On an island south of Ambrosia, lived the descendants of the Great Dragon, the glorious race of dragonborn. They put pride in their kind as they would in their deity, loyal to their race and to the Great Dragon himself. Seeking a world of peace where they could exist without the nuisance of humans, they preferred to stay on the island with the dragons instead of travelling to their neighbours, especially after they heard the news that Ambrosia was still going through its dark age.
A young dragonborn stood at a beach in his hometown, the water splashing into his toes as his feet became one with the sand, the breeze was his companion. The palm trees rustled in the wind; their shadows were painted on the sand with the afternoon sun as the artist.
The young dragonborn took a deep breath in, slowly exhaling while putting his fists in front of his chest.
He smashed his fists together, resulting in a massive resonance of energy from his body.
His orange-coloured scales seemed to glow from the impact, as flickers of flames began to dance around him.
He took a deep breath once again before guiding the flames in a beautiful set of movements.
He leapt through the air, swinging his fists at a non-existent target with the flames burning from his body.
His choreography may seem pleasant to the eye, but obviously, all actions have consequences.
The flames from his body shot towards the trees, accidentally causing a huge fire on the beach.
The young dragonborn didn't notice, however, and he kept dancing with the flames.
His movements were graceful but chaotic, swift but forceful. It was like seeing a random person trying to have a fistfight against an invisible figure.
And yes, that was indeed the case.
The young dragonborn seemed to be practising self-defence. Using the flames that he could naturally conjure with his elemental abilities as a dragonborn, he imagined himself facing his number one mentor.
His father.
A mercenary who used to work with Dreki's military, he retired after one of his missions resulted in him coming home paralysed. He couldn't move his arms or his legs and spent the rest of his days in bed only to sleep and eat occasionally.
The young dragonborn remembered the days when his father was still a mercenary, the days when his father used to train him for the day when he would finally be able to fight alongside him as a father-son duo.
He recounted his father's lessons, the exact movements his father made while teaching him how to fight. The words he said to him as he guided him through their lessons.
"Move like the fire that burns in your veins," his father would say, "Graceful, but fierce. Unstoppable, but with control."
Thoughts of the mercenary guilds who rejected him burned a fire inside of him. What kind of guild would reject a potential mercenary just because they were half human and half dragonborn?
The young dragonborn continued his training, the image of his father had completely consumed his mind.
The more he thought about his father, the more his flames grew.
Oh, how he wished that his father didn't have to go on that dangerous mission. How he wished that his father wasn't paralysed.
How he wished he was ready to take his father's place as a mercenary and earn enough money to support his family.
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Before There Was Braveheart
FantasyA highly skilled assassin found himself dealing with an impossible commission from a high-ranking commissioner. He was tasked to find the Long-Lost Princess, preferably alive, with the promise that he would receive the payment of a lifetime. Disguis...
