Pocket Dimension SSS-Rank Dragon Tamer

He blinked. "What?"

"In Bellborne," she said. "Last year."

He stared at her in silence. The words didn't register at first. Bellborne was the capital of the kingdom—far from Valdren.

"But he… he hasn't returned here since three years ago."

"I know," she said gently. "That's why I didn't want to bring it up unless I was sure it was him. But it was. He still had that coat, and that scar under his lip. He didn't even try to hide who he was."

Marek didn't say anything.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked.

He nodded, and followed her inside.

The mansion was quiet. Everything smelled faintly of rosewood and old books.

He sat on the edge of a couch that probably cost more than anything he owned.

Romaine sat across from him, one leg crossed, the bathrobe now covered by a shawl. The bundle of weapons rested on the table between them.

"So," she said, "how long has it been since we all sat down like this?"

"Too long," he muttered.

"Me, you, Lucas, and… Grivven."

He exhaled sharply. "Grivven."

"Remember when we made that fort in the eastern orchard?" she asked with a half-smile. "The one you knocked down because you couldn't hold the rope?"

He rubbed his eyes. "You're really going to bring that up now?"

"You cried so bad. Lucas had to carry you all the way home."

He chuckled faintly, but the sound didn't carry far. "He always did stuff like that. He carried me when I fell, lied for me when I broke something, trained with me when I was too weak to swing a wooden sword."

Romaine's smile faded a little.

"I tried so hard," he continued quietly. "You know that, right? I trained every morning. I studied when I could. But when the Academy entrance tests came, I couldn't even light a flame."

She didn't interrupt.

"I failed three times," he said. "Each time worse than the last. They told me my mana was too weak and that my core was underdeveloped. They told me maybe I should focus on physical training instead. So, I joined the knights. That's all I could do."

There was silence between them.

"Do you know what it feels like," he added, "to see your own brother become a seven-star knight before he turns twenty, while you struggle to be taken seriously as a one-star wall guard?"

Romaine leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees. "Marek. I can help you."

His head snapped up.

"I have money," she said. "I can sponsor you and get you into one of the guild academies in the capital."

He shook his head.

"I don't really care anymore," he muttered to himself. "It's better this way… Better to be the shadow of someone like Lucas than to waste my life trying to compete with him."

He let the silence settle for a moment, then stood up and dusted off his cloak.

Turning back to the gate, he glanced up toward the mansion behind him.

"Thanks, Romaine," he said softly. "Really."

Then, without another word, he walked away.

---

Marek rubbed his temple, sighing loudly as Velkaroth rambled inside his mind for the fifth time that hour.

"Why are you like this? You're literally bonded with an ancient dragon and yet you're walking around like you're on grocery duty. I swear—if I had a coin for every wasted potential I've seen in my life—"

"Velk, shut up," Marek muttered under his breath.

"That's not how conversations work, kid."

"I don't care."

He turned into one of the quieter alleyways that weaved through Valdren's stone buildings.

It was the same route he always took when he didn't want to be seen. Just a little pocket of silence where the world didn't feel as loud.

Then he saw it.

An old piano, weathered and chipped, sitting in the shade beneath a boarded-up window. It was out of place, left behind from who knows when. Dust clung to the keys, but a few of them still shimmered faintly under the light.

Marek froze.

He stepped forward slowly.

The memories hit harder than expected.

When he was six, he could play better than most adults. The mayor invited him to play during festivals. Strangers clapped when he touched the keys.

His mother used to sit beside him and sing along.

But somewhere along the way, he stopped.

His fingers hovered over the keys.

He didn't press a single one.

Velkaroth was quiet now, unusually so.

Marek lowered his hand. "I don't want that life," he muttered. "I don't want applause, I don't want stages, and I don't want to chase dreams that fall apart when you wake up."

He turned away from the piano.

"I just wanted to be a soldier," he said quietly. "Just a normal life. Fight, protect, maybe die someday without making it anyone's problem."

"You're the most dramatic fifteen-year-old I've ever met," Velkaroth mumbled.

But Marek didn't reply. He just walked on, leaving the piano behind.

---

Marek sat on the edge of his bed, carefully folding a dark tunic into a neat square before placing it into the small traveling pack at his feet.

The sky outside his window had already begun to bleed into evening, and he knew what that meant—tonight was the mission assigned to him.

Tonight was the first step toward something far larger than himself. And at dawn, they would leave the city.

He double-checked the satchel.

"You forgot the flint," Velkaroth said lazily from within his mind. "Unless you're planning on freezing through the night while pretending to be brave."

"I packed it earlier," Marek muttered under his breath.

"Ah. Then you're improving. Perhaps one day, you'll even be competent."

He exhaled sharply, half amused, half tense.

A quiet knock tapped against the door, and a moment later, it creaked open.

His mother, Eliska Draganov, peeked inside with a gentle smile.

"Marek," she said, her voice warm. "Your father and I are heading to the city soon. The festival's already started. You coming with us?"

Marek froze, his hand still on his bag.

His first instinct was to say no. He had a mission. He needed to be alone to prepare, to focus. But the words caught in his throat. For a moment, something else surfaced.

Memories.

The Pottery Festival.

Vendors laughing as they showed off intricate ceramic dragons, owls, and fish. Children racing between stalls. The echo of laughter and spinning wheels.

And in the middle of it all, a small wooden stage where a boy once sat nervously at a piano—his fingers trembling—while couples danced under the lights.

His parents had clapped the loudest when he finished.

And even back then, Lucas had lifted him on his shoulders, laughing.

Marek blinked, and the image faded.

He looked at his mother again. She was trying to hide it, but he saw it—the quiet hope in her eyes, the way her hands lightly twisted the ends of her shawl.

He felt his throat tighten.

"Yeah," he said, softly but clearly. "I'll go."

Eliska's eyes widened just a little, and then her smile returned, brighter this time, gentler.

"Good," she said. "We'll leave in fifteen minutes. Wear something warm—it's windy tonight."

The door closed with a quiet click, and Marek sat still for a moment.

"So, you're going to the festival," Velkaroth murmured, more thoughtful than mocking this time. "Interesting. You know this puts your schedule at risk."

"I know," Marek whispered. "But… for once, I just want to remember what it feels like to be part of something before I leave it all behind."

And with that, he reached for his coat.