The Dragon and the Exiled

Chapter One

After rotting in prison for six months, every single day of it filled with torment, being back out in the fresh air was a relief, even if the journey would end with him stepping into the Forbidden Forest. A melodramatic name given by a melodramatic king a couple of centuries ago, a quality that continued to run strong in the royal blood, because his sole remaining descendent, the man who had ever so kindly spared Dipak to just die later and more painfully in the forest, was at least as dramatic.

Being perpetually sickly and weak had never slowed His Highness—His Majesty now—down on that point, if anything it just made him more inclined toward it.

Dipak stood at the edge of the forest, wrists raw and red from the shackles still in place, left forearm still in excruciating pain from the brand seared into it, waiting with a patience he didn't feel as the guards took their merry fucking time with whatever the fuck they were doing.

Jacking each other off? Admiring the clouds? He didn't know and he didn't care.

All he wanted was for this to be over with. To never see any of the people involved in this mess ever again. To go into the forest and die in peace and solitude. Or become a creepy archer slash witch who terrified the non-existent locals. Whichever came first.

Finally finished with their faffing about, two of the guards approached: one with the bag that held all Dipak's remaining possessions in the world; the other with the key to the fucking manacles.

A third came bearing a scroll. Dipak gave him a scathing look. "Can we skip telling me what I've already heard fifty times? Banished, pain of death, may the gods have mercy on my non-existent soul, so on and so forth."

"That's about the sum of it," the guard said, stuffing the scroll away without hesitation. "Release him."

The guard with the key grumbled half-heartedly about sloppy work, but roughly grabbed hold of his chained wrists and slotted the key into place.

It turned stiffly, but then he was at last free.

Free as he was getting, anyway. He resisted the urge to rub at his wrists; it was pointless, and he wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

"Give me my belongings," he said to the remaining guard.

The bag the guard held was promptly thrown at his head, but Dipak was used to that sort of nonsense and caught it easily.

Then he knelt and opened the bag to go through it—and stopped when he noticed a couple of things missing. "Give them back."

"Don't know what you're talking about, prisoner."

Dipak pushed slowly to his feet, magic thrumming. "Let me make this perfectly clear: I have nothing to lose. Killing you and taking back my stolen belongings won't make my fate worse."

The guard with the key laughed meanly, drew his sword, and lunged—and then was on the ground, dead from a throwing knife in his throat. Dumbass.

Having suddenly regained their senses, the other two threw down the goods they'd stolen, bolted to the front of the cart, and fled.

They were going to feel really fucking stupid in a couple of minutes when they realized they'd forgotten their friend's body.

Dipak used the opportunity to relieve the guard of anything useful: sword, daggers, coins, cigarettes, and a lighter.

For good measure, he also took the man's cloak, belt and pouches, and gloves.

Once upon a time, he'd have never done anything as contemptible as loot a corpse, but he was long past that nonsense. Something about gut-wrenching betrayal and heartless abandonment burned the decency right out of a person.

Tucking his ill-gotten gains away in his bag, affixing his new belt and sword, he stuffed his retrieved stolen goods into an outer pocket, buckled his quiver into place, settled his bag on his shoulders, and strung his bow.

Then there was nothing left but to walk into the Forbidden Forest. He could turn around and leave.

There was literally no one and nothing stopping him from making his way across the country to the coast, where it'd be easy enough to bribe fishers or smugglers to take him elsewhere.

Even with the brand on his arm, he could start a new, decent life somewhere else.

What was the point, though? He was here, and here was as good as anywhere else, when everything that had ever mattered to him was gone forever. Die in the forest. Die at sea. Die in a bar after too many drinks and a bad hit to the head. Staying right here required the least amount of effort.

So he set his shoulders and walked into the forest.

Anticlimactic in the end. There was no ominous rush of birds fleeing to the sky.

No crack of thunder. No being enfolded by darkness.

It was late morning, overcast and fairly dark beneath the heavy canopy—not that dark mattered to him—and the weather was mild, meaning he had plenty of time to get somewhere relatively safe for the night.

There was no path to follow, not that he could easily find anyway. So onward he went, bow at the ready should he chance upon something worth shooting for dinner, though he had sufficient dry goods to make do for a few days, so that wasn't a priority just yet.

His wrists hurt something fierce, but he couldn't afford to waste precious resources on healing something that would heal just fine on its own once he had time to sit and rest.

Thankfully, he didn't have to walk terribly long before he found a brook.

Water was always a priority, but a brook also meant fish, which meant food which were two of his problems solved—and he was likely to find a good place to camp near water, which would solve the last and most pressing problem.

Above all else, in any forest—anywhere at all, really—shelter was the most vital.

He walked along the bank bearing southeast, eventually crossing a natural bridge that had probably been built as a nest for wyverns at some point.

The tinier, aquatic, less impressive cousin to dragons, wyverns loved to lay their eggs in running water, keeping them suitably wet and safe from most predators.

If they caused flooding or other problems in the process, well too bad.

Reminded him of a bunch of selfish, backstabbing nobles, but that was as irrelevant now as the rest of his old life.

Just as he was thinking of stopping for a break, he found it: a small, clear space with boulders forming a half circle. Almost no grass grew, making it ideal for building a fire, and it was near enough to the water that he wouldn't have to trek far. It was perfect.

Setting his belongings down, he drew out a sack of dried meat and fruit and wolfed it down before getting to work.

He hadn't been able to pack a tent, but he did have the cloak he'd lifted off that stupid guard.

Draped carefully with the work of sturdy branches and a bit of digging, secured with pliable strips of bark, he had a suitable cover to sleep under.

Wouldn't do a whole lot if it rained, but one problem at a time.

After that, he dug one large hole for his fire, and a small one next to and connecting to it to provide air. Smuggler's fire, most called them, because they cast little light and minimal smoke.

Next was the foraging: leafy branches for his bed so he wouldn't be sleeping directly on the cold ground, then firewood.

He was returning with what felt like his hundredth pile of wood when he spied the berry bushes.

Tartberries, common this time of year, one of the few to grow so late in the season and into the autumn, making them a favorite of hunters and nomads.

His mother had made tartberry jam every autumn; toasted bread with butter and tartberry jam had been one of his favorite foods.

Peasant food, the nobles called it, though they all had jars of it in their pantries. Hypocrisy was the lifeblood of nobles, after all.

Setting the firewood down, he went back to gather the berries, using his own cloak as a makeshift basket. When he had all he could reasonably eat or prepare for storage, he hauled them back to camp and finally got a fire going.

By that point, late morning had turned to early evening, and he ached all the way down to his bones.

After the proclamation that he'd be banished to the Forbidden Forest, he'd been permitted to return home to gather up as much as he could easily carry.

Being back in his hard-won home after six months in prison had hurt more than he'd ever admit to anyone.

The beautiful wooden floors. The sturdy stone of the walls.

The fireplace he'd built himself, dragging the stones from the riverbank, drying and cleaning them, laboring for days under the heavy weight of it all.

The enormous bed he'd also made himself, along with so many other pieces of furniture.

The rag rugs his mother had made. The rocking chair made for her by his father.

His workroom filled with plants, herbs, gems, and more.

Shelves of books that had been his most precious possessions. The work of a lifetime.

The home of a lifetime, built with his own blood and sweat, soaked in his memories.

Gone forever. Everything would be left alone for now, in theory, though opportunists would probably sneak in to steal whatever they could. But in another six months, at the end of the legally required grace period, it would all be confiscated by the crown, kept, sold, auctioned, or destroyed.

Despite telling himself he didn't care anymore, that he was long past that point, hot tears slid down his cheeks as he stared unseeing at the brook, haunted by memories of the life he'd worked so hard to build, the life that had been taken from him because he'd—

It didn't matter. That life was gone. He'd been born into a life of nothing, and now at thirty-four he had nothing again.