Weylin glanced at the dragon perched over Nayla’s head. Sensing his stare, the dragon looked back before turning its head with a huff.

  Both his mother and sister had insisted on accompanying him to the town market. Better, Weylin thought. Like that, he wouldn’t have to worry what the dragon would do in his absence. And better yet, it was being led directly to the knights. One word from him, and he would be rid of the little beast.

  The night before was free of nightmares. The dragon had slept in his sister’s room despite his protests, but it helped in confirming his doubts. The dragon was somehow connected to his dreams. He didn’t know how or why, but what was certain was that the beast derived some kind of satisfaction from plaguing him with mental torture.

  Nayla lifted the cover from her basket, allowing the small dragon to hide inside, but not before shooting an unimpressed look Weylin’s way.

  Weylin tightened his hold over the ropes holding the pile of wood. He wanted to throttle the damn thing. To show it that a small vermin wouldn’t be his end.

  “We’ll meet you at noon,” his mother said.

  Weylin nodded and watched them disappear behind the wall of people. It was market day. The whole town was thrumming with visitors, either selling or buying. There was no better day to do business. He made his way to the food streets, making notes to pass by the bathhouses. They were regular customers. At least half of his stock would be purchased by them. The other half, well, with winter a couple of weeks away, townspeople would surely prefer a warm house over freezing on the upcoming chilly nights. So, he had nothing to worry about.

  His stock dwindled significantly before the sun was at its zenith. Satisfied with how things were going, he allowed himself to venture through the market. He walked around, directionless, but soon found himself orbiting around the blacksmiths’ street. He watched with gleaming eyes the sharp hanging swords that he could never afford. One in particular caught his attention. A beautiful dark blade with intricate designs etched near the handle in silver. The woven word read ambition.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” the blacksmith asked.

  Weylin startled. He looked at the old man and then back at the sword. “Indeed.”

  The blacksmith waited for a while, but when Weylin didn’t say another word—didn’t ask for its price—the man ignored him and went back to his work, a look of disappointment twisting his weathered face.

  Weylin sighed. After admiring the perfect blade for a little while, he walked back to the main street where his mother and sister must already be waiting for him.

  … along with the dragon.

  He still hadn’t alerted the knights of its presence. He didn’t know why. Each time he noticed one of them strolling around the market, jesting with each other, the words would freeze in his throat, and something else would grab his attention. Later. He would tell himself. He would notify them later.

  But later had yet to come.

  With a sigh, he waddled through the sea of people, only stopping when a scream pierced the market street, drowning the cacophony of vendors and hagglers alike. Sudden silence reined over the market before chaos broke loose. Weylin stumbled as he tried to evade the disoriented waves of running people as they yelled and screamed, trying to escape from something beyond Weylin’s sight. Men and women ran, forcing their way through the crowd, uncaring of their surroundings, desperate to get to safety.

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  What happened? What could have made them so agitated?

  He saw a group of knights make their way in the opposite direction the crowd was taking, heading towards whatever had caused such chaos. Their faces were pale, hands tight around their unsheathed swords.

  Weylin didn’t like whatever it implied. Didn’t like it at all. He looked around, searching for his mother and sister. He struggled against the waves of limbs. A hand smacked him in the face. An elbow connected with his side hard. Still, he advanced, not feeling the blows raining over him. He needed to get to his mother and sister. They would be waiting for him near the small fountain. His sister would be playing in the water, his mother half-heartedly scolding her. They would be fine. They must be fine and safe, wondering what had gotten him so late.

  Weylin squished the ugly feeling roaring in his heart. The fountain… the square was in the same direction the people were running from.

  He shot down that line of thought. It wouldn’t help him one bit. He only needed to get there. But as he wadded his way toward the square, despair, and hopelessness invaded his heart.

  As soon as the small fountain—now half-destroyed, its water spilling over the cobblestones, turning pink as it merged with the scarlet, sticky substance that Weylin refused to acknowledge—came into his line of sight, his feet stilled, turning into wooden logs, refusing to take him further.

  The square that should have been filled with families and small wooden stands drawing hungry customers was filled with mangled corpses. Corpses upon corpses littered the ground, covering the cobblestones and creating rivers of blood that reached Weylin’s boots. His feet trembled as he took a step forward, his eyes flying over the bodies, searching and hoping he wouldn’t find any sign of bright blonde locks and his mother’s blue shawl.

  Strength left his body as he glimpsed what once was a blue woolen shawl but turned a darker color with the saturated blood. And next to his mother’s lifeless corpse lay his sister. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep.

  He fell to his knees, numb. He heard a growl somewhere to his side, but he didn’t care. He just sat there, waiting for everything to end. His nightmares had come true. He had lost everything. There was no need to try and struggle to be strong.

  How laughable. He wanted to be a knight but couldn’t even protect his own family. It would be better if things ended here and now.

  He blinked, his hazy mind noting the sword in his grasp. When did he…?

  It didn’t matter. Nothing did.

  He tightened his grip over the hilt and slowly brought the sword to his neck.

  Let everything be over now.

  Then he glimpsed it. The dragon stood a few paces away from him, perching over the destroyed marble fountain. Weylin paused. The nightmares… was this the dragon’s doing? Did it finally satiate its never-ending hunger? Fine. Weylin would give it one other last meal.

  But before he could force the blade against his skin, the dragon’s eyes shone brightly, a purple so bright it almost blinded him.

  Then, the world shifted.

  The sky tore asunder, and red eyes blinked down at him, watching, scrutinizing.

  Suddenly, everything came back to him.

  The deity. The seal. The master of scales. The trials. Everything.

  He paused, closing his eyes to draw a shaky breath. Then he laughed. He laughed and laughed till his throat was scrapped raw, and he could feel blood coat his windpipe, threatening to drown him.

  These damn deities playing with him like a puppet on a string. Oh, how he hated them. How he loathed them.

  He stood up, watching the scene before him. The monsters from his memories crowded around him, their mouth salivating at the promise of new food. He knew it was futile, knew they weren’t real, that the blade wouldn’t hurt them. Still, he lifted the sword and faced their approaching forms. But before he could lunge at them, everything turned black, with only a soft voice resounding in his mind, so familiar and as comforting as it was hateful.

  [Welcome Lost Soul. You have been selected as a candidate for the trials.]