Legacy of Scales

Calling it a camp was generous. It was more like a pile of desperate improvisation. Charles tied one end of his worn blanket between two crooked pieces of driftwood and anchored the other with stones. It sagged, ugly and crooked, but it would shield him from the worst of the night winds. A shallow pit, ringed with scavenged stones, served as a fireplace. Nearby, he stacked dry firewood into a modest pile.

It would do. Barely.

He sat back, glancing at the desert sky. The sun was already dipping toward the horizon, bleeding gold into the dunes. Dusk was on its way.

"Well… just enough time to set a few traps," he muttered.

From his pouch, he took out two cloudpears. They shimmered faintly under the light, their skin smooth and iridescent like a dragonfly's wing. They smelled overly sweet—like honey and flowers. According to the old hunter's journal he'd read in the city library, desert hares were inexplicably obsessed with them. That same journal had made a point of mentioning how strange it was, considering cloudpears didn't even grow in this region.

Charles still wasn't sure he believed it. Especially after spending more than he could afford on them. Just a handful of the fruit had cost him more than a week's worth of food.

"Better be worth it," he muttered, slicing one open. Juice oozed out, sticky on his fingers. The scent was even stronger now.

He moved around the edge of the oasis, setting traps with practiced hands. Simple snare loops, tied to springy branches, tensioned just enough to hoist a hare into the air. Each trap got a slice of the fruit, nestled right in the center of the loop. He dusted the area carefully, wiping away footprints.

Primitive, but it should work. The journal insisted hares weren't exactly clever.

By the time he finished, the sky was bruising into violet, and the first stars blinked into view. Charles sat by his pit, lit a small fire, and waited. There was nothing left to do but hope.

He didn't sleep well.

Every distant rustle or chirp made his heart race. Monsters roamed at night—he knew that. And though he'd fought before, the idea of dying alone out here, mistaken for a snack by something larger than himself, wasn't appealing.

Eventually, exhaustion won. He drifted off sometime before dawn and woke up just as the sky lightened. Tired. Aching. Cranky.

"Hope this misery wasn't for nothing," he muttered, rubbing his eyes and rising to check the traps.

The first ones were empty. One had been tripped, but the loop was empty and the fruit gone. Another was swarming with insects—strange, winged things with translucent bodies and shimmering wings.

"Fucking hell," Charles growled, slapping one away. "That old hunter was full of shit."

But as he moved farther from the oasis, the results changed. One trap held a dead hare—long-eared, soft-furred, its limbs limp. Then another. And another.

By the time he'd checked the last snare, he had twelve hares lined up in the sand.

He let out a long breath and knelt beside them.

"Well. That worked."

They looked… ordinary, at first glance. A little larger than typical rabbits, maybe. But their pelts were soft, almost unnaturally so, and they had long hind legs built for sprinting. According to the journal, these creatures were wind-touched—blessed by the goddess of the skies and fast enough to outrun arrows. Without traps, they were nearly impossible to catch.

Charles glanced at the rising sun. He needed to move quickly before the meat spoiled in the heat.

He gathered large leaves from nearby shrubs and cut tall grass to use as binding cords. Then he butchered the hares with care, taking pains not to damage the pelts. Blood soaked into the sand. Flies buzzed in clouds, landing on his arms, his face, the meat.

He ignored them.

Once the meat was cut, he wrapped each piece in leaves and tied them into tight little bundles. Forty-four in all. Enough to fill his backpack completely.

"Hope there's still room for the damn snake," he muttered, wiping his hands on his trousers.

The next two days were brutal. He searched everywhere for the Naggoros—tracking signs, reading the sand, even testing droppings and claw marks. Nothing. The desert gave him no answers, only sunburn and fatigue.

When he finally gave up, he spat into the sand and cursed the wasted time.

Five silver, gone. Just like that.

He turned to head back to camp—then stopped.

There, just at the edge of a rocky slope, he saw a faint line in the sand. A trail. It slithered between the stones, disappearing under a boulder.

Snake.

Could it be the Naggoros?

After two days of nothing, he didn't care. He followed it.

The trail twisted through rough terrain, climbing rocks and cutting through dry brush. It wasn't easy. He slipped more than once. The snake had taken paths perfect for slithering, but terrible for walking. After nearly an hour of pursuit, the trail ended in a stone outcrop.

A crevice yawned open between the rocks. Dark. Deep. It reeked of old blood and something else—reptilian and musky.

"Alright," he whispered, already gathering dry grass. "Time to smoke you out. And pray there's no second exit."

He built a small fire, lit it, and began fanning the smoke inside. It was grueling work. Sweat dripped from his face into his eyes. His arms burned. For thirty long minutes, nothing happened.

Then a hiss.

Sharp. Furious.

The smoke shifted—and something exploded from the crevice.

The snake was massive. At least seven meters. Scales like polished green armor, eyes burning with hate and intelligence. It glared at Charles—and struck.

"Why can't anything go smoothly? Just once!"

Charles dove to the side. Sharp rocks tore into his ribs. The snake turned again, striking with lightning speed. He rolled, barely avoiding death. They stared at each other, still and tense.

"I can't keep this up," he whispered. "One mistake and I'm done."

He reached into his belt, drew a knife, and threw it.

The blade flew true—sinking into the snake's eye, piercing the brain behind it.

The Naggoros screamed. Its body writhed, blood spurting from its skull. It didn't die—not yet—but it turned and retreated into the crevice, leaving a slick trail of blood behind.

Charles stood still, panting.

"Do I really have to follow it?" he asked aloud. "Is money worth dying in a hole?"

He paused. Then, jaw tight, he followed.

The tunnel was narrow and stank of death. Bones crunched beneath his boots—dry, brittle things. Skulls. Ribs. Small ones. Big ones.

Then, the space opened into a cavern.

The Naggoros lay dead.

The knife jutted from its skull, one eye gouged out. Its body was coiled protectively around two large eggs, each nearly the size of his head.

She hadn't fled to survive. She'd fled to protect them.

Charles knelt beside the eggs, staring. Something stirred in him—something raw.

"Is this what my mother felt?" he murmured. "Using her last strength to make sure I lived?"

He reached out, then hesitated. He wasn't sure what he was doing. But he made a decision.

"I'll protect them. At least until they hatch."

If he couldn't raise them, he'd return them to the wild. But he wouldn't leave them to rot.

He left the eggs where they were, for now, and returned to the surface.

Dragging the corpse was a nightmare. He built a crude sled out of branches, rope, and his only blanket. It groaned with every movement but held together. Step by step, he hauled the monstrous weight through sand and stone back toward the city.

The trip took most of the remaining two days. But nothing attacked him, and he made it to the gates before sundown.

The guards looked ready to draw weapons when they saw the corpse.

Then he flashed his hunter badge, and they waved him through.

"Efficient," he muttered.

He glanced around. "No sign of the pretty guard today…"

A voice behind him said, "Do I not look good enough for you?"

Charles turned. An older male guard with a bright grin stood watching him.

Charles smirked. "Of course not, sir. But I'm sure you'll make some lucky man a very happy groom."

The guard laughed as Charles slipped into the crowd. People stepped aside, gawking at the snake. No one wanted to brush shoulders with a bloodstained hunter hauling a monster behind him.

"First stop… the guild."

He didn't even make it through the front door.

"OH HELL NO!" barked a familiar voice. "Back entrance. Morgue. Now. Gods, hunters are getting worse every day."

Charles blinked. It was the same receptionist as before—Swen, in a beige suit this time, but just as irritable as ever.

Without arguing, Charles turned and went around the building. Behind the guild was a large butcher's gate. Inside, it smelled like death and spices.

A huge man with messy orange hair and so many freckles his skin was barely visible waved him over.

"You the new guy? I heard Swen screaming from here. I'm Brian. Butcher for the guild."

"Charles. Nice to meet you."

"Leave your snake and your pack. I'll handle 'em."

"Thanks."

With a deep sigh, Charles unfastened the sled and dropped his heavy bag.

Then, shaking the sweat from his hair, he walked back into the main building.

Swen was already waiting at the desk.

"Hello again," Charles said. "I've completed my quests. What now?"

Swen barely looked up from his papers.

"Sit over there. I'll contact the buyers for you."

Charles sat down, closed his eyes, and finally—finally—let himself breathe.