CHAPTER 46: THE POWERLESS PLUMMET

The dragon’s breath scorched the air, turning a nearby tree into a charred toothpick that looked like it belonged in a giant’s cocktail. I scrambled to my feet, mud caking my coat, my heart pounding like a drum in a band that only knew one song—and played it badly. The Scaleborn cultists chanted, their torches flaring green like some tacky festival, while their leader swung her claw-staff, barking orders like she was auditioning for a villain role in a low-budget play. My crew was holding their own—Lilith’s scythe danced through cultists like a reaper at a barn dance, slicing robes with a flourish. Vorren tossed Scaleborn like they were sacks of flour, grunting, "This one’s stale!" Jex lobbed apples with the desperation of a man who’d bet his life on fruit, yelling, "Take that, you scaly freaks!" Yvra, despite her princess vibes, wielded a dagger with alarming precision, cutting through egos and robes alike, muttering, "This is ruining my nails." Mister Fog floated above, conjuring mist that smelled like burnt sugar and cheap candy, blinding cultists who coughed like they’d inhaled a bakery fire. But Sir Thrain and Sir Gorrim? Useless. Thrain was still rolling downhill, his armor clanging like a toolbox dropped down a staircase, shouting, "I meant to do that!" Gorrim flailed in a bush, yelling, "These thorns are in league with the dragon!"

I, the mighty Loafbearer, was a glorified mud statue. My powers—gone. No glow, no bread-summoning, not even a whiff of yeast. I clapped my hands, hoping for a miracle. Nothing. Not a single stale crumb. The dragon’s eyes locked onto me, and I swear it grinned, like it knew I was screwed and was loving the show.

"Cecil!" Lilith shouted, dodging a cultist’s spear with a twirl. "Get your glowing ass up and do something, or I’m using your coat as a doormat!"

"I can’t!" I yelled, diving behind a rock as the dragon’s tail swiped, shattering it with a CRACK that echoed like a bad breakup. "My powers took a vacation, and they didn’t leave a forwarding address!"

Yvra stabbed a cultist, then shot me a look sharper than her dagger. "You ate a cursed loaf, turned a fountain into a donut, and now you’re useless? I should’ve stayed in the palace with my velvet cushions and non-dragon-infested tea parties!"

The Scaleborn leader laughed, her bone-crown rattling like a cheap prop. "The Loafbearer falls! The Wyrm will feast on your soggy soul!" She slammed her staff, and the dragon roared, spraying flames that turned the wagon’s front wheel into ash. The horse, smarter than all of us, bolted, neighing what I swear was, "You idiots are on your own!"

I scrambled up, grabbing a stick—because, yeah, a stick was totally gonna save me from a dragon. "Okay, team, new plan! Run like we’re late for a buffet!"

Vorren snorted, wrestling a cultist into a headlock. "Run? I’m not running from a lizard. I bench-pressed a cow once!"

"It’s a dragon!" Jex squeaked, throwing an apple that exploded into juice on the dragon’s snout. The beast sneezed, spraying us with hot, scaly snot. "Oh, gods, it’s in my hair!" Jex wailed, flailing like he’d been personally insulted.

Mister Fog’s mist thickened, giving us cover. "Cecil, the Loaf’s power may return if you focus. Clear your mind, like a calm lake."

"Clear my mind?" I ducked a cultist’s club, which missed by an inch with a WHOOSH. "My mind’s a swamp, and I’m about to be dragon chow!"

Lilith carved through two more Scaleborn, her scythe a blur. "If you die, I’m selling your coat for scrap and buying a better hero!"

I tried focusing, picturing the Loaf’s power, but all I got was a burble in my stomach, like it was mocking me with last night’s tacos. The dragon lunged, jaws wide enough to swallow a cart. I dove, rolling into a ditch with a SPLASH of mud that smelled like regret. My glowing-less coat was now a soggy, brown disaster, and I realized this was it—the least favorable moment. Powerless, surrounded by cultists, a dragon, and two knights who couldn’t fight their way out of a soggy bread roll.

But my crew? Absolute legends. Lilith leaped onto the dragon’s back, jamming her scythe into its scales. It roared, thrashing, but she held on like a rodeo champ, yelling, "This lizard’s got nothing on my ex!" Vorren grabbed a cultist’s spear, snapped it like a twig, and used the pieces to club two more into the dirt, growling, "Next!" Jex, out of apples, started throwing rocks, one hitting the Scaleborn leader’s crown with a CLUNK, knocking it off. "Score!" he cheered, then ducked a fireball. Yvra darted through the chaos, her dagger flashing, cutting ropes that held a cart of barrels. The barrels rolled, tripping cultists who flopped like fish, one screaming, "My ankle! My dramatic exit!" Mister Fog chanted, his mist turning into a shimmering wall that blocked the dragon’s flames. "Fight, Cecil!" he urged. "You’re more than the Loaf, you soggy idiot!"

I wanted to believe him, but I felt like a sack of wet dough. Then Thrain, finally upright, charged with his lance upside-down, shouting, "For valor and free ale!" He tripped over a cultist’s robe, crashed into Gorrim, and both knights tumbled into the dragon’s tail, knocking it off balance with a THUD that shook the ground. The beast staggered, giving Lilith an opening to slice a gash in its wing. Gorrim, tangled in vines, yelled, "I’ve conquered the bush! Now for the beast!"

The Scaleborn leader screamed, "Retreat, you fools!" and the cultists scattered, dragging their wounded and muttering about "better cults to join." The dragon, limping, roared once more and took flight, its damaged wing making it wobble like a drunk pigeon trying to impress its flock. The crew cheered, except for me, still in the ditch, feeling like the world’s least useful hero.

Vorren hauled me up, shaking his head. "You’re a mess, Loafbearer. Ever consider a bath?"

Yvra sheathed her dagger, glaring. "You’re lucky we’re competent. I’m billing you for my manicure."

Jex panted, clutching a rock. "I’m out of apples, rocks, and dignity. Anyone got a snack?"

Thrain and Gorrim stood, covered in mud and twigs, saluting nobody in particular. "Victory!" Thrain declared, his helmet falling off with a CLANG. Gorrim nodded, sneezing, his mustache flopping like a sad, soggy flag. "The thorns were the real enemy," he muttered.

Mister Fog floated down, offering his tea. "Drink. It might help your pathetic aura."

I took a sip, gagged—it tasted like despair, old boots, and a hint of regret—and handed it back. "My powers are gone. I’m just... Cecil now, the guy who trips into ditches."

Lilith smirked, wiping blood off her scythe. "Maybe that’s enough, you muddy disaster. Now move before I use you as dragon bait."

We salvaged what was left of the wagon, now a wheel-less husk, and limped toward Glimmerfen. The dragon was gone, but the mission loomed like a bad hangover. Without my Loafbearer powers, I felt naked, but my crew’s grit—and Thrain and Gorrim’s accidental heroism—had saved the day. For now, I was just Cecil, the guy with a soggy coat and a crew that deserved better. But maybe, just maybe, Lilith was right. Maybe I was enough.