Swords and Dragon Horns

Chapter 4

A loud rumble startles him awake. His heart pounds as he flips onto his other side and fumbles for his sword. Eventually, he grasps the handle and lets the sheath fall to the floor.

Moonlight pours in through the window, giving the boy just enough light to blink away sleep and see that the room is empty. Except for the dragon boy rattling the walls with his snoring, of course.

With a groan, his head falls back onto the pillow, heart still racing.

After a moment of settling himself, he closes his eyes. Only for them to shoot open at the next snore.

So, he rolls on his side and glares down at the source of all his miseries.

The dragon is sprawled over the length of the hardwood floor, the blanket forgotten. Saliva drools out of the corner of his wide-open mouth. His horns, much smaller in this form, glow in the moonlight.

They sit innocently among his bright red locks.

Would they be enough?

The sword settles heavily in his hand. The dragon wouldn't wake. It would be easy.

Then, he lays the sword down, gets up, steps over the dragon boy, and leaves. His fists itch to finish this, but his legs know better. Night air nips at his bare chest as he walks the empty roads. The cold clears his head like fog receding from a lake, but something heavy simmers in the dark below.

The black symbol of Fallen Star on his shoulder glares at him. It asks him, what are you doing? You're wasting time! Its disbelief and anger seep into his skin farther than the ink.

The dragon is still asleep. Undoubtedly, it would be painless. One strike across his throat. He'd never know. No one would ever know. It would be easy. It would save countless lives.

Fiery chains squeeze around his spirit in retaliation to these thoughts. The boy has made an oath. Though the words were not those of ritual, it was a binding oath all the same. To deny his word is to forsake his honor, a crime his people would not accept.

At least they'd be alive, the mark whispers.

He covers it, fingernails digging into his skin.

The light ahead steals his attention. It pours out the windows of a more run-down tavern. He must've wandered all the way across town. The tavern is undoubtedly filled with Endeavorans drinking well into the night. Three extremely-satisfied patrons stumble out, swaying on their feet and hollering at each other.

He picks up his pace and splays out his fingers to cover more of the designs twirling around his bicep.

One looks at him; his wide grin is full of yellow and rotted teeth. "Heyy, man! N'ver seen you 'round here b'fore! You hic try this place yet? Bastrd's got the best in town! Don let n'one tell you other-hic-wise!"

The blond shoulders past the man, but three sets of footsteps follow him.

"Hey, wait up!"

He doesn't make it far before a hand catches his wrist. His muscles tense.

"Let go."

The man leans in, and the smell of cheap booze invades his nose. "C'monn! Lem-lemme buy you a hic drink!"

He pries the hand off his wrist and throws it back at the man.

"Not interested."

Another man, older with stringy gray hairs littering his face, squints at him. Then he asks the third, arguably the soberest of the group, "Wha's that thing on 'is arm?"