jack's ears, raising his face. Her fingers were silky, but unusually warm; her ruby-like eyes gazed at him. "Fret not about dragons, what is thy heart's desire?"

"I want…" Jack felt out of breath. He already knew what he had to say—his one goal since that night. He recounted the tale of his mother's fate, and his desire to rid his home of these foul bandits who plagued the mountain's shadow.

"Indeed," Lust'eyes replied. "And if such is your desire, I shall lend thee my aid. The Sword of Dragon's Bane shall be thy strength, and I shall be thy ally in this endeavour against those wretched bandits. Fear not, for with Realing Lïght in thy hand, victory shall be within thy grasp."

"But if I were to take up the sword, then it wouldn't just stop at bandits, right?"

"I reckon not, but believe me. Once thou hast vanquished them, thou shalt feel relief. When thou obtaineth the first taste of victory, then shalt thou know thy true potential. Thou needst not slay a dragon straightaway. We shall take it step by step, and I shall be with thee, guiding thy path. And Karel, with his companions, shall also be with us."

"That's what bothers me the most."

"Hm?"

At that moment, Jack realised what his true fear was. What he was afraid of wasn't death, but…

"When I go after them bandits, it is for me own reasons. I ain't got no one to show but me own self. If I die fighting those bandits, so be it. No one would miss me. But if I be King Karel's son, I feel like succeeding is what I must do. I have to, but what if I can't. What if I let 'em all down. What if I ain't up to snuff. What if I die in my first fight? All yer effort would be all for naught. King Karel must be holding high hopes for me, and if I were to muck it up, he'd be right gutted."

Hearing Jack's confession, Lust'eyes cast a sign. "Pray tell," she retorted, "what path of action dost thou favour? To rest upon thine haunches whilst these witless dragons wreak havoc and spread chaos through yon realm? Shouldst thou refrain from deed, 'twill not be long ere those creatures descend upon thine thy very village."

"I-" He didn't think about that.

"Let not the expectations of Karel and others weigh heavy upon thy heart. Art thou not a man of valour, with strength and courage? Even if thy might only rid the ravine of those scoundrel bandits ere thy end, thou shalt be hailed as a hero to this village. Be not discouraged, but rather fight on, with all thy might and strength, for as long as thou dost put forth thy best efforts, thou art capable of achieving great things."

"As long as I try my best…"

"Hear me, thou art able," her warm fingers cradled his jaw. "The sword hath chosen thee, and with it comes the power to vanquish thy foes. The sword is infallible, never hath it erred. I have witnessed it through the hands of many masters, and it hath always guided them true. Put thy faith in me, and in the sword. Thou art capable of great deeds."

Jack stared at the ground. It was all true. He had been selfish. If he would not wield this dragon-slaying sword, then who else could. After all, it chose him. He was their only choice.

It's better to die trying than to not do it at all.

"All right," Jack glanced at Lust'eyes, "I'll show you my sword…"

"Truly?!"

"Tomorrow."

Lust'eyes let out a small sigh as she straightened her back. "Well, it doth grow late. Let us tarry until the next morrow. Come, let us go to bed."

"How'd ya sleep last night, by the way?"

"I did lie curled up beside the hearth, upon the furred carpet over there."

"That's right rotten, that is. I'm rotten," Jack winced. "Yer gonna sleep in my bed tonight. As for meself, I'll just cobble together something."

"Prithee, why shouldst thou need to do so? That bed is ample for two, is it not?"

"What?" his heart skipped a beat. "Yer sayin' we can bunk down together?!"

"I see no harm in it," she smiled innocently.

"Well," said Jack, barely able to look at her, "if it ain't no bother to ya, then I s'pose."

An hour had elapsed since they had both retired for the night. Lust'eyes lay in repose, her eyelids closed, her breath a tender zephyr. Meanwhile, Jack lay in restless anticipation, eyes wide opened, his heart a private drumming. Before him, a sensational vista unfurled: her bosom—pressed gently between her forearms, her chest scar—a curious petal partially unfolded. She, draped in the coolth of slumber, seemed oblivious to his simmering core. Her breathing stole the night's quietude, her sultry hush fanning his desires, consuming his rationality. Swallowing hard, he embarked on a tentative journey, his hand creeping, ever so slowly, towards her chest.

"Be not hasty," she said.

Jack's hand recoiled, swift as a startled turtle into its shell, feeling as though he had been stabbed in the back. His heart was now a frantic butterfly in his ribcage. Would she kick him out?

"Thou shalt lay hold of it in due course," with still closed eyelids, she smiled faintly.

What could she possibly mean? In due course? When exactly was it? Why not now? Women were truly strange creatures, maybe much stranger than a dragon could ever be, he pondered. Jack flipped over to the opposite side, shutting his eyes, working to expel the impure thoughts of her out of his mind. It was an exercise in futility. There was no chance he could get used to this.

But...

He was used to it. This sensation was not all unfamiliar to him. Though the burning of his core was new, the warmth of the bed was not—this warmth, not unlike another person that he had loved. He remembered how cold the bed was on the first night of her absence, and had had the same thought that he could never get used to it. He had learnt to live without it, to not let it eat him alive. Yet here he was, experiencing a sensation that he deemed forever lost, enveloped in a cradle of comfort, a place where he could—for the first time in a long time—let go.