Bob The Dragon Layer

Fangs in the Dark

As the music swirled around them, Bob continued to dance, oblivious to the silent threat closing in. Anyala's hand remained in his, their movements in sync with the festive rhythm, but her mind was elsewhere. She could sense the subtle shifts in the crowd, feel the cold intent of the assassins as they prepared to strike.

Her eyes flicked toward the edge of the square, where one of the assassins had just slipped a blade from his sleeve. Anyala's expression didn't change, but she allowed a faint pulse of magic to ripple through the ground beneath her feet. The tiny dragons she had summoned—a gift inherited from her father—moved with deadly precision, darting toward their targets like living shadows.

The assassin nearest to Bob made the first move, slipping from the crowd with his blade aimed directly at Bob's back. But before he could close the distance, one of the miniature dragons leaped from the shadows, its sharp teeth sinking into the assassin's throat. The man gasped, his eyes widening in shock as he was dragged silently to the ground. His life ended in a matter of seconds, and no one noticed a thing.

The second assassin, positioned near the edge of the square, caught sight of his fallen comrade. His eyes widened in panic, but before he could react, another of the mini-dragons lunged at him, its razor-sharp claws slicing through his throat with ease. The assassin collapsed, his body hidden behind a stack of crates, the dragon's glowing eyes flickering for a moment before it vanished back into the crowd.

Meanwhile, the third assassin—a man with a wicked grin and a crossbow aimed directly at Bob's chest—took careful aim. The music swelled around him, masking the faint click of the bowstring as he prepared to fire. But just as he released the bolt, a flicker of silver darted through the air. One of Anyala's scales, imbued with magic, sliced through the bolt mid-flight, sending it harmlessly into the ground. The assassin's eyes went wide with disbelief as another mini-dragon landed on his shoulder, its teeth sinking into his neck. He fell without a sound, his crossbow clattering to the ground.

Anyala's eyes remained calm as the final assassin fell. Her magic worked flawlessly, each strike perfectly timed, leaving no trace of the dragons or the men who had sought to kill Bob. She had acted without hesitation, knowing that Bob's safety was paramount, but also knowing that he must never suspect the truth behind his survival.

The villagers continued to dance, laughing and clapping, completely unaware of the danger that had passed just beneath their noses. Even Bob remained oblivious, his focus entirely on the music and the woman in his arms.

From the shadows of the square, another figure watched the scene unfold—General Tarran, the baron's eldest son. He had been observing from a distance, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. He had heard the rumors, of course, of Bob's newfound fame and the whispers of divine favor, but he had not come here to harm his younger brother. On the contrary, he had come to see if the stories were true.

Tarran, a devout believer in Medea, the god of Lyin, had always respected the will of the gods. And now, as he watched Bob dance with a woman who seemed far more than she appeared, Tarran felt a stirring in his chest—a sense of duty. He had come to assess his brother's potential, and what he saw now only solidified his decision.

Bob had the makings of a hero. The villagers adored him, and there was something...otherworldly about the way he had emerged unscathed from so many dangerous situations. Tarran did not know the full truth, of course, but he believed that Medea had touched Bob's life for a reason.

And if that was the case, then it was time for Bob to learn how to wield true strength.

Tarran turned on his heel, slipping away from the square and into the night. He would speak to Bob soon—offer him guidance, training. Bob's soul weapon, though support-based, had a hidden strength that Tarran believed could be honed into something powerful. But for now, he would let the festival continue. There was no need to interrupt the celebration.

Back in the square, Bob smiled as Anyala spun beneath the lanterns, her silver hair catching the light. The warmth of the moment filled him, pushing away the doubts and fears that had lingered in his mind since the battle with the bandits. He still didn't fully understand how he had survived that lightning bolt, or why the villagers had begun to see him as some kind of divinely touched hero. But here, now, with Anyala beside him, none of that mattered.

They danced for what felt like hours, the world around them blurring into a whirl of music and laughter. Bob found himself lost in the moment, forgetting for a time the weight of his exile and the expectations placed on him by the barony. Here, in this village, he was something more than a discarded prince. He was a protector, a hero.

But as the night deepened and the festival began to wind down, Bob noticed something strange. The village square, once crowded with revelers, was slowly emptying, leaving only a few scattered groups. He glanced around, confused, before his eyes settled on a patch of shadow at the edge of the square.

It was faint, barely noticeable, but there—on the ground, partially obscured by a pile of crates—lay the body of a man. Bob's heart lurched in his chest, his instincts flaring to life. He started toward it, but before he could get far, Anyala's hand gently gripped his arm.

"Leave it," she said softly, her eyes unreadable. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with."

Bob hesitated, his gaze flicking back to the darkened corner of the square. Something had happened tonight, something beyond the festival, beyond the celebration. But as he looked into Anyala's eyes, so calm, so steady, he felt the tension in his chest ease.

"Alright," he said quietly, though a part of him still burned with curiosity. "If you say so."

Anyala smiled, her hand lingering in his. "Let's enjoy the rest of the evening, shall we?"

Bob nodded, pushing the strange unease from his mind. He trusted Anyala. She had never given him a reason to doubt her. And tonight, in the warmth of the festival, surrounded by the people he had saved, he wanted to believe that everything was as it should be.

In the shadows, the miniature dragons returned to Anyala, their scales shimmering faintly before they rejoined her skin, becoming part of her once more. No one had seen them. No one had known what had transpired.

But Anyala knew. And she knew that this was only the beginning.

The baron had sent assassins tonight, but he would not be the last to try and take Bob's life. There were others who would see his rise as a threat, others who would stop at nothing to bring him down.

But Anyala was prepared. She had chosen to protect him, and no one—not bandits, not assassins, not even rival kings—would harm Bob as long as she stood by his side.