Page 8 of The Last Dragon
“Easy now, girl,” I say, raising my hands to calm her and close the book. My brow furrows as I stare at the handle, wondering who it could be. Visitors are rare.
I open the door just enough to peek through the gap. Tired eyes that are slightly obstructed by thin strands of graying hair stare back at me. The courier. He raises his eyebrows as he sees me through the gap, but I don’t open up the whole way.
“Hi,” he whispers nervously, smiling with crooked, stained teeth. “Ligerion would like to see you.”
My brow creases. “Now?” I ask. Perhaps he has the new bow ready for me. The man frantically nods.
“Yes, yes. He’s in his chambers now,” he says, clearing his throat after every sentence.
“Alright,” I say. “Thank you.”
The man nods several times again and then disappears into the hall.
I close the door, turning to the bedframe where my satchel hangs. I grab it, and the weight feels off in my hands. I haven’t used it in a while—only when I tracked dragons on my own.
I toss the grey bag over my shoulder and adjust it over my chest. Sarga puffs her feathers again.
“I know, I know,” I smirk, approaching her. “I just got here. I’ll be back later.”
She releases a gentle cry, her feathers returning to a calmer state. I brush my hand over her little head, and she bumps into it again before nibbling on my finger as punishment for leaving her. I stride toward the door, taking another glance at her, and a smile curves on my lips.
“I’m glad you were able to meet with me on such short notice, lad,” Ligerion says as he opens the door wider. The moment I step over the threshold, the smell of burning coal overwhelms me. Heat radiates from my left, soft embers illuminating various metal tools hanging from the walls, giving light to an otherwise dark room.
He strides toward his workbench with practiced ease, the dull clang of his boots echoing through the stone-walled room. A crossbow rests there, half-shrouded beneath a worn blue cloth. I shut the door behind me with a soft thud, my eyes never leaving Ligerion as he peels back the fabric with reverence, revealing polished steel and carved wood. A quiet sigh escapes him—equal parts pride and relief.
“Your new crossbow,” he says, his voice threaded with joy as he cradles the weapon like something sacred. In truth, everything he crafts is sacred for him. He wobbles slightly under the weight of excitement, making his way toward me. I slip the bag from my shoulder, letting it fall with a soft thump at my feet, and reach out. The weapon is warm from his hands. My fingers curl around the tiller, surprised.
“You managed to make it lighter,” I utter, running my hand over the smooth handle—freshly carved, oddly balanced. Even though it will take a while for me to get used to the weight, it feels more satisfying, unlike the crooked bow I always had to adjust to my own liking.
“I hollowed out parts of the stock, foregrip, and barrel,” he says, eyes sparkling. “It takes longer to manufacture, but it’ll be worth it in the long run. I can manage a few, though for now this is the only prototype.”
“The string?” I ask, my fingers brushing along the edge of the bow, noting the fine tension in the line.
“Processed from dragon scales,” Ligerion replies with a proud smile, his voice still buzzing with excitement. “Lightweight. Durable. Resistant to flame. Just like you said. Took a while to get it right.”
“Excellent.” I cock the weapon with a quiet click and lifting it to eye level, testing the aim. “I’ll need time to adjust. The balance is different.”
“It should suit your fighting style,” he says, wagging a finger at me like an old scholar reminding a student. “Up close,wasn’t it?”
I uncock the string and flash a faint smile, letting the weapon rest in my grip. “Not anymore.”
He shrugs with an amused huff. “Can’t blame you. No one wants to be face-to-face with a Redsnout. One hundred and fifty meters and you’re already ash.”
“If they ignite,” I add, sliding the crossbow to my side.
Ligerion shakes his head as he paces, rubbing a hand through his silver-flecked hair. “I feel sorry for the poor soul who had to figure that out first,” he says with a dry chuckle. I return a smile.
Ligerion snaps his fingers. “Right! Almost forgot.” He limps toward the hearth, rearranging metal scraps and unfamiliar objects and mysterious inventions.
“I’ve been thinking of a new way to adjust the balance and weight of the new crossbow. You can even do it mid-fight,” he continues, stretching over a large counter as he grabs a few bolts. He grunts as he pushes himself upright, shooting a scowl at the counter like it’s personally responsible for highlighting how short he is.
“I bolted together scraps that usually are melted down to make movable weight attachments for the crossbow. That way, anyone who’s having trouble with the bows being too light can just attach them and be on their way!” He twirls on his heel,a proud smile spreads across his face, with eyes gleaming with that familiar spark—half genius, half madness.
“Since I already have the pieces, no time is wasted on casting!”
“That’s brilliant, Ligerion,” I say. Excitement ripples through him as he bounces on the balls of his feet, barely able to contain it.
“Of course it is! But there is something I need your help with, Zel.” He grabs three metal weights in the shape of the hollowed-out parts of the bow. “Since you’ve been helping around a lot with bolts and crossbows and whatnot—I need you to quickly test these!”
