"Remember to stand up straight when you walk," said Carla, reminding Sandro for the thousandth time that morning. "The academy you're going to is the best in all of Flaurena, and I won't have the Wyverssino family name be tarnished in any way."

"Yes, mother," said Sandro as he craned his neck to allow the maid to dress him appropriately. He winced as the stiff collar of his undershirt scraped against his skin. "I wouldn't want to slander father's legacy because of my hunched shoulders."

Carla clapped her fan shut, glaring at him with the same piercing blue eyes he often saw in the mirror. "And try to keep that tongue of yours in check. No one likes a clever boy with a smart mouth."

"Arms down," said the maid before Sandro had a chance to fail his mother's expectations yet again. He took to rolling his eyes instead, staring up at the gilt encrusted ceiling, wondering just how much gold was too much when it came to decorating.

"Be sure to hurry back as well," Carla continued. "You have fencing lessons once your classes are over, and your tutor will arrive after dinner."

"It doesn't help that you've uprooted my entire life dragging me to this unknown city, but now you want to dictate all of my spare time?" Sandro grimaced, his frustration evident in his cracking, youthful voice.

Carla rose slowly from her chair, dress spilling out across the marble floor. "I can sense your concern, but you must understand the opportunity your father has given the both of us." She tottered towards him on pearl-stitched slippers, lace hissing as she moved. "A beautiful manor on the East Grand. A host of servants to meet our every need. A good education in an established academy. What more could you ever want?"

"My father," is what Sandro wanted to say, but deep down he knew better. Instead, he said nothing, preferring to stare out the plate glass window where the first few rays of dawn were starting to drape onto the white-washed walls of the city.

Carla gave a tired sigh and stepped towards the mantle of the fireplace. She stared up at the massive painting of her husband, the late Lorenzo Wyverssino, dressed for battle, the large two-handed sword Zfeihander clutched between his fingers. He was standing over the corpse of a dragon, the infamous White Wyrm, the one that had propelled his family into the limelight of nobility and thus dooming Sandro to a life of scratchy collars and too little free time.

"Your father, bless his soul, gave his life so that we could live the way we do now. You should be grateful," said Carla.

Sandro frowned. "But I am grateful," he said, feeling the familiar lump in his throat any time his father was mentioned. "I just wish he was still around. That's all."

Carla gave a maudlin smile and stepped over, patting him across the cheek. "I miss him too, but that's what happens when you marry a Slayer. At the very least, his legacy can continue through you."

"Hard to carry on a legacy of killing dragons when there's none left to hunt," said Sandro, unconvinced. "Father made sure of that."

"What did I say about clever boys with smart mouths?" Carla clicked her tongue, lips curling into a frown.

"All done." proclaimed the maid before Sandro could answer her. "Turn around, please."

Sandro faced the mirror, surprised at how well he looked. The doublet the maid had chosen fit him rather well, a vibrant slash of black and yellow with coiled puffs around the shoulders and cuffs that made his arms appear larger than they had any right being.

"I look like I could strangle a dragon with my bare hands," muttered Sandro.

"I'm told that outfit is considered the highest form of fashion in Hespania," said Carla. "I spent a lot of money to make sure you'd look good on your first day."

Sandro forced himself to smile. "It looks....great. I'm sure I'll make a good first impression with the other students."

"And your hat, sir." The maid turned around, holding what looked like a wad of bedsheets with a peacock feather sticking out of it.

Sandro's eyes went wide. "Absolutely not."

"But darling," cooed Carla, a hint of venom laced within her words. "The ensemble is incomplete without it. At least try it on."

Gingerly, Sandro took the hat and placed it on his head. He stared at the mirror, turning this way and that as if hoping some new angle would leave him satisfied, but the more he looked, the more he felt like a dandy than the son of a noble Slayer.

"Well? What do you think?"

Sandro paused, wondering exactly what to say. "it...It looks wonderful, mother."

"Oh, good." Sandro's mother clasped her hands together as she made for the armoire, procuring a long pendant from one of the drawers, the orange gem at its center gleaming brightly in the sunlight. "And your outfit won't be complete without this." She slipped the silver chain around his neck, letting the jewel hang there. "Your father would have loved to see you wear it."

Sandro winced as he cradled the gem between his fingers, the jewel strangely warm in his grasp. "The White Wyrm's greatest treasure," he whispered breathlessly.

"Just as you were to Lorenzo." Carla sniffed and turned away, staring up at the morning sky. "Well, best hurry along now. You wouldn't want to be late on your first day of school."

***

Sandro was incredibly late for school. He ran down the street, passing market stalls and alleyways, searching frantically for the academy's bell tower, cursing every time he lost sight of it. He hurled down a narrow avenue, the walls closing in as it constricted into a single path. His boots slapped against the cobblestones as he looked back up, but the high rooftops left only a sliver of sky for him to see.

"Curses!" Sandro skidded to a stop, his thoughts racing. He'd never been late before, and now he'd have to suffer the embarrassment of arriving several hours past schedule. Angrily he tore his hat off and kicked it, feeling satisfied as it sailed overhead before careening into a nearby sign.

Sandro stopped to stare. The wooden placard rattled off two rusty chains, creaking gently against the impact. The sign itself wasn't interesting, though, but the words written on the surface in cursive.

"The Last Sunset," muttered Sandro as he peered through one of the windows. A large mouth full of sharp teeth smiled back at him, and he gasped, launching clear across the other side of the road. He blinked as he realized that the thing flashing daggers at him wasn't real but merely a painting.

Of a dragon.

"Hello?" A head poked out of the doorway, beady eyes staring over a shock of curly, white beard, mustaches twitching curiously. "Is anyone there?" an old man stepped out, his bald pate gleaming in the sunlight, his lean body dressed in strange yellow robes that clasped at the neck.

"I," stuttered Sandro, realizing how foolish he looked nearly jumping out of his skin at the sight of the painting. "I was just admiring your work, sir."

"Oh?" the old man beamed at him, revealing a set of perfect teeth. "It's not every day you meet someone so young who appreciates their beauty." he waved Sandro inside, beckoning him with one hand. "Well, don't be a stranger. Come in!"

Sandro stood there a moment, wondering if he should. He was already late enough as it was, but then again, there wasn't really such a thing as being too late. Besides, what harm was there to stop and admire an old man's paintings?

As Sandro stepped inside, he was greeted by a menagerie of dragons, each one a unique type. There were long necks and snub noses, bipeds and quadrupeds, some with wings, some with none. Each one stood in a dignifying pose, pride flashing in their painted eyes, scales glistening a kaleidoscope of colors.

"How wonderful," said Sandro. He'd never seen dragons painted with such majesty before. In the past he'd only ever seen them beaten, defeated, one Slayer or another standing over them triumphantly, but this was different. These dragons had been painted with both love and reverence.

"I'm so glad to hear that," said the old man. He held out a hand. "My name is Ciciro Soprasuto. I'm the owner of this little gallery."

"Sandro Wyverssino."

Ciciro's hand flinched back momentarily. "Wyverssino? Would you by chance be the son of Lorenzo Wyverssino?"

Sandro hesitated. "That's correct."

Ciciro's lips curled into a sad little smile, much to Sandro's surprise. "My, my. The son of the legendary Wyrm Slayer, here at my door."

"You knew my father?" asked Sandro, worried how the man would react.

Ciciro nodded and stepped towards one of the larger paintings. "I knew of him, in a sense." The old man waved him over. "Come here for a moment. I've something to show you."

Sandro followed warily, worried what Ciciro was wanting him to see before his anxiety melted away as he stared up at the painting.

It was the White Wyrm. Not like the one in his father's painting where its body lay crumpled against the ground, blood leeching into the snow. Instead, it stood proudly over a crest in the mountainside, talons digging into the stone, wings unfurled as if to catch the wind. Its long neck craned out in a mighty roar, the scales on its chest appearing opaque, a tiny orange glow shimmering behind.

"She's beautiful," said Sandro.

"I'm surprised you can tell the difference," praised Ciciro.

"Father used to tell me the ones with the glowing chests were almost always female. Something about how it was used to attract a mate."

Ciciro nodded. "Your father was a clever man. Did he ever tell you why that was?" Sandro shook his head. "It's because when two dragons come together, they do so for life, and the fire born from that bond makes their hearts glow bright. That way, no matter where their mate may be, all a dragon has to do is follow the light, and he would find his true love once more."

The old man stared at the painting reverently. "You know, the White Wyrm had a different name back then."

"She did?" asked Sandro.

"Mhmm. She was once known as the Moon Dragon, and just like the moon, the Sun Dragon was her eternal mate. They would chase each other across the skies, soaring freely, unburdened by those on the ground." Ciciro cast his eyes down. "Until," and he trailed off.

"Until my father killed her," said Sandro, a new lump forming in his throat this time.

"Indeed," murmured Ciciro. A heavy silence fell over the gallery as Sandro considered the painting once more. He stared at the Moon Dragon's majesty, her powerful, lithe form, her glowing heart. Without realizing it, he'd rested a hand around his neck, where the jewel lay beneath his shirt.

"What happened to the Sun Dragon, Ciciro?" Sandro asked. The old man looked at him.

"He disappeared from my understanding. Without his mate, he had nothing left to chase after. My guess," And Ciciro shrugged his shoulders. "He's probably hiding somewhere, waiting for his turn."

Sandro's fingers worked around the collar of his shirt as he tugged at the pendant. He sucked in a tight breath as the jewel came out sparkling like the sun itself, the once gentle warmth now radiating with heat. He stared up at Ciciro, seeing the man with an entirely new clarity as he unclasped the chain and placed the jewel tenderly into his hand.

"I think he can rest a little easier now," said Sandro.

Ciciro stared down at the gem, thumb brushing against the polished surface. With a single tear streaking down his cheek, he smiled. 

"I think you're right."