I t’s been seven slumbers since I saw him last. Since I heard him play Mah and Pah’s song, dropped my shield like a battle-weary soldier, cried in his arms until I finally drifted off, then woke wrapped in Slátra’s tail. Though there’s still a fresh meal set by the door each slumber, accompanied by a small stone carving I add to my growing collection of pint-sized pity-dragons I want to toss against the wall, there’s no song.
No him.
Every time I walk around the corner and find the hall empty, I’m weighed down by another brick of humiliation I throw into my punches.
My kicks.
Veya says I’m improving. If that’s what I get for trying to beat the shit out of this feeling, I’ll take it.