Chapter Text
From castle to towns to fields, Galar is an old, old kingdom, but the story of the dreadful dragon preying its lands is not so very old at all.
It had begun with whispered rumors passing from mouth to ear, a daisy chain of unfounded and rarely verifiable tales. First, it had been one girl, young enough to dodge fieldwork and housework and really any sort of work, who had claimed to anyone who would listen that she had seen a cloud that looked exactly like a dragon way up over the tallest, biggest mountain’s peak. Then, it was a worried housewife, gossiping with her friends that perhaps the thunder the night before had sounded a bit like a roar, hadn’t it?
Then some cattle had disappeared from an honest farmer’s land, and someone — no telling who, now — had said, well, isn’t it simple? You see, the dragon must have taken them.
And so the wildfire words had spread. Within a fortnight, the whole region expected a dragon to swoop down from the heavens and snatch them up. Soon after, all manners of problems and disappearances were being blamed on Galar’s dragon. The savage winds that blew down from the mountain? The dragon had sent them with its wide, wide wings. The blistering cold, out of season for springtime? The dragon’s fault, a curse upon their fields.
The people had clamored for a solution. What are we to do, they’d asked, when there is a dragon waiting for us to let our guard down, to ravage our homes, to take our children, to doom our crops?
There was only one thing for it. Finally, Regent Rose, current keeper of the throne in absence of an heir, announced a challenge to the kingdom.
The first person to ascend the mountain and return with the dragon’s heart could claim the throne as rightful successor.
This had been enough to entice the panicked Galarians – some incensed over cattle losses, some frustrated by their wives’ sudden, strange interest in the draconian. Knights and peasants alike had set out to the mountain, the arduous journey made worse by testy weather and jagged paths. Impossible terrain had forced some back. For others, it’d been the plummeting nighttime temperatures that’d sent them packing.
Some had not returned at all. The dragon, reasoned the people, must be a fearsome beast indeed.
Those who’d been lucky enough to make it back bore terrible claims of gnashing fangs and breaths of fire. They’d been blessed by any and all spirits to be able to escape with their lives! And while relief had met every soul who still had their wits about them and bodies in one piece, there had still been the knowledge that far above their kingdom, waiting on that mountain top, was a dragon who would stop at nothing to rip open and tear apart each challenger. What if, people had wailed, the monster even reveled in it now that it had a taste for human flesh?
Now, all of Galar wonders when the nightmare will end – or worse still, when the dragon will grow tired of meager scraps coming to it, and venture into the towns for its meals.
Two months into the hunt, the young knight Leon, originally of the town Postwick and now in service to the Regent, receives a letter from his brother.
Lee —
Mom says you need to visit, and Grandma and Grandpa hope you’re doing well! They all wanted me to put that in, soon as I told them I was writing to you. You know we all miss you, right? But I always tell them that you’re the Regent’s most trusted knight, so of course you stay busy. Bet the other knights haven’t even gotten close to taking you down. You’re the best!
Things are kind of a mess here, though…
Within the day, Leon has already prepared to head up to the mountain.
It appears that the dragon must finally meet its match.
“Leon,” says Regent Rose. His raised brows speak of shock. His parted lips show unhappiness. “You are to undertake the challenge?”
Leon rises from his respectful kneeling position, slowly but surely. He nods. Loud, unashamed, he says, “I understand that I am your champion knight, and it must worry you. But the kingdom knows peace right now — aside from this dragon.”
Silence greets his words, echoing around the cobblestone walls. Light spills in through the colossal, gorgeous windows that sit over the throne Rose occupies.
Leon presses, “There’s no greater reason for me to take this on. I cannot call myself champion of anything if I don’t rise to the occasion.”
Next to Rose, Advisor Oleana stands, wearing an equally stunned expression. The large, open room is empty save for the three of them. As the only undefeated knight of Rose’s guard and the knights of Galar, Leon is glad he’s earned a solitary audience with them.
“And you believe you would do well to take the throne?” Rose finally says. “It is quite a lot of responsibility, Leon. More than you know.”
“I…” Leon pauses. “I hadn’t thought of that aspect. I only wanted to take away the peoples’ fear. I admit, I have a personal stake, but it isn’t my ambition to the throne.”
Rose and Oleana share a glance.
“I see,” Rose says. “What’s your stake, then?”
Leon immediately becomes more animated, dropping all solemnity: “As you know, my family comes from Postwick. They all still reside there, and my brother’s duties mainly consist of caring for the sheep. He wrote me. The dragon has stolen his prized sheep, and my family will not be the same without her.”
Well, he’s fuzzing the truth, but only a little. The prized sheep is actually his brother’s pet, Wooloo, the favorite of the flock. Leon knows what it must have taken for Hop to write him about the problem, and he knows that he must blame himself. Thus, only one solution remains: Leon will rescue Wooloo, return her to Hop, and that’s that.
In the case that Wooloo is beyond rescuing…Leon doesn’t much like thinking of that.
“Stolen?” echoes Rose, his dark eyebrows raising.
“The dragon does not simply steal,” Oleana adds. “It devours.”
“I understand that.” Leon grins then. “But you’re aware of my record! If our finest knights cannot defeat me, then what is a dragon but an oversized lizard?”
This time, the glance shared between Rose and Oleana is less dubious and more entirely disbelieving. Leon, confident, is about to excuse himself to finish preparations for his journey when Rose looks back at him, lips thin.
“You are still employed under my command,” Rose says. “If I wanted to stop you, I could order you to stay.”
Leon stills completely. “Why would you stop me?”
“Because I do not wish to see you meet your end at the fangs and claws of some wretched creature,” Rose tells him, as if baffled that he must explain himself. “You are better than this, Leon. You inspire the people. Is that not enough for you? Must you also play savior?”
That it’s even a question seems strange to him. Leon shakes his head, sudden and jerky in his surety. “How can inspiring ever be enough, if I’m not living up to my own aspirations?” He feels his grin return in force, and then he’s bowing. “With all due respect, Regent, the dragon must go. And there’s no one else who can do it but me.”
“Many have already tried,” Rose calls out.
Leon is already halfway out, striding briskly away. Over his shoulder, he shouts with a grin, “Then I will be the last to do so! Send no one else!”
He pushes open the wide, heavy door, and it slams shut behind him. Formalities have never been his strong suit, but he’s sure the Regent will understand his haste.
Leon’s first stop is the kitchens to acquire food for his journey. The staff there are friendly with him thanks to his many post-skirmish large meals, and they’re eager to help, loading him down with all the food he can possibly carry in a rucksack. It’s nothing that will spoil too soon: dried meats and tough breads make up the majority of his rations, and Leon thanks everyone profusely.
He gears up next. He packs a lighter change of clothing, a loose tunic and trousers, and an extra pair of thin undergarments. Leather boots are tossed in with them; he can’t very well go around wearing his sabatons and greaves if he has to make a stop at an inn. He’d look a fool.
Speaking of his sabatons and greaves – he puts on his armor for now. He won’t need it, not until he ventures closer to the mountain’s peak, but to be recognized as a knight will keep him from any trouble on his way there. Leon, unlike some in the Regent’s employ, prefers lighter armor. His cuirass is gently sloped, his pauldrons not peeking out much farther than his shoulders themselves. His gauntlets provide plenty of dexterity for his hands, and the toe of his sabatons are rounded. The metal is a sleek silver with a touch of gold in the light. He brings along his sword that has never failed him and his shield that has always aided him, the two best pieces of his armory, and the only two pieces that he’s certain could properly test a beast.
He ties a deep red cape over his back before he sets off. The cape bears various icons: the crest of the family Wyndon, the original bloodline of the crown and even the symbol of Postwick, which he has left so far behind. The blacksmith’s and the armorer’s crests, as a thanks for their supplying him. The Regent’s emblem, the largest and loudest of them all.
Leon does not wear a helmet. He wants to be seen, if for some reason his famous cape does not make him obvious enough. The knowledge that the peoples’ most favored knight is headed to the mountain will quell fears and inspire strength. When he rides out of the castle, his long, thick mane of hair spills over the red cape. He must make quite the sight; as his horse trots out towards wilderness, passersby cheer and clap.
Once, the Regent asked him his feelings on being such a symbol for people. Undefeated knight, they call him. Our champion Leon. He has never lost an exhibition match between knights, no skirmish, and no scuffle.
Leon remembers smiling at the Regent and telling him that it was a gift to be so relied upon. He still feels that way, motivated to do the right thing, burning for it.
In Wyndon, most of the townspeople are out and about during the day, currently preparing for the upcoming ball later in the week. It is a city-wide party, a celebration of the past that has been and the future to come. Many people travel to Wyndon to experience it, to take part. With so much ongoing to set everything up, it’s no wonder that so many people are on the roads, clogging the paths. Yet they all part for him, politely and joyfully.
The city isn’t what Leon is worried about, no. He’s well aware of his own failings when it comes to directions. He’s lucky that the mountain is so obvious on the horizon, looming high above – but in the span between the forest entrance and the peak, there is only dense woodland, unmapped wilds. There’s a single marked path into the forest that everyone insists is the closest thing to a trail leading to a straight shot towards the mountain. Finding that marked path is the problem.
But Leon has long since learned that the trick to his own trouble is asking, and asking quite a lot. He questions each passing traveler as to the direction he’s heading, and asks if he’s on the right route to get to the path to the forest. Once those he asks recover from their starstruck expressions, they are eager to help, sometimes overwhelmingly so. One merchant tries to pass many of his wares onto Leon in enthusiastic assistance.
“Oh, no,” Leon says, apologetic. “I can’t take any of this with me.” The merchant appears so crestfallen that he can in no way aid him that Leon quickly adds, “But stay on your path. You’re headed to Wyndon Castle, yes?”
“Of course,” the merchant replies, perking upright. “Every spring, I visit. It’s good for business, you see.”
“Well, when you arrive, be sure to insist that you come with my support.” Leon nods towards the carriage behind the merchant, which he was told moments ago bears all kinds of tools and spices, cloths and dyes. “I can vouch for you upon my return.”
The merchant nearly falls off of his cart attempting to thank him. And Leon sets off once more — though now he has candied pecans to snack on. Of all the offerings from the merchant, this was the most delightful one he found himself able to accept.
Leon’s horse is a strong, able-bodied mount, one that has never had any trouble with Leon on the back, despite his armored garb being as heavy as it is. The horse’s coat gleams near orange in the dying light of the sun. Char is a good steed, and he’s served him well for the time he’s had him.
But Char can’t take him into the forest. Leon knows this, as well as any other knight who has heard of the scouts’ reports on return from the trees. The forest is too thick, the area so tightly packed with foliage that a horse would only make more trouble. Leon knows some of the knights who have perished on their quests must have considered that ridiculous. They take horses into hunts all the time; what makes this forest so different than those woods?
Familiarity, Leon knows, wins many battles. It must be the same for scenery.
Leon doesn’t reach the edge of the forest until long past dark, Char coming to a slow halt at the signage. There isn’t enough light to read it, but this must be the place, for the sign is large and planted firmly in the ground. Past the muddled sign, the trees themselves look so black that the night sky itself should be jealous of it.
Next to the sign, there are lamps and oil, likely left by kind folk who know how often challengers wishing to travel this path stop here for a moment’s respite. Leon dismounts, then takes a lamp and lights it, packing a couple extra flasks of oil. The sign brightens in front of him:
DO NOT ENTER
DRAGON AHEAD
There’s even an attempted rendition of the dragon — squiggles of a spiny back and fearsome claws, sharp teeth jutting out of its long snout’s open maw, and a tail that the aspiring artist ran out of space for and is cut off by the edge of the sign.
“Excellent,” Leon says, relieved. Char flicks his tail. “Then we’re in the right place.”
He’s not intimidated. He has his sword that has won him every fight he’s ever been in strapped to his hip and a shield that has never failed him on his back.
Leon steels himself. Hop wouldn’t have written to him unless he really, truly needed him. This is a challenge he must take on, with or without the prize of the throne, with or without the Regent’s approval.
And there’s one piece of the puzzle that Leon didn’t share with the Regent. He takes Hop’s letter out again.
Wooloo went missing, and I tried to find her, even ran into the weald with my friend and almost got lost (but not all of us are as bad at directions as you, haha). But we didn’t find her, and it wasn’t until we came out that some people told us that they saw the dragon flying off with something white, fluffy, and sheep-sized in its big jaws. She was still baa-ing away, according to them!
I know you can beat it. That dragon’s no match for you, NOBODY IS!
But it wasn’t like it ate her right then and there like a real beast would, you know? I think you can still save her, if this letter gets to you in time. And it should!! I told the courier it was a matter of utmost importance, and it had to get to you, quick as he could take it.
Lee, if you gotta kill the dragon, I know you could. But maybe you won’t have to?
“Wouldn’t that be nice, Char?” Leon muses, tucking the letter away. He pats Char again, then points in the direction they came. “But here’s where we part. I can’t take you with me.”
Char snuffs at him, dark eyes wide, the lamplight flickering in their depths.
“I mean it.”
Leon crosses his arms over his chest. Flared nostrils and a scoff is the unhappy reply, Char casting his head this way and that, from Leon and to the road. Leon runs his hand down Char’s neck, hushing him.
“I’ll be fine,” Leon insists, then pulls another letter out. This one is neatly folded, having never been opened after its contents were penned. Leon extends the paper to Char, then shows the name written on the outside of it: Hop. “I need you to go to Postwick. You know the way, right?”
It’s been a long time since Leon’s visited, but Char’s never steered him wrong going that way, as if he could sense Leon’s longing for his family every visit he ever made. But this trip would be one Char would have to go alone.
Leon slides this letter into the pack at Char’s saddle. “Go on, then. I’ll catch up.”
Char butts his snout into Leon’s shoulder, hard enough that Leon stumbles, and then shakes off whatever trepidation he might have. Char trots around in a half-circle, looking back one last time. Leon gives a solid, confident nudge to Char’s side, and the horse starts off. Postwick is closer than the castle at this point; it won’t be a long journey for such a capable steed. Likely, he’ll reach the town just as morning breaks, and he can rest while Leon journeys onward.
Leon turns to face the forest as Char disappears from sight.
“Alright, Leon,” he mutters to himself, slapping either of his cheeks lightly. “Let’s make it a champion time.”
He begins his trek into the trees. A cold breeze ripples through the leaves and branches like the forest itself is laughing at his entrance. Good luck, good luck, the wind whispers. Take care, take care, the leaves murmur. And far, far above, the mountain waits in silence.
The forest is peaceful at this time, silent aside from the croak of frogs and the rustle of trees, the wet shift of soil under his boots, the occasional flutter of wings, night-creatures startled and birds woken by the man walking beneath their perches.
Altogether it is wholly boring. Leon doesn’t mind boring, but it’s natural on any trip to think of the places one’s been to pass the time. So he considers where he’s gone — he thinks of Motostoke and its strange machinery, he thinks of Hulbury’s fisheries. He thinks of Hammerlocke and all the valuable memories it guards.
Most of all, Leon thinks of his home.
Postwick is a smaller town, far south of Wyndon Castle, and much closer to the dragon’s mountain than the Castle itself. Mainly populated by shepherds and farmers, few who come from Postwick end up employed somewhere as far north as Wyndon. Fewer still become knights, of the crown or the guard or anything in between. Leon has always been a skilled fighter, better with a sword than with sheep, no green thumb to speak of, and so his quest out to Wyndon as a youth was not much of a loss for his family.
He was not alone at the time, either — Sonia, aiming for knighthood, landed somewhere scholarly in nature, alongside her grandmother. Leon hasn’t truly spoken to Sonia in years. He misses her, the same way he misses Postwick…but he’s made as much time for her as he has his hometown, hasn’t he?
(That is…not very much time at all. That twinge of guilt is easy to forget about when one is busy with as many responsibilities as Leon is.)
After impressing Galar’s people the whole way to Wyndon, dueling anyone who would care to accept, Leon had made a name for himself. He had taken a position in the royal guard almost immediately, and after he’d soundly won against all the other knights positioned in Wyndon, Rose had titled him Knight Champion of Galar.
The rest is already history.
Leon considers all this as he wanders through the thick forest. Fallen trees block the half-path in some places — half-path, because it can barely be called that. Overgrowth has spread across most of the tamped-down earth. Old leaves, long since shed by the trees last autumn, don’t so much as crunch beneath Leon’s boots.
The lamp casts an amber tint on everything. He is a lone spotlight in a deep, dark realm, forgotten by the rest of the world. It feels like a lost place.
Shaking the crawl of a shiver off his skin, Leon thinks about Postwick again.
The weald Hop mentioned in his letter, the Slumbering Weald…this forest is not it. From maps that Leon’s scoured, the trees spread down to meet it, but this is a wholly different area. Still, this walk through the trees brings memories to mind. Leon remembers daring Sonia to run deeper into the weald with him, to see if she would. She never did.
With how similar every tree looks, and how much twisting and turning Leon’s route seems to be taking, he decides she’d been smart not to take his dare. Forests are labyrinths made of leaves and wood, emerald green warrens waiting to swallow up anyone unlucky enough to find themselves lost within the mazes lined with moss and birdsong.
“I’m not lost,” Leon mutters, pressing onward. He ducks beneath a branch that looks awfully similar to the last branch he’d had to avoid, then pauses.
Is he…?
“No,” he says instantly, then keeps walking. “I’m not—”
This time, it isn’t uncertainty that stops him, but the rumble towards the sky, a low and uneven growl that shakes the ground beneath his feet. Gooseflesh rises along his nape, muscles going taut with readiness. Leon raises the lamp higher, free hand going to the hilt of his sword.
A flash of light, casting the forest in strange, stiff shadows. And with it, another rumble. The wind picks up again, stirring Leon’s hair around his face, his eyes wide as he casts his gaze around the dark forest. It sounds like a constant, insistent breeze, now, not the occasional bluster.
A droplet of water lands on the bridge of Leon’s nose, then streaks down to drip from the tip of it. He relaxes as more droplets follow, rain beginning to fall around him.
“A storm,” he breathes. His heart slows once more now that he knows it isn’t the dragon with a preemptive strike, but only rain, pouring heavier and heavier down on him.
And then he tenses all over again, the lightning’s flash illuminating his surroundings long enough for him to start running, breaking through the trees, branches snapping off.
For all the inconsistent tales that surviving challengers bring back, there is one singular constant: all of the stories say the weather here is unpredictable and harsh. A rainstorm is as likely as a snowstorm, and both threaten a lone traveler who doesn’t know north from south. Shelter is hard to come by, unless one is small enough to crawl into a tree trunk and hope for the best. Leon is most definitely not small enough.
He tries to catch sight of the mountain through the trees. Just in time for a streak of lightning to brighten the world: there, the peak, a barely visible statue against the full, rain-smeared clouds.
The raindrops that fly past the canopy hit his face like stinging sleet. The lamp goes out in the chaos; the oil’s in his pack, strung across his back. He has to rely on the sporadic lightning, the night like a blanket around his senses. He catches himself before slamming into a wide tree, stumbling past it instead, heart throbbing too quick in his chest as he speeds up once more.
The next rumble of thunder doesn’t come from above him; it comes from his left, and sounds so much closer than the sky that Leon trips, attention slipping from him. He comes down hard on his hands and knees — thankful for his gloves, for his armor — then casts a glare back at the thick root sticking out of the ground behind him.
He allows his head to hang, his thick hair dripping wet. Now that he’s still, catching his breath, he notices how cold it is. Not just any cold, either, it’s cold like winter. His lips feel the chill. The rain pounds the forest relentlessly around him.
The sky crackles and rumbles again. But he notices the same thing with this roll of thunder: it’s still on his left, and it really is coming closer.
Leon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath, reasoning it out: because it’s not thunder.
It’s a roar.
He pushes himself up again. He shakes his head against the rain, collects the lamp from the forest floor, and heads doggedly in the direction of the roar.
“Dragon!” he shouts over the downpour, over the rapid flutter of leaves burdened with water. He raises his voice even higher, throws his head up to the sky — “I’m challenging you! I, Leon, Knight Champion of Galar!”
Lightning — and another, answering growl, not from the heavens, but from…
There.
The lightning shows him a break in the trees. Leon gets his hand on his sword, grips it tight, speeds up, running, boots sinking into the leaf litter, into the mud, between the trees, into the open —
Open air.
He lands first on his side with a sickening crunch, tumbling down the sharp angle of the hill, cliff, crest; whatever it is, gravity is merciless and happy to aid the land in dragging Leon down as fast and as far and as hard as it possibly can.
Armor is good for many things. It’s good for fending off sword strikes. It’s good for staying recognizable in a crowd. It’s good for a distraction, when one feels restless in the birdcage of their own making, and they clean the shining metal to a pristine state.
It is not very good at absorbing long falls, and it is especially not very good at helping one catch their breath, ripped from their lungs like the impact had reached in and stolen all the air right out.
Leon gasps. His heartbeat thuds like a drum in his ringing ears. Even the unrepentant slap-sting of rain against his face feels distant. His vision swims, fading black at the edges like the curling corner of a burning photo, held over a candle’s flame. There’s one moment where the rain no longer falls onto his cheeks and the sound of the storm sounds faraway. Something over him, blocking the cold deluge.
The last thing he sees is an unfamiliar silhouette stalking near and a pair of bright, piercing eyes.