The Beast

Chapter Seven

Ylvir immediately shoved his tin whistle back into his pocket, rushing through the crowd to the cry's origin. He did not hesitate to push people aside or clumsily stomp on their feet—he simply rushed to the aid of whatever creature had called for it.

He ignored cries and protests and occasional profanities thrown his way. They did not seem to care very long anyways, their attention absorbed by something else they felt was more important, and he was soon to find out why.

He was finally able to break through to a nearly open space, were it not for the large, blanketed object with only its top edges revealing anything of the mystery that lay underneath, and the strangely dressed man who shouted above the crowd, speaking to them with grand inflections in his tone and a broad, toothy grin on his face.

"Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls. Today I have brought to you wonders the likes of which have rarely been seen before. Some of you knew them already, but many of you did not. But for my last revelation, I can guarantee you will all be astonished. I have searched long and hard, far and wide to procure this very creature for you all to marvel at, for it is one that even legends have made legends of—a mere myth to mankind. But now, you all may see it for yourselves. The beast that swallows men whole, whose very breath is fire, who has talons to rend the thickest armor. My dear compatriots, I reveal to you... the mighty dragon!"

Ylvir watched in the same awe as the rest of the crowd as the man with fancy clothes and oiled hair pulled aside the blanket with a flourish. The people pointed and murmured to themselves at what Ylvir found to be a heartbreaking sight indeed.

What the blanket revealed to be underneath itself was a cage with strange symbols etched into its frame. Inside it lay a lithe creature with dull and flaky green scales, curled tightly in on itself, unable and unwilling to move inside its cage. It had patches of matted, grimy red fur and in one of the bigger patches, Ylvir was able to make out some of its face, pressing up against the corner of its prison.

It let out a mournful moan, and the people who had slowly been approaching it suddenly stepped back in fear, but as they saw it lay motionlessly, they lost that fear, only for some to have it replaced by confusion and even outrage.

"That's no dragon!"

Ylvir ripped his gaze away from the sad creature to the source of the voice, unable to locate it.

"I assure you, it is," the fancy man said with a smile that had since lost its sincerity.

As much as Ylvir hated it, he agreed with whomever had shouted. Whatever the creature once was, a mighty dragon it was no longer.

The people followed up on the outcry and began making their own, revolting against the man who once held their adoration.

"Where's the fire?!"

"Where are its sharp teeth?!"

"Fire! Make it breathe fire!"

Ylvir did not join them. He was not angry—he was sad. But he watched still as the fancy man's face grew red with fury. With his sharp hearing, he was able to make out the man muttering, "So the heathens want fire, eh? Well then fire, they shall have!"

Ylvir watched in mounting horror as the man pulled what he assumed could only be a whip from his side, which he failed to notice before. He froze as the man unraveled the coiled leather and announced to the still riotous crown, "Behold, the dragon's flame!"

Before Ylvir could even blink, the whip cracked and he flinched as it landed a blow on the beast, who in result produced a heart-rending cry. He looked wide-eyed to the rest of the crowd as they cheered the man on, encouraging him to beat the fire out of the creature, his terror rising as the volume of their voices did. He flinched with every blow, and then his eyes met the creature's.