The Weightless Shard

WYLAN

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. The beasts came suddenly one day in plights of brimstone and ash and took up residence in the overlooking mountains. That's where they remained for thousands of years. But, there hasn't been a reported sighting in almost a century now.

Deep in Oranelle, the village of Innervale can be found a little down the hill from the capital. This village, just like the rest of the kingdom, is practically overflowing with humans.

This is a fact that Wylan Edmund Morris has gone to great lengths to try and forget.

Clang.

The sound of mallet hitting steel strikes the air once more as the blacksmith brings his tanned arm down on the misshapen sword.

“Jeremy, please just consider it,” Wylan says again. “I’d make a good apprentice!”

Clang.

“Come on lad, just look at ‘yer arms,” Jeremy replies. “How on earth would you use the tools?”

A fleeting glance down brings a small tinge of pink travelling up the length of Wylan's neck. His arms aren't particularly small but it's true, almost everything would appear so when compared with Jeremy's biceps.

“My arms aren’t sma—” Wylan shakes his head, huffs, and starts again. “Look, I’ve seen you craft for years and I already know some of the basics. You know I’m not bothered by the heat, plus, I'd owe you a favour.”

Wylan winces at his slip and watches the telltale twinkle that alights Jeremy's eye as he also notes that word; favour. There’s a small silence, where just the crackling of fire and muffled commotion of the outside world can be heard in the blacksmith's shop. Stealing a small look at the weaponry lining one wall, Wylan wonders yet again if he wants to dedicate his life to this particular craft.

Jeremy pauses his movement and squints at Wylan from beneath his brows. “What’s with the sudden change of heart, ‘ay? One minute you’re doin' favours for townsfolk and now you wanna become a blacksmith? I just want'a know why.”

It started long ago, the favours Wylan agrees to do for Innervale's locals. First, it was a trip to the apothecary for Mrs Jenkins' ointment when Wylan was only six years old. Next, it was selling the last of Davey Tuther's papers so he could sneak off with Cathy from down the street. Wylan was only eight then, and didn't quite understand Davey's impatience until much later.

Slowly, Wylan made a name for himself as a good lad to ask simple favours of, before it spiralled into something more...and, it's how he met Jeremy.

"Listen, Jeremy, I could do with a favour of my own for once. C'mon, help me out a little!"

"No."

If only he hadn't already made good on his favour...then this would be a whole lot easier.

"With the new patroles that the King has going on, someone might recognise me and I'm not going back to that place!"

"Oh for goodness sakes, lad. You were only in there three day—"

"Five. I was in there for five days," Wylan snaps. "Have you ever spent the night in the castle dungeon?" He waits for Jeremy to shake his head no. "Then I suppose you don't know what's kept down there, either?"

The colour drains slightly from Jeremy's face. "What do you..." He starts but then stops. "The rumours?"

Ah yes, those rumours, Wylan thinks.

"I know it can't exactly hurt us, but..." Jeremy shivers.

Wylan lets out a huff and gestures for Jeremy to get back to the topic at hand. "I know you haven't exactly been searching for an apprentice, Jeremy, but I thought—since you don't have an heir—I don't know, I just thought you might take me on... We're friends, aren't we? We have to look out for one another, you and I."

Jeremy still looks somewhat haunted by the idea of what might reside within the walls of the stone castle, but then sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. There's a long pause whilst he uses the corner of his apron to brush lint from the base of his mallet. "I can't pay 'ye all that much—"

"Aww, Jeremy, thank you!" Wylan surges forward and catches the stocky man around his torso in a crushing hug. "I swear, I'll make a good apprentice. You won't regret this!"

There's a harrumph, the scuffling of feet, and a couple of shoves before Wylan is sent careening back a few steps. For the first time in twenty years, he'll be able to earn money honestly. So what if Jeremy can't pay that much? The alibi of a respectable place of work is invaluable these days, what with the new King's plight to reform Oranelle and all in it.

The pair talk some more about the finer details, until Wylan is eventually ushered from the little shop and onto the street.

"I'll be here early tomorrow!" He calls out, walking backwards, as the door swings closed in his face.

"Move it!" A deep voice calls out as Wylan sidesteps into the thoroughfare of foot traffic. A hand grips him tightly by the shoulder and, with a shove, sends him stumbling back towards Jeremy's shop. He catches himself against the brick in the nick of time and turns sharply.

"Hey!" The yell leaves his mouth before his eyes get the chance to see what is happening. Had he taken a moment to look first and argue second, Wylan would have decided silence is safer.

The King's soldiers march in pairs, forcefully moving those of Innervale's locals who were stupid enough to get in their way. Wylan watches from the wall as a small boy narrowly avoids having his foot broken as the guards come to a crashing halt, just a few paces away from Timothy's door. He furrows his brow as the captain raps thrice against wood.

The old jeweller's store isn't somewhere Wylan happens to frequent very often, but he has been known to take on the occasional favour for Timothy. Turns out, not all of his priceless antiques are...well, antiques. Wylan once went in Tim's stead to meet a dashing young gentleman who wore a dark hood. He held a knife to his throat as Wylan inspected the bag of cubic zirconia he had on him. Regardless, he wouldn't have thought it to be a top priority for the King, unless shopping is the aim.

A crash rings out, loud enough to be heard streets over, as the captain rescinds all patience and crashes a boot into the door again and again until the hinges eventually give way.

Not shopping, then.

By now, people are doing either one of two things: the sensible ones drop all their belongings and dash either into their homes or in one very specific direction; away.

Only the fools continue staring with rapt attention as the guards enter Timothy's shop, begin flipping tables, smashing glass, and causing chaos as they begin their hunt.

Random searches aren't uncommon phenomena as of recent. The new King seemingly has a distaste for the illegal ongoings of Oranelle. A shame, really... Wylan rather liked his way of life but, even he can admit that becoming a blacksmith is a better fate than spending even one more evening in those dungeons.

Wylan scratches the patch of hair lining his jaw and backs up into a random doorway where he can watch from a more secluded spot. From here, he can see several villagers doing the same thing from various positions down the way. One woman hisses from behind pursed lips, and there's something that sounds distinctly like hands being smacked until eventually, the same small boy who narrowly avoided becoming a cripple is turned away from the ongoing scene.

Likely for the best...the soldiers aren't known for their passive methods of arrest.

"Psst!" Wylan can hear across the street. "What're they looking for this time?"

There's the sound of someone being hit, a small yelp, and a muttered 'Idiot' before a much louder wail can be heard coming from the opposite direction: Timothy's place.

"They've got him..." Another watcher mutters. "What'd they want with an old git like Tim?"

"Perhaps they decided that somebody else oughta get first dibs at the bakery for once," someone snickers, and there are more scuffling sounds and a light thwack. "Oi!"

"Have some bloody respect."

The soldiers appear then, and Wylan's breath catches in his throat. The two in front each have a tight grip on Timothy's upper arms, and are practically dragging him along between them as they walk. His legs hang, useless and kicking, between their own.

"Here!" The captain calls. "A creature of fire here! Right on your doorsteps."

Wylan's breath fractures. Dizziness hangs in his head, and the captain's next words barely register.

"Your King has vowed to carry out the task that was started three hundred and fifty-two years ago! It appears there are still dragons in Oranelle, after all."

Wylan is barely thinking as he silently turns away and begins moving up the street, as other bystanders appear to drift closer to the fray.

The war against dragons is no new thing...but by Oranelle's standards, it was already won. There hasn't been a full-bodied dragon in the kingdom since they made the weapon ninety-six years ago. The majority of beasts were killed in days. The ones that were left disappeared slowly, until one day there were none in the skies at all.

Curiosity gnaws at Wylan even as he makes his way further from the commotion. He maintains a steady rhythm in his footfalls despite how he can hear his pulse throbbing with every step.

"People of Innervale, dragons truly live among us."

Gasps of shock sound from every side and out comes Timothy's gut-wrenching wail. Shaking hands are placed in pockets as Wylan decides he can't leave without knowing.

He comes to a halt with the rest of the crowd which circles the retinue of guards, drawn closer by the thrill and horror of what awaits them.

He can hear the whispers from all sides as people stand aghast. Slowly, those who barred their doors begin to leek out to observe the foray and Wylan makes eye contact with Jeremy.

The captain moves his hand and grabs a fistful of Timothy's white shirt. With a single pull, the fabric tears. With its absence comes the truth.

Purple, iridescent scales. Each one small, like a single drop of oil in a puddle.

The scales line Timothy's collarbone, sweeping his shoulder and onto his back. In their pattern, it almost looks as though giant claws have torn through skin to reveal the heritage within.

There'd be no knowing without those scales. No other physical signs to distinguish man from dragon. But, there they are; and Timothy is no man...

Later that evening, after Timothy has been hauled away and onlookers have filtered inside before curfew, Wylan tries to plot his next move alone in his room.

And, that night as he sleeps, a single hand drifts beneath the fibres of his shirt and unconsciously strokes the scales that line his midriff.

There weren't always dragons in the Valley, but you'll be surprised to know they never really left.