CHAPTER 49: DELUSIONAL DAWN

The Glimmerfen.... [why do I say this every Chapter?... anyways]

The hills loomed like the world’s angriest cupcakes, wreathed in smoke and the faint, grumpy roar of a dragon that probably had better things to do than deal with our ragtag crew—like napping on a pile of gold or roasting marshmallows with its breath. Our wagon, now a glorified pile of splinters held together by hope and duct tape, limped along, pulled by a horse that shot me glares like I’d personally insulted its great-grandmare’s oats. Lilith’s slap from yesterday still stung my cheek like a sunburned wasp, but it had lit a fire in me hotter than a dragon’s hiccup. Sure, my Loafbearer powers were gone, my hands as magical as a soggy napkin at a barbecue, but I was Cecil Dreggs, the guy who’d buried a knight in cake, survived a glitter cult, and once convinced a tavern to accept a half-eaten pie as payment. I didn’t need bread magic to be a legend. I was hyped, ready to punch a dragon in the snout, charm it into submission, or at least distract it with my sheer audacity. My crew—Lilith, Vorren, Jex, Yvra, Mister Fog, and the King’s walking comedy duo, Sir Thrain and Sir Gorrim—weren’t buying my newfound bravado.

I stood in the wagon, fists raised like a prizefighter who’d forgotten the rules. "Alright, team! We’re storming Glimmerfen, kicking dragon butt, and walking out heroes! I’ll suplex that scaly beast and wear its teeth as a necklace! Who’s with me?"

Lilith, driving with her scythe strapped beside her like a grumpy bodyguard, didn’t even glance back. "Sit down, Cecil. You’re embarrassing yourself worse than that time you tried to juggle flaming torches and set your boots on fire."

Vorren, sharpening a knife that could carve a castle into toothpicks, grunted without looking up. "You’re powerless, mate. The only thing you’re kicking is our patience into the next kingdom."

Jex, clutching his last three apples like they were his life savings, whimpered, "I just want to live long enough to smuggle something that’s not cursed. Like... normal apples. Is that too much to ask?"

Yvra, perched upfront in her pristine princess dress that somehow repelled mud, sighed like I’d personally offended her royal lineage. "Cecil, you’re one bad decision from being dragon food. Tone it down before I shove you into the dragon’s mouth myself."

Mister Fog floated above, sipping tea that smelled like burnt ambition and damp regret. "Enthusiasm is admirable, Cecil, but without the Loaf’s power, you’re... well, a loud liability with a stick obsession."

I ignored them, bouncing on my toes like a kid who’d chugged a gallon of ale. "You guys don’t get it! Lilith’s slap knocked the doubt right out of me! I’m a new man, a dragon-slaying, hoard-stealing, tavern-ballad-inspiring legend! I’ll wrestle that dragon, steal its shiny stash, and be back in time for dinner and a pint!"

Sir Thrain turned, his backward helmet wobbling like a drunk compass in a storm. "Cease your bluster, knave! We serve King Valthorne’s sacred mission to smite evil and look dashing!" He thrust his lance for emphasis, accidentally poking the horse, which neighed like it was cursing his entire family tree and kicked a wheel off the wagon with a CRACK. The whole thing tilted, nearly dumping us into the mud with a SQUELCH. "By the crown’s honor!" Thrain bellowed, clinging to the reins like a drowning man.

Sir Gorrim, still mourning his broken sword hilt like it was a fallen comrade, stood heroically, only to slip on an apple Jex dropped, landing in the hay with a THUD that sent straw flying. "By the crown’s eternal glory!" he wheezed, his mustache flopping like a sad, soggy flag. "The fruit conspires against us!"

I laughed, my hype undimmed, maybe even brighter. "See? Even the wagon’s excited! It’s shedding wheels for the cause! Let’s do this, team!" I punched the air, nearly falling out of the wagon myself.

Lilith muttered, "I regret that slap more than I regret meeting you, Cecil."

The road dipped into a clearing, where Glimmerfen’s gates shimmered in the distance, all spiky and dragon-themed, like a castle designed by a lizard with a goth phase. Before we could get closer, the ground shook like it was throwing a tantrum, and a troupe of robed figures leaped from the bushes, twirling like ballerinas on a sugar high who’d raided a costume shop. They wore scales sewn into their cloaks, flapping like tacky capes, and waved ribbons that sparkled with draconic runes that probably spelled "we love drama." Their leader, a wiry man with a mohawk shaped like a dragon’s spine and a grin that screamed "I practiced this in a mirror," spun dramatically, striking a pose that belonged in a bad street performance. "Behold! We are the Wyrmdancers, sacred performers of Glimmerfen’s dragon! Intruders, face our dance of doom, or flee like the cowards you are!"

I clapped, grinning like I’d just found a free pint. "A dance-off? Oh, I’m in! Watch me out-dance these lizard lovers! I’ve got moves that’ll make that dragon jealous!" I started a clumsy jig, waving my stick like a baton.

Yvra grabbed my arm, nearly yanking it out of its socket. "Cecil, no. This isn’t a tavern talent show. They’re summoning something. Look, you fool!"

The Wyrmdancers spun faster, their ribbons glowing like cheap festival lights, and the ground cracked like it was done with their nonsense. Miniature dragon-like creatures—scaly, winged, the size of angry chickens with worse attitudes—erupted from the earth, hissing and snapping like feathered lizards with a grudge. The leader pirouetted, shouting, "The Wyrm’s children answer our dance! Surrender, or be pecked into oblivion!"

Lilith drew her scythe, her eyes narrowing. "This is why I hate performance art. And dancers. And ribbons."

Vorren cracked his knuckles, the sound like breaking branches. "I’ll squash those lizards into dragon jerky."

Jex hid behind his apples, his voice a squeak. "Why is everything cursed?! First soup, then glitter, now dragon-chickens? I just wanted to sell fruit!"

I jumped out of the wagon, hyped to the moon and possibly beyond. "No powers? No problem! I’ll punch those dragon-chickens into next week and maybe the week after!" I charged, swinging a stick I’d grabbed, feeling like a warrior king from a bard’s drunken tale. The stick hit a Wyrmdancer’s ribbon, got tangled like a bad fishing line, and yanked me face-first into the dirt with a WHUMP that tasted like mud and shattered dreams.

The crew groaned in unison, like a disappointed choir. Thrain shouted, "For valor and the crown!" and ran forward, only to trip over a Wyrmdancer’s foot, rolling into a ditch with a CLUNK that echoed like a dropped anvil. "The ground betrays me!" he wailed, flailing in the mud. Gorrim swung his broken hilt, missed a dragonet, and accidentally threw it into a baby dragon’s mouth. The creature choked, spat it out with a PTOO, and bit Gorrim’s boot, dragging him across the ground with a SCRAPE as he yelled, "My boot! My noble boot!"

I scrambled up, still buzzing with confidence that was probably delusional. "I got this!" I swung my stick again, missing a dragon-chicken and hitting a bush, which exploded into leaves like I’d insulted its family. The crew fought hard—Lilith’s scythe sliced through ribbons like they were tissue paper, Vorren crushed dragonets underfoot with a SQUELCH, muttering, "Tastes like defeat, lizards!" Yvra’s daggers pinned Wyrmdancers’ cloaks to the ground like a royal tailor gone feral, and Mister Fog’s mist confused the creatures, though he sighed, "This is beneath my misty dignity."—but I was useless, flailing like a kid in a schoolyard brawl who’d forgotten how to punch.

"Cecil!" Yvra shouted, dodging a dragonet’s claws with a twirl. "Stop swinging that stupid stick and actually help, or I’ll pin you to the wagon!"

"I am helping!" I yelled, tripping over a root and landing in a puddle with a SPLASH that soaked my already tragic coat. My hype didn’t waver, though. I was Cecil Dreggs, dragon-slaying legend, powers or not! I stood, waving my stick like a mad conductor, shouting, "Fear the wrath of Cecil, you scaly chickens!" The dragonets hissed, unimpressed, and one snapped at my stick, breaking it in half with a SNAP. Okay, maybe I needed a better plan.