Durest:

  Gareth rides up to Hui’s position, hatchets jostling along his waist, curly brown hair bouncing with the heavy stomps of his steed. I can’t imagine this man riding Qaswa, for he’s practically as big as my palfrey. But his own monstrous volcanblood horse—a charcoal gray beast with spots of red—can handle the big man’s girth.

  Qaswa snorts derisively beneath me. I lean down to scratch her ears.

  Someone’s jealous, huh?

  She shakes her head, slapping me with her overgrown mane. I spit horse hair out of my mouth as Cozo laughs next to me.

  He sits on a low mountain-croc with gray scales, who moves hypnotically, swaying its tail with every step. The creature’s yellow eyes stare forward with slitted pupils. That’s one of the only features that allows a passerby to distinguish the crocodile from the rocky landscape—the beginnings of the Fickle Plains. It's as if this land used to be made of mountains before God decided to grind them all down into mere stony outcroppings.

  It would’ve been hell taking the caravan through this. Which is why I’m so glad Hui made a detour—allowing me to store my life’s work in a mage’s pocket dimension. The Legend of Durest endures.

  Gareth and Hui talk in hushed tones ahead of us. Actually, it's more like Gareth is talking at Hui, gesticulating with his hands like a raving priest. The silver-haired dragon slayer looks ahead, gaze set upon the valley’s dip, which finally introduces some greenery to this drab wasteland. Sparse patches, but grass is a welcome sight nonetheless. Three days of riding through the same jagged formations made my head ache.

  Merchants are known for being impatient bastards. The least the journey could do is provide me with some different scenery.

  Nimra, the cute, curly haired archer who also played a role in saving my stupid ass, disengages from the front of our pack and lets her horse trail lazily to us.

  “Mom and Dad are fighting again,” she sighs.

  “What’s it about this time?” Cozo grins. He loves drama. Loves gossip. Loves addling people in general, actually. Mischievous little creature, he is.

  “What do you think?”

  “Ah. Old loverboy, back at it again?”

  “Same old, same old. I wish he’d let up, honestly. She’s not gonna change her mind.” Nimra blows some dark hair out of her face. “Not when she’s like this.”

  “Discourse is healthy. Good for the soul.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Why, my best friend Durest over here! Whispered it to me at night, when we talked in secret.” He nods enthusiastically to me. I play along and return his nod. “You see, he’s actually not cursed, but rather, he just doesn’t like talking to you lot. The merchant can only stomach the company of high-class people.”

  “Weren’t you born in a brothel?”

  “A high-class brothel! Much different from the other, lowly brothels of the North.”

  “I wish I had even a smidge of your confidence.”

  Cozo laughs and leans back on his crocodile. “Nimra, everyone wishes they were more like me. Trust me. The source is me.”

  “The source is your ass.”

  “Finest cheeks in Katal, I’ll have you know.”

  Nimra shakes her head. A wry smile touches her lips—one that brightens her face like a radiant star. I catch myself staring and turn away. Not that I’d ever have a chance—or want that chance.

  Not worth it.

  Not with the way I live.

  Or the lack of living, I suppose.

  “What’s got you so down, Durest?” she asks.

  I shake my head and write out a shaky excuse. LACK OF PROGRESS.

  I pause, before adding: ALSO, WORRIED ABOUT THE MONSTERS.

  I tear that page out and hand it to her. She takes a cursory glance before shaking her head.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

  “What did he say?” Cozo asks.

  She shows him the parchment. He chuckles.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Please Durest, haven’t you learned? This is the safest place you could be in the world right now!”

  I frown. Then, I gesture to the land around us and mime some monsters.

  “Not that—of course you’ll spot packs of Eldritch Wolves and war monkeys and other—”

  “Cozo. Really? Are you trying to scare him?”

  In reality, I don’t fear monsters. The knights worry me more.

  Fucking Basilbane—him and his stupid agenda against my own tormentor, Zaman. It boggles my brain how I’ve ended up sandwiched between these two all-powerful entities—when my own goals have nothing to do with them.

  “What I’m trying to say, my mercantile companion,” Cozo continues, drawing my attention back to him. “Is that you have us. And I can promise you, there is no one stronger than the Dragon Slayer Troop.”

  “You say that,” Nimra mutters, leaning forward on her mare now. “But our leader lost to the man we’re going to save now.”

  “Did Gareth convert you too?”

  “Yes. I mean no—I don’t know. This seems like a waste. We were already making good progress through the plains. So…”

  The archeress throws up her hands in frustration.

  I get her meaning though.

  Why turn back now?

  Why not kill the snake, then deal with his pawns?

  Hui’s tip was good. There was credible evidence that Basilbane resided in Fimbul. Yet, now she’s decided to turn back and deal with his accomplice? It seems counterintuitive. Counter-character as well—the Hui Long I’ve come to know is… terrifyingly rational, to say the least.

  But the onus is not all on Basilbane. Rather, it lies with this man—this “scarlet wraith” as the storyteller at the bar described him.

  “Eh. I’m with her on this. The war will grow out of our control if we don’t deal with it now,” Cozo comments.

  “This isn’t about the war. You know that.”

  “I know nothing—nothing but what I’ve been told. And until I’m given reason otherwise, I’ll follow Hui like a good little soldier. It's gotten me this far in life.” He says that final bit without his usual air of nonchalant affection. Rather, his eyes take on this dull haze—the eyes of a man who has seen too much for him not to believe in this conviction. This singular, undeniable truth.

  “Sometimes, you're impossible to talk to.”

  “I do my best. You see, this is why Durest only talks to me. He’s the only who can handle my—”

  “Stupidity?”

  “Proclivity. I was going to say proclivity.”

  I smile at their antics. These people are just that: people. Not larger than life heroes who are untouchable, nor unreachable. It’s endearing to meet friendly, earnest faces.

  Especially when I’m so used to the opposite.

  Gareth rides back to us, a pensive look coloring his handsome face. He’s rarely this austere. Yet something about this decision has changed his demeanor.

  I think everyone here knows why. We’re just unwilling to broach the topic. He does a circle around us before pulling up to me, his humongous form casting Qaswa in a shadowy curtain.

  “Let me ask you a question, Durest, since you seem to be the only person here willing to give me a straight answer.”

  I suppress the urge to chuckle at that. If only he knew the depths of my depraved lies. He’d probably kill me. Shun me, at the very least.

  Eh, I’d probably deserve it as well.

  I give him a nod regardless. He presses on.

  “If you came back home to liberate a friend, and then that ‘friend’ nearly beat you to death, disparaged your aid, unjustly blamed you for their circumstances, and verbally cut ties with you—would you then be willing to save them? To fight a war for them?”

  Cozo starts whistling, looking away from us.

  Nimra just slows her horse to clomping pace, letting it trail behind us.

  I think carefully about how to answer. How he wants me to answer. How I should answer.

  Then, on my ledger, I scribble my thoughts and rip them out.

  He stares unblinkingly at my response.

  IT DEPENDS.

  He looks at the paper. Then at me, as if expecting me to elaborate.

  I merely shrug.

  He sighs. “Figured as much. Sorry about that Durest. Not your problem. I shouldn’t be trying to drag you into it.”

  With that, Gareth Rathkar rides up to his lover. And Hui Long’s gaze finally breaks from the path ahead, for she spares me an appraising look over her shoulder.

  This again.

  She’s made a habit of doing this—engaging in a staring contest with me. I don’t know why. Perhaps she senses the same thing I feel: a morose kinship between two very fucked over souls. Two people cursed by destiny.

  This time, I play along and give her a nod.

  She nods back, acting as if something deep and profound had just passed between us—rather than just me bullshitting my way through another one of our interactions.

  Then, the Dragon Slayer turns away from me and rides ahead, silver hair gleaming in the sunlight like a shiny new blade, itching to drench itself in blood.

  I wonder what that hairstyle would be like. Blood red.

  The image comes to mind, but I just laugh at it.

  Who are you kidding? No one can pull that shit off.