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A Short Story : A Story?

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You know, when you’re the heir to the throne of a long dead Camelot and one of the last remnants of a dying magical world, it’s almost an insult that nothing tried to kill you before you turned fourteen. Okay, that was a bit of a mouthful. Let’s start with something a little easier to swallow—everything started after my Mother went to fight a dragon down in the marketplace. Wait… __ __ __ “Peter!” Father had shouted, “Peter, wake up!” “I’m up, I’m up,” I murmured. I sprawled out of bed and grabbed the first fistful of clothes from the pile on my floor. I snatched up my travelsack, arithmetic some spare sheets of arithmetic notes, Excalibur, and shoved them all into the travelsack. Yes, it’s the actual sword. Yes, it fits in the pack. It used to be a sheath, but times change. They’re both magical. Try not to think about it). Father was waiting for me at the bottom of the stone stairs. Arms crossed and brow creased. Before he could say anything, I asked, “Where’s Mother?” His eyebrows shot up. “What?” “Mother’s the one who usually does the scolding, right?” I dashed downstairs and grabbed my leather shoes. “She left at in the morning. Something about a dragon down in the marketplace.” “Why couldn’t she take me?” Father looked at me as if he were imagining how I’d look roasted by dragonfire. “You have to be ready for your classes at the university, Peter. Do you have everything?” “Yes.” “Excalibur in your bag?” “Yep.” “Enchanted laundry?” “Yep.” “Parchment? Ink and

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