Sometime after pie, spiders, and entirely too much crab talk, they left the castle, leaving the king surprised, dessertless, and in desperate need of a holiday.

  Reralt rode with pride, a gold star clipped to his leather vest.

  New achievement: Pie Eating, it read on the back.

  The story of how he climbed Strawberry Mountain and defeated the gastro-intestineous monstrosity made Narro laugh every time.

  The Void sat perched on the head of Narro’s horse, sniffing the air and staring ahead, on edge.

  Reralt, of course, took it as a sign.

  They were now following the kitten.

  Narro was fine with it.

  They had agreed to go forward for one more day, and then return to Reachtown.

  It seemed Reralt’s heroic grandeur had its limits—especially when he was out of gold and faced consequences for his actions.

  Which, he seemed to know, were not always positive.

  ***

  A fork in the road appeared.

  Narro wanted to go right, closer to home.

  The Void suddenly meowed—loudly, maliciously—then stared at both of them. She clearly wanted to go left.

  Reralt sniffed the air in a deep, dramatic breath, his smile growing with every exhale.

  “Yes. YES!” he shouted, throwing an arm around Narro. “Evil is near,” he said, his voice pregnant with anticipation.

  “Evil… to be…” He paused, searching for the right word, and looked at Narro, puzzled.

  “Vanquished sounds nice,” Narro offered. “Or obliterated, for that aggressive-sounding punch.”

  Narro had figured it out: beneath his own exterior he was, in fact, a poet. And maybe even a bard. Every ballad he enjoyed a bit more.

  He’d learned three more chords during their travels—making the ballads almost pleasant.

  As for the evil?

  Narro guessed it was probably more poultry.

  Maybe the Seal of Approval, turning out to be an actual seal. Or something else equally stupid.

  He would survive.

  Or at the very least, Reralt would die first. And he would run.

  That thought troubled him more than he expected—he had started to either like Reralt or simply get used to him.

  “I like vanquished—more of a hero tone,” Reralt said, then looked puzzled again, as if his brain was trying very hard to make the word fit in both senses.

  After all, true heroes just made up their own words.

  Narro, however, refused to sing astagerated or firiosoty ever again.

  “Vanquishable,” Reralt mused, still thinking. “But it sounds… soft. Fluffy, even.”

  Narro, always the compromiser, shrugged.

  “Well… if it has fur, we go with vanquishable. If it breathes fire—obliteration?”

  Reralt nodded, content.

  He pulled out his little punchline notebook and began scribbling, brainstorming heroic one-liners that adequately covered squishy stuff.

  ***

  “May the furr be with you?” Reralt pitched.

  Narro raised a brow. “Not terrible. But you can do better,” he said.

  Better to let him keep brainstorming than try anything that would get them all in trouble.

  “By the power of floof,” Narro offered, deciding to give it a go himself.

  Reralt let the sentence linger in his head, then nodded and scribbled it onto the maybe list.

  “Shed happens,” Reralt suddenly declared.

  Narro laughed so hard he nearly fell off his horse.

  But just as he inhaled for another burst of laughter, something hit him—

  A scent.

  He froze. The smile vanished.

  He looked at Reralt—who, with his mythical nose, would probably pick it up with a one-minute delay.

  Then Reralt’s eyes widened.

  “I smell… burned air. Smoke. And brimstone,” he said, mouth hanging open.

  “A dragon!” Reralt shouted, pumping a fist in the air as if he’d already obliterated the beast. “Finally—a foe worthy of Reralt’s might!”

  He performed a strange flex, mimicking the motion of firing an invisible arrow.

  Both eyes shut—not in glory, just how he usually shot his bow.

  Narro felt sick.

  His stomach churned, breakfast retreating with regret.

  His mind flashed back to the dragon near Reachtown—the one that had, without effort, torn through two dozen knights.

  The head of the female knight rolled again in his mind’s eye.

  He looked at Reralt, now spurring his horse toward the rising smoke.

  Then looked back at the road home, his mind in dubio.

  Just run, his head told him.

  Run to Syril. To Mary.

  But when he turned forward again—

  The Void was in his face.

  She slapped him with a paw.

  “Meow,” she commanded.

  Narro sighed.

  And rode after Reralt.

  ***

  Every step down the path made the air thicker—choked with the smell of smoke and brimstone.

  It didn’t take long for them to see the first signs.

  A village was under attack.

  A large green dragon circled above, unleashing bursts of flame across rooftops and haystacks.

  The screaming had reached earshot.

  Narro stared.

  The beast was magnificent.

  And somehow… familiar?

  “It’s the same one from Reachtown! Ha!” Reralt sounded delighted.

  “You won’t escape me now!” he shouted, punching the air with such violent force he nearly toppled from his saddle.

  They halted in a wheat field just outside the village.

  Reralt dismounted.

  Or tried to.

  His foot caught in the stirrup, and he fell—graciously—face-first into the dirt.

  A beat.

  Then, as if yanked by an unseen string, he sprang back to his feet.

  With theatrical purpose, he smeared dirt across his cheeks like war paint.

  He started doing his pre-heroic warm up routine. Getting courage cramps now would be awful.

  Narro nodded solemnly. “Yep. We’re going to die, all right.”

  The Void jumped off the horse with a grace distinctly un-Reraltian.

  She stretched. Meowed once. Then again. And again.

  As a wolf, calling for the mystic powers of the moon.

  Narro watched her, half in awe. Then sighed, unmounted, and did a few stretches of his own.

  Because if they were about to die…

  It wouldn’t be with tight hamstrings.

  ***

  Dragons in this realm were entirely creatures of opportunity.

  This one had woken up with the distinct feeling that the village didn’t fit well aesthetically with the surrounding forest—so, naturally, burning both was the only reasonable solution.

  The old green dragon also harbored a particular distaste for adventurers.

  Upon spotting two of them—one with a sword, the other with a lute, and a black spot riding shotgun—it decided the best use of its morning was to ensure they were thoroughly splattered across the wheat field.

  It would also help with eco-enhancement, the dragon mused.

  As if it needed another reason.

  “Stand very still!” Reralt shouted. “They can’t see you if you don’t move!”

  This was, of course, not true.

  Dragons had more than decent eyesight.

  The dragon, in fact, was confused—these two weren’t running, screaming, or flailing like the villagers.

  That was new—it needed adjustment.

  Curious, it decided to have a closer look.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The mighty beast landed with a thunderous crash, crushing stalks of wheat beneath its claws.

  Only a few of its steps now separated it from Narro—who suddenly felt his pants growing warm in a very particular area.

  “Good,” Reralt whispered. “That’ll confuse him immensely.” he crouched in the wheat field to get to his familiar attack spot. The rear.

  Narro stood as still as he could.

  Violent tremors started in his breath and spread through his body.

  Still, he managed to suppress them enough to avoid collapsing.

  The dragon’s head lowered until it was nearly eye-level with him.

  The head was at least as large as Narro himself. Its eyes—curious and fire-colored—were streaked with red and gold, with bright blue pupils that studied him with something like suspicion.

  Narro felt the breath.

  Smelled it.

  Smoke. Fire. Evil.

  The dragon, intrigued, decided to test whether this human statue was flammable.

  It inhaled deeply, with intent.

  But before the exhale came—a black blur shot from nowhere.

  A tiny kitten, black as midnight, launched itself onto the dragon’s face.

  The Void.

  She clawed. Bit. Shredded.

  A storm of fur and vengeance, sharper than anything the beast had felt before.

  The dragon shook its head violently, trying to dislodge the attacker.

  Unsuccessful.

  The Void’s tiny but mighty claw found an eye—scratched deep—

  And popped it out.

  The dragon roared in pain, slamming its head into the ground.

  The impact threw The Void through the air. She tumbled and rolled into the grass, but landed upright with feline defiance.

  The dragon flared its wings, readying to take flight—

  “By the power of floof!” came a triumphant yell from behind.

  Reralt burst forth, sword in both hands, and cleaved straight through the dragon’s right wing.

  The misuse of his line was so jarring, so offensive, that it snapped Narro out of his fear-induced paralysis.

  The dragon immediately turned—

  Now facing Reralt: a smiling, mud-smeared, silver-haired carving of a man.

  “Wrong side,” Reralt muttered, and laid flat on his stomach.

  Dragons of this size were notoriously near-sighted.

  Their heads were simply too large to focus on things up close—and missing an eye certainly didn’t help.

  The dragon squinted, trying to spot the silver-haired figure, then mistook a nearby rock for him and bit down.

  A horrible crunch.

  Then a roar—raw, furious, tooth-fractured.

  Several fangs cracked in half.

  The dragon was now at the peak of its bad mood.

  This was not how majestic vengeance was supposed to go.

  And once this mess was over?

  He would burn that smug bunny he’d seen on the bridge earlier.

  Bridge included.

  He felt an annoying tap at his leg.

  Accompanied by a strange, hollow sound.

  The dragon looked down.

  Narro was battering the side of its leg with Mary Syril.

  Not to harm—just to get its attention. To make it turn around.

  He stopped mid-swing as the realization hit him.

  He blinked. A heavy, regretful blink.

  When he opened his eyes, the ground was moving very fast.

  A sharp pain bloomed in his side—

  The dragon had swatted him through the air, hurling him toward the horses.

  ***

  The Void had found her way back onto the dragon’s back and was scrambling toward its head.

  The scales on the back were too thick—her claws, for once, could not break through. The head, well, there she could do some damage.

  Reralt yanked himself upright, kissed Ms. Hacky, and with a mighty swing ruptured the dragon’s other wing.

  “Ha! Flee from me now, ehh… green cow!”

  Wow, he thought. A rhyming one.

  He should write that down.

  Then he passed out mid-victory, flying through the opposite end of the field, bleeding from his side.

  ***

  The dragon paused.

  It was unsure which foe to kill first.

  The statue that didn’t do anything—but was extremely annoying?

  The bleeding man—who might already be dead?

  Or the tiny black blur that had taken its eye… and now was gone again?

  It felt something on its head.

  Another violent swipe—The Void had returned.

  ***

  Reralt, somehow not dead, had stopped the bleeding by tourniqueting his side with… his pants?

  He was limping toward the dragon again.

  Naked but full of confidence.

  The dragon was so confused.

  ***

  “Hey!” Narro shouted, voice hoarse and uneven.

  A broken arm. Probably cracked ribs.

  “Ugly beast!”

  The insult didn’t help. The dragon was busy—very busy—with The Void.

  It slammed its head into the ground again to shake her loose.

  The kitten tumbled off and rolled away.

  “Weakling!” Narro screamed. “Defeated by a tiny kitten! I’ll sing songs about it!”

  The dragon froze.

  It turned and stared at Narro with its one remaining eye.

  It did not like the sound of that.

  What if the others heard?

  What if they laughed?

  He would be the ridicule of all the tails.

  This statue must die first.

  It reared back to finish the bard—

  And paused.

  Where was that silver-haired man?

  Then—

  WHAM.

  A barrel hit the dragon square in the head. Too late to dodge.

  It burst open on impact, splattering a sticky, glittering oil across his face.

  A pause.

  “…Not the Oil of Reflection!” Reralt screamed, dropping to his knees.

  “What have you done?” he howled, eyes to the sky in melodramatic anguish.

  The dragon inhaled—deep and slow—preparing to barbecue both Narro and the horses.

  Narro saw the glow beginning to rise in its throat.

  He nodded, grim. Just as I thought.

  Then dove for cover.

  A fresh jolt of pain tore through his ribs.

  Definitely broken now.

  “Quick! Name the horses!” Reralt shouted from somewhere behind the beast.

  “The named ones die harder!”

  Narro couldn’t help but laugh.

  Classic Reralt logic.

  “Mine’s Twilight Sparkle!” he yelled. “Yours is Jolly Jumper!”

  “Jolly Jumper?” Reralt called back, now nearly at the dragon’s rear. “Definitely not jolly and completely the wrong color.”

  The dragon exhaled.

  The fire ignited the oil still coating its head.

  In an instant, the entire front of the dragon went up in flames.

  Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have been much of a problem.

  But now—now there was a hole where one of its eyes used to be.

  The fire poured in.

  The dragon shrieked, an ear-splitting bellow of agony.

  It staggered, rolled in a flaming circle, spewing fire in every direction like a burning fountain.

  It missed the horses.

  I mean—Twilight Sparkle and Jolly Jumper.

  They escaped by a hair, galloping into the forest, manes trailing smoke.

  Reralt let Ms. Hacky do what she did best—

  Wreck the bottom of the rear.

  With a wet, slashing sound, the blade tore through sinew and hide.

  Entrails spilled.

  The fire from the dragon’s mouth shrank to a flicker.

  Its movements slowed.

  Then—

  It fell.

  The ground shook as the beast collapsed, the sound of its breathing growing shallower with each fading breath.

  Reralt dashed forward, sprint-limping toward the dragon’s head.

  He had to claim the kill before it died of its wounds.

  Too late.

  Still—he cleaved anyway.

  “A small cleave for Ms. Hacky,” he proclaimed, standing atop the dragon’s snout,

  “A heroic cleave for Reralt!”

  He looked around, hoping someone had heard.

  “…And Narro and The Void,” he added, with a proud nod.

  It would’ve been a majestic sight.

  If not for the fact that Reralt was naked—his pants tied around his waist to stop the bleeding—

  His face streaked with dried mud in two diagonal swipes that looked vaguely like war paint—

  And one eyebrow entirely singed off.

  Frankly, surviving the whole thing in that condition was a heroic feat in and of itself.

  ***

  Sung all over the realm, Narro’s first hit.

  They followed a kitten through forest and flame,

  With bravery loud and a plan far too tame.

  The village was burning, the skies full of dread—

  So Reralt tripped twice and charged on ahead.

  Spill a sip for Reralt the Bold,

  For Narro the Bard, and that meowing the Void.

  They slew a dragon two dozen could not,

  With wit, with violence, and all that they’ve got.

  Spill a sip—now toast his name!

  Reralt the Mighty—grant him some fame.

  Drink!

  The dragon came roaring with brimstone and spite,

  But The Void hit its face and clawed out its sight.

  While Narro was flung and Reralt got torn,

  He tourniqueted pride with the pants he had worn.

  Spill a sip for Reralt the Bold,

  For Narro the Bard, and that meowing the Void.

  They slew a dragon two dozen could not,

  With wit, with violence, and all that they’ve got.

  Spill a sip—now toast his name!

  Reralt the Mighty—grant him some fame.

  Drink!

  They named the poor horses (as all heroes do),

  Then covered the beast in a reflective goo.

  With fire in its eye and Ms. Hacky below,

  They gutted that lizard and stole the whole show.

  Spill a sip for Reralt the Bold,

  For Narro the Bard, and that meowing the Void.

  They slew a dragon two dozen could not,

  With wit, with violence, and all that they’ve got.

  Spill a sip—now toast his name!

  Reralt the Mighty—grant him some fame.

  Drink!

  Drink!

  Drink!

  actual dragon.

  On purpose.

  (He gets very angry if people lose trust.)