Now in those days there was said to be a dragon in the north, vast as a storm-front and old as winter itself. It nested among the ruins of Caer Hollow, where the stones of a fallen kingdom lay cracked open like old teeth. The dragonβs true name was spoken only by the brave and the doomed, but Edric gave it a different one.
He called it Shame.
βShame dogs me,β he would say, staring dramatically into the fire.
βShame has always pursued me.β
βShame is the beast I was born to slay.β
And because people are tender-hearted creatures, and because suffering in the mouth of a charming liar sounds an awful lot like truth, they believed there must indeed be some noble tragedy in him.
So a company was formed. Not by his labour or merit. By the work of those he had charmed, cornered, guilted, or worn down.
They sharpened swords. They bartered for horses. They bought rope, oil, rations, salves, and winter cloaks.
One sold her motherβs silver comb. Another pawned his fatherβs dagger. A third borrowed coin in a town that would not forgive debt lightly.
Edric contributed a speech.
