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Chapter 25: Oaths in Violet Light

The gate watch quarter unfurled like a battered welcome mat, stone paths worn smooth by generations of boots and claws, walls patched with mismatched bricks where siege spells once hit, and the scent of spiced fish oil, old parchment, and sea-wind thick in the air. The candle walk shimmered along the right, a line of lanterns already being trimmed and oiled by Brinehand acolytes in robes of water-slick blue, signifying them as part of priests of Gizeiten, the goddess of the ocean. A few lit candles nestled in cradles of coral marked with recent names: lost sailors, failed smugglers, perhaps just someone who never made it to the Isles. Axton lingered for a heartbeat, eyes drawn to the charm of silver shell tied with twine. He didn’t read the name. It felt too intimate, too real.

They passed the Laughing Lantern, where half the patrons looked drunk and the other half looked like they'd lost a fight for the furniture. Someone inside shouted, “I don’t care if it’s got fins! If it spoke Common, it owes me rent!” A halfling in a multicolored vest was being tossed out the window before the door even opened.

The group wound their way through the Tide Markets, where the road sloped toward the coastal intake halls. Colorful tarps snapped in the sea breeze, casting flickering shadows over cracked cobbles and tangled ropes. The air was thick with salt, charred spice, sweat, and the pungent musk of too many bodies jostling for the illusion of order.

Shops crowded the crooked streets like barnacles on a sunken hull, some sprawling across multiple floors with arched signage and enchanted awnings, others barely more than booths wedged between alleyways, their walls draped in mismatched sailcloth and prayer-flagged ropes. Every one of them bore a banner, stitched dragons in bold, clashing colors, wings flared, or tails coiled, stylized enough that no two matched. To Axton, they felt less like house signs and more like claims, territorial marks left by the dragons who surely owned these stalls in all but name.

There was the “Crimson Coil”, its cloth dyed rust-red, the image of a snarling wyrm biting its own tail. They sold "bite wards" and "scorn-breakers” amulets the size of plates, glittering with cheap gems and terrible enchantments. The vendor, a kobold with gold paint smeared on his snout, shouted, “Protect your loins and your love life! Fifty percent off if you’ve already been cursed once today!”

One corner stall, “Scale & Stitch,” featured a blue dragon curled protectively around a pair of scissors. The owner, a half-blind elf with needle-callused fingers and an accent thicker than stew, insisted every cloak in the shop had been “dragon-blessed for weather resistance,” though Axton was sure the reek of brimstone was from the laundry.

Then there was the “Velvet Flame,” where a silk-draped minotaur spoke softly over glass cases of perfumes, tonics, and love elixirs. Axton caught a glimpse of one bottle labeled “Embergasp – For When You’re Out of Words.” The minotaur winked at him. “Special price for fire-kissed cheeks, darling.”

Seraphina nearly bolted at a stall claiming to sell “Authentic Ceullus Cooking Gear, Blessed by Thor Himself!” The halfling behind the counter wore a hat shaped like a soup pot and had a grin like a coin shark. “Only three gold for the spatula kissed by Lady Artemis herself!”

The ceullus mare’s hand twitched toward the ladle. She turned it in her grip, narrowed her eyes, and…crack, slammed it across the stall table. It bent like tin. “This was forged in a trash heap and rubbed with beard oil. I oughta—”

“Later!” Pyretalon rumbled, physically guiding her away as the two minotaur bodyguards behind the merchant flexed and flared their nostrils. Ever cheerful, the halfling waved after them. “Blessings upon your stew!”

As they pressed deeper, the city folded upward into tiered bluffs, with gulls crying above and children darting between carts chasing wind-dancers, striped pinwheels enchanted to hum Lumaran lullabies. Axton couldn’t stop staring. It was too much. Too alive. He had grown up in a palace of perfection that was Entis with its pristine towers, polished skybridges, elegant rituals. This place? This was real. Ugly, loud, beautiful chaos.

The Processing Hall of Scale loomed ahead like a courthouse built by gods and remodeled by dragons. While the rest of Virestone bore the weathered touch of salt and struggle, this building stood oddly pristine. The streets narrowed as they reached it, cobbled stone shifting to smooth white tiles veined faintly with blue, like the skin of a shallow sea. Crowds thickened near the arched entrance, clustering into roped-off lines beneath hovering crystal globes that pulsed with magical light.

Set atop its wide entrance arch, a gold-painted sign read: Drakhaldeir – The Place of Dreams. Ornate, official, and lacquered to a shine that caught the sun and flung it back into every squinting eye. Below it was the painted image of a dragoness in regal repose, red-scaled, cloaked in golden chains, rings, and piercings, her wings flared behind her like a throne. Her gaze was commanding yet kind, one blue eye-catching light like still ocean glass, the grey eye-scales around it marked with the same sweeping Infinity bore.

Inside, the hall opened into a wide chamber of echoing marble and dragon-shaped shadows. Murals stretched high across the walls and ceiling, each depicting majestic dragons blessing mortals, talons lowering magical scrolls, wings shielding entire villages, jaws open in roaring declarations. But beneath the paint, Axton could still make out the faint shapes of Rothdell's broken emblems, old reliefs and crests scrubbed half-clean, overwritten but not forgotten.

The air smelled of ink, spell fire, parchment, and waiting. Always waiting. Rows of enchanted desks floated in place, each operated by a kobold or elf clerk, scribbling or speaking runes aloud to dictate. Murmured instructions buzzed from floating plaques above: “Step forward. Declare your name, profession, weapons, where you come from, and why you wish to go to Drakhaldeir. Submit to arcane scry, NO EXCEPTIONS.”

Occasionally, someone was pulled aside, usually the loud ones.

The walls watched you, as did the dragons in the murals. This wasn’t a place of worship, nor comfort. This was a dragon’s bureaucracy. And dragons never forgot a signature.

Curled around the hall like a sluggish river was a line, a tide of robes, armor, patched tunics, worn boots, and anxious eyes. It overflowed the ropes, drifted past the floating plaques, and spilled toward the door in fits and starts as each group shuffled forward, one step closer to whatever future waited beyond the scales and signatures.

There were merchants with sun-cracked ledgers clutched to their chests, families with wide-eyed children whispering about dragons and riches, and lone wanderers who kept their hoods up and their stories hidden. A pack of gnolls barked among themselves, tails flicking in irritation as they argued over whether their cousin would count as “agricultural labor”. A tall woman in rusted chainmail stood behind them, holding a rusting sword and a loaf of bread, only one of which she seemed proud of. Everyone had a story, and most were eager to tell it. Or compete with it.

“I swear on my uncle’s tailbone,” one burly dwarf grunted behind them, “our village got swallowed by a sinkhole the size of a kraken’s ass, took the temple, the smithy, and half the goats!”

A sunburned man in travel leathers scoffed. “Please. A sinkhole’s a Towerday. My town caught fire during a cult demon summoning and a wedding. We had flaming bridesmaids running through the streets.”

Among them, a fair centaur snorted, stopping his hoof. “Try undead. None of you have anything that competes with that, I can still smell the stench!”

Axton looked around for someone official to flag down. Nelneras had said the sigils would get them past the line, if the right eyes saw them. He reached for the inside fold of his robe, fingers brushing against the thin rune-marked slip Nelneras said this would work. People were starting to glance their way, five outsiders, clearly better dressed, clearly not waiting. He heard a few mutters.

“Who do you reckon that is?” Roran asked, squinting at the dragon carving above the doors. “Some sort of welcome statue? Bit gaudy, isn’t she?”

“Probably someone important,” Axton hissed, still looking. “Dragons don’t waste gold on decoration unless it’s breathing.”

A bark of laughter snapped their attention sideways. The gnoll woman had stopped beside them, arms folded across her chest, one fang poking out past her lip in a half-grin.

The gnoll woman looked like she’d wrestled more than a few drunk sailors in her time and won. She stood a head shorter than Roran, with lean muscle packed into a wiry frame, her fur a coarse tawny brown streaked with salt-white along her shoulders and muzzle. Scars crisscrossed her arms like old maps, and her leather armor was stained from years of honest sweat, sun, and salt. A thick red-and-gold sash cut across her chest, the mark of a local watch or recruiter, well-worn and faded, like she’d earned it the hard way. She had the grin of a brawler who didn’t mind losing a tooth now and then, and her voice had the gravel of too many shouted commands and ale-fueled hymns to Thor.

“That be “The Enchanted Ruby”, that is. Queen of Drakhaldeir.” She tapped the sign with a claw. “Strongest thing flying since the skies broke open. You don’t build kingdoms without a little shine.”

“That so?” Axton asked, tilting his head. “I’ve met a few dragons who might contest that.”

“Then they’d best fly faster.” The gnoll’s grin widened. “She’s here, they’re not. And she’s the one paying my wages, so I say she’s got the right of it.”

She turned toward the painted likeness again, eyes softening with something near reverence. “They say she’s Bahamut’s chosen. The Voice of the Platinum Flame. A new age for all of us.”

“Bahamut?” Seraphina echoed. “Sorry, I don’t mean no disrespect, but I ain’t got a clue who that is.”

“Dragon god of justice.” Roran said, pleased to be useful. “Sartren and her were pals. Used to share prayers, stories, like stars in the same sky.”

“Damn right.” The gnoll barked. “And she’s bringin’ her word down with claw and crown. Food, peace, healing magic for every bastard who can walk through that door. Even orcs, if they sign the forms.”

She eyed Roran’s broad frame with open approval. “And if you’re thinkin’ of settlin’, sweetheart, I know a few posts that’d suit a fella like you just fine.”

Seraphina leaned into Axton, whispering: “Hells, someone oughta put her on a stage. She could sell firewood to a salamander.”

Axton didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth curled just so.

Then the gnoll caught sight of the golden buckles at their waists.

Her ears flattened. “Ah. Hellfire.” She bowed sharply, hand thumping her chest.

“Didn’t realize you were Marked. No offense meant, bad eyes, rough morning. Please don’t tell my overseer. He’d dock my dinner again, and I’m partial to stew.” She risked one last glance toward Roran as she stood, tail wagging once, involuntarily.

“Truly, no offense taken.” Axton offered a small, apologetic smile. “We’ve only just arrived. There’s no way you could’ve known.”

“And you don’t have to bow or nothin,” Roran added with a bashful laugh. “We’re not nobles or anything.”

“But you’ve got a dragon’s seal,” she said, standing too quickly. Her ears stayed pinned, voice rising in pitch. “That’s… rare. Most folks wait months just to get noticed. You walk in already chosen.”

Roran shrugged, modest. “Maybe he saw potential.” He gave her a once-over—casual, admiring, and utterly innocent. “You’ve got a solid build too. Do you follow a strength routine?”

The gnoll blinked like he’d slapped her with a bouquet. “My… what?”

“Workout routine,” Roran clarified helpfully. “You’ve clearly trained. Good form, especially through the shoulders.”

She made a choked noise. “Uh—right! Yeah! We have… drills. And a schedule. And, uh, a dragon boss who makes us do sunrise laps and boulder lifts.”

Roran beamed. “That sounds amazing. Maybe I could join in? I’ve been meaning to mix up my training.”

“You—join—yeah,” she stammered. “Totally. Yes. Join us. Run. Punch things. Good… stuff.” Her eyes briefly drifted toward his arms again, then sharply away. “We’d, uh… show you the ropes.”

“I’d like that.” he said, tail giving a single cheerful wag.

She cleared her throat, trying, and failing, to smooth the wag out of her tail. “Right. Yes. Important folk. Dragon seal and all that.”

Then, with a sudden jolt of memory, or perhaps a desperate need to focus on anything but Roran’s smile, she straightened and gestured toward the winding queue. “Actually, if you want to skip this mess, I can take you through the side gate. You’ve got a mark, so it’s legal. Mostly.”

Roran smiled warmly, that big, affable grin that could probably calm stampeding direboars. “Mighty helpful of you, miss. I’m Roran. Roran Blackclaw. Don’t think I mentioned.”

The gnoll blinked up at him like she’d just been struck by lightning and hadn’t yet decided if it hurt.

“Oh! Uh—right. Name. Yes. Mine.” She gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of her neck with one clawed hand. “Tharka. Tharka Redmaw.” She paused. “Been that a while. Yep. Anyway, big guy…everyone else let’s get you sorted.” She spun on her heel, tail wagging hard enough to knock over an unfortunate halfling.

********************************

The private inspection chamber sat just off the main hall through an arched doorway flanked by two kobolds in oversized visors and polished red sashes. It wasn’t grand, but it was official, quiet, and full of the kind of still air that made Axton feel like sneezing would result in a fine.

A wide bench ran along one wall. Several desks stood in loose formation beneath a banner stamped with the Drakhaldeir crest. Seated at the desks were a tired-looking human with ink-stained fingers, a minotaur who looked like he’d rather be punching someone, an unflinching elven man, and a kobold balancing on a high stool, furiously scribbling in multiple ledgers at once.

It was the elven inspector first that greeted them, whose eyes carried all the warmth of a winter moon. He wore his silver uniform like a second skin, not a wrinkle in sight, and peered down over a set of perfectly balanced glasses. The scroll he wielded was longer than most of Roran’s weapons. "Welcome to Drakhaldeir," the elf said without inflection. “Name. Origin. Race. Purpose. Magic discipline. Religious affiliation. Any declared oaths. Number of magical implements. Number of magical accidents. Any ties to Rothdell’s former government. Any nightmares involving dragons. And if yes to that last one please describe in detail.”

Axton raised a brow. "We came in with a dragon, why is this all required?"

The elf peered at him, quill poised. "And yet you breathe the same air as everyone else, human. In the event of injury, loss, death, or incineration, we need documentation. Which dragon you serve. Who to notify. What pieces to retrieve. Standard protocol. I assume you’re from Lumara?"

"Yes." Axton murmured, now mildly wishing he'd brought a backup hand for all the writing.

His answers were polite, watching that quill work away. But his nerves flared every time the elf asked a new question without blinking. At one point, he asked if he’d ever polymorphed into a creature “not suitable for your partner’s anatomy.” He nearly dropped his wand. The elf didn't blink once.

For Axton, it was mercifully simple. He laid his items on the table one by one, each motion deliberate. His wand, his spellbook, and the staff carved with storm motifs, offered like sacred instruments rather than tools of war. These were not weapons to him. They were extensions of his will. His identity.

The elven inspector examined each with a faint nod of appreciation. “Finely made. Balanced.” He murmured, as though reading the instruments like symphonies etched in runes. “Elegant work, human.”

He opened his mouth to respond—

CLANG. Roran’s hammer landed on the table beside them, toppling an inkpot and nearly splitting the inspection ledger in two. THUD. A sword with seven stars of Sartren on its scabbard. CLANG. CLANK. A whip. Wait… when did Roran get a whip? Axton thought in surprise.

The elf blinked. Slowly. Then turned his head, as Roran, tail wagging, smile bright, began unstrapping weapons like a magician performing a hat trick with live wolves.

“Don’t worry,” the wolven said proudly. “I know where most of these came from.”

Another sword. A flanged mace. Two daggers, one shaped like a fish.

The minotaur inspector narrowed his eyes. “And this one?”, lifting one of the weapons with a grunt of disdain. “Where did you get it?”

Roran blinked. “I think that one was from a bandit fight. Or maybe that duel in the tavern… oh, no wait! That’s the one I sat on for a week.”

“By your hooves wolven, and you call yourself a warrior,” he muttered. “Steel without story is shame. You don’t own your weapons. You’ve… collected them. Like spoons.”

“Hey, I remember most things!” Roran protested, tail flicking defensively. “Besides, I brought backup rocks just in case.”

"You brought rocks?" Came a heavy snort, arms crossing.

"Three," he said proudly. "Lucky ones."

The minotaur slowly set the dagger down and turned away. Half-buried beneath the growing mound, the kobold scratched out half his notes and simply wrote “Many.”

Then came Seraphina.

"Does a pan count as a weapon?" she asked sweetly, hoisting it up.

The elf stared at her with the same expression he might offer a melting doorframe. "No. That is a cooking implement."

"You’ve clearly never seen her use it," Roran muttered, rubbing his ribs in remembrance. "Rookie mistake."

“Concise. Lethal. Beautiful.” Seraphina added, giving the pan a loving stroke.

“By that logic, anything can be a weapon. A spoon. A chair.” The elf sighed. “It is still cookware.”

“Well, in your hands, maybe.” Her ears pinned.

Eventually, the pan was added to Roran’s pile under the tag “disputed culinary item.”

“But I saw guards with weapons,” Lyra said, tilting her head. “That gnoll from earlier had a blade on her belt.”

“She is bonded to a draconic steward,” the elf replied, not even looking up from his scrollwork. “As are you. The seal on your buckles confirms this.”

“Then why take our weapons?” Pyretalon asked, eyes narrowing.

The elf didn’t blink. “Weapons are forbidden on the isle unless carried under draconic authority. You may reclaim your items once your seal is verified and you reach your steward’s property.”

“What if we need them before then?” Seraphina asked, arms crossed.

His eyes were like that of a glacier. “If you commit violence, your dragon will answer for it.”

The words hung heavily in the air. The elf returned to his writing without another word.

Roran turned to Seraphina with a grin and a whisper. “Think they’ll count the soup ladle?”

Then, much to Axton’s horror, came the confusion with the gryphons.

“Names?” the elf had asked, voice smooth and flat, never lifting his eyes from the form in front of him.

“Pyretalon. She’s Lyra.” the gryphon replied crisply.

“Species?”

“Gryphon.” They said in unison.

“Professions?”

“Bodyguard.” Pyretalon said with a nod.

“Librarian.” Lyra added, already peeking over the counter to spy on the neat rows of color-coded ink pots.

There was a soft scratch of quill on parchment. Then a pause. “Relationship to one...,” the elf said without inflection, “Mr. Axton Turnvoth.”

Pyretalon blinked. “We’re traveling together.”

“Yes,” the elf murmured, scribbling. “Concubines, then.”

“What?” Pyretalon’s feathers flared.

“No shame in it,” the elf said smoothly, finally looking up with the bored neutrality of a man who had seen it all and cared for none of it. “It’s quite common among dragons. They often bring a few favorites for companionship. It happens more than you’d think. We have checkboxes for it.”

Lyra snorted. “Oh, I like him. Do we get a plaque?”

“We’re not—” Pyretalon began, beak clacking with restrained fury.

“If you're embarrassed, that's fine too,” the elf said calmly, already writing. “Denial is expected. Especially among first timers.”

“We are not his concubines.” Pyretalon growled.

The elf regarded him as one might a stubborn child refusing medicine. “There are alternative designations. 'Cohabitual retainers.' 'Personal attendants with talents.' That one comes with a waiver and a thirty-drake filing fee.”

“Change it.” Pyretalon clacked his beak.

The elf flipped the page with glacial patience. “Very well. But should your status change—and many do—you’ll need to resubmit in triplicate. I did warn you.”

“Why is this even a category?” Lyra asked, barely containing her laughter.

“Because dragons are dragons.” the elf replied simply and moved on.

By the time they were finally finished, Axton felt like he’d been filleted and catalogued. The elf’s ink-smudged fingers, the endless questions, the strange blend of civility and scrutiny left his shoulders tight and his neck sore.

The group had been released from the interrogation table with little ceremony, a scrawled seal stamped on each of their temporary passes, and a final, lingering glare from the elven inspector, directed more at Pyretalon than anyone else. The gryphon had not taken the “concubine” assumption well, and if not for Lyra’s amused restraint, there may have been another item added to Roran’s confiscated pile: a smug elven skull.

As they stepped away from the inspection desks, the air grew lighter. Axton adjusted the strap of his spellbook, wincing slightly as Pyretalon muttered something under his breath about “paper-pushing parasites.” Seraphina fussed over her confiscated skillet, insisting that it still was a weapon, coming to the conclusion they didn’t have any imagination. Roran was oblivious and proud, was still grinning about being called “a walking armory.”

“I’m just glad they didn’t ask me to cluck,” Lyra muttered. “That elf was eyeing me like I’d lay an egg and fill out a form about it.” The way she fluffed her feathers made Seraphina snort.

“We’re not out yet.” Axton muttered, adjusting the strap of his staff. His nerves were starting to settle.

“Axton Turnvoth?” the elf called to him, hands behind her back, the minotaur shadowing her like a waiting storm.

He straightened. “Yes?”

“You’ve been flagged for Arcane Priority Evaluation. The Arcane Sovereign will see you now.”

There was a pause. Then Lyra, from behind him: “Wait, the Arcane Sovereign?”

Axton turned slightly. “Who?”

“Master of magic within the Dragon Isles. Overseer of arcane law, magical integrity, and caster regulation.” The elf arched a brow, as if surprised he’d dare ask.

“The dragon who governs all sanctioned spellwork within Drakhaldeir.”

The words hit like a splash of cold water. Axton blinked. “The… Sovereign?” His mind tripped over the title. “Wait. You mean…a dragon?”

The elf didn’t blink. “The dragon who governs all sanctioned magic within Drakhaldeir. Yes.”

Axton’s mouth went dry. “Alone?”

“Unless your companions are prepared to defend your magical theory and casting aptitude under scrutiny.” He glanced at the rest of the group. “Are they?”

No one spoke. Axton’s heart gave a sudden, traitorous beat, one that didn’t feel like fear, but something far colder. He barely had time to register the answer before Pyretalon was at his side with a keening chirp and eyes narrowed.

“I’m going.” Pyretalon said.

“You are not.” Replied the elf as the minotaur smirked, nostrils flaring at the prospect of a fight.

“I wasn’t asking.”

“You misunderstand; this is not a negotiation. The Arcane Sovereign does not permit companions. Emotional support, bodyguards, lovers, or pets.”

“It’s alright.” Axton touched his side gently

Pyretalon didn’t move. His jaw was locked, eyes unreadable, and for a second Axton thought he might refuse to stand down. But then—

“…Don’t let them push you around,” the gryphon said, low and quiet. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“I’ll be fine,” Axton lied, before insisting he’d catch up with the others and following upon the elf’s heels. What did he have to worry about anyway, it was just another dragon after all.

* * * * * * *

Axton stood at the edge of Virestone’s upper cliffs, wind tugging at his robes, the salt-stung breeze carrying the scent of kelp, stone, and storm-forged sky. Below, the Tide Markets still buzzed with life, shouts, hooves, the soft clatter of coin, but up here, everything was… hushed.

Ahead, across a narrow chasm carved by time and ancient fury, rose the Thornshell Spire.

It did not loom, it waited. A tower unlike any he’d seen, forged not by hand but by will, it spiraled upward in bands of obsidian-black stone veined with silver. Not carved, not hewn, grown, perhaps, or pulled from the bones of the earth like a thorn from a dragon’s hide. Each ring along its coiled structure bulged or narrowed unpredictably, like a creature curling in sleep or tightening around prey.

There were no windows. Only mirrored panels cut into the stone at irregular intervals, shimmering with runes that drifted like fish beneath water, impossible to fix in place. They shifted color as he watched, violet to silver to shadow to void, as if watching back.

Axton’s breath caught in his throat. There was a causeway, barely three feet across, extended from the cliff’s edge toward the Spire’s base, suspended by no rope, no arch, no magic Axton could identify. It pulsed with pale violet light, low and humming, the final breath of a storm waiting to be born.

He hesitated.

The wind picked up, tugging at his sleeves, making the bridge ripple faintly beneath its glow. Behind him, a kobold scribe coughed once, then gestured, half boredom, half apology.

“I’d keep walking human; The Arcane Sovereign awaits.”

The Thornshell Spire swallowed him whole. Once through the mirrored exterior plates, the world changed. The sound changed. Axton’s boots no longer echoed. They didn’t even click. The floor drank noise the way ink drinks water, silently, greedily, leaving only the whisper of breath and the soft hum of magic moving through stone.

He stepped into a grand atrium, oval-shaped, domed, as if a mountain had been hollowed out and polished by obsidian tongues. Dozens of mirrored panels drifted lazily along the walls, reflecting distorted versions of himself. None of them blinked at the same time.

There were no torches, no chandeliers. Light simply existed here. Violet-tinted, source less, floating through the air like mist. It clung to his sleeves and shimmered against his staff.

The ceiling arched so high above it disappeared into shadows, and from it hung not banners or beams, but sigils. Floating, rotating sigils, carved in negative space. They shimmered with silent judgment, rotating just slowly enough to give the impression they were waiting for him to look away before moving again.

Arcane platforms drifted lazily along the edges. Scribes moved among them: robbed kobolds with feathered pens tucked behind their horns, elves with luminous eyes scanning scrolls that floated midair.

A soft hiss echoed behind him.

Then another. Closer. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He turned, too late. They were already around him. Three naga.

He recognized them only from his father’s stories. Cold-blooded wizards, modified by their own spellcraft, long-lived and cold-eyed, whispering in languages not meant for warm tongues.

Their torsos were lean, impossibly elongated, and clad in tight robes of obsidian silk. Their scales gleamed like oil. Each moved in slow, undulating motions, tails coiling and uncoiling as they slithered across the floor, scale scraped against stone.

Reptilian eyes scanned him up and down, wrong in a way that made his spine shiver. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… hungry. But not for food. For answers. For secrets. For flesh, if it proved useful.

One moved left, slowly circling. Another moved right. The third tilted its head and smelled him.

Axton tensed, heart leaping into his throat. He gripped his staff.

One leaned in, eyes flickering pale blue, nostrils flaring.

“Unregistered.”

A second flicked it’s tongue to taste the air, long, sharp, deliberate.

“Spell scent is… tangled. Not bred. Not trained. Claimed?”

The third drew close. Close enough to make Axton’s breath catch.

Its hand hovered inches from his spellbook.

“Dragons. Etched in brass. Why two? Which is his master?”

They weren’t speaking to him. They were cataloging. Axton flinched.

“Spellbook shows wear on the outer hinge. Inexpert use. No stabilizing runes on the binding.”

“Hands tremble. Soft palms. Not a caster used to pressure.”

“Smells of cedar, ash, and… something else. Unnamed resonance. Possible catalyst contamination?”

A hand flicked toward his chest. Not touching, but close enough to feel the displacement of air.

“Permission to extract surface impressions?”

“Would reduce risk of faulty classification.”

“He would not survive full examination.”

“Does he need to?”

They hissed to each other like scholars arguing over a particularly curious beast in a cage.

Axton took a step back. One mirrored his motion precisely, gliding closer again, forcing him back into the circle.

“Elevated pulse. Adrenaline present. Sympathetic spell response forming in right hand.”

“How quaint. He thinks he’s a threat.”

The naga’s final whisper slithered past Axton’s cheek like a blade drawn near the skin. “His pulse is rising. He’s afraid.”

Another nodded, circling closer, hood cresting faintly. “Fear often masks deeper potential. Or rot.”

“Let us see what trembles beneath.”

“Touch him without clearance, and I’ll have all three of your tongues strung on thread and delivered to your next of kin in a sachet of clove oil.” The voice dropped like a blade wrapped in silk.

The gryphon stood at the edge of the runic mist, haloed by violet sigils drifting lazily through the air.

He was lean, severe, and perfectly arranged. Not dressed but arranged. Feathers black as midnight, touched at the edges with storm gray. His violet doublet was embroidered with thread-of-silver arcane patterns that shifted subtly, like moonlight on water. A half-scroll tucked beneath one wing. A talon lifted delicately as if contemplating which of the naga to impale first.

His beak was narrow, eyes sharp, and there was an air of impatient elegance about him, as if this entire confrontation had interrupted something far more important. “Stars below, you glittering fossils are persistent.” His tone sharpened. “Back to your pools. Before I send you as specimens to the wrong archive again.”

The naga recoiled, not in fear, but in cold irritation. Their tails twisted back toward the mirrored passage they’d come from. One paused as it passed. “Cassian…The specimen is fragile.”

“And you are replaceable,” the gryphon replied with a beak parted smile. “Slither along.”

They vanished. Silence returned. Axton stood frozen, heart hammering. His robes were rumpled. His pride was too.

The gryphon gave a brisk feather-shake as if shedding their presence from his shoulders. Then he turned. “Gods preserve us from relics with egos. You’d think being cold-blooded would temper their enthusiasm.”

His eyes tracked over Axton’s figure, his gaze lingered on the staff, then the belt, then the spellbook with its twin dragon crests. “Are you well? Or have they psychically undressed you already?”

Axton blinked, unsure how to respond.

Cassian’s eyes flicked over him, sharp, assessing. He stepped closer, eyes glinting. “Let’s begin again, shall we?” He fluffed his feathers, a grin across his beak, “I’m our Grand Sovereign’s assistant, indispensable, undeniably overqualified, and unfortunately stuck playing nursemaid to magical toddlers.” He gave a mock bow and an exaggerated whisper: “That’s you, in case that wasn’t clear.”

His wings fluttered slightly as he turned, tail twitching. “Now. Walk with me. Talk with me. We’ve a Sovereign to impress, and you’re already behind on sparkle and drama.”

He didn’t wait. He was already striding toward the spiral ramp, voice echoing back over his shoulder. “We’ll need to work on your posture. And your title. ‘Axton’ is painfully mortal. Where’s the flourish? ‘Axton the Arcane’? No? ‘Axton the Unburnt’? What, nothing with fire? Tch. Disappointing.”

Axton hurried after him, still unsure whether he was being insulted, guided… or both.

Probably both. Axton scrambled to catch up, his boots tapping lightly beside the gryphon’s more confident steps. He kept his shoulders drawn in, one hand clutching his satchel, the other awkwardly fiddling with the fasten of his robe. The spiral descent curved along the interior wall of the tower, black stone polished to a mirror sheen, seamless and unnaturally smooth. A soft violet glow bled from glyphs along the floor’s edge, following their steps like a curious shadow. High above, the atrium’s mirrored ceiling caught their reflections, warping them as if through rippling water. Everything whispered of ancient rules and unseen watchers.

“I… never really thought about a title,” Axton said, voice low. “I suppose I’m just Axton.”

The gryphon snorted, elegantly.

“Oh, darling. That might pass in the backwater arcane circles of Rothdell, but here? That’s like arriving at a ball in a burlap sack and claiming it’s tradition.” His silver eyes narrowed as he glanced sideways. “You’ll need something better. Mystique is a currency.”

They passed the first threshold: a grand oval chamber ringed with translucent columns, each one humming softly with restrained magic. Behind those columns, floating platforms ferried clerks, kobolds mostly, between layers of silvery scroll racks and gently glowing registration plinths. The ceiling here was curved like an upturned bowl and inlaid with fine veins of mithril that pulsed like a dragon’s heartbeat. Axton felt the magic in the air press against his skin, not violently, but like a hand checking his temperature. Watching. Weighing.

“This is the Registry Spire,” Cassian said without slowing. “This is where we track every spell cast within six leagues of the tower. Including that little cantrip you used to tidy your cuffs upstairs.”

Axton blinked. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything. That’s why I still have feathers.” He didn’t elaborate.

They descended farther. The next level opened into a long corridor, eerily silent, lined with narrow, seamless doors set into the stone like sealed tombs. Axton had the uncomfortable sensation that they weren’t meant to be opened from the inside. Runes pulsed along the base of each threshold, each one different, each one unnervingly reactive to their passing. The corridor was lit by hovering, tinted orbs that changed color as they moved: one dimmed too deep blue as Axton passed beneath it, then blinked sharply as if in disappointment.

“These are the Evaluation Chambers,” Cassian said, his voice gaining a theatrical lilt. “Where you may be prodded, tested, weighed, and, on rare occasion, spontaneously combusted. But don’t worry. That only happens when someone tries to impress the naga.”

They turned another bend, passing a wide arched opening. Inside, the floor dipped into a runic pool surrounded by elegant bronze railings. Here, three naga slithered in slow, spiraling paths around a flickering illusion of a map, perhaps of the Dragon Isles, though Axton couldn't recognize the shapes. They moved like thoughts made flesh: silent, gleaming, ever watchful. One turned, its unblinking eyes locking onto Axton for half a heartbeat too long.

Past this, the descent grew darker, not dim, but shaded in deliberate gloom, a corridor that narrowed until it opened into a recessed gallery alcove. Here, kobolds stood in still reverence before a massive crystal basin shaped like a dragon’s eye. Inside shimmered a slow swirl of coin, artifacts, enchanted trinkets, and scrolls, hovering as if underwater. The runes lining the pedestal spelled out no name, but the intent was obvious.

Cassian gestured without even looking. “Ah yes. The donation bowl. Time is valuable. Dragons doubly so.”

Axton hesitated. “We had to bring a gift?”

“It’s always polite to do so when visiting a dragon,” Cassian replied breezily, smoothing his feathers with one claw. “Their time is valuable, their patience limited, and their egos… well, measured by the ton.”

“And what happens if we don’t?”

“Oh, someone tried that once,” he said with a soft chuckle. “They left as a frog. A rather flammable frog. I believe they’re the brown stain in the west corridor. Unless we redecorated again.”

He swallowed hard and dropped two inscribed spell scrolls from his satchel into the basin. The moment they touched the surface, the illusion of water glowed brighter, and the scrolls vanished without a ripple. Cassian nodded approvingly.

“Good boy.”

The spiral path resumed, the curve now tightening, the walls beginning to widen outward as if descending into the belly of the world. The runes underfoot turned gold and then crimson. The silence here felt heavier, not oppressive but ritualistic, as though the air itself required permission to exist.

And ahead, the floor fell away.

Cassian stopped short, spreading one wing to block Axton’s path. The gryphon turned, “Right. A few ground rules while you still have the luxury of functioning vocal cords.”

He didn’t wait for a response. “Speak clearly. Don’t mumble. Don’t ramble. And for Bahamut’s sake, no whimsical tone changes mid-sentence, he calls that ‘plunting.’” His eyes rolled, ears splayed, “Don’t flirt. Don’t wink. Don’t inflect upward like you’re asking for belly rubs. He hates that.”

Axton blinked. “I wasn’t planning to ask for—”

Cassian raised a talon for silence. “Don’t look directly into his mismatched eye. Just… don’t. That’s not superstition, it’s common sense. Do not interrupt him. Do not correct him. If he misquotes a law, nod appreciatively and say it was ‘beautifully phrased.’ He’ll like that.”

He gave a swift nod, “Follow when I walk. Stop when I stop. If he starts purring, that’s not affection, it means he smells weakness.” He glanced back “Also, he has very strong opinions on grammar. If you say irregardless, he will erase your tongue.”

“Noted.” Axton paled.

They had reached the edge of a wide overlook, the top of a massive, circular chamber carved from obsidian and basalt. From this height, Axton could just make out the base far below lit by violet crystal braziers that shimmered across a polished floor carved with a labyrinth of ancient sigils. Massive stone staircases coiled along the outer walls, descending like the arms of a spiral galaxy toward the center.

And at that center, spanning nearly the length of a ship, loomed a structure that could only loosely be called a desk.

It was a monolith of dark crystal and flawless stone, carved as if from a single vein of obsidian and etched with silver inlay that shimmered like living script. The edges were rimmed with delicate rune work, curling in elegant patterns that flickered with restrained magic. On one side, scroll racks climbed like towers, and above it all hovered illusion-maps seemingly of Drakhaldeir, some gently pulsed with light, others were marked with blood-red glyphs. An hourglass taller than a man rested beside it, its glass veins filled not with sand, but with dripping strands of silvery light, slow, solemn, and unknowable.

Astrolabes spun in slow, deliberate motion, suspended midair by unseen forces. Glass quills wrote by themselves in perfect calligraphy, ink drawing from self-replenishing wells. Nearby, crystal spheres showed blurred glimpses of distant events, magical disturbances caught mid-bloom.

Kobolds moved among it all with reverent precision, placing scrolls, adjusting glyphs, murmuring to the magic that answered only them. None looked up. None dared to speak.

This was not a workspace. It was a throne of knowledge.

Cassian didn’t slow. “Do try not to gawk,” he murmured. “It encourages him.”

Half-reclined behind the monolith of crystal and stone, a purple dragon lay in a posture that was neither rest nor readiness, but something like ownership. His scales held the dusk of storm clouds, deep violet along the great muscles of neck and shoulders, sliding to a soft, cold-lavender sheen where light kissed the curve of his ribs. The color did not sit; it moved, like oil on water, each breath shifting shadows through the facets of scale. Horns swept back in clean, merciless lines, banded with narrow rings of silver that murmured with a sound too disciplined to be called a chime.

He was elegant the way a blade is elegant. No wasted motion. No noise save the deliberate rustle of a single wing as he adjusted a sheaf of vellum with one hooked talon. Jewelry lay upon him as if it had been born there, slender chains of rune-stamped metal draped from horn to brow, a collar of dark mithril at the strong hinge of the throat, a narrow brace at the foreleg inlaid with sigils that pulsed like the heartbeat of buried fire. Even the quills that wrote for him seemed to obey his stillness, their scratch measured to the cadence of his breathing.

Then there were his eyes. One was of polished red garnet caught in a furnace; the other, a blue so clear it felt colder than winter glass. The gaze never needed to sharpen, only to notice. A slender line of annoyance lived at the corner of his mouth, and the end of his tail, perfect, unscarred, barbed with a neat crescent of horn, twitched once the way a master marks the end of a line.

They began down the steps, which started narrow at first, built with stones too smooth to scuff and too dark to name. Violet braziers flickered from iron sconces, their fire cold as moonlight, casting tall shadows that danced across the towering walls. The further they descended, the more the air tasted of ink and thunder.

Cassian’s talons clicked on the stone as he descended at Axton’s side. He did not look down, but his voice rang clearly in the chamber, every word sharpened by theatrical precision. “Well then. Axton Turnvoth of Lumara, aspiring spell-flinger and enthusiast of poor timing, brace yourself.” He cleared his throat with polished gravitas, wings flaring slightly as he announced:

“And now… You stand upon the precipice of prestige, beneath the gaze of brilliance incarnate. Warden of the Weave, Voice of Precision, the Midnight Archivist, Flame of the Forgotten Rune, Terror of Unlicensed Illusions, The Sovereign Star That Does Not Set, The Arcane Sovereign.”

There was a low sound from below, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. More like an exasperated purr wrapped in molten silk. The enormous dragon uncoiled slowly from where he lounged among scrolls and flickering astrolabes.

“Cassian,” The dragon rumbled, voice rolling like a slow thunder across the stone, “Careful, Cassian. If you stack any more titles on me, his brain will leak out his ears. And I do hate cleaning up grey matter from obsidian.”

Cassian exhaled with mock distress. “The kobolds would never recover. You know how they are about stains.”

The great dragon rose slightly, tail flicking lazily over a crystal inkwell that scrambled to avoid being crushed. His mismatched eyesfixed on Axton with surgical stillness. “Now,” he said with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like amusement. “Let’s have it, then. What have you dragged to my perch this time? A prodigy? A charlatan? A sacrificial offering from the Mage wright’s Guild?”

The gryphon stepped neatly aside with a practiced pivot, gesturing with a wing. “None of the above, my lord,” Cassian said smoothly. “May I instead present: Axton the… unfortunately untitled. Self-declared spellcaster. Not currently on fire, though the day is young. He insists he’s harmless, which is suspicious, but he speaks in full sentences and hasn’t tripped yet, so there’s promise.”

The Arcane Sovereign’s pupils narrowed to slits as he examined Axton in silence.

“We’re still workshopping his official title,” Cassian added, lightly. “He vetoed ‘Axton the Arcane’—claims it’s too dramatic. I rather liked ‘Axton the Slightly Flammable,’ but alas, he says he has standards.”

Axton, blushing, bowed awkwardly. “A pleasure, Arcane Sovereign.”

Cassian’s eyes gleamed. “Apprentice to someone quite controversial, though we’re saving that twist for later.”

The Arcane Sovereign narrowed his eyes. “Hmm.”

His gaze drifted over Axton like a scalpel, dissecting him. “The robe is Lumaran stitchwork. The posture says trained, not born to power. And that spellbook, those are dragon crests, aren’t they?” His nostrils flared. “Tell me, human… did you buy that tome, or inherit it from something bigger and scalier?”

Axton swallowed. “It was… a gift. From family.”

The dragon made a low, amused sound. “Mm. Curious phrasing.”

He tilted his head, the mirror-polished scales along his jaw catching the light in sharp angles. “You don’t smell like The Bloated one’s mines. You’re too clean for the docks. Too polite to be one of the lady’s ornamentals. You reek of humility and hope That leaves…” He sniffed in distain. “Ugh. Nelneras, then.

“…Yes, Arcane Sovereign.”

The dragon’s sigh carried centuries of disappointment. “He’s the only dragon I know who insists on calling livestock ‘family.’ Next, you’ll tell me he bathes with them too.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Don’t forget feeding orphans, housing poets, and sings lullabies to wounded manticores”

The Arcane Sovereign’s claws gave a slow, deliberate tap on the crystal desk. “A pity. I was hoping for a saboteur. A blackmailer. Perhaps even a pyromancer with poor impulse control.”

“My lord, would I ever bring you a schemer?” Cassian interjected smoothly, placing a single talon to his chest.

“Yes. Because you enjoy watching them panic when I catch them.”

** ** “Well. It is a treasured pastime.” Cassian smirked.

“Well then,” The Arcane Sovereign murmured, “speak. Who forged you? What soot-flecked corner of the world spilled you into my domain, and which dangerously optimistic fool thought it wise to instruct you?”

Axton hesitated, just for a heartbeat. Then he stepped forward, adjusting his robes. “I was born in Entis, capital of Lumara,” he said, voice steady but quiet. “I studied under Queen Nivra. She trained me for nearly six years. She taught me discipline, theory, and control.”

The Arcane Sovereign blinked once. “Ah. Nivra. The iron-browed human queen with a fixation on redemption arcs and world peace. Yes, I recall her. Efficient, for a mortal. Precise, if somewhat... blunt. Helped kill that moody red wyrm who wanted to call himself Dreadflame, didn’t she?” He tilted his head, a smirk tugging faintly at his lip. “Well. At least she had some taste in allies.”

Axton pressed on. “After my time in Lumara, I… needed to leave. I didn’t want to keep living under what I was supposed to be- “

“And found a golden farmhand with a hero complex.” The Dragon murmured, already sounding mildly bored.

He couldn’t help but stammer. “Yes. I met Nelneras. He offered to teach me as someone who… understood what it meant to feel out of place. I accepted.”

A soft tsk sound escaped his jaw, flexing one paw like he was contemplating its sharpness. “So predictable. Nelneras does love a little charity project. Especially ones with sad eyes and stammered purpose.” He turned his gaze back on Axton, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “Regardless, let us not forget the reality: while you may prance about calling yourself Nelneras’s ‘apprentice,’ here in Drakhaldeir, you function under my domain. You cast magic because I permit it. You breathe spellwork because I do not silence it.”

“That sounds… kind of oppressive.” Axton said before he could stop himself.

Cassian winced. “Brave.”

The dragons’ eyes didn’t blink. “Oppression? No. That’s what mortals call it when they mistake oversight for cruelty. What I offer, dear Ax, is order. A lattice of control so you do not collapse under the weight of your own hubris.” He shifted slightly, and the braziers behind him dimmed. “You misunderstand me because you’ve been coddled, first by queens, then by dragons who play at being family with livestock. I do not coddle. I govern. Because the alternative… is chaos.”

It was like a hand tightened around his throat. He nodded once.

“Good,” The Arcane Sovereign murmured. “Now. Let us see what Lumara’s precious little exile and Nelneras’s charity case can actually do_._”

The breath caught in his throat before it even reached his lungs, as if the sheer weight of the dragon’s gaze was enough to press down on his ribs. He nodded stiffly, but the gesture was delayed, awkward, his fear betraying him more than his voice ever could. “I’ll do my best,” he said quietly, trying to keep the shake out of his tone. “I know I’m not…” He trailed off, almost choking on the admission. Then, gods help him, he looked up, met Zaelith’s eyes for a heartbeat too long before remembering Cassian’s warning, and dropped his gaze to the dragon’s claws instead. “I know I’m not what you were expecting. Or hoping for. But Nelneras saw something in me. And I… I’d rather try and fail, than let you think he was wrong.”

A low hum vibrated through the chamber, not quite a growl, not quite laughter, but something in between. The Arcane Sovereign’s massive frame shifted, reclining further into his perch. His mismatched eyes narrowed into slits. “Oh,” he said at last, “how quaint.”

A single talon tapped against stone, “You’d rather humiliate yourself than risk tarnishing his reputation?” he mused, the faintest curl at the corner of his lips. “How utterly... predictable. Self-sacrifice, the last refuge of the anxious and unremarkable.”

He leaned forward, enough for the pressure in the air to deepen. “So, you're not here for greatness. Not for ambition. You’ve dragged yourself down my staircase to protect the honor of that gold-blooded idealist.” He snorted in amusement. “Admirable. In the way moths are admirable, when they fling themselves into fire.”

The Arcane Sovereign studied him, not as a person, but as one might regard a half-carved statue or a curious rune etched without meaning. “Very well, then. Let us test whether Nelneras’s little apprentice is anything more than a polished vanity project.”

He exhaled softly through his nose, a plume of faint violet mist swirling from one nostril. “Cassian,” he said without shifting his gaze, “If he scorches the ceiling, you’re cleaning it.”

Cassian’s voice floated back, dry as bone: “As always, my lord. Shall I ready the extinguishing charm or just bring a mop?”

“Whichever leaves fewer stains.” the Arcane Sovereign replied, one claw now lazily circling in the air, drawing lines of glowing runes that danced before fading. “Impress me… or at least avoid embarrassment. My patience, unlike my reach, is limited.”

The floor at the center of the chamber shimmered, then deepened, not downward but inward, as if space itself rearranged. A ring of etched obsidian bloomed, lined with faintly humming glyphs that pulsed violet with restrained power. Arcane braziers dimmed around the perimeter. The only illumination came now from the ring, hungry, expectant, and watching.

Cassian’s talons clicked softly as he stepped toward the edge, inspecting the formation with a practiced eye. “There,” the gryphon said. “Sanctioned, warded, and unlikely to disintegrate. Assuming you don’t do anything too creative.”

Axton stepped into the ring with careful feet, heart thudding in his chest. He could feel the air shift. The walls of the cavern suddenly seemed taller, the light colder, every sound too loud. Dozens of kobold eyes peered from the shadows, scribes half-concealed behind scroll racks. Somewhere above, Cassian was likely judging his posture.

The Arcane Sovereign said nothing else. He simply waited.

Axton’s fingers trembled at his sides. He inhaled through his nose, steadying himself. You are trained. You are skilled. You have passed harder tests than this—But not like this.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the Arcane Sovereign said, “Do try to show me something I haven’t seen from a hedge-born conjurer, if that’s not too difficult.”

He cast his first spell — Mage Hand. Clean. Efficient. He followed it with an illusion of an ox, silent sculpted with care, then Scorching Ray, three beams of intense heat, striking part of the floor. They were perfect. Clinical. Dead. The Arcane Sovereign didn’t blink.

Sweat trailed down his ear. Dispel Magic. Shield. Hold Portal. A dozen spells followed, each more advanced than the last, spells he had mastered, spells that had once made him feel capable.

But here, in this chamber, before this creature, they felt like nothing more than parlor tricks.

“What an exhaustive tour of mediocrity.” The dragon sighed, “Is the best that Nelneras’ whelp can perform?”

Axton flinched.

The dragon leaned forward just slightly, enough that the glint of one crimson eye caught the chamber light like a dagger drawn across wine-dark velvet. “Do you rehearse this performance nightly,” he murmured, “or is it all spontaneous drudgery?”

He could feel the heat of failure rising up his spine, the kind that made his knees want to give out. He didn’t look at Cassian, the gryphon stood silent above him on the steps, unreadable. He didn’t dare look at the kobolds, though he sensed them still as statues, their pens paused mid-ink.

I’m not enough. I’m not enough. I’m not— Then a flicker of memory. Nelneras, wings spread against starlight. His voice was like that of gold dust over warm soil. He had believed in him, those lessons he had shared were not wasted. He thought to those, perhaps that would impress this scaled menace. Axton’s fingers flexed at his side. No gestures. No words. The circle pulsed once, faintly. He closed his eyes. And then, without a single syllable or motion, he cast.

The lightning came without warning, a sudden, sharp crack of thunder and raw, searing energy that split the air like divine judgment. It struck the illusion target again, but this time not as a performance. This time, the Weave obeyed him.

The room went still. Even the air recoiled. Slowly, Axton opened his eyes.

High above, the Arcane Sovereign rose. He did not stretch. He did not announce himself. He simply began to descend. The steps coiled like an ancient ritual around him, his tail dragging silver sparks in his wake, claws clicking against the stone with sovereign rhythm. He reached the ring’s edge in silence, then stepped inside, his wings folding close with a sound like silk snapping in fire. The Arcane Sovereign stopped within a breath of Axton, towering over him like a mountain given thought. His red eye scanned him. The blue one, unreadable, almost… thoughtful.

“You cast without sound. Without motion.” He flared his nostrils, encasing the heart racing human in hot air, “No artistry. No flair. But… acceptable.”

Axton let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The dragon’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t mistake that for praise,” he hissed, “You surprised me. That is all.”

He paced once around the ring, talons gliding with surgical elegance.

“So. You claim apprenticeship to that radiant moralist.” A sneer tugged at the edge of his muzzle. “And yet you’ve learned to whisper past the Weave. Curious.”

He turned, looming, fangs catching the glow like polished runes. “But let us not confuse loyalty with license. You may bask in his guidance, kneel at his lectures, shine beneath his noble wings…”

He leaned in, both mismatched eyes capturing Axton’s reflection in unsettling symmetry. “But here, in my domain, you serve me.”

The words hung like smoke in the silence that followed. Then the dragon exhaled, slow and cool, as though the declaration were settled.

“You’ll be expected to follow the same standards I require of all licensed practitioners within Drakhaldeir.” His voice grew almost bored, but every word struck like law being etched in stone. “You will not meddle in civic enchantments, you will not ‘experiment’ on curious locals, and you will not redefine the purpose of a fireball.” He paused, nostrils flaring. “You will behave as if your actions reflect upon me, because they do.”

Cassian was already gone by the time The Arcane Sovereign began listing punishable offenses, already anticipating the moment. The gryphon returned now, a small item nestled delicately between two talons.

The Arcane Sovereign didn’t glance over. “Those who disrespect the rules find themselves… corrected. Publicly, if necessary. Reeducation, exile, magical suspension, should you misstep, you’ll find mercy in short supply.”

Cassian stopped beside Axton, clearing his throat. “Ahem. All that to say, don’t be stupid.”

He extended a small box, packed with a crimson cushion. Atop it was a sliver of polished dragon scale, cut in a clean arc like a crescent moon. Deep violet in hue, nearly black at the edges, its surface shimmered with fine sigils only visible when tilted toward the violet braziers. Despite its size, it hummed softly, as if aware of its surroundings.

Axton blinked. “This is…”

“Drakhaldeir-issued,” Cassian cut in. “It will let you cast basic spells freely—light, cleansing, stabilization, simple cures. In emergencies, it can signal other scale-holders nearby. You press it, it hums, they come running. Theoretically.”

He made a small circular motion with one talon. “If you need assistance, you may press the scale to alert nearby licensed casters. It also allows secure communication with other registered citizens. It’s keyed to you. Wear it properly. Don’t enchant it. Don’t tamper with it.” He gave a soft laugh, “And do try not to lose it. Replacements are expensive. In ways you won’t enjoy.”

Axton stared at the scale in his hands. It felt light… but final. Like a contract signed in silence.

He swallowed. “Thank you, Arcane Sovereign.”

The dragon inclined his head ever so slightly, like a king acknowledging the existence of weather.

“Yes, yes. Enjoy it.” He began to climb back atop his desk, talons cracking stone, “Just try not to set anything on fire unless you intend to be very, very entertaining.”

Cassian gave Axton a small nudge. “That’s your cue, apprentice.”

Axton nodded, clutching the scale tight as he turned to follow. Behind them, the Sovereign’s vast chamber remained still, runic light pulsing faintly along the floor like a heart keeping time.

Just before they passed through the arch, The Arcane Sovereign’s voice followed, dry, precise, unamused. “Do try not to embarrass your master. Or me.”

A chuckle passed through Cassian’s beak. “We’ll add it to the list of things he’s not allowed to do.”

The towering desk bid him farewell, its surface aglow with arcane light, its master reclined in shadow like a god half-interested in the fate of mortals. The braziers hissed low, casting his long silhouette across the floor. Cassian was already walking ahead, efficient as ever, talons echoing crisply down the corridor.

The scale weighed lightly against Axton’s chest, but it might as well have been a chain. And yet...He had passed. Not with brilliance. Not with flair. But enough. His pulse still drummed in his ears, echoing the echo of the Sovereign’s voice. The sharp edge of each command, each casual insult, still clung to his ribs like barbs. The naga, the mirrored walls, the way Cassian’s eyes saw through him with weary precision, he had felt like a moth caught in a storm of giants.

But he hadn’t fled. He thought of Nelneras, how proud he’d been when he’d first cast without a word, how fiercely he believed in him, how he’d trusted Axton enough to bring him here. He couldn’t help the thought creeping in: Would he be proud now?

The Spire had tested him. Bent him. But not broken him. And though the Sovereign had dismissed him with disdain, though the gryphon’s smile had been all teeth and judgment… they’d let him stay.

Chapter 26: Vacation’s Over, Sunshine

The air reeked of burnt copper and molten greed.

Nelneras soared over the eastern spine of the caldera just past midmorning, the sun casting long gold streaks through the rising steam. Below him, the land cracked and festered like a wound in the world, jagged ridges of obsidian and soot-veined rock, broken by collapsed mining shafts and old lava vents that still breathed heat in low, sullen gusts. What little vegetation had once clung to the slopes had been scorched to brittle stalks, and the only signs of life now were the shimmer of magical residue and the scurrying of kobolds far below.

At the caldera’s heart lay Coinroar Hollow, if it could be called a lair at all. It sprawled like a half-collapsed amphitheater gouged into the cliffside, with no symmetry or grace, just crude black-stone terraces reinforced with rusted beams and bone-colored buttresses that looked more accidental than architectural. Huge cloth banners hung limply from iron poles along the outer ledges, each one emblazoned with Valcagor’s symbol: a bloated black dragon squatting atop a mountain of coins, tongue out, claws open, grinning like a drunken warlord. The paint had begun to peel in the heat. One banner flapped free, tangled in a crumbling statue of what might’ve once been a gryphon, now missing both wings and half its face.

The landing pad dominated the eastern shelf, a massive, uneven platform carved straight from basalt, ringed by carved troughs that glowed faintly with redirected magma. There was no grandeur to it. No welcoming arches or polished tiles. Dozens of strange containers were scattered across the platform, chests, barrels, and box-like constructs in varying states of enchantment. Some were bound in iron bands. Others gave off a dull, pulsing light. One appeared to be leaking glitter. He could see kobolds flitting among them like ants, stacking, polishing, arguing, and at least once, running from a container that hissed.

To the far rear, deeper into the volcanic ridge, a jagged tunnel mouth yawned like the throat of some ancient beast, smoke trailing from it in lazy ribbons. Crude gold-painted draconic runes marked the archway: “COINROAR HOLLOW — ACCOUNTING BEYOND GLORY.” And just beyond it, barely visible from above, were Valcagor’s personal quarters, a squat dome of welded metal and stone, reinforced with vault doors and glowing ward glyphs that flickered like sickly lanterns. Even from here, Nelneras could make out the massive chain curtains and the rows of statues that lined the approach, most of them of Valcagor himself, some crude, some obscene, all excessive.

He circled once, banking wide as heat shimmer distorted the cliffs.

This place shouldn’t exist, he thought, wings tilting as he narrowed into a descent.

It’s a hoard given structure. A vault pretending to be a temple.

He should have been back at the farm by now, helping them unpack, laughing over chores, showing Axton where the old oak had survived last year’s lightning storm. He was supposed to have days left. Days. His tail lashed once behind him, cutting the wind.

Nelneras landed hard, deliberately so. The basalt cracked beneath his talons. “Let’s get this over with.”

It was then that the chaos began. A horn bleated somewhere behind the crates, off-key and alarmingly wet-sounding, followed by a panicked squeak of “Sparkle Mode, GO!” and the thunder of kobold feet scattering like startled rats across the landing pad.

Crates teetered, the boxes were forgotten. One kobold trying to stack magical ribbons fell face-first into a bucket of glitter labeled “Legendary Glow.” Another sprinted straight into a cursed box that screamed, causing him to scream, which triggered three more kobolds to scream and drop a tray of “ethically enchanted” pearls that rolled across the stone as if to escape.

Within seconds, a formation of twelve kobolds had assembled in front of Nelneras, panting, glittering, and shaking, but grinning with manic devotion.

They dropped to their knees. “WELCOME, OH GILDED ONE!” they shouted in eerie unison, arms flung open in trembling reverence. “THE HOLLOW RECOGNIZES YOUR MAGNIFICENCE! MAY YOUR HOARD GROW THICK, AND YOUR FOES DIE OF ENVY!”

From the side, another squad of kobolds burst into song, or something adjacent to song, half-chanting, half-wailing:

“Golden flame! Sovereign scale! Gleam of the noble! Roar of the divine!

Shame upon us mortals, that we gaze upon thee unworthy!”

One kobold tried to throw rose petals. He had no rose petals. He flung beetle husks instead. Another held up a tray containing, a crusty gemstone with a crack through it, two oversized blue berries, and a melted candle shaped vaguely like a dragon’s paw. “May we offer tokens of unworthy tribute!” he cried.

Nelneras froze. His wings drew in, whiskers giving the smallest, betrayed twitch. He hated the groveling, the way reverence had been trained into flinching. He lifted a forepaw, “Rise, please,” he said, voice even. “Dignity is not a crime here.”

A kobold blinked. “D‑does that mean… no polishing your spikes?”

“There will be no polishing,” he replied gently.

“Should we not wipe your paws?”

“Keep the cloth. Keep your backs straight.”

“Tail massage?” Asked the Kobold, almost a plea.

“Not today.” He replied, head held high.

One began to weep with relief and confusion.

Nelneras’ gaze softened a fraction. He turned slightly, seeking a path, and the voice drifted down.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the Heartthrob of Humility.”

A shadow passed across the basalt like a knife sliding over parchment. She landed with a crunch of grit and weight.

Copper-burnished scales flared with sunlit gleam as a dragoness touched down in a crouch, wings half-spread to catch the wind, dust rippling beneath her talons. Her body moved like a warrior, always aware of her weight, muscle beneath polished armor, perfectly balanced between grounded and poised to strike.

Her scales shone copper-red with earthen undertones, deepening along her limbs into that near-black tail tipped in jagged plating. Black underscales ran along her throat and belly like liquid stone, unbroken by scars, just shadow, pigment, power. Her horns, swept back and ridged like volcanic glass, caught the light with every slow turn of her head. Her eyes, narrow and sharp as split turquoise, scanned the glittered chaos before fixing on Nelneras. A slow breath curled from her nose, dry and warm as canyon wind.

She smelled of heated copper, dry earth, and desert spice. This was Zezraya, Claw of the Molten Path.

Turquoise eyes, cool as a glacier peak slid over the kneeling kobolds, the spilled trays, the blubbering glitter-caked mess… then locked on Nelneras with amused disdain. “You’d think a dragon of your illustrious reputation would enjoy being treated like royalty,” she said, advancing upon him with a growl. “But no, our dear Nelneras the Noble scolds the servants for bowing. I wonder, what would Valcagor say?”

“He’d likely say something obscene and misspelled,” he said, tone dry as she began to circle him, “As usual.”

Zezraya smiled without warmth. “Mm. Clever. But you didn’t answer the real question.” She stepped closer, her tail lazily tracing the stone behind her. “How do you plan to survive here, Goldscale,” she asked softly, “when you flinch at being called glorious?”

“By remembering that praise untethered to virtue,” Nelneras turned to meet her gaze, unfazed, “is only perfume on rot. I prefer clean air.”

She chuckled, a low, guttural sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh, you pretend well,” she murmured. “With all your noble talk, your farm-whelp humility, your delicate preening. But I see it. A gold-plated philosopher too ashamed of his birthright to claim it.”

A kobold nearby perked up, ready with another declaration: “Forged from radiant—”

“Not now.” Zezraya growled without looking, and the kobold sat down so fast his tray bounced off his head.

“Birthright,” Nelneras growled, “is not a receipt to wave at those beneath you. If rule requires knees, it is theft wearing a crown.”

That, finally, earned her full attention. She stepped into his space, close enough their wing-edges brushed. “Spare me, Hearth tender of Morals. They’re kobolds. Born to grovel. We were born to rule. You refuse the crown and call it virtue, but all I see is cowardice dressed in manners.”

His voice dropped to a calm, dangerous quiet.

“No,” he said. “It’s called stewardship.”

A kobold, hoping to ease the tension, piped up: “We, um, have warmed cushions if you’d like—”

Zezraya didn’t even look. “Not…Now.”

Nelneras, still composed, glanced toward them. “You’ve done enough. Thank you. Return to your duties.”

They scattered, trays clattered, scrolls flew, and one cursed spoon shrieked “WITNESS GREATNESS!” before disappearing into a crate.

“So that’s the famous Goldscale,” Zezraya’s eyes didn’t leave his, lips curling. “Valcagor’s pet scholar. I’d expected at least a bit of dragon in you. Instead, I find a two-legged sentimentalist with wings.”

“And I’d hoped the Claw of the Molten Path possessed more than heat and volume,” Nelneras arched a brow. “But here we are.”

Silence fell. The tension didn’t fade, it sharpened. Bright, humming, almost... musical.

Zezraya let the quiet stretch, then snorted and flicked her tail. She turned away, wings half-spread in a lazy display. “Don’t trip over your ideals on the way in, Goldscale,” she called over her shoulder. “Whatever has you dragged here, I’m sure it’ll be… humbling. Try to walk like you belong here”

Nelneras exhaled, one soft huff, dry and unimpressed. He took a slow step forward, claws striking stone like punctuation. “I didn’t come for your curiosity,” he murmured. “And I’ve no breath to waste proving what you refuse to understand.” He passed her without looking.

She said nothing as her eyes narrowed, and her tail gave a subtle twitch.

Just before crossing the threshold, he murmured, loud enough for her to hear, “Belonging, in my experience… is earned by how one stands the moment others kneel.”

His words faded behind him, swallowed by the hush of stone corridors and the measured scrape of claw on basalt. The air changed, warmer now, heavy with charcoal and grease, tinged by the faint metallic trace of too many enchantments inked by too few competent hands. Ahead, the passage widened, carved more for function than grace, its walls marked with soot-dark scorch lines and tally slashes not meant for guests.

Creaking pulley lines rattled through high vents above, ferrying crates too fragile to trust to kobolds and too valuable to leave idle. Somewhere ahead, something clattered, followed by a kobold’s high-pitched apology and the shuffling thud of a body wisely flattening itself to the floor.

He passed a leaning stack of wooden boxes, each crudely stenciled with fire-dried ink and stamped runes that looked like they’d been copied off tavern coasters. A few glowed faintly, unconvincingly. One hummed when he walked by, then fizzled into silence like it had changed its mind.

A banner sagged overhead, nailed too low for most dragons but too high for any kobold to reach again. “Welcome, Esteemed Partners of Prosperity!” it read—, hough the paint had bled, and "Prosperity" was half obscured by soot.

He didn’t slow. He barely blinked. He should’ve been soaring through open sky by now, Axton beside him, sun on their wings. Instead: this. Corridors of laborers. Dust and brass. Summoned back like an intern whose desk was still warm.

The familiar voice struck just as the air grew hotter.

"—and if they want the bloody sauce warmed, they can pay triple! These bastards have got mountains of coin; they’ll fork over anything not to look stingy!"

Nelneras closed his eyes for one long moment. Then walked into the heart of it.

The chamber widened into what must have once been a storeroom, or a shrine to chaos. Long tables of warped stone had been dragged into rows, sagging under the weight of price scrolls, cracked ledger tablets, half-scorched menus, and a forest of open ink pots reeking of cinnamon wax and cheap alcohol. Kobolds darted between the piles like clerks in a fire drill, their sashes color-coded but meaningless, some clutching scrolls, others dragging crates, one sobbing openly over a spilled tray of spice labels.

At the far end, half-sprawled across a mound of cushions stitched with crude embroidery, lay Valcagor. A gilded chain rested across his chest, dragging slightly with the rise and fall of each contented breath. One forelimb stirred lazily through a pile of roasted birds, while his other paw tapped the air in time with the words tumbling from his snout.

“Five thousand for the sapphire mead, per cask. Eight if they want it to be cold. And the flame-seared marrow cutlets? Twelve hundred per slice. That’s right, per slice, not per beast. Fuck it, toss on a garnish and call it a signature Item. Dragons love that branding shit.”

A kobold with three quills strapped to its face nodded furiously, scribbling numbers onto a scroll so stained with wine it crinkled at every touch.

Nelneras blinked once. Then again. “Surely,” he said aloud, his voice cutting through the clamor like a whetted blade, “you don’t mean twelve hundred gold for a strip of meat no longer than a scroll ribbon.”

Valcagor didn’t even look up. He licked a bit of marrow from his claw and chuckled, a low, gurgling rumble that oozed smug delight. “Ah, but it’s not just a marrow strip, is it?” he turned his head just enough to fix one golden eye on Nelneras. “It’s got drizzled fungus oil and a sprig of green on top. Makes it fuckin’ elegant.”

The black dragon’s tail thumped against the obsidian, sending a tremor through a nearby stack of crates. A kobold yelped and caught the toppling box just in time. The black dragon’s grin was all teeth and indulgence as he leaned in, his bulk shifting with a wet creak of scales over gold. “WELL, WELL, WELL! Look who slithered back from tongue-fuckin’ birds in Lumara!” he crooned. “Tell ol’ Uncle Val, how many gryphons did you fuck while you were gone?”

Nelneras flinched. Not outwardly, never outwardly, but the slight ruffle of his whiskers and the way his claws flexed betrayed the truth. “That’s not… how I spent my time.” he said carefully.

“Ohhh, so it was two-leggeds, then!? Hells below, Nel. I knew there was a reason you liked those little villages with the birdfolk. That kind of plumage makes a male hungry, eh?”

A kobold standing beside him, already trembling, dutifully raised a notepad and asked, “Should I add a gryphon-themed dish to the menu, my lord?”

“Something gamey. And raw. Call it ‘Skymeat Tartare.’ Price it high. If they’re too rich to fly, they’re rich enough to chew feathers.”

Nelneras cleared his throat. “I assure you, I—”

“Oh, come on!” Valcagor waved a dripping talon at him. “You were gone how long? A month? Two? Don’t tell me you spent it flappin’ around reading fuckin’ ruins. Or meditating in a field like some scaly monk. I’ve seen how you look when you haven’t been laid. Like a statue someone forgot to polish.”

“I did plenty of reading, actually,” Nelneras said, injecting just enough sarcasm to avoid sounding defensive. “And no one’s ever accused me of lacking polish.”

“Pfft! You’re practically gleaming, Nel.” Valcagor jabbed a claw at him. “That shine’s either a blessing from Bahamut or proof you got bent over by a whole choir. C’mon. You went to Lumara. Land of dancing, open love, and all the feathered tail a dragon could dream of! You’re tellin’ me you didn’t try anything spicy?”

Nelneras offered a thin smile before responding with a voice dry. “I had tea with some librarians.”

Valcagor’s laugh choked on itself. He wheezed, slapped his gut, then wheezed again.

“Oh, you absolute virgin,” he gasped. “Librarians. Gods fuck me blind. Just say you bent someone over a table,” Valcagor said, eyes gleaming. “Say you painted the walls of a sun-temple with your seed. Lie to me, Nel. I’ll respect ya more.”

“I’d rather not.” Nelneras said coolly.

“You tragic little candle-sniffer. Bahamut bless ya, Nel, but if you get any more chaste, you’ll sprout more feathers and start preachin’ celibacy at the next full moon.” The black dragon huffed, turning back toward his work. “You ever think of openin’ a gryphon fuck-house, eh? ‘Featherbeds and Flames’, bang, right there! Slogan writes itself. ‘Where every screech is extra.’ Hells, we’d be rollin’ in coin and complaints.”

Nelneras stepped delicately around a splayed pile of half-enchanted loot crates and decided it was time to change the subject before the entire conversation devolved into market-tested brothel names.

He glanced at the crates. Then the hovering scrolls. Then the humming magical circle carved into the stone. “So…. All of this was so urgent that you dragged me away, why?”

Just like that, the gleam in his eye shifted from vulgar to shrewd. “Ohhhhoho! Thought you’d never ask, Sunshine.” He turned and thumped a claw on the nearest chest, which chimed ominously. _“_For progress, Nel. For Drakhaldeir. For the future of our great, shining empire, as ordained by Her Majesty Queen Endreross, praise her scales.”

“Try again. With fewer lies per breath.” His eyes narrowed.

“Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that! It is for her. Technically. I mean, she said, ‘Valcagor, bring in foreign investment, strengthen our economic alliances, show the world what Drakhaldeir can be!’” black scales puffed out at his chest as he adopted the queen’s noble tone, “So naturally, I said, ‘Yes, your scaly grace! Leave it to me!’ And then I built this—” He laughed, sweeping a paw to the crates, “Lootcrates, Nelneras. Limited-edition, enchantment-infused, dream-splitting lootcrates.” Eyes gleamed with delight as a lustful growl entered his words, “They pay a flat fee, open ‘em up, and maybe they get somethin’ good! Or cursed! Or cursed and good! It’s all part o’ the fun.”

A kobold nearby mumbled, “We lost three eyescales testing that one.”

Valcagor ignored him.

Nelneras exhaled slowly, the heat behind his teeth rising. “That’s gambling.”

“Incorrect.” The black dragon raised a single talon like a teacher scolding a child. “It’s a surprise!”

He blinked. “Surprise?”

“People love not knowin’ what they’re gettin’. It keeps their blood up. Gives ’em hope.” He tossed his head with a laugh. “Hope’s where the coin lives, Nel.”

“And this kind of hope’s illegal,” the gold dragon said, gesturing flatly. “Have you thought what will happen should our dearest queen finds out?”

“Only if you call it gambling,” Valcagor shot back, tail thudding. “This ain’t dice and devils, this is curated chaos. Call it what ya like, it’s legal enough if we’re fast.”

A kobold perked up, hopeful. “Morally flexible commerce?”

“That’s the spirit!” Valcagor barked.

“You summoned me for this?” Nelneras growled. “To turn enchantment into sleight-of-paw trickery? I was on vacation,” Nelneras hissed. “I had plans. I was going to show Axt—” He caught himself, too late.

Valcagor’s ears twitched. “Gonna show who what now?”

“No one of consequence,” Nelneras lied smoothly. “Just a gryphon.”

“Ohhh, back to the feathers again!” Valcagor barked a laugh, grinning with foul delight. “Did ya shatter him this time or go for the gentle rut? Don’t be shy now, Nel. Bet the little fluff moaned like a festival whore when you shoved that knot—”

Turquoise eyes narrowed to slits. “Let it drop,” Nelneras growled.

The kobolds froze.

Valcagor lifted both forelimbs in mock surrender. “Alright, alright! Didn’t mean to ruin the romance, ya sentimental cunt. But hey, if you did manage to rake in some coin while pinning a bird, I’d be proud of ya.” Valcagor waved a paw lazily. “But look, this ain’t just about fuckin’ feathers. Them fancy fuckers from the Dazzling Alliance are comin’.”

“The Dazzling Alliance?” His voice lowered slightly. “Here?”

“Tomorrow!” Valcagor beamed. “Whole glistening gaggle of ‘em. Scales like polished sin, egos like spiked blimps, and wallets so deep you could lose a continent in there. Sothacia and her mate Fildenra leadin’ the charge this century, ever seen a dragon so rich she uses mages as jewelry? They own half the halfling kingdom, Nel! Own it. Farms, banks, breweries, bed houses, you name it.”

Nelneras’ tail flicked. “They’re slavers who figured out how to call it economics.”

“They’re investors,” Valcagor corrected with delight. “And if we play our cards right, Drakhaldeir becomes their next big pleasure pit. Tourism! Imports! Fuckin’ wyvern jerky shaped like tits!”

“And you believe… this,” he gestured at the wobbling crates, “is how we inspire confidence?”

“I believe they’re greedy bastards with more gold than taste, and this? This is shiny.” He leered. “Hell, I even saved the best items for myself. I ain’t stupid.”

Nelneras’ sighed. “I want no part of this.”

“Oh, come on,” he chuckled, faking a wound. “You’ve got the sparkle, the flare, the spell work that makes these boxes look like they’re whisperin’ draconic poetry. Just give ‘em that touch of ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh.’ We’ll split the profits!”

Nelneras didn’t move. “I said no.”

Across from him, the black dragon paused mid-scroll. The grin slipped, just a hair. One eye, dull gold and rimmed with fat-creased scale, shifted to pin him like prey. Then the grin returned, wider, teeth yellowed with opulence. “You say that word like it matters here.”

“You’ve got brass for balls, I’ll give ya that,” he said. “But let’s not play this game, Nel. We both know how this ends.” Then Valcagor leaned forward, voice low, ridged with gravel and something darker beneath. “You enjoy that little field o’ yours, don’t ya? The blue-shuttered house. The tidy grove where your soft skin pretends like they’re part of the Isles. It’d be a shame if someone reviewed the lease. Technically, you're squatters, on my land.”

Their gazes met, sparks begging to fly. No words. Just the quiet tick of his jaw tightening. He could walk. Could spit on this whole farce and leave. But that would mean losing everything he’d promised them. His sister’s line. The children who called him uncle. The dream.

“You have a favor I gave you, dressed up like a life.” Valcagor’s voice lost its humor. “You remember how it was, don’t you? No name. No hoard. No bloodline worth piss. But I vouched for ya. Old, kind and sweet Valcagor.”

A kobold dropped a stylus. No one moved to pick it up.

“Others wanted to turn you out,” Valcagor went on. “Called you strange. Called your little gaggle a bloody circus. You think those stiff-necked clanners respect your little ‘experiment’? Letting pets live about with ya? You think Queen Endreross herself gives a scale what happens if I pull your land out from under you?”

“You live where you live because I let you,” he said, low and rough, like a stone grinding down a gem. “You eat because I didn’t audit your field. Your ‘niece’ paints her silly little shutters because I didn’t triple the rent like I could have.”

Nelneras’ chest rose, slow and deep. His whiskers didn’t twitch. His eyes didn’t flinch. Inside, he heard his mother’s voice in the kitchen. The smell of cinnamon. The creek where his brother fished. The orchard where Mariane’s boys played with sticks pretending to be knights. The tiny carved statue by the well, a gryphon, old and smiling, left by Lyra on their first visit.

A long pause hung in the air, weighty, quiet, and bitter as overstepped tea. Then Nelneras’ whiskers twitched once. His jaw tightened. No elegant sigh. No theatrical quip. He could only focus on his promise to the tender caring humans that had raised him. Their vision. The thread of harmony he wished to forge, carefully, tirelessly, year by year, between dragons and two-leggers. And this gluttonous bastard knew it. Knew he could crush it without a roar, without fire, without even lifting a paw, just a contract. A quiet revocation of protection. Only four words left him with a restrained snarl, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Valcagor’s grin spread like a grease stain across his snout. “That’s my shiny cunt!” He surged forward with enough force to jostle the kobold at his side, knocking a crate askew with his belly. Gold trinkets rattled. The kobold squeaked. “Knew you’d see reason. Knew it. You always come through for ol’ Uncle Val. Knew there was a real dragon buried somewhere under all that poetic sheep skin!”

Nelneras didn’t answer. He turned his head, wings tight, eyes hard and flat as hammered bronze.

Oblivious or uncaring, Valcagor threw a heavy paw over the table beside him, dragging a ledger toward his snout. “Now, now. Since yer helpin’, and I am a generous cunt when the mood strikes, I’ll even cut you in on the profits.” He gave a wink so exaggerated it sent his eye-frill quivering. “Not too much, o’ course. Can’t spoil ya. Gotta earn your meat like the rest of the clutch.”

“You’ve never shared profits before.” Nelneras murmured.

“Aye, and ain’t it the miracle of the fuckin’ age?” Valcagor cackled. “Write a song, bottle the moment. Tell your pets…I mean family, I gave you crumbs. That’s practically a dowry!”

A kobold at his forepaw coughed. “The proposed split is three percent if Lord Nelneras—”

Valcagor shoved the kobold aside with a wing. “See, look how generous, three percent is great, could be more, but we don’t want ya getting your head too swollen soon, eh? Then I’d have teach a lesson!” He tossed back his head with a crude laugh.

Nelneras didn’t reply.

Valcagor leaned closer, reeking of old parchment, copper grease, and an unhealthy amount of musk. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial rumble. “Now, before you scurry off and start drawing runes or whatever it is you do to make things sparkle, lemme tell you about the next big idea.”

A groan started deep in Nelneras’ throat.

“Oh, ho ho, you’ll love this one!” Valcagor thumped the floor with one fat claw. “Picture it, Nel. An illusion suite. Walk in, lie back, and boom, full-sense enchantment. Every non-dragon pays out the nose to think they’re getting railed by a dragon. Or railing one, depending on the mood. Full visuals, heat, breath, scent, all of it. Can’t get consent complaints if it’s all in their head!”

“That’s…” Nelneras’ voice faltered. “Deranged.”

“It’s brilliant!” Valcagor bellowed, triumphant. “You know how many of those little freaks fantasize about us? Hundreds! Thousands! And they’ll pay anything to get their scales wet!”

He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with a gold-ringed claw.

“Hell, we could rotate fantasies. Spice it up. One week they get you, soft touch, gentleman type. Next week they get me, raw, sweaty, drippin’ fire, callin’ 'em filthy little feather-cunts.”

Nelneras closed his eyes. “Bahamut preserve me.”

Valcagor clapped him on the back, sending a ripple through Nelneras’ wings. “Bahamut’s got nothing to do with it! This is capitalism, my boy! You and me, we’re gonna redefine what it means to be a fuckin’ legend!”

Off in the corner, a kobold took frantic notes.