The castle gates swung closed behind me with the solemn finality of a judge’s gavel. It was a sound that would have struck terror into a lesser knight, but in my case it simply reminded me that there was no turning back. My fate was sealed—by royal decree and, more pressingly, by the fact that I would undoubtedly trip over my own greaves if I attempted to walk backward.
The sun was bright, the birds were singing, and the world seemed delightfully oblivious to the monumental disaster about to lumber across its landscape in full plate armor. A group of washerwomen gathered at the fountain paused in their gossip to stare. I gave them my best knightly nod—an effort made considerably less impressive by the fact that my helmet visor promptly snapped shut, plunging me into a sudden, clangorous darkness.
For one panic-stricken moment, the world was a muffled jumble of my own breath and rattling metal. I fumbled at the visor, prying it up with an awkward jerk of my gauntlet. The washerwomen had not moved. Their silence was absolute, broken only by a stifled giggle that echoed off the stone walls. I straightened, cheeks burning, and tried for dignity. It slipped off me like an oiled eel.
The road led onward past the stables, where the stablemaster, Old Barty, watched with an expression of cautious optimism usually reserved for betting on three-legged horses. Beside him waited my steed, Parsnip—a massive warhorse whose only battle was with an impressive variety of snacks. Parsnip eyed me with the same look the dog had given me earlier: resignation and a touch of pity.
“Sir Reginald,” Barty said, bowing with a subtle wince as I approached, “your noble mount. And might I say, you do wear armor… audibly.”
“Thank you, Barty,” I replied, attempting to swing myself into the saddle. What followed could best be described as a collaborative effort between man, gravity, and a horse with a remarkable lack of ambition. After three failed attempts, one near-miss with Dragonbane’s scabbard, and Parsnip’s sigh heavy enough to suggest existential regret, I was seated, only slightly askew.
I lifted my chin, aware of every eye on me. The castle’s guards lined the ramparts, trying valiantly not to smirk. Someone in the crowd—the jester, I suspected—let loose a single, raucous cheer. As Parsnip plodded forward, I focused on the great gate ahead, the path to adventure (and possible public humiliation) stretching before me.
We made it to the edge of the village before disaster struck. An old woman shuffled into the road, her basket brimming with carrots. Parsnip’s ears perked up. With a speed I thought impossible for such a large, lazy beast, he lunged sideways, yanking the reins from my grasp. The world tilted. I clung to the saddle horn and, by sheer luck and a desperate grab at Parsnip’s mane, remained aboard. The old woman shrieked; carrots flew like orange confetti.
Villagers scattered, some laughing, some shouting advice (“Pull left! No, your other left!”). Parsnip executed an ungainly pirouette, snorting in triumph, eyes locked on the remaining carrots. My helmet threatened to slip over my eyes again, and Dragonbane wobbled ominously at my hip.
Just as I regained control—loosely defined as not actively falling off—a shadow passed over the road ahead. The air turned chill. The village square fell silent. A great, dark shape unfolded from atop the baker’s thatched roof, wings stretching so wide they blocked the sun.
A dragon. A real, honest-to-goodness, actual dragon. Not enormous, but big enough. Its scales shimmered with hints of emerald and gold. Its eyes, intelligent and a touch bored, regarded me with the mild curiosity reserved for wayward sheep and disappointing heroes.
Now fully visible, the dragon yawned, displaying an alarming arrangement of fangs. The villagers surged back, murmuring prayers and curses, while Parsnip froze, mid-chew. My heart thudded so loudly I thought everyone could hear it. The journey, it seemed, was going to be even shorter—and considerably more perilous—than anticipated.