It’s supposed to be confidential, but now that I know, I can’t unknow.
A dragon sighting. Near us.
Why? Why here?
They prefer mountains, craters, places soaked in heat and mana. They don’t come to forests.
I force myself to focus on my notes, but my quill stills over the parchment.
What if it’s injured?
What if it’s dangerous?
What if… no one does anything?
Bravius is still talking, something about the field study and which professor we’ll be working under, but I only catch half of it.
Because I already know exactly what I’m going to do.
The problem with thinking about something too much is that eventually, you have to do something about it.
Which is why, instead of finishing my notes like a responsible Scribe, I find myself descending into the lower levels of the archives—the parts no one really bothers with anymore.
The Grand Library of the Scribes is massive.
It takes up the entire eastern wing of the guild, stretching across multiple floors, each section dedicated to different fields of knowledge.
Beast Codexes, Historical Treatises, Spellcraft and Arcane Theory. But the deeper you go, the older the knowledge becomes.
And dragons?
Dragons are old knowledge.
I weave through the upper halls, past the Scribes cataloging newer entries, past the lantern-lit reading nooks, until I reach a staircase spiraling down.
No one stops me.
No one ever comes down here.
The air changes the moment I reach the lower levels. It smells like damp parchment and dust-covered ink. The light here is dim—flickering mage-lamps barely clinging to life.
The silence is heavy.
I like it.
The books here are ancient, their spines cracked and flaking, some bound in leather, others in materials I can’t even identify. These texts were written before our time, before the guild was even fully established.
I run my fingers along the shelves, scanning titles.
“On the Nature of Elder Beasts”
“The Fall of the Great Wyrms”
“Mana Beasts and Their Territories”
I pull the last one free. The cover is thick, hand-stitched, the lettering faded. I open it carefully.
Most of it is useless—descriptions of common beasts, migration patterns, elemental classifications. But then I see it.
The Chapter on Dragons
My breath catches.
I settle onto the stone floor, ignoring the dust as I spread the book open on my lap. The illustrations are rough but detailed—massive winged figures, coiled serpentine bodies, fire-breathing maws.
They are mana incarnate, the text reads. Unlike lesser beasts, they do not merely consume mana—they become it. A dragon’s power is dictated by the purity and strength of its mana core. Should its core be damaged, it will weaken. Should its core be destroyed…
I run my fingers over the ink.
“A dragon dies when its mana core is shattered.”
That’s it. That’s the weakness.
They don’t die from wounds. They don’t die from poison. They burn through pain like it’s nothing.
But if you destroy their core?
They’re gone.
I keep reading.
“Dragons are elusive creatures, preferring remote, mana-rich territories.”
No surprises there. Dragons never settle near humans. They stake their claim on mountains, deep ravines, open wastelands.
But the next line stops me cold.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“There has only been one recorded case of a dragon inhabiting forested land.”
Just one?
I frown. That doesn’t make sense. The dragon Bravius mentioned was near our forest. It was close enough to be seen by scouts.
That’s wrong.
That’s dangerous.
I turn the page, my pulse quickening.
“Dragons do not enter dense forestry unless critically wounded, disoriented… or cornered.”
I grip the book tighter.
A cornered dragon is a desperate dragon.
Desperate dragons don’t flee.
They fight.
If one was spotted this close to the Scribes’ domain, it means one thing: it’s out of options.
And a dragon with nothing to lose?
That’s the most dangerous kind of all.
The Killing Blow
My hands tighten around the book. I need to know how to end it.
The next few pages describe failed hunts—accounts of guilds attempting to take down dragons, only to be massacred in retaliation. Fire. Claws. Tails strong enough to snap trees in half.
But then, finally:
“The most efficient method to slay a dragon is precise, overwhelming force to the mana core. However, due to the core’s internal placement, this is highly impractical in combat.”
Yeah. No kidding.
“The second method—used in emergency situations—is a direct strike to the throat. The mana core distributes energy through the body via the spine, and a severe rupture to the throat can destabilize the flow.”
I exhale.
That’s doable. That’s possible.
The core is ideal, but if I can strike its throat with enough force, it could be enough to bring it down.
I snap the book shut, heart pounding.
This isn’t just an opportunity.
This is a threat.
A dragon near Scribe territory isn’t something we wait on. It’s not something we observe and report.
It’s something we kill.
And if the Hunters won’t do their jobs, I’ll do it for them.
I shut the book. Paranoid. And go back.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
Every time I blink, I see the words from the book burned into the backs of my eyelids. A cornered dragon is the most dangerous kind of all.
And yet, here I am, sitting stiffly in the Scribes’ common hall, pretending to listen while Bravius excitedly explains tonight’s big event.
“—so it’s a celestial alignment, right? And according to the older texts, the last time this happened, it caused a massive mana fluctuation in the ley lines near our territory. Which means we have the chance to study—”
He’s beaming. Absolutely beaming. The kind of enthusiasm only a Scribe could muster for watching glowing lines in the dirt.
I nod along, pretending to consider it.
“Wow. Sounds… incredibly thrilling.”
Bravius misses the sarcasm entirely. “I know, right?”
“Yeah. You enjoy that. I, however, am completely exhausted and need sleep.”
His smile falters. “Oh.”
And now I feel bad.
Bravius doesn’t have many people he actually talks to. And he trusts me.
But I also don’t have time for stargazing ley lines when there’s a massive, potentially unstable dragon sitting somewhere in the forest.
So I pat his shoulder. “Take notes for me?”
He nods, perking up. “Of course! I’ll document everything.”
I fake a yawn, stretch my arms, and head toward my quarters.
The moment the door shuts, the performance drops.
I lock it, pressing my back against the wood, listening for footsteps.
Nothing.
Good.
I crouch beside my bed and reach underneath, pulling out a shoebox. Inside, nestled between old notes and ink-stained cloth, lie my Dual Blades.
They’re not fancy. Not ornate, not ceremonial. They’re practical.
And I know how to use them.
I unfasten my hair and quickly braid it, keeping it out of my face.
Then, I reach for my cloak—a deep black fabric with crimson lining, the only thing I own that looks remotely like Hunter gear.
I smirk at the irony.
A Scribe masquerading as a Hunter.
If my guildmates ever found out, they’d probably drop dead on the spot.
The Escape Attempt
I push open my window. It’s a tight fit, but I’ve done it before. Just need to be quiet—
“MRRRROWW.”
I freeze.
Bandu, my traitorous cat, perches on my desk, tail flicking. His golden eyes lock onto me with judgmental scrutiny.
I point at him. “Not now.”
“Mrrow.”
“I feed you.”
“Mrr—”
I snatch a strip of dried fish from my drawer and throw it across the room. Bandu instantly loses interest, leaping after it.
Good enough.
I slip through the window and drop to the ground, rolling onto my feet. The moment I’m clear, I run.
The forest at night is a different world.
The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and moss, the distant chirping of insects almost deafening in the quiet. Moonlight filters through the branches in fractured silver beams, guiding my path.
I move quickly, but not recklessly. Every step is calculated, every movement controlled.
I don’t know exactly where the dragon is.
But I trust my instincts.
I know dragons.
Not because I’ve seen one before—obviously—but because I study. Unlike certain individuals who swing swords first and ask questions never, I actually use my brain.
Dragons don’t just wander into forests.
They prefer high-altitude, rocky terrain where they can nest undisturbed. Bravius mentioned that the sighting was strange, that a dragon this large being spotted so close to civilization was practically unheard of.
So why here?
I retrace the details Bravius whispered to me earlier—
Smoke. Heat. Uprooted trees. A clearing, too clean, as if something massive had landed there recently.
The pieces start to click.
If the dragon is injured, it wouldn’t want to be exposed. It would retreat. It would find a place with:
- Shelter from the elements.
- Minimal risk of ambush.
- A location close to a mana-rich area for recovery.
A cave.
My breath catches.
I know where it is.
I adjust my grip on my cloak and press forward, scanning the landscape for irregularities.
The terrain shifts subtly—rockier, less vegetation, the air thick with residual heat. The ground beneath my boots is disturbed, as if something massive was dragged.
I follow the signs, my focus razor-sharp despite the dull throb behind my eyes.
Low mana.
Not surprising. I haven’t trained properly in weeks, and my sleep cycle is about as stable as a house of cards in a storm.
Scribes don’t rely on brute strength, we rely on our minds— but even intellect has its limits when your body is running on fumes.
I push forward.
And then, finally—
I see it.
Nestled between jagged rock formations, a cave entrance, barely visible beneath an overhang of twisted roots and ivy.
I exhale slowly.
Bingo.
I step closer, every sense on high alert.
The entrance is dark, but the faintest glow of embers flickers from within. The heat is tangible, rolling out in slow waves, thick with the scent of charred earth and sulfur.
I grip my Dual Blades tighter.
If I’m right, the dragon is injured. Weak. Vulnerable.
I should turn back.
I should gather more information, make a plan, not rush in blindly.
But something inside me refuses to walk away.
I take a breath, steady myself, and step into the darkness.