Chapter Text

Part One: Dragons

A Pink Rathian flew above them, disrupting the clouds with its wings. 

Lear looked up at it; a hand covering his gaze from the sunlight. Goggles sat atop his head which he could have easily used to stare, but their red frames would have washed the dragon out.

“Master Lear, we should keep going,” Sawyer suggested. He and Rachel stood ahead of him on the path, waiting for his attention to return. There was a fork in the road, one led to their camp and the other deeper into the wilderness. “Unless you’d prefer to hunt.”

A hammer hung off of Sawyer’s back; Lear had often found himself staring at the thing, wondering how he could carry it so easily. It was made from Pukei-Pukei, a local wyvern which stored poison in its body. Sawyer was the strongest of the three of them. 

Rachel wasn’t so special. She specialized in the insect glaive, a weapon which could catapult her into the air and gave commands to the insect harbored within. Her armor was light in comparison to theirs. He’d never found himself lingering on either of their combat styles for more than a few moments.

They weren’t his friends, he reminded himself. They were just retainers assigned to him by his father to ensure his son didn’t die alone in the dragon-infested land he’d run away to.

Lear himself was a master of both the heavy bowgun and dual blades. The latter were what he’d spent his childhood being trained in by tutors; the bowgun was a recent development he’d been teaching himself, to Rachel and Sawyer’s mounting anxieties. His armor was accented by the bright, hot pink scales of a dragon. It was only coincidence that he sometimes blended into nearby coral patches, but, with his retainers’ dull and uninteresting choices in armor sets, the advantage was never of much use.

“Let’s leave it alone, we have enough rations for now,” he decided. Lear stretched his arms above his head and groaned, equipment rattling as he performed the action. “We can visit the camp, then keep looking for the prince’s group. They’re focusing on ecology, right? Where would they make their camp…”

The Coral Highlands had three levels, though they all felt quite similar. The lowest level was where non-flying dragons tended to live. Water flowed down from the higher levels and pooled down there. Smaller monsters like the Kelbi and Raphinos—both herbivores low on the food chain. Monsters like the Tzitzi-Ya-Ku tended to haunt the area and attack any humans it saw there, so Lear avoided the place on principle. Rachel liked visiting it though, probably because she loved seeing the Coralbirds fluttering around the water. She always talked about taking some back home with her.

The second floor was Lear’s home—or, at least, he’d made it into one. All kinds of dragons loved to fly overhead, claiming whatever dared to set foot out in the open as their prey. Anytime he went there, Sawyer was always a step behind with eyes to the sky.

But, the third floor was where the dragons slept. Their nests, and their eggs, were there.

The Hunters’ Guild loved to send people up there to steal them. Lear never had the energy to try and stop them; the dragons were usually able to catch them, though their eggs always ended up broken. A shame.

“They’d, like, be totally interested in that Pink Rathian,” Rachel chimed in. They were walking through the open area of the second floor, approaching one of Lear’s camps. He refused to use any of the two created by the Hunter’s Guild. “Should we, like, race them to its nest? Wouldn’t killin' one of the strongest predators in the locale show your, uh, superiority or somethin’?”

Lear laughed as he caught up to them. “That would be interesting.” He considered it, but knew there would be nothing to gain but gore. “No, we should focus on finding them outside of battle.”

Sawyer grabbed his shoulder when he came into reach, not-so-subtly looking over his armor. Lear rolled his eyes. He hadn’t battled a dragon in days; there wasn’t even any blood to clean off his scales. Lear and Rachel continued to toss ideas back and forth about what the prince’s group could be doing, though Sawyer kept silent. His steady hand on Lear’s shoulder continually pushed him forward.

After they scrambled between the collection of dead corals guarding his campsite, they discovered two people waiting for them there. The two looked like twins; both with dull blue hair and matching eyes. They looked young, too, which was odd. Lear had always been the youngest person in the New World for the decade he’d been here. Maybe, a new fleet had come in?

“Hiii!” Rachel called out to them, waving a greeting. So overly familiar… and Sawyer was still holding onto him tight, as if expecting him to bolt at any moment. “So, you two are the new hunters, right?”

“Yeah!” the girl twin grinned wide as she faced Rachel, but anxiety flashed across her features when she looked at Lear. “Uh, hello, Lear. I’m Bettie, and this is my twin brother Scottie. The admiral said you’d probably have… no idea what’s going on,” she laughed awkwardly. Lear let his gaze rake over them. She had knives on her back and a piece of paper clenched in a fist. Scottie’s shoulders were relaxed against the weight of a bow, glancing between Lear and his sister with no obvious emotion guiding him. His extra supplies were laid against the wall behind them. “But, he said you’d be willing to help us.”

“He did?” Lear said. There was no violence or anger in his tone or demeanor, and yet everyone stiffened up—almost in spite of his efforts. “What else has my father decided for me, then?”

Rachel’s smile dropped. Sawyer’s grip was as tight as one would use on a misbehaving animal; punishment before the reward. 

“He just said that you’d give us some hands-on teaching for our weapons!” Bettie hurried to say. “And, show us around the Coral Highlands. He said you’re the person who knows this place the best. You know, since you…”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Rachel advised in a quiet tone. As if he couldn’t hear. “Please.”

Lear huffed like the feral dog they were treating him like; he almost wished he was one, just so they could see his fury in a whipping tail instead of narrowed eyes. “No,” Lear spat, “I’m not. I won’t just take his scraps. You two turn back around, go back to him, and tell him to find you a real mentor.”

Scottie scowled at him, grabbed the note from his sister’s hands, and slapped it against Lear’s chest. The sound echoed. He couldn’t feel a thing through his armor. Sawyer’s presence curled like a collar around him; it was no substitute for a muzzle.

“You think you’re so strong, don’t you, kid? Have you even seen a dragon that isn’t already dead? Seen its eyes burn with hatred—for you?” Lear laughed obnoxiously loud as he pulled the letter from Scottie’s hand. If it didn’t meet his eyes, well, it wasn’t like any of them were looking. “Got tired of dissections? Wanted to prove to mommy and daddy that you’re something to be proud of?”

Bettie was still, eyes welling up with hurt. Scottie looked like he was going to blow up and start using the bow on his back for target practice. They didn’t stand a chance against him—even without a weapon, even without armor, they were nothing. Why had his father even bothered granting their request? They obviously had nothing going for them if they were out in the wilderness picking fights.

Lear, the letter read.

According to the researchers, the Elder Crossing will be happening in twenty days. Be careful. Train these two—they have a mission to hunt a Pink Rathian and Paolumu—then come back home. Don’t chase after stupid dreams.

Your father,

Rowan Falstelo.

Before he realized it, Lear’s teeth were bared in a growl. He shoved the letter into his pack, leaving it to rot with potions, antidotes, and a useless map of the Coral Highlands (courtesy of his father). His hands balled into fists; the only thing which kept him from clawing open his own palms were his gloves.

“Fine.” Lear fumed, clawing his way out of his retainer’s grip, purposefully bumping shoulders with Scottie as he passed. “Rule one: listen to your superiors. That’s me.” He plastered on a fake grin. “Rule two: don’t be a coward. Have you ever faced a monster before?”

They nodded.

“Thank god, because I would’ve—” Lear interrupted himself, shaking his head. He hastily put together two packs of necessities. “Never mind. Take these. Let’s go hunt your Pink Rathian. Have you fought one before?”

“One attacked us while we were researching, and we worked with the only hunter there to protect everyone else,” Bettie said. She rolled her shoulders; it took him a few too many moments to recognize it as a shrug. “It’s why we got promoted by your dad.”

“Do not call him my dad.” It came out instinctively. Cheeks a shade darker, he began to shove his way through the small gaps of coral leading back outside. “He’s my father.”

“Sure, okay,” Scottie butted in. He grabbed Lear’s wrist before he could escape, filled with all the furious forth-right self-righteousness of youth. If it was aimed at someone else, he might even have found it endearing. He held out his bow to Lear with an aggravating scoff. “You’re gonna pretend you’re nice now—sure. When are you going to teach us to use these?”

Lear paused as he reached forward and plucked at the string. “You draw it back… and release. It’s as easy as that; aiming’s the difficult part, or so I hear.”

Scottie groaned and looked to his sister for help. Lear made his way through the tight crevice with the twins hot on his heels, retainers lingering far behind. When they broke out, Bettie’s gaze was drawn to the sky. Lear only allowed himself a passing glance to the familiar sight, but… it really was beautiful. Small animals flew up above—almost mimicking clouds. Larger monsters would fly up as well, the Pink Rathian the easiest example. Lear always loved watching them fly.

“I expect you two already know how to fight,” Lear said, finally serious. He watched as the two’s eyes brightened at the idea of actually being taught by him. If he were someone else, it might have convinced him to do the task effectively. As it was, he had other priorities. “I also expect you two to know how to survive and depend on each other. That’s all you really need to know out here. Never go alone, and you’ll probably live until retirement.”

They nodded seriously; perfect little soldiers. Hadn’t he been like that once? Lear rolled his eyes, and began to pick up the pace.

A roar rang out above them. The green glow of scoutflies surrounded them; someone had caught a monster’s trail. The collection of bugs were stored in capsules on every hunter’s waist. The twins’ flooded out of their container at the slightest hint of the Pink Rathian’s trail. Lear watched them encircle a track left on the dirt, and allowed the two a moment to gape at the show.

He’d found it mesmerizing once, too.

Rachel and Sawyer begrudgingly marched ahead of them. Lear stayed back with the twins, face twisted up in something between envy and hatred. They looked so innocent chasing after scoutflies; he wondered if his father had looked at them and seen him… or whoever that man thought Lear was.

“You’re only here as delivery boys for my father. I hope you understand that,” Lear said. “You aren’t special.”

“Why do you make him do that?” Scottie snapped. Bettie moved along, following after the trail. Her dual blades crossed over her back; Lear carried them on either side of his waist. “He told us that you’ve stayed out here for years now, refusing to go back home, and that’s why he sent us here first instead of anywhere easier. He’s a good man, and he doesn’t deserve this treatment. Your dad—your father’s worried about you, Lear.”

“I don’t care.”

“Why not? You have someone here who clearly loves you, and wants you around, so why aren’t you—”

Lear’s shoulders shook, eyes blurring with an emotion he chose to name anger. Hands gripped the handles of his blades. “You don’t know anything about me or my father. Just because you met him once, and he was kind of nice to you doesn’t mean anything, idiot!” He drew in a sharp breath and glared at Scottie. “You wouldn’t survive a day as his son.”

Scottie stared at the sheaths of his weapons, uncertainty clear as day. Lear didn’t let go of them. The boy backed off and jogged to catch up with his sister. He followed with a slow, unhurried gait.

He watched the two run in-step; one with a bow, the other a pair of blades. Lear’s pairs of both weapons felt all the heavier. His father had probably given it to them just for the comparison, so he could have something to teach them. He was cruel like that. He’d be a fool and an idiot if he dared fall for it, so it would be the best for everyone involved if he just… hunted the two dragons down with them, then pretended like they’d never met.

Hatred was the only kindness Lear could comprehend.

They found the Pink Rathian after a few hours of following its tracks. It had flown up to the higher levels of the Coral Highlands. Lear would have wrapped a coil around one of the larger birds—a Raphinos—and flown it up, but Rachel and Sawyer glared at him when he’d brought down his goggles.

Instead of the measly twenty or forty minutes it would have taken him alone to hunt down the beast, it took the group three hours. What a waste.

They could have been hunting down that other group right now, but no—his father had just had to drop a random pair of fools on him. He’d perfected the art of wasting his son’s time.

“Look! There it is!” Bettie said to her brother. Her smile was so wide it could be compared to a waning moon. He wondered if he’d ever stretched his lips that far before; only when he was a child, he was sure. “The Pink Rathian.”

The beast slumbered in its nest. They stood in the open winds, so high up breathing became difficult. Lear had dealt with it for a number of years and was thusly unaffected, but he prepared himself for the moment mid-battle when it would make the twins stumble and falter. He would need to intervene. 

There weren’t any eggs in her nest; he was thankful. Her scales were a similar pale pink to the ones imbedded in his armor, but just a few shades off. Oppositely, Rachel and Sawyer’s armor were made out of only a creature’s bones. Every time they faced off with a Pink Rathian, Lear wished one of them would notice,—scream their fury at the world, barrel into the two with a new desire for vengeance—but they never did. 

He hoped the creature whom he wore the scales of would recognize him when the time came, but wasn’t so delusional as to believe it.

It drew in a deep breath as Bettie turned toward Lear. She gestured, as if to say aren’t you supposed to be doing something?, but he stayed still.

“It’s your mission.” Lear crossed his arms. “So, kill a Pink Rathian. I’ll give you some tips as we go.”

“What?” Scottie whisper-yelled. “No, we are not, we don’t have antidotes for its poison, and we don’t have the best armor, so we can’t. You’re obviously experienced with killing these things, so just… lead us, Lear.”

He walked past the group. The dragon’s exhalation ruffled his hair—it almost felt like flying in the clouds. He turned to face the twins before drawing his lips back into a grin. “Don’t get hit then!” he yelled.

Lear didn’t turn around; the poison-tipped tail whipped in an arc around its body as it stood up. The Pink Rathian screeched its furies at them. He thought it was probably more annoyed at their presence in its nest than it was over hunting rights—that’s what most dragon-on-dragon spats were about—or territory. Its wings rose up high above its head as a display of aggression.

The twins were shaking.

Scottie drew his bow, and shot at its face; from the lack of a response, Lear presumed he’d missed. He stood just in front of the dragon, grin unchanged. A part of him wished his father could be here just so he could show him just how realized his dreams really were.

Bettie screamed as she rushed forward with her dual blades, one in each hand. The steel of the weapon was as big as her torso. Smoke filled the air as the Pink Rathian lifted itself off the ground. Its wings drummed a violent song; Lear danced to it. He hopped from one foot to the other, laughing like a little kid, as fireballs spat from the monster’s maw. Bettie screamed.

“If you’re on fire, put yourself out before going back to fight!” he advised. As he twirled through a turn, he saw Scottie’s look of fury; a new height of anger! He had his bow aimed at Lear. “Aim at the dragon, not me! What do you think you’d get from killing me, anyway?”

He turned and fired three shots, two landing on the dragon’s wings. “The satisfaction,” Scottie spat.

“Better earn it then.”

Bettie ran to her brother’s side, body shrinking in on her. It contorted her into something small and vulnerable; it defined her shape into one only predators could identify. She said something to her twin that Lear couldn’t catch. 

Easy prey, the monster thought. Lear could taste murder deep in his throat, one he’d committed before and one he’d be forced to commit again. But, these weren’t dragons he was looking at. They were people… but how much did that really matter?

How human was a person, and how human was a dragon? Who deserved to live more?

The Pink Rathian was a truly beautiful thing. Her scales told a story; she was young, only just nearing the age of bearing her own children. Perhaps, she’d only left her own nest a few years ago. An adolescent—just like him; the only difference between them was the addition of scale and wings, really.

The Pink Rathian roared before performing a tail flip—aimed right at two idiots who were too busy looking at each other to see it coming.

Lear’s smile dropped. His eyes focused. He stopped breathing.

He dug his boots into the ground as he broke into a sprint, and between one stride and the next disappeared from sight. His retainers watched on with an air of unease, too far from the action to intervene. Lear re-appeared a few feet from where he’d begun, and with the next stride completed the same arc. His body slammed into the twins’ seconds before the Pink Rathian’s tail.

The two’s faces sunk into stone, scraping them up. Lear prevented himself from meeting the same fate by pushing down on their shoulders. 

“Never look away from a dragon!” he snapped, digging a boot into Scottie’s leg as he got up. Lear grabbed his Bowgun off of his back. He settled down a few feet away from them—aiming and firing at the dragon’s face. It roared, stunned. “You’re fine?”

Fat tears ran down Bettie’s face. Small scraps tore up her cheek, and a part of her hair was still on fire, but besides that she looked fine. Scottie wasn’t hurt at all.

“You’re fine. Get up. This isn’t over until someone dies.”

Rachel and Sawyer ran over; Lear nodded to them and stepped back. He stood back and watched as his retainers assisted the new hunters with an ease Lear knew he’d never possess. They often claimed to strangers that he “wasn’t a people person”, and that held its own strange truths.

Lear had never felt comfortable around people. Not his father, not Rachel and Sawyer, and especially not Scottie and Bettie. His mother had been easy enough to be around, but she’d been stolen away from him a decade ago—and then, the creature who’d shown him the most kindness after her death had been stolen from him too.

Even when he begged with all might, his father never faltered. He hadn’t allowed Lear to return to the Coral Highlands until he’d forced the issue by running away and refusing to return. Maybe, the note was just another ploy to lock him up away from danger. 

But, it could be true—and if it was, then it would all be worth it. Even if he had to return to that place his father called home.

The capital of the New World had never been much of a place to live, let alone to thrive, for Lear. His father was always managing some kind of political game there. There was always a dragon laid out in the center, pumped with so many drugs they wouldn’t wake even for death. He tired of that senseless violence, of their dissections and searches for answers they would never understand. They’d asked him so many questions and called him insane when he spoke the truth.

It was a city of cages and chains; Rachel and Sawyer were an extension of it, and his father guided their hands just as well as any other puppeteer. Lear was so tired of being locked away.

Eventually, the Pink Rathian released its final, desperate scream as Sawyer’s hammer battered into its skull. There was no family to save it. Everyone else huddled around it and pulled out carving knives to find their own trophies to bring home. Rachel and Sawyer took the meatiest parts, leaving the scales and teeth and claws for the new hunters. He took no part in this cruel showmanship.

Lear cast a cold look upon the corpse of the monster they’d felled and, as Bettie’s knife sunk into its chest, said, “Have you ever wondered if they had a family, too? We could be cutting apart someone’s mother.”

Scottie and Bettie looked at him in abject horror. She tore her hand away from her weapon to hold them both over her chest; it was as if she believed if she didn’t touch it, then the blood would never be on her hands. Their shoulders shook as they both seemed to consider whether to continue their desecration. Or, at least Bettie did. Scottie just looked angry. It would have lasted longer if only Rachel hadn’t laughed.

“He always says stuff like that, don’t worry!” she assured the twins. “It’s nothing personal, he’s just…” He was still staring at the dragon’s unseeing eyes, Lear realized. If he let his vision blur enough, he could almost see someone else. “Different.”

Lear rolled his eyes, and turned away from the group. It was silent save for the sound of skin and sinew tearing away from the corpse. 

His sight lingered on the beauty surrounding him. Coral jutted from the ground, creating their own walls around what was… or perhaps could have been the Pink Rathian’s nest. The sky was a deep blue—an alien shade compared to the one everyone else knew. The Coral Highlands were special in this way. They sat above the Rotten Vale; a heaven to its hell. Monsters crawled into the vale to die, and the highlands used their energy in its recreation of paradise.

Twenty days until the Elder Crossing, Lear thought. It can’t come soon enough.

The Elder Crossing was a cataclysmic event where an elder dragon—one so strong and with powers so grand no human could ever hope of killing them—would trek from the Old World to the new one. Competitors and decomposers alike followed in its wake. The last time the event had happened was a month after the First Fleet arrived in the New World. Lear had only just begun his lessons for the dual blades, and his mother was making her first friends in this new place.

Dragons overtook their home. She hid him away in the darkness—so deep he could hear nothing but his own breathing. She promised to come find him once safety came, but never did. Lear dragged himself from the cellar after what felt like days of piercing hunger and potent terror only to find her gone. 

When he discovered his father, he’d gotten the briefest touch on his shoulder before being sent off with strangers. Learn to fight, his father had asked of him. It was one of the only of his requests Lear could recall completing to the man’s satisfaction. 

The group he was sent away with had been hunting the exotic creatures drawn to the New World, but their eyes were set on one in particular: a pink-scaled dragon whose scales could induce teleportation. They had wanted to kill it and skin it; they’d failed their mission to a gross degree, and yet Lear was thankful for it.

He hoped the dragon would follow the next Elder Dragon back to their home.

“What’s up with your armor? You disappeared when you tackled us,” Scottie asked. Lear did not turn to face him; mind amongst the clouds. The words he would need settled on his tongue but did not escape his lips in time.

“Its made with the scales of a rare dragon,” Sawyer responded. Lear heard his retainer walking over the dragon’s body, identified by the quiet crunch of scales. With an unwarranted amount of pride, he continued. “The young master wears the armor of a wyvern who has only been spotted in the New World once a decade ago, which is why you’ve never seen anyone else with it! Wearing it allows Master Lear to teleport short distances when he wishes to.”

His shoulders ached, Lear noted. He tried to roll out the tension, but it stayed ever present. He allowed himself to reach up and touch the dull pink scales sewn onto his armor, lingering upon the memory. It tasted like burned meat.

“What monster was it?” Bettie asked.

Lear turned to glare at them and shut them up, but the sound of nearby footsteps distracted him. “Who’s there?” he yelled. The wind carried his voice so far it echoed; so did the response.

“Did you kill that Pink Rathian?!” A voice demanded, clearly infuriated. A man with long, green hair raced into view, wearing a bright tunic and pants instead of a hunter’s uniform. Behind him followed four others, only two wearing armor. 

Lear’s fury turned into fervor.

“You’re N.” He moved toward him, feet barely touching the ground. “The prince.”

N was exactly as he’d been described: a gaunt figure cut by white clothing, scruffy hair tucked into a low ponytail, with royalty dripping off of his very skin. The prince looked at Lear as if he was a bug to be squashed. 

Lear grinned at him as he approached. His teeth shone like a threat, and N seemed to realize that. He watched as the man’s anger receded into something he’d call fear on anyone else. The man’s two hunters looked at him with unease. His reputation preceded him; his past was marked by many run-away attempts and cries for attention. He’d stopped in the last five years since his father had allowed him to live in the Coral Highlands. 

The only thing Lear needed was N’s cooperation—he hoped it would be easy, but it had been a decade since he’d made a good impression on anyone. He knew he wasn’t easy to love. He knew it was an even more Herculean task to like him, so he didn't dare expect either of them from the prince. He only wanted N’s support—and nothing else.

“Yes,” N responded curtly. His voice was stern yet lacked any edge. His eyes ran over Lear with an unsettling frenzy to them; he acted as if he hadn’t expected to find him in the Coral Highlands—Lear’s home. The prince stepped away from him, closer to his group. They curled around him like kin. “Now, answer me.”

“They did.” Lear threw his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at Scottie and Bettie. Rachel and Sawyer were probably still on the corpse too, and he didn’t really care if it indited them in this incident. He turned on his heel to look at them. They looked more confused than angry. “Those two are Scottie and Bettie, they killed your dragon. They’re here on orders from Rowan Falstelo.”

“Your father,” the prince said the words as if they were on a scale, measuring them out to see how many pounds of truth could be garnered from Lear’s word. He didn’t bother to nod. Their family resemblance was, unfortunately, uncanny. “We’re on orders to maintain the ecological balance of the Coral Highlands—and that dragon was a key part of it.”

Lear clicked his tongue in an attempt at sympathy; his father would have snapped at him for his disrespect. “A shame.”

Rachel and Sawyer hurried over. They flanked Lear’s sides, though it only served to entrap him further. At least N had real bodyguards, all Lear had were his useless retainers. 

After briefing them on N’s issue, Sawyer spoke up. “We all have conflicting orders… perhaps the admiral intended us to consult each other before doing any hunts. Our apologies for this great error, your highness.”

Sawyer and Rachel performed bows; Lear crossed his arms. He didn’t get why they believed his father incapable of error. In Lear’s opinion, he was capable of every error.

“Those two are new hunters. They still have to bring back a Paolumu before they can go home, so want to help us send this Pink Rathian back? Then, we can discuss all the other details.” Lear waved his hand dismissively, as if their issues were a cloud of smoke in front of him, and yawned. They wanted to move past this too, didn’t they? “Sorry, hunts are just so exhausting, aren’t they?”

N stared at him like he was a freak. 

”Are you insane?” One of his guards asked; he was one of the two hunters. He had short black hair, and it looked like it had been chopped by a dragon. He sounded more baffled than insulted. ”Like, clinically?”

Lear laughed off the comment as he tried his best to keep casual. He’d expected Scottie’s furious response, declaring how he’d attempted to “help” them, and his apparent assignment as their mentor more than he had expected… that. He hated how sincere it came off—as if an insult like that could ever be a curious, kind little thing. It could only ever be a bludgeon to an unsolvable problem.

His smile began to slip. If the situation were different, he would have punched this stranger; Lear was still tempted, even if he knew he couldn’t. “Would you say yes if I was?”

“It would make your words less insulting,” the girl hunter said. She had her hair up in a high ponytail, and what looked like a sword on her back. They all had thick accents, he noted, except for the prince. “I’d ask if you know who he is, but you clearly do, so really, insanity is your best answer.”

“He’s not insane,” Sawyer butted in. “And I'm sure you are all quite aware of that.” He kept his words slow and spiked; like a warning growl before a blast of fire. “But yes, we could always use more hands for sending the parts of the Pink Rathian back to base.” He sounded tired. “Once more, we are deeply sorry for the error. If we could speak to the admiral I’m sure we can ensure this never happens again." Lear’s retainer sighed. “Though, there’s no reviving the dead.”

Lear didn’t speak up, even though that had all been exactly what he’d said moments earlier! Yet, no one was calling Sawyer crazy. Was there something he hadn’t been taught happening here?

Lear didn’t look away from the prince, drinking in every slight narrow of the eye. Every weakness the man permitted to dance across his body needed to be caught and studied in order for Lear to get what he wanted. He saw the tension bleed out of his shoulders—not at the apology, but at Sawyer’s final sentence. Theories ran across his mind for ways to play the prince. He just needed the perfect piece, and then it would all work out.

N looked chagrined as he was forced to look at Lear once more. He drew a deep breath before deciding his fellow prince’s fate, though it wasn’t like anyone but his retainers cared about that particular title. Would they treat a prince how they treated him—like an attack dog to be kept in a cage and released only when useful?

“We will help you with the… disposal,” the prince radiated distaste. “But in response I demand you all stay with us, run your missions by us before beginning, and” — his glare landed squarely between Lear’s eyes — “stay in our camp.”

Lear agreed to his terms readily, and, as he turned to assist with the dragon’s dismantling, he heard one of N’s guards ask him, “Are you sure? Who’d want to share a tent with him?”

It turned out: no one.

Lear settled into a tent for the night, listening to the wind’s battering. They’d settled on camping in a part of the forest unfrequented by dragons. It was the safest option, but he’d wanted to camp in the Pink Rathian’s nest. 

The tents were set up in a circle, Lear on one end and N on the other. There was an unspoken distrust woven into the tapestry of this treaty. He laid down in the center with all his armor and weapons shoved to the side of his tent; only wearing a tattered dress-shirt and threadbare pants. He laid under a thin blanket. 

Across the way, N and his companion’s murmured his name in disgust. The door of his tent was half-open; the wind carried their words to him.

“There has to be something wrong with him, did you see the way he just waltzed up to N? No respect at all!” A woman he didn’t know said. She seemed outraged on the prince’s behalf—as if he couldn’t defend himself. “If we were back home, he would have been knocked down from his high horse. You should have allowed me to do it, Cheren!”

“You would have only embarrassed N,” the same man who’d called him insane said. Cheren was his name, then. “He just wants to be normal, so you need to stop getting offended by people acting like that. That’s how normal people get treated.”

Lear gripped the blanket and wrapped it around his head.

Through it, he just barely made out Rachel’s voice. “That boy is hopeless.”

19 days until the Elder Crossing

Lear woke with the cresting sun, as he always had. Outside, he heard the Coral Highlands beginning to stir. He wanted to be a part of it. However, when he opened his eyes to look out at the rolling shadows, he found a shape blocking his view. He glared up at the person sitting in front of his tent with groggy, unfocused eyes. 

They had black hair and armor—with weapons on their back. He was forced to blink a few times before the intruder could come fully into focus. Cheren looked down at him, hands folded over his legs, with an odd expression.

“Go back to sleep. You’re more tolerable that way.”

Lear sighed, letting his body return to its unwound state; legs curled back, one hand twisted around the blanket while the other pressed against the floor. “How long have you been…”

Cheren closed his eyes and slid his head from side to side as he considered the question. When he came up with it, a sharp smile crossed his face. “Ten… maybe fifteen minutes.” Sharp blue eyes glinted with an unnamed accusation. “I thought you’d wake up when I walked over; I wasn’t trying to be quiet. For someone who’s lived out in the wild for years, you sleep like the dead.”

He blinked before glaring at Cheren. “So?”

“There are rumors about you.” Lear rolled his eyes; what could he know? “They say you got kidnapped when you were nine, and when you came back you were different—causing problems, refusing to go out on hunts, cursing your father. All of that.” Cheren leaned further into his tent, arms curling around his knees and neck stretching forward, like a dragon sniffing out its next meal. “I normally wouldn’t believe in anything like this, but yesterday I never would have thought someone could behave like you did, so let me ask…

“Are you a fae?”

Lear sat up. “Are you ten years old? No, I didn’t get replaced when I got—no!” He sat up, abandoned his blanket, and snarled at this imbecile. “Oh my god, get out, leave me alone.”

When he got close enough to touch, Lear grabbed the other man’s collar and attempted to push him out. Cheren held strong. He looked at him as if he still wasn’t quite convinced of Lear’s humanity, like he was some dragon who needed to be identified. How insulting.

Lear wanted to bite him. Surely that would prove his humanity.

“Lear,” Cheren said cool and collected, “don’t start a fight you can’t finish.”

“Oh, I’ll finish it, thank you very much.” 

He lunged over to the side of his tent and grabbed his dual blades. It wasn’t worth bothering with his armor over something that would be over faster than he could think, Lear thought. Cheren pulled himself out of his tent, dodging back as Lear lunged at him. 

With a movement as smooth as a dragon’s tail swipe, Cheren pulled out his own weapon. Ugh. The man was a specialist in dual blades, too, what had happened to the world since Lear’d left? It had been a rare specialty back then, but now everyone seemed to be just as—if not more—proficient as him.

Lear swiped forward, leaving the comfort of his tent. His bare feet pressed against the corpses of coral which made their ground. Cheren was a fair bit taller than him, which would make getting good hits challenging. Lear swung one blade high and the other low; the first had far more power behind it. Cheren stepped back to avoid the lower, but attacked with both of his weapons into the other. 

It would be embarrassing if this random hunter could disarm him so easily, so Lear held it as tight as he could before going for a counterattack.

They exchanged a number of blows, walking further away from the camp as they did so. Cheren didn’t say anything. He only watched Lear’s movements, probably waiting for him to mess up. Neither had gotten a true hit on the other yet. 

Lear needed to prove how strong he was, so he threw himself forward into a reckless dive. He ended up by the other man’s side, both blades spread wide in preparation for an attack. 

It left his body wide open to attack; he never had to think about it when fighting dragons. The other man’s eyes were cold and blue. So human Lear hated them. 

Cheren didn’t even bother to react to the clear threat of Lear’s weapons. He flipped one of his blades around and seconds later slammed the butt of his weapon into Lear’s throat. Immediately, he gagged and dropped both blades as instinct took over. 

Before he could even attempt to draw in a breath, Cheren had a grip on his collar. The hunter pushed Lear to the ground. 

“You really are feral,” Cheren laughed. His hand was a collar around Lear’s throat, holding him down as his body squirmed. His weapons laid near but out of reach. “Everyone talks about you like you are, but I really didn’t expect for it to be true. Picking fights like this is stupid, yet you do it!”

Lear clawed at the man’s glove, tears spilling from his eyes as his body fought to regain air. He glared and growled at him. If he could breathe, he’d be cursing him out. 

He lifted his leg up to try and push Cheren off of him, but the man retaliated by sitting down on his thighs. With his only remaining hand, Cheren grabbed Lear’s elbow. “You’re a hunter, and a decent one from what I’ve heard, so we’ll have to work together. But, that doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate any of your… feralness” — he spat — “around N. He’s my friend. He doesn’t deserve to deal with more stuff than he already has, so I’ll offer you a deal.”

With what sliver of air he’d been able to gather, Lear managed to ask, “Wh… what?”

“You act like a normal person around N, and I’ll make sure no one gives you trouble.” Cheren smiled then, like he thought this was a nice favor. “Your father has been making plans to force you out of here; he tried to recruit us. If you’re good for me, I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Of course. It all came back to Rowan Falstelo.

Lear considered what was being offered for longer than he probably should have. Cheren’s body heat bled into him, soft and slow; it felt weird. His grip on his throat was gentler than Lear would have expected, and the hand on his elbow was almost—caressing, maybe? It just… held him there. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that—out of malice or not.

His face felt hot.

“Fine,” Lear spat. “G—get off’a me.”

Cheren got up, flipping his hair back as he did. He took a weird amount of care to remove his hands gently. Lear rubbed his throat, still sitting on the ground. It would probably bruise. He’d have to claim a dragon attack or… stupidity.

“I’m sorry.” Cheren didn’t look apologetic, standing all high and mighty with his armor and his victory. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I still don’t.”

“Leave me alone,” Lear’s voice was meek. He refused to look up at the other man.

Cheren went back to his own tent.

It only took a few minutes to put on his armor and leave the camp. Clearly, no one else was awake so no one was going to notice his absence.

His hands didn’t shake as he climbed down walls of vines, and neither did his breath constantly hitch. Lear moved with pride. His eyes took in the world he’d carved a home out of, looking for a place he wouldn’t be found. Not by his retainers, not by Cheren, and not by any roaming dragons. A safe place.

He kept close to the “walls” of coral as he left N’s campsite; from the outside, it looked more like an egg sack inside of a spider web than a home, but who was Lear to judge? It wasn’t like any of his campsites had ever been much better. He’d holed up in small caves and in the corpses of coral before. And, before Rachel and Sawyer had arrived he’d been sleeping near dragon nests.

Lear found his way to the rope lift with little effort. It made the descent to the lowest floor as easy for a human as it must be for a dragon; all he had to do was hold on and, for a few moments, he could fly.

He came back down to Earth upon his landing. His throat ached fiercely, and Lear chose to interpret it as an expression of physical pain and nothing else. His face was hot, but it was just because of the ambient heat of the Highlands. He wasn’t thinking of a hand around his throat, or a body on top of his, or any of the promises torn from his throat.

It only took him a few minutes to find his way to the watering hole. The path was burned into his bones, it felt like. So many hours he’d spent trekking down and up, whether it was to clean his clothing or provide a drink for a meal, or just to get away. Water was the center of life; this watering hole was the heart of the Coral Highlands, and it beat a deadly rhythm.

Lear stalled his gait when it came into sight, staring at the monster already drinking its fill.

It had deep blue scales similar to the sky of their home. If it were evening, he knew the beast’s jaw would disappear into water as it drank. As of now, there were too many shades of difference between the two. Its front legs hovered awkwardly in the air, claws twitching intermittently. Thick frills hung off the sides of its head like the strangest eyebrows he’d ever seen.

The Tzitzi-Ya-Ku stopped drinking to stare at him.

Lear leaned his head back, one hand pressing against his bruising neck and the other on his waist. He opened his mouth in a yawn. Air rushed into his lungs, and a familiar disappointment flooded him when he felt no difference in the air. Dragons could smell the difference between prey, predators, and peers. All he could smell was air.

The dragon shook its head, flinging water off of its scales, before losing interest in him. Lear scoffed as he walked to the other side of the watering hole. Tzitzi-Ya-Kus were never much of a threat to him or any other human; they only liked to attack their fellow dragons. 

Lear went down to all fours, lowering his head so he could drink in the same monstrous way. He kept his gaze on the dragon as he drank. It was out of focus, seemingly having two heads and four sets of frills, but he could still read it well enough. The Tzitzi-Ya-Ku looked at him like he was a child—but not in the way humans did, in that derogatory way. It was almost an affectionate expression it held in its narrowed eyes and relaxed posture.

We should really make those damn things go extinct, a hunter had complained once. He was one of many men Lear’s father had sent with messages. They’re so annoying! Always getting in the way of our hunts, the New World would be better off without them.

With water wetting his lips and tongue scraping against his teeth, Lear felt like a Tzitzi-Ya-Ku. A beast with no place in the world—except for what it carved itself.

After a few minutes, the dragon stood and left. He wondered what it might have said to him if he could understand it, and, if he were here, what N would claim it said.

Lear took his own leave eventually, wandering past coral trees into a closed-off area. It looked like it was impassable; the sole reason no one else had found it. He pushed back the corpse of coral to reveal his old home, stumbling inside and dropping it back down behind him. It was almost pitch black in the cave.

But, in the center, there was an outline of a nest. Everything soft in the Coral Highlands had been gathered to make a bed large enough for two, and he had slept there for so many weeks. Sometimes, Lear found himself curling up in it—almost too large to fit, now. Small, pink scales littered the nest, and the cave around it.

Lear’s scoutflies spread out slow and easily, retreading the familiar path. He walked around slowly. Their green glow lit up the outcropping; if he didn’t think about it too hard, they reminded him of his brother’s eyes. They were as curious as he’d been, too. They had both adored the Coral Highlands and all it offered.

He sat down in their nest, knees pressed against his throat. A whimper echoed in the enclosed space. Something wet ran down Lear’s face—nothing offered him any comfort, not the worn-thin kindness of his home, not his scoutflies, and definitely not the pain Cheren had left him with. 

If his brother was here, would he comfort him? Lay a head atop his, play a joke on him, make a home out of him?

Lear sniffled pitifully. He wiped a glove under his nose, and over his cheeks, and around his eyes. Tears didn’t stop falling.

If Hoopa were here, everything would be better. 

Cheren wouldn’t think he had enough power to just threaten him, and N wouldn’t think he was as much of a freak, and Rachel and Sawyer wouldn’t treat him like a feral dog. He’d be enough for someone. Lear wouldn’t spend his days clawing at the precipice of inhumanity—begging for scraps of kindness from hands who never dared feed him.

A scoutfly landed on his limp hand.

Lear stared at it through blurry eyes, pretending it was something it wasn’t. The others began to settle down around him as well. They did not lead him anywhere—they had no greater clue as to his brother’s location than he did. But, if Hoopa ever came back they would react in an instant; with the Elder Crossing’s approach, that was all he could depend on.

When Hoopa came back home for him, Lear would be ready.