A Dragon's Hoard

Chapter One

Damian glared up at the pristine, white dragon in front of him, it's eyes pitch-black and menacing - as though they were swallowing every bit of light around it. It shifted and spread its wings, glittering pale and pearlescent in the hot, midday sun. It stepped forward and the beast looked intrigued by him, as if he was a curious little toy that it might play with. It turned its head to the side and watched him, nostrils flaring as it seemed to draw in the scent of him.

Damian cursed under his breath and drew his sword. Of all the stupid, arcane, and abysmal things he had to do to prove his worth to the League, this was what they had decided for him - to slay the dragon in the mountains and bring back its head. He'd rather defeat an entire country's army than kill this creature, but he had no choice. Damian was bound to complete any request that his grandfather asked of him. He grounded himself and raised his sword to his shoulder, lifting his head to look up into the dragon's face.

"I'm here to take back your head to the League." He snarled, and took a step forward, meeting its stare. "And I will not be defeated by the likes of you."

It blinked and twisted its head again, as if amused. Damian surged forward, his eyes on the soft underbelly of the dragon. If he could get a critical wound there, the rest of the battle would be easy. He raced forward, sword raised for an attack that looked as though he was going for the neck. He would feint left, and then dive under the front haunches and the dragon would be too slow to realize what Damian was doing. It was an easy plan.

The dragon lifted itself in the air, its wings beating with all the strength of a gale force wind. Damian stuttered backward, but kept his sword raised in an attack position. Change of plans. That was fine. He was a trained assassin, there were always changes in his plans. He watched as the dragon struggled to lift itself off the ground further, and Damian dodged under one of its wings, tearing his sword down the thin skin. Blood spattered against the shimmering skin, pooling onto the earth beneath them, and the dragon let go of a sound that rattled his bones. Damian stumbled back and shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears, his sword slipping from his hand.

The dragon fell back to the earth in a twisted heap of damaged wings and limbs. It struggled to untangle itself, before whipping its head around to glare at Damian. He took a step forward, forgetting he no longer had his sword, and moved to attack. The dragon snarled and, without warning, it leaned down and bit into Damian's shoulder. Teeth sunk through armor and leather, and Damian screamed in pain. He lifted his hand to try and pull the teeth from his shoulder but it felt too late.

Far too late.

Darkness slipped into the corners of his vision, and he looked up into those endless black eyes, framed by pale, glittering skin. Blood was splattered across its face, its wounded wing still flicking droplets around them both. Remorse filled him as he looked at it, taking in the sight of it. There were so few dragons left, and yet he was supposed to kill this one. This beautiful, white dragon that looked like a god of some kind.

He lifted his hand to its muzzle, exhaustion spilling into his bones as the wound in his shoulder started to burn like hellfire. "I am sorry." He rubbed his fingers over the smooth, warm scales. "I never wanted to do this."

A single eye met his own and he saw something there - confusion, apology, and its own particular brand of remorse.

And then there was the blackness of death.

-

When Damian opened his eyes again, his shoulder hurt like hell. And, he was pretty sure that if he was dead, he wasn't supposed to be in pain. Which only meant that he hadn't died, and he had failed his mission. Wonderful. His grandfather would be thrilled at learning of his grandson's failure.