The year was 3600, a Battle for the Throne year in Zandador.
At age 96, Omri was too young to enter the battle.
As a servant in Varzack, Omri was not allowed to leave Varzack.
As a blacksmith, Omri had no official training as a Dragon Hunter.
None of that mattered to Omri.
Omri was the one son his parents had a chance to influence. They were forced to give up Omri’s two older brothers to become soldiers in the army and thus focused all their attention on their youngest son. If he became King of Zandador, they would be freed from their life of servitude to their master Rehu.
His mother had been telling him from the day of his birth how special he was. She made him believe he could do no wrong and deserved to have everything he wanted.
Likewise, his father told him he was strong and smart and powerful and had been training him in secret. They weren’t supposed to know how to fight with the swords they made in their blacksmith shop, but they trained at night anyway.
So when the Battle for the Throne began, they helped Omri sneak out of Varzack so he could hunt dragons in Zandador. What none of them knew was that Omri’s oldest brother Mahrer was also in Zandador hunting dragons.
He began his hunt in Dusk Stalker territory. He spent a month tracking one dragon, learning its habits and assessing its strengths and weaknesses. Then one early morning in February, Omri made his move.
His plan was to cut off the dragon’s tail while it slept, and Omri had observed it often slept til nearly noon. Attacking at sunrise would catch the dragon in a deep sleep, and it would be his before it had a chance to open its eyes.
Quietly, Omri drew his sword and approached the dragon’s cave. He found its white-scaled body curled into a ball, and its tail curved all the way under its head. Omri smiled. All he had to do was slice through any part of the dragon’s tail, and it would be his to control.
He adjusted his feet as he raised his sword, but that was all it took to wake the dragon. In one quick motion, it kicked Omri with his back leg. The sharp claws ripped Omri’s shirt, cut into his chest and sent him sprawling down the hill.
Omri scurried under cover of some nearby bushes and waited for the dragon to find him, but it never did. Because his brother found him first.
“Omri? What are you doing here?” Mahrer pulled the hurt Omri to his feet and punched him in the jaw. “How dare you attempt to hunt any dragon, especially one I plan to make my own.”
“You’re no Dragon Hunter.” Omri spit out a mouthful of blood. “I got closer to that dragon on my first attempt than you could ever hope to get in a thousand years.”
Mahrer screamed and punched Omri again, knocking him out.
When he woke up, his hands and legs were tied, and he was on his way back to Varzack to serve a decade-long prison sentence for abandoning his blacksmithing responsibilities. ffffffffffffff