Burn-chc, Butcher.
Similar to Common Tongue, the first word in Dragon Language meant flame, the kind that burned everything to ash.
The second was often used as a verb suffix—Butcher, Spitfire.
That was his name.
From the moment he hatched, swallowed his first meal—the eggshell that had carried his life—and breathed flames to burn everything before him, that name had stayed by his side.
His people called him "Shaman."
It implied communicating with the gods and connecting with nature.
It was the gift bestowed upon them by heaven, destined to lead the tribe toward glory:
More offspring, and more meat.
Thus, he had borne a heavy responsibility from birth, even though he knew that responsibility had originated from a lie—
Yes, he knew. He had always known.
He was not a Shaman at all.
He was not even a pure-blooded Lizardman.
He was an anomaly.
He knew that he had no ability to cast spells.
He merely possessed purer dragon blood and could turn the [Breath] he had mastered by birth into a weapon—a [Dragonborn].
That was a term he had only learned after he entered the Road to Prison and stepped into the world of civilization.
But he did not care.
He had been born in the basin, raised in the basin, eating the meals the Lizardmen carefully prepared and bearing their hopes that he would lead them toward glory.
This was his home, even though the Lizardmen themselves did not care what "home" meant.
It was enough that he cared.
Thus, he snapped off his own horns, then knocked his forehead against a stone, gradually grinding down the raised keratin—
As if having a smoother forehead would make him resemble his family a little more.
He wanted them to accept him.
He cared about them.
That was why