CHAPTER 51: THE GATES OF GLOOM

The Glimmerfen gates loomed like a dragon’s grin, all jagged iron and carved scales that gleamed with menace, smoke curling from the hills beyond like the world’s angriest incense had a bad day. Our wagon, a splintered wreck that looked like it had lost a fight with a tornado, limped to a stop, the horse snorting as if it was done with our nonsense and ready to file for equine emancipation. I sat in the back, my coat torn to shreds, my face caked in mud, my ego bruised worse than a dropped soufflé in a rainstorm. Lilith’s words from the Wyrmdancer fight—"Give up, Cecil"—rang in my head like a bad tavern song stuck on repeat, each note mocking my lack of Loafbearer powers. No glowing hands, no bread-summoning glory, not even a crumb of magic. I was just Cecil Dreggs, the guy who’d once lost a staring contest to a goat and had to wear its straw hat as penance. But I wasn’t ready to quit. Not yet. I’d prove I was more than a liability, even if it killed me—or at least got me mildly embarrassed in front of a dragon.

My crew wasn’t exactly chanting my name in support. Lilith drove, her scythe glinting like it was plotting my demise and taking bets on how long I’d last. Vorren hulked beside her, sharpening a knife that could cut through my self-esteem and probably a mountain. Jex clutched his last two apples like they were his only friends, muttering, "Dragons, cursed soup, glitter—why can’t we fight something normal, like taxes?" Yvra sat upfront, her princess posture defying the wagon’s jolts, her glare screaming she’d rather be sipping tea in a palace than babysitting me. Mister Fog floated above, sipping tea that smelled like burnt promises and soggy despair, his misty form shimmering with judgment. Sir Thrain gripped the reins, his backward helmet wobbling like a drunk weathervane in a hurricane, while Sir Gorrim polished his broken sword hilt, muttering, "Honor’s unyielding spirit shines brighter than steel!"—which was rich, considering his hilt was basically a glorified doorstop.

I stood, trying to muster some swagger despite looking like a muddy scarecrow. "Alright, team, we’re at Glimmerfen! Time to storm the gates, slay the dragon, and show King Valthorne I’m not a loser! I’ll wrestle that lizard into submission and be back for a victory pint!"

Lilith didn’t look back, her voice colder than a winter ditch. "You’re already a loser, Cecil. Sit down before you trip and set the wagon on fire."

Vorren grunted, his knife scritch-scratching like it was mocking me. "She’s right. You’re about as useful as a fork in a soup fight or a candle in a windstorm."

Jex whimpered, hugging his apples tighter. "Can we just bribe the dragon? I’ve got... uh, an apple. Maybe it likes fruit? Please don’t eat me."

Yvra sighed, brushing imaginary dust off her dress with the grace of a queen stuck in a mud pit. "Cecil, if you embarrass me in front of Glimmerfen’s court, I’ll personally feed you to the dragon with a side of those sad apples."

Mister Fog sipped his tea, his misty form shimmering like a disappointed ghost. "Your spirit is admirable, Cecil, but your competence is... lacking, like a bard without a lute or a knight without a clue."

I clenched my fists, ignoring the sting of their words and the literal sting of mud in my eyes. "You’ll see. I don’t need powers to be a hero. I’ve got grit, guts, and a questionable life expectancy!"

Thrain turned, his helmet tilting like it was drunk on its own valor. "Cease your prattle, knave! We serve the crown’s sacred mission to smite evil and look magnificent!" He thrust his lance for emphasis, accidentally poking a gate guard, who yelped like a startled puppy and dropped his spear with a CLANG that echoed through the hills. "Apologies, loyal servant!" Thrain bellowed, oblivious to the guard’s glare.

Gorrim stood, trying to look heroic, only to trip over Jex’s dropped apple, landing in the mud with a SPLASH that sprayed everyone nearby. "By the crown’s eternal honor!" he gasped, his mustache drooping like a sad, soggy caterpillar. "The fruit betrays us all!"

I snorted, despite myself, my hype flickering but alive. "Yeah, we’re unstoppable. A real dream team."

The gates didn’t open, because apparently dragons have bureaucracy. Instead, a side door creaked open, revealing a squat building with a sign reading "Dragon-Slaying Permit Office" in overly fancy script. A clerk in a robe embroidered with tiny dragons poked his head out, clutching a stack of papers like they were his life’s purpose. "Halt! No dragon-slaying without a permit! Present your forms, or be denied entry to Glimmerfen’s sacred peril!"

I blinked, my jaw dropping. "A permit? For a dragon? What’s next, a license to breathe fire?"

Lilith groaned, rubbing her temples. "This is why I hate bureaucracy. And dragons. And you, Cecil."

The clerk, whose name tag read "Percival the Picky" in annoyingly neat handwriting, waved a quill like it was a scepter. "No forms, no fight. King Valthorne’s orders, enforced by Glimmerfen’s ancient law. Step inside, or I’ll write you up for loitering!"

We trudged into the office, a cramped room stuffed with scrolls, inkpots, and clerks who looked like they’d rather be counting grains of sand in a desert. Percival sat behind a desk piled high with papers, peering at us through spectacles thicker than my skull and twice as judgmental. "State your purpose, you muddy miscreants!"

I stepped forward, puffing out my chest despite looking like a swamp monster. "I’m Cecil Dreggs, here to slay your dragon and save the day! No powers, but I’ve got... uh, determination and a stick I lost somewhere back there!"

Percival squinted, his spectacles glinting like tiny dragon eyes. "No powers? Then you’ll need Form 47-B, ’Non-Magical Hero Exemption,’ Form 12-C, ’Proof of Non-Liability,’ and Form 99-Z, ’Declaration of Not Being a Complete Disaster.’ Plus a character reference from someone who doesn’t hate you."

Yvra muttered, "He’s going to fail the reference part. I’m not signing that."

I ignored her, slamming my hands on the desk with a THUD. "Give me the forms! I’ll fill ’em out faster than you can say ’dragon chow’ and slay that beast before lunch!"

Percival handed me a stack of papers taller than Jex and heavier than my regrets. "Complete these, then pass the Trial of Worthiness. Fail, and you’re banned from Glimmerfen, possibly forever." He smirked, like he knew I was doomed.

The crew groaned louder than the wagon’s creaks. Thrain shouted, "Outrage against the crown!" and swung his lance, knocking over an inkpot. Ink splattered Percival’s robe with a SPLOTCH that looked like a tiny dragon crime scene. "My apologies!" Thrain bellowed, making it worse by trying to wipe it with his muddy glove. Gorrim tried to help, tripped over a scroll pile, and sent it crashing with a THUD that buried a clerk in parchment. "Honor prevails!" Gorrim declared, oblivious to the chaos.

I grabbed a quill, my hype flickering but refusing to die. "I got this. Paperwork’s nothing compared to a dragon. I’ve faced worse—like that time I tried to barter with a troll and ended up owing him my socks." I started scribbling, but the forms were a nightmare, asking for "Date of Last Heroic Deed" (I wrote "Buried a knight in cake, last month"), "Number of Dragons Slain" ("Zero, but I’m enthusiastic"), and "Reason for Heroic Intent" ("Because I’m not a quitter, unlike this quill"). The quill snapped halfway through, splattering ink on my coat.

Percival sniffed, adjusting his spectacles. "Inadequate. To the Trial of Worthiness, you incompetent fool!"

The trial was in a courtyard behind the office, where clerks had set up an obstacle course of flaming hoops, swinging axes, and a pit of... quills? Sharp ones, glinting like tiny swords. A crowd of Glimmerfen locals watched, munching on dragon-scale popcorn that smelled like burnt ambition. I cracked my knuckles, my hype sparking back to life. "This is my moment. Watch me shine, you bureaucratic buzzkills!"

Lilith crossed her arms, her scythe glinting ominously. "You’ll probably fall in the pit and cry about it."

I ignored her, charging the first hoop with all the grace of a drunken ox. I leaped, tripped on my own torn coat, and landed face-first in the dirt with a WHUMP that shook the courtyard. The crowd roared with laughter, one guy choking on his popcorn. My crew sighed in unison, like a disappointed orchestra. I got up, mud in my teeth, but undeterred. "Just warming up! Watch this!" I yelled, shaking my fist like a bard hyping a bad ballad.