Wystan stares at the wagon stuck in the mud.

The rains have been heavy, as they always are during the spring season, leaving the road treacherous and the air humid. Despite mudslides being arguably more dangerous, their party has avoided one. Weirdly, most of the horses have been enjoying the downpours, almost prancing whenever the torrents hit. Then again, these are the draught breeds that Kyneburga generously donated for Wystan's quest, meaning they are defective in one way or another. She wouldn't bestow her best on a fool's errand.

"Well, bite me!"

"Oh, I will, you witch!"

The longer they stand, the louder and more profane the argument gets. Wystan sighs. They have been dirty and tired for a week, now stuck in the middle of a twisting road, with stippled outcrops and solitary trees to keep them company. By his estimation, they have several leagues before hitting more forested areas and the daylight's burning away anyway.

"I'll fuckin' rip your tongue out, stupid turd!"

"Pfft, if you wan' ta see a turd, 'ave a look in the mirror, Kel."

This is getting ridiculous, Wystan bemoans silently and sweeps in to save at least an ounce of his sanity. Honestly, their choice of words has much to be desired.

"Stop quibbling and get the wagon up and running," he orders with bark in his voice. The usual happy-go-lucky won't cut it with this lot, so he slips on a scowl and hopes for the best.

They look at him in the same manner they do at any disturbance, cautious, ready to fight, whether it's to continue their bickering or to defend if he goes batshit on them, he's not sure. Wystan proceeds to glare and waits.

Gauge looks away first and nods, smarter of the two. Or just easier to get along with. Unlike him, Kelcie is wild and uncontrollable and only pursues her own whims. She does follow her superiors' orders most of the time, and she is a damn competent heavy-hitter, hence why no one ordered her execution. Well, until now.

Part of the Empire's dirty laundry has been sent out on a cleansing. They are officially an experimental squad, unofficially a mercenary unit answering only to those high in command. They are the unit called Lost and have received their last order signed by the Empire. Now Wystan has become their one and only supervisor.

"So, Your Excellency," Kelcie drawls, her sole visible eye sparkling with mischief. 

Of course, the 'Excellency' shit is back. 

"Are we gonna get a reward if we get the wagon outta mud?" she asks after a moment.

"Yes," Wystan replies in a droll tone while observing the way clouds curl in the east. "A hideout from rain. We're setting camp immediately after."

She guffaws loudly, deep from her belly like she always does. With giggles petering out, she turns to address the rest of the mercenaries. "Ya heard the boss!"

Wystan watches them fighting the mud and losing. Even a dozen people don't seem to be enough for a wagon of this size when you take into account the slippery footing. He lets out a heavy sigh, shrugs his personalized army cloak off his shoulders, and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. His right leg is going to hate him after this, but it already aches from all the weather changes, oncoming rainy clouds being the worst cause.

***

They make a camp where the nearby stream curves. Where the trees are more common and the rocks climb higher. Wystan takes cover outside and lets the mercenaries have the wagon. Sturdy tents dot the place.

The night comes and goes, and with it, the rain does too. Wystan sleeps for most of it, trusting the men and women he commands to keep watch. Dawn breaks when he is already packed, the wagon is full and almost ready, and the horses wait with keen stares, bellies appeased from the verdant grass surrounding them.

Usually, he'd go hunting at this time. Slip away with a few chosen men to find a cover of leaves and be back in an hour with a haul of small game. Fortunately, even with the weather being unsteady and the rain an angry reminder that he's a long way from home, they'd been lucky for the past few sunlit mornings. There's no need to fill their food crates today. Maybe for the best. He misses his hunting dogs. Little feral beasts that turn obedient with a snap of his fingers, shedding the playful demeanor of fetching sticks and showing tummies to beg for good rubs only to become vicious hunters. Almost like Wystan. He's always been good at switching his attitude depending on the situation. At least he used to be when he wasn't so tired.

They are ready to depart when Lela steps to his side, a spy who lost her purpose on a mission like this where she can't use her skills to the fullest. Like many of them.

"The clouds aren't visible, sir," she says. "Everyone's ready."

Wystan eyes the assembly. The Lost, as the name infers shouldn't be known, should exist solely in shadows, under the cover of a mask or night, performing a duty that many officials have no stomach to carry out; spies and assassins, from the dregs of society that abandoned them, they rose to receive a stable paycheck as long as no one knows about them. In theory. In reality, everyone in the capital and nearby towns has at least once heard a rumor about the Lost. Perhaps as crowd control, or for some other reason unknown to Wystan, the speculations and gossip have existed for a long time.

He nods, and Lela takes it as permission to make herself scarce. Wystan turns to their surprisingly organized, ragtag group and raises his voice to catch everyone's ear. "We march until we hit the next settlement or night comes, whichever arrives first."

In the next few hours, after countless puddles and lots of mud, they do reach a settlement, if a dozen or so houses can be called that. It's too early to stop for the day but perfect for a break. Wystan nods at Gauge as they settle to clean up a bit and eat, and the man is off.

He wants to confirm the rumors encountered during their voyage, the same outlandish stories that Kyneburga told him when he was still in Summer Brooch. A feral, man-eating dragon holding a so-called princess prisoner in an impenetrable tower. Sounds like a fairy tale, but it's the only intel Wystan has to work with since the closer they get, the less people talk. Lately, no one was willing to mention the dragon, as though the beast has never existed. It's highly suspicious, a bit surprising, and utterly irking.

"Boss."

Gauge is back before Wystan had time to finish his meal. With a delicate frown on his face—the one that makes Wystan swear quietly—Gauge informs him of his failure. There's no talk about a dragon. A few villagers couldn't mask their anger when Gauge pretended to fearfully ask about rumors of the beast, but that's it. Something is wrong and Wystan would bet his good leg it has to do with a heavens damned dragon.

"Oh, there's more," Gauge drawls. "On the next road branchin', we have ta go right." He pauses to send Wystan a meaningful look then continues with a perfect mimic of high-court lingo. "At least, that is what everyone so helpfully advised."

Wystan offers a crooked grin. "We're going left then."

Gauge's responding smirk is equally fierce. "As you command."

***

It's well past noon when the road becomes surrounded by more trees and then they hit the fields of grass, darker in color than before. A thick forest spreads far in the distance on one side, and on another are the signs of a village, maybe a town. The maps Wystan bought from the black market are unreliable but much better than the basic descriptions he had found officially. The Empire didn't care about the Southern Lands when they acquired it after the war. They don't care about it at present too and it shows.

They stop near a shallow creek to fill their flasks. Wystan goes closer to the open field to get a better look. Some follow him, and he can see Gauge does too, standing a bit closer, definitely more than before, and Wystan wonders for a moment where did a mercenary get the proper guard training.

He shrugs, not really interested in the answer, and picks up a stick from the ground. It's thick and long enough to become a spear with proper carving so he takes it with him on a whim. There's a building in the distance, all gray rock and simplistic architecture. It's too far away to see more details, but it makes him wonder if that's the impenetrable fortress of a tower the intel mentioned.

A loud noise nearly deafens him, making him grip the stick harder. When he looks around he realizes it's not just any noise because near the large curving threes stands a dragon, in all its scaled glory, a mighty beast with fangs that seem as long as Wystan is tall. The dragon roars again, and the ground shakes. With its eyes set on their party, he knows they won't be able to outrun it, the creature is maybe a tenth of a league away, wings poised to take off any moment.

Instead, the dragon starts ambling toward them, closer and closer it comes, while they stand rooted to their spots, frozen stiff.

Wystan finally sheds the shackles of fear, rounding at the beast—this close he can see the vertical strip of an iris with a red, almost glowing color similar to the darker version that can be found on the scales—he steps forward and does something inexplicable.

Honestly, it's probably the stress that got to him. This whole journey is a trice damned noose around his neck. He's tired, he's angry at his siblings that so callously ordered him to die, and he's missing his dogs and his quiet way of life.

That's probably why he chucks the goddamned stick in his hands as far as he can throw it.

"Luitenant-General," Kelcie screeches at him from a scant distance away, "that's not one of your hunting dogs!"

He can see that obviously, but well, a lapse in judgment or whatever you want to call it makes him almost say "fetch." Luckily, he stays silent.

The funny thing is, the dragon stopped moving at his throw and stood there eying the stick. He can see its third eyelids flicker once, or twice, then a proper blink follows. Another sound, not as deafening as the roar comes from the creature, and in a way, Wystan feels like it's laughing at them. At him. The dragon then spits out a fireball, not a big one, but not small either, and Gauge slaps his hands to the ground to form a shield made of brute magic power, the mercenaries scramble for cover, and Wystan brings his sword out of its scabbard, knowing he has one shot at this.

He cuts the fireball in half, flames licking at his skin with warmth as two halves of concentrated magic pass him. He pants from exhaustion, sweat budding on his brow, and switches the grasp on the hilt to change his stance. By then the dragon is gone, mighty wings flapping in the air.

"Damn, boss," Gauge wheezes out. "I knew you must be a bit weird, being a hero of the war and all that, but playing fetch with a dragon? That's too much even for you."

Wystan decides to ignore the nearly hysterical insubordination and focuses on what's important.

"Let's find a place for the night."