Kip ran.
Not because he wanted to—he was a firm believer in lying down and pretending to be unconscious in dangerous situations—but because the baby dragon (whom he had mentally dubbed Boomer) had sneezed again.
Farmer Billow's entire turnip patch was now a smoldering crater.
Boomer fluttered along behind him, wings flapping like wet laundry in a storm, occasionally letting out joyful little bursts of flame. Kip's boots were half-melted. His dignity was on fire. Again.
"I am too young to be legendary!" he gasped, dodging a flaming shrub. "This is the exact opposite of what I wanted out of today!"
And that's when things got worse.
A trumpet sounded.
Not a figurative one. A literal brass trumpet blared from the forest path, followed by the clanking of armor and a voice that thundered:
"FEAR NOT, CITIZENS! SIR POMPWELL THE BRAVE HAS ARRIVED!"
Kip skidded to a stop.
Out of the woods burst a man in shining silver armor—well, mostly shining. His chestplate had a suspicious mustard stain, and his helmet was on backward. He carried a sword the size of a canoe and rode a goat. A very determined-looking goat.
"Is that… is that goat wearing horseshoes?" Kip asked, baffled.
Sir Pompwell yanked off his helmet, revealing an enormous smile and a heroic chin. "You! Boy with the scorch marks! Are you in distress?"
Kip gestured vaguely at the burning forest behind him. "What do you think?"
"Aha! A classic dragon encounter!" Sir Pompwell beamed. "You must be the Chosen One!"
"Oh no," Kip groaned. "Absolutely not."
Before Sir Pompwell could launch into a speech about prophecy, a second figure emerged from the trees—hooded, robed, and trailing sparkles of purple smoke.
The newcomer held a scroll in one hand and a dagger in the other. He hissed, "Give me the dragon, peasant, and I shall grant you a painless end."
Kip held up his frying pan. "I will bonk you into next week, buddy."
Boomer peeked out from behind Kip's leg and gave a tiny, adorable growl. The cultist paused.
"That's… that's a Stormflame dragon."
"Is that bad?" Kip asked.
"Legend says they were wiped out a thousand years ago. Cursed. Wild. Uncontrollable."
Boomer belched fire and sneezed at the same time, setting the cultist's robe on fire.
Kip shrugged. "Sounds about right."
Sir Pompwell cheered. "Aha! The beast is mighty indeed! I shall help you defend it!"
"I don't want to defend it," Kip said, backing away. "I want to go home, take a nap, and forget today ever happened."
But Boomer had already climbed onto his shoulder and was licking his ear affectionately.
Sir Pompwell extended a gauntleted hand. "Come, young flame-squire! Adventure awaits!"
The cultist, now smoking, screamed something about "dark vengeance" and ran into the woods.
Kip sighed deeply. "Yeah. Of course it does."
And with that, he was riding double on a goat with a knight, a baby dragon on his head, and exactly zero control over his life.
The adventure had officially begun.