text: [Themes: fantasy, fantasy, socially important, war, historical]
  
  A day like any other
  
  As the rooster crows, the sunlight heralds a new day. Just once, it would be nice to sleep in a dungeon instead of a royal bed. At least then you wouldn't have to wake up to daily sparring sessions with Luca. That boy is way too obsessed with war.
  
  speak of the brandishing devil.
  
  The unmistakable banging of wood against the door, then the wall, then the bedpost is followed by the less-welcome exclamation that the sun is already half-risen. The extra hour of sleep means that between practice and father's arrival from the hunt there will be no time for breakfast. If they bring back a boar it'll work out for the best I suppose.
  
  "Marrow, are you ready or not? I've been waiting long enough."
  
  "Calm down Luca, one missed practice means nothing. We're not even at war. Besides, royals don't fight anymore. We make a pretty speech to the front line of the cavalry and stay behind while they charge into battle. At this point, knowing how to fight is just a formality."
  
  Luca swung around suddenly with his wooden sword, almost catching you by surprise - but not quite. A quick side-step and the rough blade's arc misses by more than an inch. Seizing the advantage, you rush Luca, and tackle him. The sword's momentum wrenches it from his hand as he is flung backwards to the ground. Knowing your strength in hand-to-hand combat he twists to the side and rolls away on impact, rising and backing away in acknowledgement.
  
  "Just a formality? A prince should think of nothing but the art of war. When you command the cavalry to charge into battle, if by your lack of planning they do so to their doom, what then? You're left idle, in the open, undefended. Defenseless. You think your fat slob of a father could lead his soldiers into battle and hope to win? He relies on his advisors and military commanders for every little thing, taking it upon himself to do little other than hunt and feast and hunt and feast. He provides no service or protection for his people, relying on their loyalty to the valor of his ancestors while doing nothing to earn some for himself. If this wasn't a hereditary principality he would have been toppled long ago and his usurper would have done his best to eliminate you as his primary threat. What, no words?"
  
  The truth stung, but less than the alternative of ignoring it: an eventual enemy's spear in the gut. By this point you had made it to the sparring grounds and initiated battle stances. Jab, parry, swing. Lunge, parry, feign into a counter. Repeat until wood feels like lead.
  
  Soon, the sun was glistening overhead and you are both covered with sweat and grime. Heaving, you struggle to battle each other into submission, unwilling as a matter of pride to be the first to call a break. A familiar horn blows in the distance. Father is riding home.
  
  > You're hungry - Go greet your old man: Go to section 2
  After dousing each other with water from a nearby well, you and Luca quickly change into clean clothes and ride to meet your father at the western end of the village. A thick road travels from the armory-stables for a mile out before it disappears into a thicker forest, lush and with green and full of fattened boars who spend their days scouring the ground for tasty roots or tastier eggs. No doubt, even father's hunting party would have managed to capture a hog worth remembering.
  
  But today, something was off. The riders emerged out of the brush not in a brisk trot, laden down with the spoils of the hunt, but in a faster canter. There was no formation, either. It was as if they scattered in the forest and made individual beelines for the town without regrouping. Some horses came from the left, other the right, seemingly without pattern. And where were the others? More than 40 riders and a handful of servants had left in the early morning. You count barely 20.
  
  Desperately, you scan the armor of the survivors, finally relieved when you see your father's insignia on a black stallion's helmet - a gold-adorned book. Ralin is a respected king, but he cares more about the wisdom of his court than the welfare of his people. Born rich through the hard-earned taxes paid by those loyal to his father, Ralin spent his money not on necessities but on silver vases, rich cloth-of-gold, marbled statues and commissioned paintings. If it came at a reasonable price it was not permitted in his castle. He even purchased original manuscripts in Greek, Latin and Hebrew which he himself was unable to read. Luca once said they wouldn't have been worth reading anyway. He was probably right.
  
  Dismounting with the help of Garik, his man-at-arms, Ralin leads you and the remainder of the entourage into the castle's chamber of reflection, a room with a thrusted stage surrounded on three sides by tiered seating. In the center, a table where maps could be laid out and figurines positioned to discuss and plan strategy. Garik had not always been by Ralin's side. As he was not of noble birth, the king distrusted the soldier when he first came to the court in exile from another land where he fought for the losing side. Having been given the opportunity to make an impression, Garik won favor on the battlefield and once even saved the king's life, becoming one of his most-trusted advisors in the process. Impatiently, you tap him on the shoulder and glare, your eyes asking the only question - 'what happened?'
  
  As he takes his helmet off getting ready to speak you suddenly understand. His eyebrows singed off his face and his left cheek a dry and waxy landscape of red and crisp black. You think, he says, in tandem: "dragon."
  
  "We saw two beasts today the likes of which we had never seen before. The first was a boar, stronger and faster than a dozen of his brethren. Nine feet long and likely over a thousand pounds, he would have fed the town for a week and a day. We should have given up when after an hour of stalking he proved that he could outrun us, but your father is not a practical man. Once he sees the greatest instance of anything desirable, he demands to have it for himself. Convinced that the great boar would tire before our horses, he pressed us on until we had gone deeper into the forest than ever before. When we finally caught up to the boar, it had been caught itself, its carcass licked clean by the second beast: a fire-breathing dragon. Its nostrils puffing plumes of airy smoke in contentment, it might not have noticed us if we had but turned around and fled, but alas your father was curious about this beast, too. King Ralin always instructs us that knowledge is chiefly important and necessary for he who is ignorant has nothing in his mind that merits being said. As he puts it, 'whoever heard of a silent king?'"
  
  "Better a dumb fool than a dead sage"
  
  "Indeed. King Ralin sent his most graceful courtier to approach the dragon. Bowing, the courtier respectfully communicated that we meant no harm and wished only to learn the dragon's ways and to receive permission to explore its chosen lair for food and lumber. The dragon, though it obviously understood him, cocked its head to the side as if considering a different question. Making up its mind, in a matter of seconds it ate first the courtier and then the courtier's horse. Then it realized it was surrounded by all manner of courtiers and horses. Then it realized it was still hungry. We were in disarray. A few brave souls charged the dragon in glorious combat while the rest of us scattered in all directions away from it before fleeing home, painfully aware that we were ill-equipped to fight it. By then too fattened to give chase, the dragon unleashed a circle of fire, roasting alive those closest. I barely escaped with my life. It roared that we were quite tasty and that when hungry again it would come and eat the rest of us. Perhaps it would have been smarter to run the other way but fear overcame us and we fled for the comfort of home. Now it knows where we live, and its coming."
  
  By now, everyone had taken their seat and Ralin was ready to speak. He had just finished rolling out a meticulously drawn out map of the surrounding lands. He himself was an artist because he considered it very noble and worthy in itself, but in times of war when it was necessary to plan out a strategy, there was great utility in drawing of towns, forests, and surrounding farmland. Looking out into the audience, he paused as if to process the reason for why the room was unusually empty.
  
  "My friends, today is a terrible day. We have built our town mere miles away from a bloodthirsty dragon. Perhaps if we never approached him we would have continued to farm and hunt and thrive in peace without incident, but we no longer have the luxury of dwelling on the past. The time will come to mourn, but now is the time to survive. According to my books, dragons eat about once a week. Our friends' deaths, as meaningless as they may seem, have bought us a little time to prepare. That being said, I'm open to suggestions as to what to do next."
  
  Garik, his burnt face still peeling, was the first to offer a suggestion. "We ride out to kill it. Upon my honor and the honor of my fallen comrades and the honor of all our ancestors, we cannot let this beast live. If we wait for it to come to us, it will choose when and how to engage, slowly roasting us one by one until we no longer have the strength to resist it." As if to play devil's advocate, Garik shivered in pain from his wound for a moment until Luca rushed over and steadied him.
  
  "While I would normally agree that war is not to be avoided, but is only put off to the advantage of your enemy, in this case I would counsel that it is more prudent to defend from within the castle walls than to fight the dragon on the open battlefield. We have sufficient supplies within the towns' fortifications to last a year's time, and there is more than enough static artillery to fend off the dragon, the wielding of which would be difficult in the plains and impossible in the forest. We must handle this danger practically, no matter how much the loss of our brothers may make our blood boil.
  
  The king, motioning for further input and receiving none, turns to you.
  
  "My son, there are a great number of things which I am good at, and I once thought that by virtue of those skills I was good at all the other skills, too, but I am no great leader. I am an adviser, a counsel, a scribe, but it is not my place to determine our wisest course of action. In this time of great crisis, I recognize my flaws and pass the crown of leadership unto you. What should we do?"
  
  > ride out and fight the dragon head on in its lair: Go to section 3
  Preparations were brief, but thorough. Weapons were forged, flame-resistant flax clothing was spun to adorn both the warriors and the horses, and interim leadership was appointed in case it turned out to be a suicide mission.
  
  Finally, you rode out into the forest. Garik and Luca accompanied you, along with your thirty bravest men. It took about a day to reach the dragon's lair.
  
  There it was, sleeping. Even as it exhaled, thin tongues of flame licked the evening air. Garik, unable to control himself, made a move forward while clenching. You hold him back. "Calm yourself. We have but one chance to kill the beast. If it wakes –"
  
  You were blinded by the light reflecting off of Garik's helmet. Seconds later you couldn't see for a very different reason.
  
  The End