CHAPTER 56: THE GLOW OF DUMB LUCK

You have entered: Glimmerfen Dragon’s Lair.

Status Update: You are now 3% closer to believing you’re not a complete failure.

Debuff Applied: "Impending Doom." All confidence checks have a 50% chance of backfiring into awkward silence.

The gates of Glimmerfen’s dragon lair gaped like the maw of a dentist who’d flunked out of charm school. Smoke curled from the entrance, thick with the stench of charcoal, regret, and what I swore was burnt festival popcorn. I stood frozen, clutching the Wyrm’s Quill, its faint glow flickering like a discount glowstick in my muddy, trembling hand. My coat was a disaster—torn from the festival, caked with mud, dusted with glitter—but I felt a spark. Not heroism, not confidence, just... stubbornness. I was Cecil Dreggs, the guy who’d once lost a fistfight to a loaf of rye and lived to tell the tale. Powers or no powers, I was walking into that lair to either slay the dragon or embarrass myself so epically it’d flee in secondhand shame. My crew, as usual, wasn’t betting on the former.

Lilith led the charge, her scythe glinting like it was ready to file a restraining order against reality. Her red eyes flicked back, sharp as twin guillotines. "Don’t trip, Cecil. I’m not scraping you out of a dragon’s stomach."

Vorren hulked beside her, his massive frame making the tunnel walls look flimsy. His knife’s scritch-scritch sharpening was louder than my heartbeat. "If you die, I’m taking your coat," he grunted, not even glancing up.

Jex, down to one apple, hugged it like it was his last will and testament. "Why are we doing this? Dragons don’t negotiate. They eat!" His voice cracked, high enough to summon bats.

Yvra strode forward, her princess dress still infuriatingly spotless despite the muck. Her glare screamed I’m too royal for this nonsense. "Cecil, if you ruin my diplomatic immunity with another stunt, I’ll have you scrubbing castle floors for eternity."

Mister Fog floated above, sipping tea that smelled like burnt promises and existential dread. His misty form shimmered faintly. "The quill’s glow suggests latent power, Cecil. But your brain suggests... less."

Sir Thrain marched with his backward helmet, lance raised like he was about to joust a stormcloud. "For the crown’s honor!" he bellowed, then promptly tripped over a loose rock with a CLUNK, landing face-first in a pile of ash. His muffled curses echoed.

Sir Gorrim, his mustache still tangled with Wyrmdancer ribbon, waved his broken sword hilt like it was Excalibur. "By valor’s grace!" he shouted, then slipped on the same ash pile, tumbling into Thrain with a THUD

. "Dishonorable soot!" he wheezed.

I twirled the quill, forcing a grin despite the crew’s collective eye-roll. "Laugh all you want, but this quill got us through the gates. I’m gonna charm that dragon, or at least distract it with my sheer... Cecil-ness."

Lilith snorted, her scythe scraping the tunnel wall with a SKREEE. "Your ’Cecil-ness’ is why we’re all doomed."

The tunnel was a nightmare of jagged stone, carved with runes that pulsed like they were mocking my life choices. Torches flickered, casting shadows that looked like claws, teeth, and—swear to gods—my high school math teacher grading my F-minus quiz. My boots squelched in something I prayed was mud, but the smell suggested it might’ve been dragon... leavings. The crew marched forward, unfazed, while I trailed, quill in hand, heart pounding like a drunk drummer.

The tunnel opened into a cavern so massive the ceiling vanished into darkness. The floor was a mess of bones, gold coins, and a half-eaten festival banner that read "DRAGON FEST: FUN FOR ALL!" in cheerful, ironic letters. In the center, coiled like a scaly mountain, was the dragon—Glimmerfen’s Wyrm, Vythrax. Its scales shimmered like molten iron, each one the size of a shield. Its eyes glowed like twin furnaces, and its breath made the air ripple with heat that singed my eyebrows from fifty feet away. It was massive, terrifying, and—worst of all—awake, its head rising with a low RUMBLE that shook coins across the floor.

I froze, the quill’s glow flickering. "Okay," I whispered, "maybe this was a bad idea."

Vythrax’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto me like I was a walking appetizer. Its voice boomed, shaking my ribs. "WHO DARES ENTER MY LAIR?"

I raised the quill, my voice cracking like a dropped plate. "Uh, Cecil Dreggs! Former Loafbearer, current... quill guy? We’re here to, uh, negotiate!" My words echoed, each one dumber than the last.

The dragon blinked, then laughed—a deep, guttural HAR-HAR-HAR that sent coins skittering. "Negotiate? You, a glowing worm with a stick?"

"It’s a quill!" I snapped, waving it like a toddler with a sparkler. The glow pulsed brighter, and Vythrax’s eyes narrowed, pupils shrinking to slits.

Lilith stepped forward, scythe gleaming. "Cecil, shut up before you get us roasted."

Vorren cracked his knuckles, the sound like snapping twigs. "Let me punch it first."

Jex whimpered, hiding behind his apple. "I’m too young to be a snack!"

Yvra drew her dagger, her voice calm but sharp as a guillotine. "State your terms, Wyrm, or we’ll carve them out."

Mister Fog sipped his tea, unfazed, his misty form swirling. "Diplomacy with dragons is like teaching a rock to sing. I suggest running."

Thrain scrambled up, helmet wobbling, ash coating his armor. "For the crown!" he shouted, charging the dragon, only to trip over a gold pile and roll into a skull with a CLANK

. Gorrim followed, waving his hilt, and slipped on a coin, landing in a heap with a WHUMP. "Dishonorable currency!" he gasped.

Vythrax roared, spraying sparks that lit the cavern like a demonic fireworks show. "FOOLS! YOU FACE VYTHRAX, EATER OF HOPES!"

I clutched the quill, sweat dripping. "Vythrax, listen! I’ve got this quill, and it’s... special! Let’s talk, not fight!" My voice squeaked, undermining my bravado.

The dragon snorted, a blast of heat singeing my coat’s hem. "Your trinket means nothing. Prepare to burn!" Its jaws opened, revealing teeth like swords and a glow in its throat that screamed incoming fireball.

I panicked, waving the quill like a mad conductor. "Wait, wait!" The quill flared, its glow exploding into a beam that shot toward the cavern ceiling. Rocks cracked with a CRASH, and—PLOP—a loaf of bread materialized midair, golden and steaming, landing square on Vythrax’s snout.

Everyone froze. Even the dragon.

Vythrax blinked, sniffing the loaf. "Is this... sourdough?" Its voice was less Eater of Hopes and more confused food critic.

I grinned, my hype reigniting like a cheap candle. "Told you I’m special! Fresh-baked, just for you!"

Lilith groaned, gripping her scythe. "You’re an idiot."

Jex peeked out. "Did you just... bake a dragon into submission?"

Vorren snorted. "Dumbest weapon ever."

Yvra’s dagger twitched. "This doesn’t mean you’re useful, Cecil."

Mister Fog sipped his tea. "Intriguing. The quill channels the Loaf’s echo. Unstable, but... effective."

Thrain, climbing out of the bone pile, raised his lance. "A miracle of valor!" He tripped again, knocking over a skull with a CLUNK.

Gorrim, tangled in coins, waved his hilt. "By the crown’s grace, the bread prevails!"

Vythrax shook its head, the loaf sliding off with a SPLAT. Its eyes gleamed, not with hunger but... curiosity? "You wield a relic of the Old Bakers," it rumbled. "Speak, worm. Why do you carry the Wyrm’s Quill?"

I blinked, holding the quill up. "Uh... I found it? In a permit office? After I failed at juggling dragon eggs?"

The dragon’s tail twitched, knocking over a pile of gold with a JANGLE. "The quill chooses its bearer. It senses... potential. Or idiocy. I’m unsure."

Lilith muttered, "Definitely idiocy."

I stepped forward, heart pounding but voice bold. "Look, Vythrax, I’m not here to fight. I’m just a guy trying to not suck. Let us pass, and I’ll bake you another loaf. Deal?"

Vythrax’s laugh shook the cavern. "Pass? To what end? Beyond my lair lies the Heart of Glimmerfen, where King Valthorne’s secrets sleep. You think you’re worthy?"

I swallowed. "Worthy? Maybe not. But I’m stubborn. And I’ve got a team that’s... mostly competent."

The dragon’s eyes flicked to my crew—Lilith’s scythe, Vorren’s knife, Yvra’s dagger, Jex’s apple, Mister Fog’s tea, and Thrain and Gorrim’s... enthusiasm. It snorted. "Very well. Prove your worth. Face my trial, or become ash."

New Quest Received: "Vythrax’s Trial of Bread and Bravery"

Objective: Survive the dragon’s challenge without crying.

Reward: Passage to the Heart of Glimmerfen.

Failure: Crispy demise.

The cavern rumbled as Vythrax’s tail slammed the ground with a BOOM. A stone platform rose, covered in flour, yeast, and... a giant rolling pin? "Bake," Vythrax commanded. "Create a loaf worthy of my hoard, or burn."

I stared, quill trembling. "Bake? I’m not a fucking baker! I’m barely a civilian!"

Lilith smirked. "You’re so screwed."

But the quill glowed brighter, and a faint buzz tickled my chest. Maybe I wasn’t the Loafbearer anymore, but I had a quill, a crew, and a dragon with a bread fetish. Time to get kneading.