The room grows heavier with silence, and I do my best to blend into the background.
Honestly, this isn't my problem. Enchanted forest? Dragon king? All of it is way above my pay grade, and nothing good ever comes from anything starting with "dragon king." Nothing. So, I'll let the old-timers handle this. I'm the youngest one here, right? Being young has its perks—like not getting dragged into heavy, world-ending issues.
But my master plan of total invisibility falls apart the moment the first man slams his fist on the table. The sound startles me, and I nearly jump out of my chair.
"Explain yourself, Barten!" he roars, his face red with fury. "Your guild was supposed to have wiped out the dragons generations ago! How can this still be happening?"
All eyes lock onto Barten, an unshakable man with an air of perpetual indifference. He doesn't flinch, answering in a calm, almost bored tone.
"Tch... Dragons have been extinct for over a century. If a new dragon king has appeared, he didn't come from here. Maybe he's from a neighboring zone, or perhaps another magical plane. Either way, it's not my guild's fault." He pauses, then fixes his gaze on the other man. "And I won't let you suggest otherwise."
The tension in the room is electric. But the second woman cuts through it with a sharp command.
"Enough!" she snaps, her tone like a blade. "This is no time for pointless squabbling. We have a much bigger issue to address."
Her words defuse the situation—barely. The two men break eye contact, each grumbling under their breath.
Then, the first woman speaks, her voice unnervingly calm. "A dragon king… This complicates matters," she murmurs, as if to herself. Her fingers trace slow circles on the polished surface of the table before she continues. "The enchanted forest was already unstable. This could shatter the peace."
I stifle a yawn. Alliances, peace, geopolitical tensions—it's all a headache waiting to happen.
Honestly, they don't need me here for this. There are plenty of them to argue over the details, and I have nothing to add to the conversation anyway.
My thoughts start to drift, my eyelids growing heavier. A quick nap couldn't hurt, right? They're all too wrapped up in their debates to notice.
I let my head rest gently on my hand, my mind already wandering to more pleasant places. But before I can fully slip away, a sudden, jarring shove to my back yanks me back to reality.
"Ugh!" I nearly topple out of my chair, my peaceful escape brutally interrupted.
Spinning around, I see the first man grinning at me with a smug expression. Of course, it's him. Who else would dare interrupt my moment of peace?
"Well, Magister Roskales," he says, his tone serious but his eyes glinting with mischief, "what's your take on all this?"
What? Me? My still-groggy brain kicks into panic mode. Why me? Why now? I glance around the room, hoping for some kind of reprieve, but every single pair of eyes is locked onto me. Even old Barten, who's usually too indifferent to care, is watching me with a flicker of curiosity. And the first woman? She just stares at me, her lips curling into the faintest of smirks. She knows. She knows I'm completely lost.
"Uh…" I clear my throat, stalling for time. "Well… I mean…"
They keep waiting, their piercing gazes drilling into me like I signed up for this. My brain is running on empty, scrambling for anything remotely intelligent to say. But let's be real: dragon kings? Enchanted forests? None of this is in my wheelhouse.
So, in the end, I just blurt out the first thing that pops into my head:
"...I think it's a good idea to, uh… not provoke a dragon. You know, because of the fire."
A heavy silence falls over the room. My face heats up, and I'm positive I've just said the dumbest thing imaginable.
Then, against all odds, Barten bursts into laughter. "You're not wrong, kid. Not wrong at all."
I sit up a little straighter, feigning a confidence I definitely don't feel. Maybe I'll survive this after all. But deep down, only one thought dominates my mind: This is the last time I'm coming to one of these meetings.
The silence stretches again after my response, hanging thick in the enormous meeting hall. My heart pounds so loudly I'm convinced everyone can hear it. Still, I force myself to maintain a calm façade, as if I've got everything under control. Maybe, just maybe, everyone will forget this moment ever happened. But of course, luck has never been on my side.
"How fascinating, Magister Roskales," the first woman suddenly says, her voice smooth and controlled. Her smirk widens ever so slightly, and I don't like the glint of amusement in her eyes one bit. "It seems you have a certain… philosophy when it comes to dragons. Perhaps you could enlighten us further?"
Why is it always her who insists on pushing me into a corner? Obviously, I have no "philosophy" about dragons. My comment about fire and caution was just a desperate attempt to fill the awkward silence, not some grand strategy.
"Well, uh…" I stammer, fumbling for words, but she cuts me off before I can dig myself into a deeper hole.
"Actually, I have an idea," she says, her eyes lighting up with a spark I find deeply unsettling. She crosses her arms and tilts her head slightly, like she's sizing me up. "You said we shouldn't provoke a dragon. An interesting observation. So perhaps you, with your… refreshingly unique wisdom, should take charge of this crisis."
"Me?" I nearly fall out of my chair, still reeling from her outrageous suggestion.
"Why not?" she counters, her tone light and breezy, like she's just made a harmless suggestion. "After all, you seem to think this is so simple."
The silence in the room grows heavier, oppressive enough to make breathing feel like a chore. I glance around, hoping for some kind of support, but every face is turned toward me, curiosity glinting in their eyes like predators circling their prey. Even Barten, who was laughing not long ago, now watches me with sincere interest.
"This isn't my role," I protest weakly, grasping for any escape route. "I'm here to represent my guild, not to embark on reckless adventures."
But she doesn't back down. Her fingers drum lightly on the table, that infuriating smile still plastered on her lips. "Then let's make a bet."
A bet? The mere word sends a wave of dread through me.
"If you manage to resolve this crisis on your own, without the council's help," she begins, her tone almost leisurely, "we'll grant you permission to never attend another meeting again."
A shiver runs down my spine. It's tempting—almost too good to be true. No more endless, sterile debates, no more condescending stares… But, of course, there's a catch. There's always a catch.
"And if I fail?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
"Then," she replies with a triumphant glint in her eyes, "you'll be in charge of organizing all council meetings for the next two years."
I swallow hard. Organizing meetings? That sounds even worse than attending them. My mind screams at me to refuse, to come up with any excuse to get out of this. But another part of me—the part that refuses to show weakness—pushes back. I can't afford to look pathetic in front of everyone.
The words slip out before I can stop them: "Fine."
A murmur ripples through the room. The woman seems momentarily surprised, but her smile only widens. "Perfect. We have a deal."
And just like that, I've doomed myself to an impossible task.
The first man, the one who teased me earlier, bursts into laughter. "Magister Roskales, you've just signed up for the worst mission possible. But who knows? Maybe you'll surprise us."
I roll my eyes, but inside, I'm spiraling into despair. Handling a crisis involving a dragon king? Me? The guy who can't even show up to a meeting on time?
The meeting drags on, but I can't focus on anything else. My mind is too busy conjuring every possible way this could go wrong. One thing's for sure: I'm screwed.
---
Stretched out on the stiff chair in Aunt Libel's office, I let out a long, theatrical sigh. My arms dangle limply over the sides, and my head lolls back in a pose worthy of the tragic heroes from ancient legends. The only difference is, I'm no hero, and my tragedy isn't remotely epic.
I'm just… done. Finished. Completely wrecked. Not literally, of course, but it feels like it.
My life is a mess. No, the mess. Monumental, abyssal, bottomless. And the worst part? I can't even blame fate, a mortal enemy, or some cursed prophecy. Nope. This one's all on me. I dug this hole, and now I'm stuck in it. Bravo, Nash! A masterstroke. Shall we have a round of applause?
I sit up slightly, glancing around. Aunt Libel's office is a masterclass in organized chaos. Stacks of files teeter on the edge of collapsing, open spellbooks lay scattered across the desk, and, of course, a half-empty cup of tea proudly occupies one corner like some kind of trophy.
But where is Aunt Libel?
"Uh… Aunt Libel?" I call out, just dramatic enough to convey my silent plea for rescue.
And then, right on cue—as if she'd been waiting for the perfect moment to make her entrance—the door creaks open. She steps in with a grin so wide it practically glows, the look of someone who knows something you don't. And, of course, she's laughing. Yes, laughing.
Since I got here, that's all she's done: look at me like I'm the funniest joke of the year. I stare at her, incredulous, as her laughter spills out, warm and genuine, almost infectious. Almost. But I'm not laughing. Instead, I cross my arms and glare.
"Oh, Nash, my boy," she says finally, catching her breath between chuckles. "You really are a show all on your own."
I narrow my eyes. "Seriously? You could at least try not to mock me."
She waves a hand dismissively, still giggling. "Oh, come on. Don't make that face. You'll be fine. I promise."
I'm not buying it. Her tone drips with mischief, and that smug smile only makes things worse. With a defeated sigh, I sink back into the chair, arms folded across my chest like a sulking teenager.
It's official: my life is a comedy, and Aunt Libel is the audience who refuses to leave.
To be continued!
Next Chapter: Research an Assistant