I am a monster.
I have become the very thing that the Wyverns call me: a dragon. Accepting sacrifices as if it appeases the gods when in truth it only appeases the men and woman who sit cheering around the pit.
I stare into the bottom of my tankard, hoping that with each mouthful, my darkened thoughts will wash away. Instead, they worsen just like the hatred that I hold for myself. Hopefully the harm I’ve caused to a few will protect many. That is, if Breyton is a man of his word and sticks to the agreement. But in truth, I have seen nothing to show me that Breyton is a man of honour. All I see is a group of men and women who took advantage of a bad situation with the promise of improving things. How power corrupts people even with the best of intentions.
I take another gulp of my ale and see the many eyes of the room searching over me. People speak in hushed voices, some out of fear, some having heard the stories. Some are simply transfixed at the sight of my scaled skin, my yellow eyes, and my jagged teeth. A couple of men sit playing cards at the far side of the room, laughing with one another. One of the men slams a card down in frustration whilst the older player laughs at his misfortune, a pipe protruding from his lips. The sight draws me to a vague memory of Voraz, to the night when I first met Ulrik. It was from there where we set sail to Treventine, it is there where I foolishly put myself forward and received this curse.
“Fucking Vireo!” I muse loudly as I bring my drink back up to my mouth. After all, it was that day in Askela that led to me being in Voraz in the first place. That piece of shit is the cause of all my woes, the reason I lost Laith. What I wouldn’t give for an opportunity to be in the pits with him. He would feel my wrath, my retribution. That is a man who deserves a fool’s court in order to distribute punishment, and one I would gladly play a hand in.
I stand from my table and take the last few gulps of my ale before stumbling towards the bar. My plan to submerge myself in drink to forget the day is slowly working. I knock into a couple of people in my way but no one dares challenge me. I am not proud of the fear on their faces, but I use this to my advantage to be left alone.
“Another,” I growl as I slam my tankard on the bar. An older man with a grey beard attends to me.
“Don’t you think you have had enough, Drag –”
“Call me fucking Dragon and I will remove your tongue.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” the barman stutters as he hastily pours me another pint of ale.
A woman stands opposite the bar, her eyes fixed on me. When my eyes land on her, she quickly averts her gaze, but I am already drawn to the strange amber colouring of her eyes. Her cheek is bruised, and it looks as though she is smarting a black eye. Her hair is short as if cut by her own hand, dark brown in colour. She stands out from the other customers with her lightweight leather armour and a sturdy looking cauldron on her right shoulder.
“Don’t you know it is rude to stare,” I growl.
“Apologies, I meant no offence.”
“Well, that is precisely what you have caused.” I bang my hand on the bar and startle some of the locals into complete silence. “I have just about had enough of everyone in this blasted kingdom!” I reach for my freshly filled tankard and take a huge glug.
The people in the tavern do not know where to look, and the barman edges to the back door.
The woman places an arm in front of the barman, blocking him, then turns to me. “You don’t need to get the Wyverns,” she tells the innkeeper. “Why don’t you take my coin and buy this man a drink from me.” Her eyes catch my own as she takes a coin from her pocket and places it on the bar in front of her. “There is no quarrel and there will be no need for assistance.”
The woman is confident but still on edge. I don’t blame her. These days, I hardly know which way my temper will sway myself.
“You want to be careful staring at monsters, you may find yourself turning to stone,” I grumble as I take another sip of my drink.
When the woman moves closer to me, I notice she is carrying an injury to her right leg as she limps heavily to the vacant chair beside me.
“I did not mean to cause alarm.” Her voice is strained, as if the pain in her leg is much worse than she lets on. “I know you seek solitude in your drinking but trust me when I say that it will lead you down a dark path.”
I can’t help but smirk. “Miss, I have walked down blackened streets long before this night. I have drowned myself many times over in order to escape my thoughts. You know nothing of the darkness that I walked through to get here. That sky outside, the darkest depths of the ocean – it pales in comparison to the darkness that is within my heart.”
“I have been where you stand,” she says.
“Oh? Do you have scales, too?”
“I have carried my own darkness within me.” Her amber eyes become distant as she perches herself on a barstool next to me. “Drowning yourself in ale may grant you a brief reprieve, but it will not help you face the demons you hide from.”
The woman’s words cut deep. I reach for my tankard once more, but she places her hand delicately on top of my forearm. Her touch jolts me, reminding me of Zerina when I first joined her and Ulrik’s crew as we sought the Fountain of Youth.
“You don’t need to do this, Orjan, you need to fight those demons.”
“Not tonight I don’t.” I move my arm away and scoop up my tankard before downing the remainder of the drink in one gulp.
“Very well, Orjan. But enough of this swill. Petor, give us a bottle of rum, two glasses.”
She leads me over to a table by the fire and I take a seat opposite her. The fire kisses my cheek, yet it brings me little warmth. She has my attention, and for once it might be nice to have some company.
“Tell me, what is your name?” I ask.
“Sparrow.”