The Saga Of Ragnar

"Hey, Sigurd," Theon called out to him while everyone else slept.

"Hmm?"

"What dragon would you like to tame? You know there are all different types, right?"

"I don't know any dragons."

"That can't be right! The seers always told us stories about them."

"I was always sleeping during those stories. Besides, I don't think those old fools knew anything. From what I saw, most of them never even left the village."

"Hah! I bet you've never heard of the saga of Ragnar. His stories were epic. He managed to cultivate the strongest dragon ever known—Ironside. They say his roars could be heard from around the world and that his flames rivaled the sun itself. 

Ragnar is long dead, but they say his legendary dragon, Ironside, still roams the world today. If anyone ever manages to tame it, it would mean a major shift in power among the nations. 

The seers said Ragnar was our ancestor and that when he died, the people of the Aztez Empire stole all his cultivation secrets from us. They now use those secrets to cultivate their own dragons. And here's the kicker: the seers said they use something called an Academy to teach."

"An Academy? What's that?" Sigurd asked, a little curious about Theon's story.

"It's a place where they go to learn how to cultivate their beasts. They aren't taught by their parents like we are. Father is the best tamer in our village, and even he doesn't stand a chance against them.

 Learning from Father is a privilege, but I can't help imagining learning all of Ragnar's secrets in one of these academies. Once we get our dragons, we could become legends like Ragnar!"

"You're forgetting one important piece of the equation. Actually taming a dragon isn't that simple. I'd be nervous just taming a dire wolf like what father has."

Taming a beast was a somewhat mysterious process. The tamer would activate their shamanic bond until they found a creature willing to link with them. In the end, it all came down to preference. The beast forms a bond with whoever they like or deem worthy.

It had nothing to do with power and everything to do with luck. Some creatures were more friendly and took to almost any human, while others were violent and killed anyone who approached them. Your best chance of taming a beast is to approach one that is friendly toward humans.

Though there was another method to taming a beast, it had a small window of opportunity and a roughly 50 percent success rate. It was a method Sigurd planned to use from the moment he was thrust into this quest.

The few moments after forming a bond were the most precious time between the tamer and the beast, as the bond was still weak. This gives you the opportunity to steal the tamer's familiar by killing them. 

Killing the tamer helped prove your superiority over the tamer you killed, and in some cases, the familiar would allow you to form a bond with them instead. The time for this was before the tamer assigned a name to their familiar. Giving your familiar a name was like sealing the bond.

That was the method Sigurd planned on using from the start—the method he still intended to use.

…

As the morning sun rose in the distance, Sigurd was awakened by persistent taps on his shoulder. He opened his sleepy eyes to see a red-haired girl just inches away from his face.

"Astrid? What do you want? Can't you see I'm tired?"

"Um, I'm sorry, but Theon said I should wake you. We're ready to leave."

Sigurd paid her words no mind and closed his eyes, trying to drift back into his peaceful reverie. That was when a loud, vulgar voice shouted at him.

"Get! Up!! It's time to go!!"

Sigurd's eyes flew open as if he'd just been resurrected. It wasn't just the shouting; it was the rancid morning breath that got him. The perpetrator was none other than Theon.

As Sigurd opened his eyes, he saw everyone fired up and ready to go. That's when the realization hit him—he was going to have to spend a month traveling with these people.

With this disheartening thought, he slowly got to his feet, brushing off the dust and rubble that had accumulated on his shirt and hair. He picked up his sword and followed behind them as they led the way.

In the following weeks, the group managed quite well together. They worked surprisingly well as a team. The journey unfolded exactly as Theon had predicted; they were bombarded by low-level beasts that wandered off from nearby nests, but it was nothing they couldn't handle. They managed to proceed unscathed.

Now they were so close to the Red Tomb that they could see its jagged outline on the horizon. The closer they got to the Red Tomb, the more ashes rained from the sky, marking the end of their three-week journey.

As Sigurd was about to let out a sigh of relief after a long day of walking, he noticed something. Astrid had a curious look on her face. He instinctively knew what it was, but he asked anyway.

"Is it a beast?"

She nodded. "A whole swarm of them. It's Blood Moths."

"It's no problem," Theon said. "We can handle them easily before we settle in for the night."

Astrid wore a 'not so sure' expression. "Something smells different about them, but I'm confident they are Blood Moths."

Blood Moths, as their name suggests, are giant moths that feed by drinking blood.

Their tamers typically fed them their own blood upon forming a bond.

Astrid and Arya huddled together while Sigurd and Theon stepped forward to fight.

This was their routine: Astrid usually located the beasts to avoid ambushes, Arya was in charge of the meals since she had unmatched culinary skills, and Sigurd and Theon were responsible for protecting them.

The Blood Moths were easy to predict; they always attacked by swooping down from the sky.

Sigurd readied his weapon as he peered up at the sky, prepared for their assault.

SWOOSH!

They attacked from behind, keeping low to the ground. This was the first flag he noticed. In their first assault, one of them bit out a chunk of flesh from his side.

There must have been around ten of them, attacking at a faster speed than usual.

They were gray in color and had a wingspan the size of a small car. Their eyes resembled glowing red orbs, granting them a 270-degree field of vision. Inside their mouths were two large fangs.

They were silent predators; the only sound was the flapping of their wings as they dove in for their attack.

Sigurd immediately realized something was wrong. He couldn't land a hit on them; it was as if they were baiting him into attacking and then dodging at the last second. Behind their movements was a level of intelligence akin to that of a human.

It didn't take him long to figure out what they really were.

His suspicion was confirmed when he managed to chop off one of their wings.

The creature fell to the ground, and its body began to bloat like a cocoon. Then it burst open, releasing a flood of sticky goo. Out of the cocoon emerged a man, running and screaming in an incoherent language. 

One of his arms was severed, the same place Sigurd had cut the Blood Moth.

Sigurd's eyes widened.

He was right.

"Skinwalkers!!!"