Sisterhood of the Dragon Prologue [Steampunk/High fantasy - 730 words]

This is a rough draft of the prologue of a book (maybe a pair of books) that I've had kicking around in my head for awhile. I'm curious about general feedback: pacing, language choice, does it grab interest, etc.

Hoping a bit of critique will get me writing again. Thanks!

. . . . . . . . . .

The dull yellow from the gas street lamp bounced off the bronze of the scissors as the blades moved rhythmically. Shlink. Shlink. Tiny blond curlicues of hair fell slowly from the lad’s head, drifting lazily to the wooden floor like discarded feathers.

“Ah ha! There, you see?” The man’s whisper was cracked and dry with age but urgent.

“Are those…horns?” There was a tremble of horror in the younger man’s voice.

“Indeed,” replied the older man with unfettered disgust. “I saw one once with a tail. And another covered in scales. Much harder to hide those abominations.” He slipped the scissors into the leather satchel at his side, fastening the clasp with a dull click.

“Quickly now, the dagger.”

“But, he’s hardly more than a babe… Surely we don’t need to….” the words caught in his throat like brambles.

The boy had begun to sob quietly, looking up at the young man with large, wet eyes. A raven cawed in the distance, barely audible above the background hum of the city.

“You see? Draak’s minions are everywhere!” The old man hissed with near-hysteria. “We’ve not much time now. The dagger!”

The younger of the pair hesitated, his hand hovering above the long pouch on his belt. “I…. I cannot.”

“Paak!” the old man spat. “The Prophecy is clear. They are the Tainted. We are the Trackers. It is up to us to save our world from dragonfire. Don’t you see?”

Paak’s eyes widened at the profanities issuing from his grandfather’s mouth. His eyes flickered from the older man’s face to the boy in front of him. The horns protruded from the lad’s head like two small eggs in a nest of half-shorn hair. How could such a small child be an abomination? He was barely old enough to hold a wrench, let alone bring down an entire civilization.

“Listen to me,” the older man said, grasping Paak’s shoulders with surprising strength, “it’s simple. Confirm, then collect. The dagger. Now.”

Paak stilled his shaking hand, and removed the dagger from the pouch. The slim blade of translucent ruby glass cast a red shadow across the tiny child’s arm. He passed the dagger, silver handle first, to the elderly man at his side.

“No, grandson. You must do this yourself.” The man’s bony fingers grasped the child’s arm, and the toy he clutched fell to the wooden floor with a clatter. “Just here,” he motioned with a diagonal movement of a yellowed fingernail. Paak grimaced and swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his throat. It was just blood, after all. He’d seen blood before. Never from one so young, of course, but… For the good of the people, it must be done.

*Confirm.

Collect.

Stop the Prophecy.*

With a wince, Paak drew the blade across the child’s arm. The boy screamed, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. A rivulet of blood streamed down the pale skin and into the small glass vial Grandfather held below the child’s arm. Once the vial was full, he released the boy, who collapsed onto the ground.

“Is he….?” The words lodged themselves behind Paak’s tongue.

“Don’t be daft, Paak,” the old man said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s little more than a scratch. He’ll awaken in exile, like the rest of his kind.” He corked the vial securely and tucked it into a hidden pocket in his overcoat. Paak looked down at the small pool of blood on the ground under the child’s arm as he tucked the dagger back into his pouch.

“The Doctor will be pleased,” the elder mumbled with a nod. “She is close. Perhaps this will bring her closer.” He slapped Paak on the back, as though to congratulate his efforts. “Come.”

The man turned and left the room. Paak stood a moment longer, staring at the child’s chest rising and falling slowly. He turned to leave, shuffling his feet. A skittering drew his attention and he stooped to collect the object he had kicked. He turned the stone figure over in his hands, squinting in the lamplight. It was roughly hewn from a deep blue stone, and still warm from the child’s hand. A bird, with its wings folded. No, not a bird. Wait–it couldn’t be. Not here in the heart of Anath Arun. Paak’s eyes widened as he realized what he held.

A dragon.