Bob The Dragon Layer

A Crown of Dust

The castle halls echoed with the clatter of boots against stone, a hollow, rhythmic sound that matched the emptiness gnawing at Bob's chest. His few belongings, hastily shoved into a worn leather satchel, weighed heavy against his back. The thick, velvet robe that once marked him as a prince now dragged along the floor, tattered at the edges. He had been exiled not with the fanfare of a disgraceful prince but with the indifference reserved for a forgotten servant.

"You should've been stronger," his father had said, his eyes cold. The words still hung in the air, sharp as steel. "A support-type soul weapon? Useless. You are no prince of Lyin."

Bob clenched his jaw, replaying the moment in his mind. His soul weapon—The Shield of Mercy—had manifested when he was young. It had been an occasion of mockery, not pride. In a royal family where combat was everything, a weapon meant to protect was viewed as a curse, a sign of weakness. And so, they had cast him out—no fanfare, no ceremony, just an escort to a barony at the edge of the kingdom where he would be forgotten, used as a servant by distant relatives.

The gates of the barony closed behind him with a soft groan. Bob barely looked back. His shoulders sagged under the weight of rejection, the dust of the road rising beneath his feet. He walked without purpose for days, the landscape shifting from lush forests to rolling hills, and finally to the outskirts of a small, quiet village. It was there, in a place unknown to him, that his life would change.

The village was small, nestled in the shadow of towering mountains, with cobblestone streets that twisted between old buildings. Bob found himself drawn to the center, where a modest library stood—its doors ajar, inviting a wanderer like him. It smelled of aged wood and parchment, a place of stillness and solitude, perfect for someone trying to forget the weight of royal failure.

Bob stepped inside, the quiet hum of whispered pages welcoming him. He moved aimlessly between shelves, tracing his fingers across the spines of books he had no intention of reading. Yet something about the quiet, the sense of being surrounded by knowledge, calmed the turmoil inside him.

And then he saw her.

She was seated at a long table in the back, surrounded by books—ancient tomes stacked high, their covers faded and worn. Her posture was perfect, her head tilted slightly as she read, the soft golden light of the library catching the edges of her long, silver hair. Her presence was magnetic, though Bob couldn't place why. There was something in the way she held herself, a calm confidence that made the air around her feel different.

He paused, unsure of what to say, or if he should even speak at all. She was, after all, far more beautiful than anyone he'd ever seen—far too radiant to be in such a quiet place. But his curiosity got the better of him.

"That's a lot of books," Bob said, his voice quieter than he'd intended. It felt foolish the moment it left his mouth.

The woman glanced up, her eyes meeting his with a spark of something that made his heart skip. She smiled, a soft, knowing smile, but one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I find them...necessary."

Bob shifted awkwardly. "What are you studying?"

"Soul weaponry," she replied, her voice like the gentle chime of a bell. She closed the book in front of her, the title too faded to make out, and folded her hands atop it. "And you? What brings you here?"

Bob hesitated. The truth was far too heavy to simply unload on a stranger, especially one so poised and collected. "I...was looking for something. Maybe just a distraction."

The woman raised a silver brow. "A distraction from what?"

He sighed, lowering himself into the seat across from her. "From everything, I suppose. From being cast out of my family. From being seen as...weak." The words tumbled out before he could stop them. He felt foolish, but the weight of his exile pressed on him like a vice, and for some reason, in the presence of this woman, it felt easier to admit.

To his surprise, she didn't laugh or look at him with pity. Instead, her expression softened. "Weakness is often misunderstood," she said. "A soul weapon is an extension of oneself, no? It's not always about how sharp your sword is, but what you do with it."

Bob frowned. He had never heard anyone talk about soul weapons that way. "But mine...isn't meant for battle. It's meant to protect."

"Is protection not its own strength?" she asked, leaning forward slightly. "There are many who would consider that far more valuable than any blade."

Her words settled over him like a balm, soothing the sting of rejection he had carried for so long. For the first time since leaving the castle, he didn't feel quite so small. He looked at her again, really looked at her, and found himself intrigued—not just by her beauty but by her presence, the way she spoke with a certainty that felt...ancient.

"You seem to know a lot about this," Bob said. "Are you a scholar?"

She smiled again, but this time, there was a glint of something else in her eyes—something knowing, something hidden. "In a way, yes. I'm...studying for an important transformation of my own."

Bob didn't push the question further. They spent the rest of the day in conversation, talking about soul weaponry, strength, and the many forms it could take. For the first time in years, Bob felt seen—truly seen. He didn't know it yet, but that moment in the quiet of the library would be the beginning of something far greater than either of them could have anticipated.

And so, in the shadow of dusty tomes and whispered words, Bob began to fall in love with the mysterious woman across the table—unaware that she was not just a scholar, but a dragon preparing for her second awakening. And, unbeknownst to him, Anyala—divinely beautiful, ancient, and wise—was beginning to feel the same.