Dragons Are Not Heroes

By Emily Barnett

Rule 44: Dragons are not heroes—do not act like one.

It’s one of the many rules I, Orpheus, abide by. One of 345, to be exact. Though please don’t ask me to recite them all—I simply haven’t the time. Cave dwelling involves much slumbering and polishing of scales.

But I’ll tell you a few.

There are the insignificant ones, such as Rule 105: Do not swat at or eat a dragonfly. They are distant ancestors, and you will have a cursed sleep for a fortnight.

Then there are more serious rules: Don’t fly in morning light, don’t steal maidens from towers—unless they’re spinning gold, then they’re fair game—and only eat raw treasure after midnight.

But Rule 44 has always been simple to follow. What dragon would want to be a hero? Our regal blood runs cold, our lungs are flush with flame, our claws, the length of spears. We are born villains, as you know.

Which is fine, since it keeps human rabble away from my cave. Up where the breeze is fresh, and I can see for miles. Where hardly anyone has bothered me.

Until she came.

Rule 15. Fight for your treasure. No matter what.

My gaze snags on the distant mountain as if it were a briar. Mordred’s Mountain, home to my cousin, is jagged, slicing through the clouds like a blade. Heat grows in my chest the longer I stare, and my feathered wings ruffle as a chill runs through my hollow bones.

It was her own fault, really.

While gnawing on my latest kill, a scuffling noise had caught my attention. I gawked as a child with corn-yellow hair popped her head into my cave as if she had discovered a sweets shop. And the bug hadn’t run. Instead, she lifted her chin, even as her voice trembled.

“I am Anora. Dragon-defender of Asteria.”

I angled my head so my scales caught the sunlight. “And who would dragons need protection from?” I growled, gnashing my teeth.

She didn’t back down and I admired her grit. The bug would’ve made a decent dragon. “Yourself.” She pulled a book from her bag and plopped it next to my half-eaten mountain goat. “Dragons were not always evil. Take a look.”

“Does it appear as if I have time to read?” I laughed a plume of smoke.

Her gaze scoured my empty cave, then she raised her brows, unimpressed.

“Yes, actually.”

I huffed a fireball.

The real reason was that I couldn’t read. Between a dragon’s solitary existence and exceptionally flammable pages, books weren’t practical. Although I would never admit it, she seemed to see it in my expression anyway.

Anora situated herself on an old cow femur and began reading as if we were sitting around a hearth. As if we were friends.

I was too taken aback—and curious—to stop her.

When she left that evening, I asked if she planned on ransacking my cave the following day. She needn’t know I was curious about my forefathers, or that I enjoyed her company. In fact, I was doing her a favor by allowing her in my presence.

“Tomorrow,” she’d said, smiling.

I chased her off with a plume of flame, so she didn’t get any ideas.

We existed this way for a month. Girl and dragon. Reading and talking. I even gave her rides on my back so she could touch the starlit clouds.

But a month was all we had.

My cousin, Mordred, had finally smelled her on the wind.

I blink away the memory. But the sun is rising, and its warmth reminds me of Anora’s hand. My claw scrapes my side where she’d touched my scales. I sit a little taller, peering at the far mountain again.

Smoke curls from my nostrils as something unfurls in my chest. I hear a low, vibrating sound, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m purring like a sentimental cub.

“Bollocks,” I mutter, trying to tamp down the feeling. “Rule forty-four. Dragons are not heroes. Do not act like one, Orpheus.”

My voice echoes. It echoes more since the girl left, as if her small frame had somehow filled this cave. Mordred had said it was for my own good that he’d taken her. Anora was making me weak. And dragons know the dangers of weakness. Without our pride, our fire begins to dim and eventually extinguishes. Even our scales transform into something soft—like fur. In the weeks that I knew her, my scales had lost their sharpness. So had my tone.

If I had let it continue…?

I would be nothing. Who is Orpheus without his fire or glittering scales?

Slumping to the stone floor, I flick a bone over the ledge. It clacks down the mountain side. Alone. Alone. Alone, the bone seems to say with every hit.

Who is Orpheus without her?

Sun beams shoot over the Eastern ridge like an arrow sneaking past my scales and penetrating the single soft spot in my otherwise hard heart. Her voice floats back to me.

“I’ll go with Mordred,” Anora had whispered. “If that’s what’s best for you.”

Her kiss still feels damp on my cheek. I wipe it away but find it’s more wet than I thought. Tears? I cup them in my hand and marvel at the silvery liquid. For the girl making me weak, I have a strange sense of strength.

I stand, shaking out my wings. There’s a burning in my chest that feels new, yet familiar—ancient, even. Like the dragons of old, perhaps.

“Rule fifteen,” I say aloud. “Fight for your treasure.”

No matter what.

I’m in the air in seconds, dawn spilling over me, welcoming me. I arch my neck and open my mouth to drink it in. My roar splits the skies and I push myself farther. For Anora. For the girl who called me friend.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Barnett lives in Colorado with her husband and two hobbit sons. Her whimsical yet poignant stories have been published in several anthologies and online magazines. In her free time, you’ll find her drinking coffee and writing fantasy novels with all the feels. She’s far more dramatic on paper.

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