A Dragoneer's Silver Lining

Chapter Twenty Two

Clearly Scott absolutely had no idea with what to expect during a Blood Contract.

Because he slept late and stayed in bed throughout the whole morning rather than eat a normal meal that day, the evening came rather too quickly leaving him in a much weaker state than what he thought.

“You better eat before we leave,” Drostan advised the young Dragoneer as he leaned against the door to their room.

“But we’re running late!” Scott replied frantically as he squeezed his way through Morschell’s spare clothes.

“Correction,” Luina sighed as she sat on her bed’s beige satin sheets, “you are running late,”

When it came to wearing shirts, Scott usually had a habit of getting his arms through first. But because the clothes he was trying to get into wasn’t exactly his size, he managed to get his head stuck half way through the impossibly tight tunic. This, however, didn’t seem to stop him from forcefully squirming his way through even it it made him look like a worm violently salted to death.

Morschell, who had finished helping Galvus pack all their belongings approached his Dragoneer in a very delicate manner as if any moment either his clothes or Scott would explode, “my lord, would you like a hand?”

“I’m fine,” Scott grumbled and turned his back to everyone as he feebly made another attempt.

“Scott, we haven’t got all day,” Drostan reminded him.

That was when the redhead began hearing a clatter of tapping metal drawing closer to them. It sounded like kitchen pots clanging against each other, but at the same time it resonated shortly. The thought of an angry chef would be a ridiculous thought to consider at this moment, but it was much better to think of rather than the approaching group of people he knew was coming.

“Let me guess,” Scott sighed, hands flapping around as he managed to get his elbows to touch, “they’re here?”

Drostan sighed in defeat, “yup,”

“How many?” Scott grumbled.

“About ten,”

“Alright, Morschell,” Scott sighed, “let’s do this,”

There was an inanimate pause for a moment that made Scott wonder what was taking so long. Before he could ask what Morschell was doing, the monocled teen finally asked:

“Do what, my lord?”

“This is hopeless!” Drostan grumbled, digging through his pack that was slung over his shoulder, “I keep telling you to wear my spare,”

“I’m fine!” Scott insisted before Morschell eventually understood that he was meant to help his Dragoneer.

By the time their escort finally reached their door Scott was breathing with difficulty from the tight tunic. IT was too tiny for him that it barely reached past his hips and hugged him so much so that it was as good as a second layer of skin.

“Lord Pengadorn of Pendragon,” the leader spoke, Drostan stepped inside by then, “we have been sent by our King Marovich, it is time,”

“Why are they wearing helmets?” Scott whispered over to Drostan since he was just one step in front of him.

“It’s the traditional Dragoneer uniform,” Drostan whispered back, “regardless of war,”

“Please,” said the leader, “follow us,”

At least as Scott assumed him to be the leader, given that his helmet was the only one with a pointed horn jutting upwards from the back of his head like a pointed tooth for a crown. Plus, he was the bulkiest in terms of body built, like the way Kromax would be should the man be as tall as the one leading the way.