A Tyrant, Sort Of

Aylin wasn’t sure how much longer she would be stuck on hunting duty, but the forecast wasn’t looking good. It’d been more than a week and Elder Gneaxi’s temper hadn’t cooled. Maybe she’d really stepped in it this time.

But look. Mofal had been asking for it. He could only sneer her way with a not-as-clever-as-he-thought comment so many times before she snapped. And it wasn’t her fault he was one of the village’s most pathetic excuses for a warrior, and that—after finally responding to his endless goading—he’d embarrassed himself so thoroughly in their scuffle.

Unfortunately, humiliating an Elder’s favored son was a quick way to being assigned to less-than-favorable duties. Like hunting. Not that hunting was that bad of an assignment—someone needed to bring home meat for the clan—but Aylin belonged in the war band. Plus, she wasn’t a good hunter. She sucked with the bow. It was a punishment, plain as day. Almost more than the assignment itself, the humiliation was what burned. That she was being punished. Why? She’d given Mofal exactly what he had been asking for. And deserved.

Though, she had gotten carried away …

She sighed, picking her way through the forest, wondering if for once, she should’ve sucked it up and clamped down on her anger.

She guessed she deserved this, being assigned away from the war band. A temper—one she couldn’t control—was a problem, and her capability as a warrior didn’t make up for that. Not as a fresh recruit, at least. Some of the older goblins, who’d been in the war band for ages, could get away with scrapping with others. But Aylin didn’t have the reputation, family connections, or years in service they did. Missteps a veteran would be dressed down for, resulted in much more thorough, pointed punishments for Aylin.

She kicked a rock, irritably sending it skidding across the forest floor. Obviously, trampling along while making so much noise wasn’t a great strategy for hunting. But it was early in the day, and she was burning off steam. Plus, she had a while to go before she’d make it to ideal hunting grounds.

The real problem with hunting duty, more even than the humiliation of punishment, was how much of a waste of time it was. Not from the perspective of the clan, of course, but from her own perspective. Any opportunities not spent honing her combat abilities—real ones, not lining up arrows to game—meant less and less of a chance to unlock the class she wanted. Or any class at all, more accurately.

A class was the only way she would ever be somebody important. Maybe she could climb a decent way up the ranks of the war band, but a real warrior? Someone known outside her tiny corner of the forest? Much less the world? A class was necessary. There hadn’t ever been a warrior talked about in stories who didn’t have a class. Or, talked about in a good way, least. Maybe cautionary tales to overeager recruits. She’d rather not become one of those.

Wandering around the forest, putting arrows into deer and rabbits … that wasn’t helping her toward that goal. Even worse, what if she got something like [Hunter]? Something not suited to real fighting. The odds of that happening were minuscule—getting a class at all was rare—so she supposed she ought to be happy either way. Better something than nothing, right?

No. That wouldn’t be enough. Her goals weren’t so small. She was going to be a warrior someday, the kind lorekeepers told stories about, and anything less would be a disappointment. Call it arrogant. At least she was honest with herself.

That was the plan, at least. If she kept getting stuck with hunting duty because she got in fights with anyone with a big mouth—half the war band, honestly, just, Mofal’s was the biggest of the lot—then those dreams would never come to fruition.

So, she had to start controlling herself.

Assuming she made it back to the war band in the first place. Elder Gneaxi had been real upset. Maybe this time, the reassignment would be permanent. She showed promise as a warrior, more than any of the other recruits, but did that matter? Make her indispensable? Hardly.

Stupid Mofal.

Distracted, stewing in annoyance, Aylin trekked through the forest, paying half as much attention as she should. It wasn’t until a strange noise—the flapping of some enormous wings, it sounded like, but nothing in the forest was that big—snapped her out of it. She stiffened, coming to an abrupt stop, then searched the sky through the sparse tree tops. What in the world?

She caught a glimpse of something … white?

Descending toward her.

Fast.

She scrambled away, but the beast thudded into the ground barely a second later, crushing branches beneath its bulk. It was twice as tall as her, the size of a massive stag, and several times longer. Shimmering white scales gleamed in the light. She gaped at the beast’s majestic form, even as she scrambled back.

A dragon.

That was the thought that flashed into her head. But, it wasn’t possible. Dragons had been hunted to extinction centuries ago. Yet there the proof stood. Right in front of her eyes. Hard to deny, especially when it was about to eat her.

[ Sable - Juvenille White Dragon - Lv. 1 ]

She tripped over a log in her haste to get away, sprawling onto her backside. She’d been unable to tear her eyes away even as she fled. She cursed and scurried backward, pushing herself with hands and legs. The dragon didn’t pursue. It watched her, amused. She wasn’t sure how she could read the emotion so clearly on the beast’s lizard-like face, but she could.

She stopped, forcing the panic away. That, at least, she could manage. She was a warrior, and not a pathetic excuse like Mofal. She didn’t know what in the three hells was going on, but if this thing—a dragon—wanted her dead, then she’d be dead. It didn’t, hence she lived. So what was the point in running?

So instead, she sat there and gawked at the beast.

She had never seen anything like it. Probably, no one living—goblin or otherwise—had. Its body was covered in sleek, sparkling scales that interlocked in flawless mail. Dragonhide was supposed to be nearly impossible to pierce. The sort of material legendary equipment was made of. By appearance alone, she believed it. The metal-like white scales looked like they were of supernatural origin, that nothing mundane could possibly damage them. Certainly not her flimsy bow, which was still strapped to her back, and painfully digging into her as she awkwardly sat there, having fallen over.

For a long moment, she stared into crystalline blue eyes. Dragons were supposed to be some of the cruelest, most capricious creatures in all of ancient history. She didn’t see that in the monster’s predatory irises. Only a wicked sort of cunning, and an arrogant amusement, seeing her sitting there, stunned. Like her cowering position was appropriate, and that it was satisfied she had figured it out so quickly.

The dragon tilted its head. It almost seemed to focus its attention on her. Then, her mind was on fire.