CHAPTER 54: THE CITY OF SCALES AND STUMBLES

Glimmerfen’s gates creaked open like the jaws of a grumpy dragon with a toothache, revealing a city that looked like a medieval fair had overdosed on glitter, bad ideas, and a questionable obsession with lizards. Streets bustled with merchants hawking dragon-scale trinkets that jingled like tacky wind chimes, bards strumming odes to fire-breathing beasts with more enthusiasm than talent, and kids running around with toy wings that sparked alarmingly, as if one wrong move would set the whole place ablaze. The air reeked of roasted meat, singed hair, and the kind of desperation that screamed "I bet on the wrong dragon." It was my kind of place—chaotic, loud, and just unhinged enough to give me a shot at redemption. Except I was still powerless, my Loafbearer glow gone, my ego limping like our half-dead wagon after a dragon tantrum. Lilith’s "give up" from two days ago echoed in my skull like a bad tavern song sung by a drunk bard, but that engraved quill I’d swiped from the permit office sat heavy in my pocket, a tiny spark of hope glinting like a coin in a mud puddle. I was Cecil Dreggs, the guy who’d once lost a staring contest to a goat and had to wear its straw hat for a week. I wasn’t done yet. I’d prove I was more than a mud-caked loser, even if I had to fake it until I made it—or at least until I tripped into something heroic.

My crew trudged beside me, looking like they’d rather be wrestling trolls in a swamp than babysitting me. Lilith led the way, her scythe glinting like it was ready to cut through bureaucracy, my self-esteem, and maybe a few bystanders for good measure. Vorren hulked along, his knife-sharpening scritch a constant reminder of his competence and my lack thereof, each scrape sounding like it was mocking my existence. Jex clutched his last apple like it was a holy relic, muttering, "Dragons, cursed soup, glitter, and now a festival? I’m gonna get eaten, and my tombstone’ll just say ’Apple Guy.’" Yvra strode with royal grace, her dress somehow spotless despite the mud, her glare screaming she’d rather be sipping tea in a palace than dealing with my nonsense. Mister Fog floated above, sipping tea that smelled like burnt optimism and damp regret, his misty form shimmering with the kind of disapproval only a cloud could muster. Sir Thrain marched with his backward helmet wobbling like a drunk weathervane in a storm, shouting about "the crown’s eternal honor," while Sir Gorrim, his mustache still tangled with Wyrmdancer ribbon like a sparkly disgrace, waved his broken sword hilt like it was a holy relic blessed by a king who’d clearly never met him.

I clutched the quill, twirling it like a wannabe wizard who’d flunked out of spell school. "Alright, team, we’re in Glimmerfen! Time to find that dragon, kick its scaly butt, and show King Valthorne I’m a hero with or without bread magic!" I puffed out my chest, ignoring the mud flaking off my coat.

Lilith snorted, not even glancing back. "You’re a hero like I’m a baker, Cecil. Stay out of trouble, or I’ll use you as dragon bait."

Vorren grunted, his knife gleaming like it was ready to carve my confidence into ribbons. "Trouble finds him like flies find a dung heap. Always has, always will."

Jex whimpered, hugging his apple so tight it looked ready to burst. "Can we just pay someone else to slay the dragon? I’ve got one apple left! Maybe it’s into fruit? Please don’t let it eat me first!"

Yvra sighed, adjusting her dress with a flick that somehow repelled dirt. "Cecil, if you ruin my reputation in front of Glimmerfen’s court, I’ll ensure you’re exiled to a turnip farm where you’ll spend eternity peeling vegetables for pigs."

Mister Fog sipped his tea, his misty form shimmering like a judgmental ghost. "Your enthusiasm is... persistent, Cecil, but without powers, you’re a spark without a flame, a bard without a lute, a knight without a clue."

I ignored them, puffing out my chest even more, probably looking like a muddy peacock. "Powers or not, I’ve got this quill and my wits! Watch me work some non-magical magic!" I waved the quill dramatically, accidentally poking Thrain’s helmet with a PING. It wobbled, and he shouted, "Assault on the crown!" before tripping over a cobblestone and crashing into a fruit stall with a THUD that sent apples rolling like tiny, edible cannonballs. Gorrim, trying to help, slipped on one, landing in a pile of dragon-scale trinkets with a CLINK that sounded like a dropped coin purse. "The fruit conspires against honor!" he wailed, flailing in a sea of shiny baubles.

I winced, scratching my head. "Okay, maybe not my best start, but I’m warming up!"

The city was in full chaos mode, banners proclaiming the "Annual Dragon Festival" flapping overhead like overexcited laundry. Stalls offered dragon-egg omelets (suspiciously green and wiggling), and performers juggled flaming torches while dressed as lizards, one nearly setting his tail on fire with a FWOOSH. A sign pointed to the "Festival Arena," where a crowd cheered louder than a tavern brawl after free ale night. I grinned, my quill twirling like a tiny baton. "Perfect! We’ll blend in, find the dragon’s lair, and maybe win a festival prize while we’re at it!"

A trumpet blared, cutting through the noise like a knife through my hopes. A woman in a dragon-winged cape bounded up, waving a scroll like it was a royal decree. Her cape spark_PinGled like it had been dipped in a glitter vat, and her grin was wider than a dragon’s maw. "Welcome, outsiders, to the Dragon Festival! To pass through Glimmerfen and face the Wyrm, you must compete in our sacred challenges! Win, and approach the Wyrm’s lair! Lose, and be banished to the Swamps of Shame, where the mud smells worse than your coat, stranger!"

Lilith gripped her scythe, her eyes narrowing to slits. "I’m not playing festival games with lizard fanatics. I’d rather stab the dragon and be done with it."

Vorren cracked his knuckles, the sound like breaking branches. "I’ll punch my way through this nonsense. Festivals are just fights with extra glitter."

Jex hid behind his apple, his voice a squeak. "Swamps of Shame? I’m not built for swamps! I’m an apple guy, not a mud guy!"

I stepped forward, quill raised like a tiny, inky sword. "No, no, I got this! Festival challenges? I’ll dominate like a bard at an open mic night!" My crew groaned in unison, like a choir of despair, but I was already strutting toward the arena, fueled by stubborn hope, questionable judgment, and the faint belief that a quill could make me a legend.

The arena was a riot of color, with locals cheering, waving dragon flags, and vendors selling dragon-shaped pastries that looked suspiciously like they might bite back. The first challenge was "Dragon-Egg Juggling," announced by a clerk with a grin that said he loved watching people fail. He handed me three suspiciously warm eggs, each the size of a melon and pulsing faintly. "Juggle these for a minute, or face the penalty pit!" he chirped, pointing to a pit filled with what looked like squirming eels and glitter.

I twirled the quill, grinning like I’d already won. "Easy as pie! Watch me juggle like a pro!" I tossed an egg, caught it, tossed another... and dropped the third, which cracked open with a SPLAT, releasing a cloud of green gas that smelled like regret and bad decisions. The crowd laughed, and I coughed, waving the quill like it could banish my shame. Thrain, inspired by my failure, tried juggling his lance, shouting, "For the crown’s glory!" only to knock over a torch, setting a banner ablaze with a FWOOSH that lit up the arena. Gorrim shouted, "Honor prevails!" and dove to put it out, tripping into the penalty pit with a SQUELCH that sent eels slithering. "The eels mock my valor!" he wailed, flailing like a soggy knight.

Lilith sighed, rubbing her temples. "You’re hopeless, Cecil. Even by your standards, this is a new low."

I kept juggling, barely, my quill hand shaking like a bard with stage fright. "I’m warming up! Heroes don’t peak in round one!" The crowd booed, and I dropped another egg, which exploded into glitter with a POOF that coated me like a sparkly snowman. My hype flickered, my coat a shimmering disaster, but I clung to the quill, determined to prove I wasn’t useless, even if I looked like a disco ball’s sad cousin. The dragon’s lair was out there, and I wasn’t giving up—not when I had a quill, a crew, and a stubborn refusal to admit I was out of my depth.