Time stopped. Malcolm lay in the sand, unable to tear his eyes from the cloud of glittering ruby droplets above. He blinked. Hot blood spattered his cheek, and something inside of him cracked. The mother dragon was dead.

  Slater sauntered over to the she-dragon’s body. He picked his way around the blood-soaked patches of sand, lip curled in disgust, one hand smoothing down his hair. “BENTLEY! Get your snivelling, heroic arse back here, right now!”

  Bentley was still busy running away to sea, thirty feet out. Slater’s shout hit him like a bullet. He staggered in the waves, negotiated a clumsy turn and wobbled his way back to shore.

  “Get it!” ordered Slater. He pointed to the egg.

  “But, but,” Bentley stuttered, horror written across his chalk white face. For all his posturing in the shacks, the carnage in front of him looked to be a step too far. “But it’s...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s bad luck to touch a dragon’s egg, Slate.”

  “It certainly was for this one.” Slater grinned. His foot thudded against the dragon’s flesh. He paused. “What was that?”

  “You kicking the – ”

  “Not that, you pratt.” Slater waved an arm to where Malcolm sprawled. “Something over there.” The boys stared, open-mouthed.

  Malcolm swallowed. If they had another killing goblet in their bag, he was done for. He didn’t even have a skill to fight them with. He had mana… Or did he? Would the dragon’s magic still work if she was dead?

  Shit. They were heading his way. The least he could do was meet them on his feet, try to get a punch or two in before he exploded. If his fist happened to have a hit of magical power behind it, then all the better. He dragged himself onto his knees.

  “RUN!” yelled Bentley. The two boys turned and charged away over the sand, bag thrown to one side, dragon forgotten.

  Malcolm sat back on his heels and stared after them. What the hell had he suddenly triggered that would make those two lowlifes turn tail and run for the hills? He patted his face. It felt normal enough. He felt around his shoulders, half expecting to find wings, like that lad did, the one who triggered Fly by night… But he could only fly in the dark, and his girlfriend was married with two kids before he got the hang of a hover.

  No, stop. He was getting all ahead of himself again. His hands trembled with excitement. He flicked down his scroll and something moved at the edge of his vision. He turned around.

  Nothing. He’d triggered nothing. As Declan was all too fond of telling him, this had nothing to do with him. It had everything to do with the dirty great dragon not twenty feet behind.

  It was much larger than the she dragon but with the same golden belly. The rest of it was covered nose to tail in scales so black they swallowed the light. It stood motionless in the sand, eyes fixed on the fallen female.

  Malcolm held his breath. He lifted one knee and tried a tiny, silent shuffle. Instantly, the dragon’s head jerked towards him, huge nostrils flaring. Fiery amber eyes pinned him in place like a moth. The dragon lifted one foot. Glittering black claws flexed his way. Malcolm was about to experience life as a scorch mark on the sand, unless… He needed to make it immediately and irrevocably clear that he’d had nothing whatsoever to do with the death of the dragon’s mate.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth. “IT WASN’T ME!”

  Could the dragon hear him over its own snorting? Did dragons even understand humans? He was sure he’d read somewhere that they did, but he’d never asked. Why had he never asked? It was a fundamental. His legs shook – that’d be the shock setting in. He pointed frantically to the she-dragon’s body. “I didn’t kill her! It wasn’t me!”

  The dragon shrieked something back. In Malcolm’s fear-addled brain, it sounded a bit like “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”

  Every muscle in his body screamed at him to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction to the finely honed killing machine in front of him. He didn’t move. If he ran, he was dead. Creatures of magical purity, even the ones that are just about to eat you – in fact, particularly the ones that are just about to eat you – must be treated with the utmost respect at all times.

  Malcolm pulled himself up straight. He lowered his head, deferring to the dragon’s greater power, yet making sure to keep eyes on it all the same. Respectful doesn’t mean stupid.

  The dragon prowled towards him. Mal managed three steps before his leg gave out in the sucking, knee-deep sand. He bit back a cry of pain. Any sign of weakness could tip the dragon into a blood lust frenzy. He scooted back on his bottom, kicking up showers of sand. The dragon kept coming. It reared over him, so close it blocked out the sun. A clawed foot slammed into Malcolm’s chest. His back hit the sand. The dragon loomed over his face.

  “I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.” Mal was crying now, the same words falling from his mouth over and over again. “She was beautiful.” He pointed to the female. “She is beautiful. I would never have hurt her. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.” He tasted blood. Snot trickled down the back of his throat.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The dragon’s head neared. Two cavernous nostrils sniffed the air. A forked tongue flickered from the lipless mouth. Dear god, it wants to see what I taste like. Fuck! Shit! I taste like shit!

  Birds took flight with his scream. He grabbed at handfuls of sand, pelting the dragon’s face, kicking, punching, flinging himself from side to side to evade the single claw that held him in place.

  The dragon’s neck muscles rippled and bunched. Its head jerked back, mouth agape. A stream of putrid bile hit Malcolm full in the face.

  The dragon stalked away. In two wingbeats, it was airborne. It wheeled into the sky, casting a last scornful look at the tiny figure below. Humans? At best, holes in the fabric of existence.

  ***

  Malcolm panted. He’d ran all the way, shuffling through his thoughts, desperately trying to drag them into order. The dragon, the black claw, the flickering tongue. No, before that, the other dragon and Slater, the stupid goblet and ruby droplets and… His mentor didn’t seem to be listening properly at all. She pushed him onto the stool.

  “Now, what are you saying this, ah, creature was doing to you, er, deario?” Zippo dragged out her sympathy voice. It was a bit rusty.

  “EATING ME! It was eating me! And it wasn’t a creature, it was a dragon, and it wanted to eat me!”

  “Yes, so you keep saying. Dear oh dear.” Zippo patted him on the head, twice, like Declan brushing ass hairs off a crust, and not at all like someone tending to a near-death dragon victim.

  “Yet here you are, large as life,” she said.

  “It tore my shirt and took a chunk outta me!”

  Zippo studied him. “Can’t see anything amiss myself.” She sniffed. “Not the sort to exaggerate, are you? I do hope not. I can’t abide fuss. All that oooh Zippo my forearm’s fell off business. All very unnecessary.”

  Malcolm glanced down at his shirt. It was ripped, a bit, well, frayed at least, and that wiggly line on his chest was definitely blood. It was red for gods’ sake. “It spat on me!” he screeched.

  Zippo ducked her head and coughed.

  The picture of a broken, bled out she dragon lurched into Malcolm’s mind and slapped him across the face. “Slater killed the dragon!”

  Zippo’s pale eyes never left his. She thrust an old, cracked beaker at him. Icy cold water splashed down his chest, taking his breath away.

  “I know,” she said.

  Malcolm wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, him sipping water, her watching. At one point, Zippo got up and shuffled over to a shelf at the back of the cave. When she came back, she sprinkled a pinch of something into his beaker. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Medicine,” she said and patted his head again.

  She was humouring him. It tasted like dust.

  “We need to report Slater. He can’t just go around killing dragons. Who do we report him to?”

  Zippo shook her head and put her fingers in her ears. He asked again. This time, she closed her eyes.

  Finally, when his beaker was empty and Mal had almost convinced himself she’d died, she creaked to her feet.

  Outside of the cave, the light had faded to a smudge. Mal could barely see the white of Zippo’s eyes or the gilded gold of the gates as they passed. By the time they reached the shore, frustration stormed through his veins like a rampaging river. He clenched his fists so tight his nails dug into his palms and sticky blood squidged between his fingers. Why wasn’t the daft bat answering him? She was his mentor, damn her! It was a simple enough question. Who did they report Slater to?

  The tide had crept all the way in, almost up to the dunes. They stood in silence at the water’s edge, white foam coating their feet, Zippo’s shawls dangling in the gently lapping waves. Eventually, despite himself, Malcolm felt the raging river under his skin begin to ebb and Zippo spoke her first words since leaving the cave. “Have you quite finished?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Then show me,” she said.

  “The she-dragon’s body was right here.” He swirled a figure eight with his foot in the pristine, white sand – no body, no blood, not a sausage. He mustn't be thinking straight. “Oh, I mean, no, sorry. It wasn’t here. It was… over there.” He waved vaguely ahead. Zippo sighed.

  “This is the one,” said Malcolm, two dunes later. “I know it is because I recognise that rock.” He leaned against it, scanning the sand. Thanks to the huge white moon above, the shore was crystal clear. If the dragon’s body was still here, it ought to be easy to spot.

  “The male wouldn’t have eaten her, would he?” His hand flew to his mouth. “Sorry!”

  Zippo spat in the sand.

  “It’s the stress,” Malcolm babbled. His cheeks burned with shame. Fancy suggesting such a thing! Cannibalism was the greys’ territory. Saved the menagerie a fortune. They crested the dune. He gazed down. “It’s all coming back to me now,” he said. “It’s a bit further on. More kind of over there, like.”

  Zippo shook her head. She was tired, far too tired to indulge the boy a moment longer. “Enough.” She leant on her stick. “Time for truth to pave the way. It’s sharper underfoot.” She rubbed the small of her back. “But it cuts down on the mileage.”

  Malcolm’s throat tightened. Was she saying he’d lied about the dragon?

  “So, unless you want to carry me home, I suggest we part ways here. Till the morning.” Zippo raised a hand in farewell.

  “What? We haven’t made a report or anything! The dragon! Slater killed a dragon!”

  Zippo sighed. “And again, I ask you, where is the evidence? Show me!”

  Malcolm dropped to his knees. He dug around in the sand, gouging out handfuls and desperately sifting it through his fingers. “Alright,” he said. “Alright, I can’t find the evidence. Somehow, it’s gone, but it happened. I’m telling you it happened.”

  “Aah, so it’s a case of your word against his,” said Zippo.

  Malcolm nodded eagerly. At last, the old woman was starting to get the picture. “Yes, it’s my word, but it’s your word too, remember! Back in the cave, when I told you Slater killed the dragon, you said I know!”

  It was two testimonies against one. Someone had to listen. If his mentor wasn’t going to tell him who to report Slater to, then he’d go to every single person in the menagerie, starting at the top – the chief archivist.

  Zippo held up her stick. “So, it’s the word of a penniless ne’er-do-well and that of a daft bat against the word of his…” She twirled her stick once around her wrist.

  Something very heavy thudded into Malcolm’s stomach – the same cold, dead-eyed stare, the same silver cloth, even the same stupid, sticking up hair.

  Zippo left him kneeling in the sand. At the bottom of the dune, she stopped. “Almost slipped my mind,” she called up. “Important thing number one. What have you learned today, Malcolm?”

  He swallowed; the words were stones in his throat. “The archivist’s son is a dragon killer!”