The sun rose bright over the town, gilding the cobblestones in golden light. For once, the streets weren't just bustling with merchants, children, and gossip—it was buzzing with their names.
"Those two," a butcher whispered to his apprentice, pointing as Arlo and Tessa strolled down the lane. "The Duke himself gave them the title Dragon Slayers!"
"Those with the title Dragon Slayers are like Barons, they say," added a woman selling bread. "Lady Tessa was already a gift to us by the Gods—now she's also a Dragon Slayer."
"That young man, I thought he was only Lady Tessa's assistant, but he's actually a very capable and strong hero!" a merchant exclaimed.
A pair of children trailed after them, whispering in awe. "They look so normal," one said. "Do you think they really fought a dragon?"
Arlo heard it all, and his chest swelled so much he looked like he was about to float away. He walked with his chin held high, shoulders back, practically strutting, every step loud and deliberate as if he owned the entire district.
Beside him, Tessa's hands were folded neatly in front of her cloak, her posture perfect, her nose slightly tilted in the air. She carried herself like a noble lady giving a royal inspection of the common folk—even if the corners of her lips kept twitching, threatening to betray the smugness she was desperately trying to hide.
Arlo broke the silence first, puffing out his chest. "You hear that, Dragon Slayer Tessa? We're legends now. People whisper our names. Children will grow up wanting to be us. The bards will write songs of our heroic deed!"
Tessa arched a brow, pretending to remain aloof. "If they sing, I only hope they remember to emphasize my decisive healing and tactical guidance. Without me, you'd be dragon chow."
Arlo slapped a hand over his heart, gasping in mock offense. "How dare you! Without me, there'd be no dragon to be chow for. I practically tanked every claw swipe with my face. That takes talent."
She gave him a sidelong glance, her lips twitching. "A talent for self-destruction, perhaps."
Arlo grinned. "Exactly. And self-destruction is the noblest sacrifice! Clearly, I deserve a statue. Right in the town square. A heroic pose—me holding the dragon's head, lightning crackling around me."
Tessa sniffed. "Ridiculous. If there's to be a statue, it should be of me, standing tall with the my hand raised high, sunlight reflecting off my cloak while peasants cheer below."
"Ah, so your statue gets peasants too. Unfair," Arlo shot back. "At least give mine a heroic horse. Or no, wait! A pile of treasure beneath my feet. Gold coins pouring down like rain!"
"You'll trip on them," Tessa deadpanned.
"True, but it would be historically accurate!" Arlo said proudly.
They both broke into laughter, earning curious stares from onlookers, who only seemed to take it as proof of their mysterious Dragon Slayer confidence.
As they continued their victory parade through town, villagers began greeting them directly.
"Thank you, Dragon Slayers!" cried a man hauling a basket of fish.
"You're the pride of our duchy!" a woman selling spices called.
Even an old grandmother hobbled up to Tessa and offered her a fresh-baked loaf of bread. "For strength, dearie. You've earned it."
Tessa accepted with a dignified nod, as if she were receiving tribute in a throne room. "You have our gratitude."
Arlo, meanwhile, leaned down toward a child who was staring wide-eyed at him. "That's right, kid. You're looking at the guy who made a dragon bleed with nothing but pocket change and sheer bad luck. Don't try it at home, though—takes years of training in clumsiness."
The child blinked. "...Cool."
Arlo grinned ear to ear. "Damn right it is."
Tessa coughed into her hand. "Barons ought not to brag to children."
"Says the one who just pocketed bread like an offering," Arlo muttered, smirking.
Her cheeks colored faintly. "It was... symbolic."
Eventually, Arlo pulled the necklace from under his tunic and dangled it between them. The faint gleam of magic pulsed across the charm.
"Speaking of," he said, "what about this little beauty? I want to check if it's, y'know, cursed or secretly the key to another dragon."
Tessa's eyes narrowed as she examined it. "Mm. The aura is muddled, faint but steady. Magical, yes—but of what sort, I can't tell." She folded her arms. "We'll need an appraisal."
Arlo squinted. "Appraisal... appraisal... who in this town appraises? We can't just walk up to people saying, 'Hey, can you sniff my necklace?'"
Then her face lit up. "The blacksmith."
Arlo froze. "Wait. That blacksmith?"
"The one with the... unfortunate condition," Tessa confirmed primly, her tone tight.
A wicked grin spread across Arlo's face. "The rash guy! Oh-ho, I remember him. Limping around like he sat on a campfire. And... I... don't want to talk about it anymore."
Her cheeks went pink as she snapped her cloak tighter around herself. "Enough. He mentioned once having a minor appraisal skill. If anyone can help, it's him."
"Oh man, this is gonna be great," Arlo laughed, practically bouncing on his heels. "We walk in like Dragon Slayers, and he'll be like, 'Oh hey, thanks for curing my nether rash, by the way what's this necklace?' Legendary."
"Nobles do not speak of nether rashes in public," Tessa hissed, marching faster, her ears burning.
Arlo jogged to catch up, still grinning like an idiot. "Nobles who slay dragons can say whatever they want."
They moved on, villagers still bowing and calling out thanks, and for once, Arlo didn't feel like the bumbling intern or the coin-flipping disaster magnet. He felt like someone who belonged here—someone who mattered.
And though Tessa kept her noble composure, her small, satisfied smirk betrayed the truth: she felt the same.
"Don't let it get to your head," she murmured eventually, her tone soft but warning. "Respect is earned, yes—but pride is dangerous."
Arlo smirked, slipping the necklace back under his shirt. "Don't worry, Dragon Slayer Tessa. I'll only let it get to half my head."
She groaned. "Why do I feel I'll regret this title already?"
He grinned. "Because deep down, you love it."
She turned away, chin raised higher than before. "...Maybe."
And together, the Dragon Slayers strutted on, heading straight toward the forge—toward the blacksmith with the unforgettable rash.