Three important lessons about solo quests:
First: Pride will get you killed.
Second: Never, ever challenge the universe to "bring it on."
Third: When a nearly invincible dragon starts hunting you and eats six people in front of you, that's the universe answering your challenge.
I learned all three the hard way.
Departure (Take Two—This Time With Documents)
The bus station attendant looked at me like I was a particularly persistent nightmare.
"You're back," she said flatly. Not a question. An accusation.
"Second time's the charm, right?" I offered, sliding my ID and a crisp $247 across the counter.
She picked up my ID. Examined it like it might spontaneously combust. Read it slowly. Checked the photo. Looked at me. Back at the photo.
"Aditya Rudransh," she read aloud.
"That's me."
"Foster care."
"Yep."
"Camp Half-Blood Youth Program."
"Educational and very legitimate."
She looked at my money. Then at the giant sword-shaped bag slung over my shoulder. Then back at me.
"You ran away last time."
"I didn't run away. I strategically retreated to acquire proper documentation."
"Uh-huh." She counted my money with the enthusiasm of someone who had given up on understanding teenagers around the same time the Berlin Wall fell. "Bus to San Francisco. Leaves in thirty minutes. Please, for the love of god, actually GET ON IT."
"Scout's honor."
"You're not a scout."
"I could be a scout."
She handed me my ticket and change with a look that suggested she was seriously reconsidering her life choices.
I grabbed my stuff and headed for the platform.
Same beat-up Greyhound bus as before. Same driver, who took one look at me and sighed so deeply I thought he might collapse into himself like a dying star.
"Sports equipment?" he asked, pointing at my sword bag.
The Mist was doing its job—to him, my celestial bronze greatsword probably looked like a lacrosse stick or golf clubs or something equally innocent. But I was completely visible. No magical blur. No divine camouflage. Just a fourteen-year-old kid with a "sports bag" and no adult supervision.
"Lacrosse," I said.
"Kid, that's four feet long."
"I'm very tall."
"You're five-eight."
"I'm still growing?"
He rubbed his temples. "Just... sit in the back. Don't cause trouble."
"Trouble is my middle name."
"I thought it was Rudransh."
"That's my last name."
"Get on the bus, kid."
I climbed aboard, headed for the back row, and tried to look like a totally normal teenager traveling alone across the country with $253 remaining ($500 minus $247 for the ticket), a four-foot celestial bronze sword that mortals couldn't see properly, and absolutely no adult supervision.
Nailed it.
The bus rumbled to life. We pulled out of the station. Long Island disappeared behind us.
I checked my duffel one more time: one change of clothes (t-shirt and jeans), three squares of ambrosia wrapped in tinfoil, a water bottle full of nectar (diluted because I'm not an idiot), my documents, and my remaining money.
The essentials for a cross-country monster hunt.
What could possibly go wrong?
The First Night (Spoiler: Everything Goes Wrong)
Pennsylvania. 11 PM. Middle of absolutely nowhere.
I woke up to the sound of screeching.
Not human screeching. Not car-brakes screeching. More like... metal-scraping-on-metal-while-a-banshee-has-a-nervous-breakdown screeching.
My eyes snapped open.
The bus was dark. Most passengers asleep. A few reading with overhead lights. The driver had his radio on low—some talk show about whether Bigfoot was real. (Buddy, you have no idea.)
SCREECH. SCREECH. SCREECH.
The sound was coming from outside.
I sat up slowly, looking around.
Other passengers were starting to stir. A woman across the aisle pulled out her earbuds, frowning.
"What is that noise?" she muttered.
TAP TAP TAP.
I turned my head slowly toward the window beside me.
Outside, keeping pace with the bus at sixty miles per hour, flew a bird.
Not a normal bird.
A Stymphalian Bird—three feet tall with metallic bronze feathers that gleamed in the highway lights, sharp talons that looked like they could shred steel, and eyes that burned with way too much intelligence. Its beak was the size of a sword, razor-sharp and clearly designed for killing.
It was staring right at me through the glass.
Tap tap tap.
Its beak struck the window. Testing it.
Then it smiled.
Birds shouldn't be able to smile.
"Oh no," I whispered.
TAP TAP TAP.
"No no no no—"
CRASH.
Five more birds slammed into the bus at once from different sides.
Windows cracked. Passengers screamed. The bus swerved as the driver panicked.
And suddenly the air was full of bronze feathers and the sound of metal scraping against metal.
Stymphalian Birds. The same ones Heracles fought. Man-eating birds with bronze beaks and metallic feathers sharp as knives.
And they'd found me.
"EVERYONE GET DOWN!" I yelled, jumping to my feet.
The bus lurched as more birds slammed into the sides. Windows were shattering. Passengers were screaming. The driver was shouting something about calling 911.
A bird squeezed through a broken window—bronze body, razor-sharp beak, going straight for the nearest passenger's throat—
I was already moving.
Greatsword out in one smooth motion— a month of training with Luke paying off—swinging in the cramped aisle.
SHING.
The bird exploded in a cloud of bronze feathers and golden dust.
"WHAT THE—" someone screamed.
"STAY IN YOUR SEATS!" I shouted back, which was probably the least reassuring thing I could have said while holding a four-foot sword.
Another window shattered. Three more birds poured in.
I cut them down, but they kept coming.
The bus was chaos. People screaming, birds screeching, metal everywhere. The driver was swerving across lanes, trying to maintain control.
And then I heard it.
The sound of metal tearing.
I looked up.
Several birds were attacking the emergency roof hatch—ripping through the metal with their beaks and talons like it was aluminum foil.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
The hatch tore free. Wind screamed into the bus. Birds started pouring in through the opening.
And I had what was absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent the worst idea of my entire life.
"I'm going up there," I said out loud.
Somewhere, the universe facepalmed.
Roof Fight (A Masterclass in Bad Decisions)
I grabbed the edge of the roof hatch and pulled myself up.
Into the wind.
At highway speeds.
On top of a moving bus.
"THIS IS FINE," I screamed into the void. "THIS IS TOTALLY NORMAL."
It was not fine.
It was not normal.
There were maybe thirty birds on the bus roof. All bronze. All angry. All looking at me like I was an all-you-can-eat buffet.
They attacked as one.
I swung my greatsword—clang clang clang—bronze feathers exploding everywhere like some kind of demented confetti cannon.
The wind tried to throw me off. I dropped to one knee, holding on with one hand, sword in the other.
Three birds dove at my face.
I had to drop the sword for a second—let it clatter on the roof—manifested a fire dagger in my right hand and threw it.
SHINK.
One bird exploded.
I grabbed my sword again with both hands, swung wide.
Two more birds gone.
They kept coming.
But here's the thing: After fighting a forty-foot Caucasian Eagle that tried to turn me into lunch, a flock of bronze birds felt almost... manageable?
I mean, they were annoying. Super annoying. Metal feathers were getting in my hair, my clothes, my mouth (gross).
But I'd fought worse.
Swing sword. Fire dagger throw. Swing sword.
My body moved on instinct. Every lesson from Luke. Every hour in the arena. Every swing perfected through the weapon mastery gift from Mahadev himself.
And it was working.
A bird dove at my back—I spun without thinking, caught it mid-air with my blade. Perfect form.
Two more from the sides—I planted my sword tip-down on the roof, manifested fire daggers with both hands now free, threw both.
SHINK SHINK.
Both birds gone.
Grabbed my sword again.
The wind howled. The bus shook. Cars below us honked.
I wasn't just fighting.
I was dancing.
Every movement flowed into the next. Sword to fire to dodge to strike. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Like I'd been doing this for years instead of a few weeks.
This is it, I thought. This is what being a hero feels like.
No injuries. No fear. Just perfect, crystalline clarity.
I deflected a bird with my blade—it ricocheted into another bird—both exploded.
"Holy shit," I whispered. "Did I just—"
I did.
I actually just did that.
The remaining birds circled warily. They'd been hunting me. Now they looked... scared?
Of me?
I'm actually doing this. On top of a bus. At highway speeds. And I'm WINNING.
The fire in my veins sang. Surya's blood, burning bright. Mahadev's gift, weapon mastery at its peak. Divine Adaptation making every movement better than the last.
I felt invincible.
Not metaphorically.
Actually, genuinely, invincible.
And I was laughing.
Actually laughing while fighting man-eating bronze birds on top of a bus at sixty miles an hour.
"IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT?" I yelled at the remaining birds.
They screeched and dove together—all of them, synchronized attack.
I didn't even flinch.
I channeled fire into my sword. The blade erupted in golden flames that didn't burn me, didn't hurt, just sang with power.
"My turn!"
One swing. Wide arc. Perfect form. Fire wave caught them all.
Bronze + fire = really bad time for bronze birds.
They exploded in a shower of metallic dust that scattered in the wind like glitter at a very violent party.
Silence.
Just me. The wind. The stars. The rumble of the bus below.
I stood on the roof of a bus, doing probably sixty-five now, sword blazing with divine fire, covered in monster dust and glory.
Not a scratch on me.
Not even winded.
I'd just fought thirty Stymphalian Birds—the same ones that gave Heracles trouble—on top of a moving vehicle.
And I'd destroyed them.
The wind whipped around me. The stars shone above. Cars below honked in confusion at whatever the Mist was showing them.
And I felt like a god.
No.
Better than a god.
A hero.
"YEAH!" I shouted into the night, raising my sword to the heavens. "That's RIGHT! I'm Aditya Rudransh! Descendant of KARNA! Blood of SURYA!"
The universe held its breath.
Every atom of existence paused.
Waiting.
"I fought a FORTY-FOOT EAGLE and WON!" My voice echoed across the highway. "These birds? NOTHING! Absolutely NOTHING!"
The stars seemed to brighten. Or maybe that was just my imagination.
Stop, a small voice whispered in the back of my head. Stop talking. Stop NOW.
But I couldn't stop.
I felt too good. Too powerful. Too unstoppable.
"You hear me?!" I screamed at the cosmos, at fate itself, at whatever was listening. "I'M UNSTOPPABLE! BRING IT ON! Is that seriously all you've got?!"
The wind died.
Completely.
Utterly.
The sudden silence was deafening.
And in that silence, somewhere beyond the mortal world, in a place outside time where the threads of fate were woven—
Three ancient women looked up from their loom.
Clotho, who spun the thread of life.
Lachesis, who measured it.
Atropos, who cut it.
The Fates.
They looked at each other.
And smiled.
Not kind smiles. Not warm smiles.
Dark. Knowing. Inevitable.
The smile of those who've seen this pattern a thousand times before.
Pride before the fall.
Hubris before nemesis.
The hero's fatal flaw, playing out exactly as it always did.
Atropos' scissors gleamed in the ethereal light.
He asked for it, her expression said.
Clotho began spinning new thread. Black thread. Twisted with red.
Let's see how he handles this, her smile suggested.
Lachesis measured out exactly how much rope to give him before he hanged himself with it.
This will be entertaining, her ancient eyes gleamed.
They returned to their weaving.
And the universe smiled with them.
Okay, kid. You asked for it.
I felt it immediately.
A presence. Massive. Ancient. Hungry.
Coming from the west.
Fast.
Getting closer.
"Uh oh."
That small voice in my head ROARED: You absolute MORON.
"Yeah," I whispered to myself. "Yeah, I really fucked up."
I climbed back down through the hatch.
The Aftermath (Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Regret Everything)
The bus interior was absolute chaos.
Broken windows. Terrified passengers. The driver white-knuckling the steering wheel. Bronze feathers everywhere.
Everyone turned to look at me as I dropped back through the roof hatch.
"Everyone okay?" I called out.
Mostly groans and whimpering.
An old man in row five, voice shaking: "WHAT WERE THOSE THINGS?!"
"Birds," I said, trying to sound calm. "Really aggressive migratory birds. Climate change is wild, right?"
"BIRDS DON'T HAVE BRONZE FEATHERS!"
"Genetic mutation?"
"BIRDS DON'T ATTACK BUSES!"
"Look, I'm not an ornithologist—"
"YOU FOUGHT THEM WITH A SWORD ON THE ROOF!"
He had me there.
"Would you believe... performance art?"
Nobody believed performance art.
The bus driver pulled into the next rest stop—an emergency stop, really, because half the windows were gone and there was a giant hole in the roof.
Police were called. Ambulances arrived. People gave statements that made absolutely no sense.
"It was birds!"
"No, it was drones!"
"I saw a kid with a sword!"
"The roof just... exploded!"
The Mist was working overtime, trying to make sense of what everyone had seen. By the time the police filed their report, it would say something about "freak weather event" and "debris from passing truck."
I slipped away during the confusion, grabbed my duffel from under my seat, and started walking.
The bus was totaled anyway.
And I had this horrible, sinking feeling that what I'd just done—challenging the universe, tempting fate, screaming into the void like an idiot—was going to have consequences.
I just didn't know how bad yet.
Day Two (The Consequences Arrive)
Ohio. Afternoon. Day Two of the quest.
I'd managed to catch a different bus in Pittsburgh. Cost me another $180. Left me with $73 and a growing sense of doom.
The new bus was older, smaller, more crowded. No roof hatch, thank god.
We rolled through Ohio farmland. Flat. Endless. Boring.
I dozed in my seat, exhausted from the night before, duffel tucked safely under my legs.
That's when I felt it.
That presence from last night.
Not distant anymore.
Close.
I opened my eyes.
Looked out the back window.
And saw it.
You know that moment in movies when the characters realize they're being followed by something terrible, and you're screaming at the screen "RUN, YOU IDIOTS"?
Yeah.
I was one of those idiots.
On the highway behind us, maybe a quarter mile back, something moved.
Something massive.
Black scales gleaming in the sunlight. Red eyes like burning coals. Forty feet of pure predatory nightmare slithering across four lanes of traffic like the asphalt was made of water.
A dragon.
Cars were swerving around it. Honking. Skidding. But the Mist was working—they probably saw a garbage truck, or a wide load, or something their minds could process.
I saw the truth.
Sybaris. The dragon of Greek legend. Nearly invincible. Hunts for sport.
And it was looking right at me.
"Oh no."
It was smiling.
Dragons shouldn't be able to smile.
"Oh no no no—"
BOOM.
The dragon rammed the back of the bus.
We lurched forward. Passengers screaming. Luggage flying from overhead compartments. Someone's coffee went everywhere.
The driver: "WHAT WAS THAT?!"
I was already moving toward the back, grabbing my duffel, climbing over seats.
"Kid, sit down—" a businessman tried to grab me.
BOOM.
Another ram. Harder.
The back window shattered.
And through the broken glass, I saw it clearly now.
Sybaris. Massive. Serpentine. Dragon body with four small legs, horned head, jaws that could swallow a car. Scales like black armor. Eyes burning with intelligence and hunger.
Looking at me.
Found you, those eyes said.
And this is going to be FUN.
"EVERYONE HOLD ON!" I screamed.
The driver floored it. The bus wasn't made for speed. We were maxing out at maybe seventy.
The dragon was faster.
It pulled alongside the bus—left side—matching our speed effortlessly.
Passengers saw it through the windows.
Full. Panic.
But the Mist was showing them something else. Something their minds could handle.
"IT'S A TRUCK!" someone yelled.
"THAT'S NOT A TRUCK!"
"MONSTER TRUCK!"
"IT'S A GARBAGE TRUCK!"
"WHY IS IT SO CLOSE?!"
I drew my greatsword from my bag. Smashed out what was left of the back window with the pommel.
The dragon's head turned. Looked at me.
And laughed.
That horrible, grinding sound like continents scraping together.
Then it opened its mouth—
Green mist poured out.
"POISON!" I screamed. "DRIVER, DRIVE FASTER!"
"I'M TRYING!"
The poison breath reached the bus. Passengers started coughing, choking. The driver's eyes watered.
I was affected too but Divine Adaptation plus armor equals poison tolerance—but everyone else was dying.
"STOP IT!" I yelled at the dragon. "THEY'RE INNOCENT!"
It just smiled wider.
The First Attack
The dragon wasn't playing around anymore.
It moved with terrifying speed—faster than something that big should move—and slammed into the side of the bus.
Metal crumpled. We tilted. Two wheels off the ground.
People screaming. Luggage flying. The bus tipping—
WHAM.
Back down. Barely.
The driver was losing it. "WHAT IS THAT THING?!"
"JUST DRIVE!"
Sybaris moved to the back. I saw what it was going to do.
"No," I whispered. "No no no NO—"
It opened its jaws. Wider than should be possible. Rows and rows of teeth like swords.
And bit down on the back of the bus.
The sound was indescribable. Metal screaming. Structure failing.
The entire back section—last three rows of seats, luggage compartment, six passengers—
Tore away.
Just. Ripped. Free.
Like tearing paper.
I watched in absolute horror as the back third of the bus separated from the rest.
Six people. Six human beings.
In the dragon's mouth.
Still strapped into their seats. Still alive. Still screaming.
It lifted them up—
CRUNCH.
The sound of bones breaking. Metal crushing. Bodies coming apart.
Blood sprayed from the dragon's jaws. Dark red spattering across the highway. Dripping from its teeth.
The screaming stopped.
But not all at once.
Not mercifully.
One by one.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
The dragon chewed methodically. Savoring it.
I could see pieces falling from its mouth. A shoe. Part of a seat. Something red and wet that I refused to identify.
It swallowed.
Blood still dripping from its jaws.
And looked at me.
Still smiling.
Delicious, its eyes said.
Want to see me do it again?
Something in me broke.
Not physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
I'd just watched six people get eaten alive.
Watched them torn apart.
Watched them die screaming.
Because of me.
Because I'd challenged fate.
Because I'd been proud.
Because I'd screamed "I'M UNSTOPPABLE" at the universe like an absolute idiot.
The dragon tilted its head. Amused.
Your fault, that look said.
All your fault.
And the worst part?
It was right.
Rage
The bus had lost its back third. Wind screaming through the gap. The driver was barely maintaining control. Passengers were in shock, staring at where their fellow travelers had been seconds ago.
I stood at the edge of the torn section. Looking at the dragon. At the monster that had just murdered six innocent people.
My hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From rage.
"You..." My voice came out wrong. Too low. Too cold. "You ate them."
The dragon laughed again.
Blood still on its teeth.
"THEY WERE INNOCENT!"
It didn't care.
I jumped.
Stupid? Yes.
Suicidal? Absolutely.
But six people were dead and this thing was laughing.
I launched myself out of the moving bus, into the air, greatsword raised, screaming with everything I had.
The dragon caught me.
Not with its jaws. With its tail.
Whipped around, wrapped around my waist, lifted me up, and slammed me into the highway.
CRACK.
My armor manifested automatically—golden light, Kavach and Kundal blazing—absorbed most of the impact.
Most.
Not all.
Pain exploded through my back. Something cracked. Ribs, maybe.
The dragon lifted me again—slammed me down again—
CRACK.
My vision blurred.
Again—
CRACK.
Playing with me.
Like a cat with a mouse.
"STOP—" I gasped.
It didn't stop.
It was enjoying this.
The tail coiled tighter around my waist. I still had my greatsword in my right hand, but my left arm was pinned. I couldn't get leverage. Couldn't swing properly.
I had to make a choice.
Drop the sword. Use both hands.
I let the greatsword clatter to the highway.
Grabbed the dragon's tail with both hands where it wrapped around me.
Channeled every bit of fire I had.
Burned with everything.
The scales began to glow red. Then white. Then—
The dragon roared—finally, actual pain—and released me.
I hit the highway rolling. Grabbed my sword as I tumbled past it. Came up on one knee, blade ready.
We faced each other in the middle of I-70.
Cars swerving around us. Honking. Crashing. The Mist showing them god-knows-what.
"You killed them," I said quietly. Blood in my mouth. "Six innocent people."
The dragon tilted its massive head. Studied me.
Then lunged.
I dodged—barely—rolled under its body, came up slashing.
My blade caught its underbelly—clang—scales like steel plates.
Nothing.
It whipped around faster than I could react. Tail caught me square in the chest.
I flew. Twenty feet. Landed hard enough to crack the pavement.
Got up anyway.
"Is that all you've got?" I wheezed.
The dragon charged.
I planted my feet. Raised my sword. Channeled every bit of fire I could muster.
Blade ignited. Golden flames roaring.
I swung with everything.
BOOM.
Blade met scales. Fire met dragon.
The shockwave flipped cars. Shattered windows. Set the asphalt on fire.
I flew backward. Hit a guardrail. Something else cracked. More ribs, probably.
The dragon skidded to a stop.
Smoking slightly where I'd hit.
But still standing.
Still smiling.
Oh.
Oh no.
I'd thrown everything at it. My strongest attack.
And I'd barely singed it.
The dragon looked at me. Then at the bus, far ahead now, escaping.
Made a choice.
Started walking toward me. Slowly. Deliberately.
Taking its time.
"Okay," I gasped, trying to stand. My legs didn't want to cooperate. "Okay. Think. THINK."
I couldn't beat it. Not like this. Not yet.
But I could run.
Maybe.
I slammed my hands on the asphalt. Channeled fire into the road itself.
The highway exploded in a wall of flame between us. Thirty feet high. Roaring inferno.
The dragon paused.
I ran.
Grabbed my duffel from where I'd dropped it during the fight—miraculously still intact despite everything—and limped away as fast as I could.
Behind me, I heard it.
That screeching taunting hiss that for sure sounded like a laugh.
It wasn't chasing.
It didn't need to.
It knew where I was going.
And it would find me again.
This was just the beginning.
Alone
Hours later.
The bus was long gone. Police and fire trucks had arrived at the highway scene. I'd slipped away during the chaos.
Now I walked along a rural Ohio road. Afternoon sun beating down. Every step hurt.
My money: $73.
My supplies: Duffel with one change of clothes, some nectar, some ambrosia.
My body: Multiple cracked ribs, bruised everything, armor the only reason i wasn't paste.
My spirit: Broken.
Six people.
Six innocent people died because of me.
Because I was proud. Because I challenged fate. Because I couldn't keep my stupid mouth shut.
I sat down on a guardrail and put my head in my hands.
This is Karna's curse, I thought. Pride. It runs in the blood. It got him killed in the Mahabharata. And now it's getting people killed around me.
A car passed. Didn't stop.
Another. Also didn't stop.
I looked like a disaster. A teenage disaster with a giant sword and no adult supervision.
Nobody in their right mind would pick me up.
I stood up. Started walking again.
Deadline, I told myself. Find the dragon. Stop the shattering lord. Don't let anyone else die because of your stupidity.
But that image wouldn't leave my mind.
The dragon.
Jaws open.
Those six people.
Blood.
Crunch.
I threw up on the side of the road.
The Truck Stop
Evening. Day Two.
The truck stop appeared like a mirage.
PILOT TRAVEL CENTER—gas, food, lodging, showers.
I limped into the parking lot. Big rigs everywhere. Diesel smell. Sound of air brakes.
My money: $73.
A meal would cost $10-15. A room would cost $60-80.
I couldn't afford both.
The diner it was.
I pushed through the door. Truckers at the counter. Waitress wiping down tables. Country music on the jukebox.
Everyone looked up when I entered.
Teenage kid. Covered in dust and dried blood. Carrying a sports bag. Limping.
"Hon, are you okay?" The waitress rushed over. Middle-aged, kind eyes, name tag that said RUTH.
"Yes ma'am. Just... long day."
"Where are your parents?"
My stomach twisted. "Don't have any. Foster care. Traveling to... family."
Her expression softened. "Sit. Let me get you some food."
"I don't have much money—"
"On the house, hon. You look like you need it."
I almost cried right there.
She sat me in a corner booth and brought coffee, burger, fries, and pie.
Best meal of my second life.
While I ate, I listened to the truckers talking.
"Heading to Denver tomorrow."
"I've got a run to Salt Lake City."
"Sacramento for me. Long haul."
My ears perked up.
Sacramento. That's California. Hour from San Francisco.
I looked at the trucker who'd said it.
Older guy. Maybe fifties. Weathered face. Kind eyes. Something about him felt... familiar. But I couldn't place it.
He glanced over. Caught me staring.
Smiled slightly.
Went back to his coffee.
I finished my meal. Gathered my courage. Walked over.
"Excuse me, sir?"
He looked up. "Yeah, kid?"
"I heard you say Sacramento?"
"That's right."
"I need to get to San Francisco. It's... it's an emergency. Family." The lie tasted bitter. "Is there any way—I mean, I can pay—"
He studied me. Really looked.
Saw: Teenage kid. Alone. Desperate. Injured. Scared but trying not to show it.
"You running away from something?" His voice was gentle.
"No sir. Running toward something. Someone needs my help."
"In San Francisco?"
"Yes sir."
He was quiet for a long moment. Sipped his coffee. Studied me some more.
Then: "I leave at six AM. Be here, be ready. You cause trouble, you're out. Understood?"
Relief crashed over me. "Yes sir. Thank you, sir. How much—"
"Keep your money, kid. Looks like you need it more than me."
"But—"
"Six AM. Don't be late."
He went back to his coffee, conversation over.
I stood there, trying not to cry from relief and exhaustion and guilt and everything else.
"Thank you," I managed.
He just nodded.
Night
I couldn't afford a room.
So I found a spot behind the truck stop. Between two parked semis. Hidden. Safe-ish.
Used my duffel as a pillow. Sword beside me. Stared at the stars.
Six people died today.
Because of me.
The stars didn't answer.
Somewhere out there, Sybaris was waiting. Hunting. Patient.
Tomorrow, I'd reach Sacramento. Then San Francisco. Then... whatever came next.
Dragon. Traitor. Prophecy.
One week to save a dragon and don't screw up again.
Fat chance.
I closed my eyes.
Tried to sleep.
Failed.
The image wouldn't leave.
Blood dripping from dragon jaws.
Crunch.
I pulled my knees to my chest and sat there in the dark, fourteen years old and absolutely certain I was going to get more people killed before this was over.
I'm sorry, I thought to those six people. To their families who'd never know the truth. I'm so sorry.
The night didn't forgive me.
Why should it?
Tomorrow, everything would get worse.
I just didn't know how much worse yet.
END CHAPTER 12