Awaiting a Killer/h1>

The die had been cast for thirty-eight years, yet Ábel had found himself alive, physically well, dissatisfied with the amount of women his uncles and nephews had begged on their knees to have him wed just for the benefit of familial connections, and worst of all, it was his least favorite season. Sárkánytava had been covered in greys and blues and his castle was built at such a large scale that it needed a fire as large as a young oak tree just to keep one room warm. It is the time of the year where Ábel can feel just how small he is.

When he first initiated a call to kill, dozens of men from all paths would knock upon the kingdom's doors, ready to take their shot at the man whose birth disgraced their land. Tanners, fishers, tailors, and men who had enough coin to send ten in their place. He had stopped counting after two-hundred, why count your losses? But the years dwindled the men Maybe it was because he had flourished in strength that most were struck with fear. Or maybe the amount of men that hated him has gone down since he was born, it has been seventy-seven years, and now, in the eyes of his people, there was a bold, diligent, and calculating leader that stood on the throne. Knights lined up to kiss his hand. Artists cried that their works could never capture him just right. But in Ábel's eyes, he felt their disappointment was hidden. The adoration was all a ruse, that they all knew he was weak since birth.

Now it is mostly other rulers looking for an easy shot at land. You don't need an army to kill one man, it saves time, money, and men compared to an invasion. What a bore. They don't even care about what he is. It is not a debate on if he is strong because he is a dragon, or weak for being a man, but of how much wealth he had accumulated through trade.

The first man who cut off his head was out of pure luck. A dragon's tail leaves him open to many disadvantages and faults. Tripping over yourself is an embarrassment that he would not like to admit to.

The second man smelled heavily of fish soup. He must have come from a warm home thickened with spice, a loving home. But it was early? Had the smell lasted overnight, or had the man been served in the morning. Was it left-overs that were kept hot overnight? What family would leave any trace of the soup after their bellies were full? You had to be greedy and eat as much as you could at that moment. Did the cook slice the carp thin, or were they heavy, three-finger cuts just like his mother would make. He grasped the man's body, surrendering to the smell but also wishing to capture the memories it gave. He had not realized he was one head short till the man screamed under his tight grip.

He had been awaiting the day he could die, he would have done it himself, but he had always dreamed of a death built on the honor of battle.