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Avatar: Raeden the Father-King

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 2: Broken Wings

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Facts about Tirinead - The Dracorians #2

Contrary to popular belief, Dracorians do not shed their skin. Their scales grow alongside their body and regrow if damaged. Their tails also do not regrow if cut off and neither do their wings. Also despite being covered in scales, they still have sweat glands and also grow hair. The purpose of these is not well understood but it is theorized that they are to help distribute pheromones.

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Raeden wandered through the bowels of the Skyward Fantasy. It was a small ship in comparison to the massive cruise ships and aerial transports that he had previously been on through the grace of sex-deprived duchesses. Sometimes dukes too. There was a cozy, if alien feature to it. The ship was not made of any sort of wood but a glistening white metal that appeared both light and radiated with an ethereal glow. Golden patterns curled over every edge and corner as if it had been meticulously folded to break the monotony. Where it was not left plain white, various colours swirled and twisted in mesmerizing patterns as if oil had been spilled over the surface to give an almost pearlescent quality.

The very rear of the ship was filled with the quietly humming engine room. Painted a deep red, the churning machinery almost seemed alive as the bulky tubes and cylindrical frame provided heat and power to the rest of the ship. He padded towards the reactor, puzzled at the ghostly blue light that it emitted. His bare claws got caught in the grating beneath his feet and he cursed the discomfort it caused. Though he had been granted the knowledge on how to use his body, he was still unused to how to maneuver it through the rest of the world. His wings instinctively kept spreading and getting caught in doorways or pipes. The swagger he used show off his firm rear no longer applied to the thick, bulky frame. When comparing himself to Samuel, he gauged that he must stand at least eight feet tall and even taller than that with the added height of his wings. Should he try to strut, his scaly thighs rubbed loudly and uncomfortably against one another forcing him to walk in a sort of waddle. He was also unused to having his thick, muscled arms hanging so far away from his flanks. The empty space between his forearms and his waist was painfully evident.

“What sorcery is this…?” he wondered aloud, leaning down towards the reactor.

“Electricity.”

He turned as Samuel came striding down the steps to the base of the engine room. “Electricity? I think I’ve heard of something like this. Did the goblins not used to use it?” Glancing back towards the engine, he said, “Is it some form of lightning magic?”

“Not really.” The knight pointed at the engine. “A chemical reaction is being utilized to generate heat and power. That is then transferred into pure electrical energy - what you would compare to lightning - and stored within these facilities. It is cleaner and more efficient than the coal used by Dracorian airships or the magical ones used by Alliance versions. Much safer than the starlight-powered airships the Rhakmirim favour.”

“Amazing!” he exclaimed with a broad, toothy grin. “A technological wonder, then! The Skyward Fantasy shall be the envy of all airship connoisseurs!”

“Perhaps. Assuming you know how to fly it.”

That gave him pause. “Ah… I was hoping that you would…?”

The knight gave him a deadpan stare through his helm. “This is your ship, Raeden. It will answer your commands. The Old Gods have very little patience for my interference, so they have locked its use to you. I can teach you, however.”

“They would prefer you not intervene and yet you know how to pilot this aerial marvel?”

“Suffice to say that my eyes see more than they are willing to admit. Had they possessed omniscience, perhaps they would have seen the error of granting mortals that aren’t prepared for the responsibility of divinity some of their own essence.” Samuel turned, his starry cloak flicking behind him as he did so. “Come. Let us not linger here. Malgorin may tout that death is patient, but he certainly is not.”

From the bowels of the ship, it was a rather pleasant walk through the to the wide hallways big enough for at least three Dracorians of his size to stand abreast, wings folded. The floor was so well polished that he was actively conscious that his clawed toes might scratch the white surface. There were living quarters and large, spacious rooms big enough for whatever he could possibly want. Already he was imagining placing a theatre far from the engine room and perhaps a formal dining room for when he would entertain dignitaries. One of the smaller rooms could be a shrine to Malgorin if only to appease the god. Curiously, despite supposedly being the Avatar of Malgorin, the Skyward Fantasy possessed no weapons. It seemed built to be a scout or perhaps a small merchant ship more than an instrument of war.

Samuel led him to the bridge positioned at the far back of the ship above the engines. Curved glass provided an unobstructed view of the airship’s smooth, pointed deck while various instruments and machinery were positioned in a horseshoe shape in front of him. Only a few seats existed but the biggest of them all was the captain’s chair which sat on a raised dais at the back of the bridge overlooking everything else. Raeden eagerly positioned himself in the plush, broach chair, pleased that there was room for his tail to slide through a hole at the seat and it was broad enough that his wide wings could be cushioned without discomfort. A curved console was positioned in front of him with so many buttons and dials that he grew dizzy just looking at them all. A two-handed steering wheel was positioned in front of him.

“Huh…” he began. “Now this may seem odd, Master Samuel…”

“You have no idea how to fly an airship, do you?” accused the knight.

Raeden ducked his head, his cheeks burning beneath his black scales. “I confess that I do not.”

The knight positioned himself beside the Avatar’s shoulder. “No matter. Before you is the steering wheel. The ship will move in the direction that you wish it to with the exception of going up and down. To go down, you must push forward and to go up, you must pull back towards yourself. Naturally, you would have to start the ship first so let us begin by initiating the engines, shall we?”

The Avatar nodded nervously. “Of course. Which button do I press?”

Samuel gestured at the small button at the base of the steering wheel. “This button here will prime the reactor.” Then he pointed at a small dial on the console. “This will ignite the thrusters and ready them for propulsion.” For the last, he pointed at a lever positioned right beside Raeden’s right leg. “And this initiates the wings, powering them. Without all three, the Skyward Fantasy will not be able to move. You need to trigger them in that specific order as well.”

After remembering countless songs, it would be simple to remember a simple flight sequence. “Very well.” He pressed the button. “Prime the reactor.”

A loud humming noise filled the bridge like a great beast was just rousing from its slumber. Other lights sprang up all around him and he noticed that the console, already bright as it was, glowed even more brightly. Excitement rushed through his veins.

“Ignite the thrusters.”

He gave the dial a twist. That humming evolved into a rumble and he could almost feel the engines of the ship coming to life beneath him. The Avatar inadvertently wiggled his clawed toes and shook his wings in anticipation.

“And lastly…” he said, gripping the lever. “Initiate the wings.”

He pulled the lever towards him. Bright, blue lines raced across the hull of the Skyward Fantasy like veins catching on fire. Blood rushed towards his wings and he could not help but spread them even as the Fantasy’s own wings twitched and sprang to life. The rumble of the airship shook through him and he could not help but feel a bit of excitement ripple through his body, rousing his dicks within his sheath. Gripping the steering wheel and releasing the wing lever, Raeden gazed off into the distance while clear, sticky fluids dripped out of his genital slit, lubricating the path for his twin members to start emerging.

Samuel coughed, bringing the Avatar out of his stupor.

“Ah…” Raeden began. “What do I do now?”

“Let’s start by reversing out of Malgorin’s temple, shall we? Start by pushing this lever here…”

The knight was a patient teacher even as Raeden was a quick study. In short order, the Dracorian Avatar had the Skyward Fantasy slowly easing backwards out of the ruined temple and pitching itself upwards. The ship rose, propelled by both magic and technology. It emerged from Kalsammar’s Divide like a phoenix rising from the ashes; a majestic white bird free to spread its wings.

Raeden could feel the raw power of the ship and realized he should have bought his own airship years ago. Grinning broadly and mildly aware that his twin members had partially emerged from his leaking genital pouch, he levelled out the Fantasy and instinctively turned it towards the west. A compass positioned on his console helped him reorient himself.

“I would not head immediately to Traelliviar,” warned Samuel. “It would be foolish to march into the centre of the Holy Alliance’s power and announce yourself as the Avatar.”

It had not been his intention to shout out his new rank and form to the masses but was reminded that the Dracorians were effectively subjugated by the Alliance. “That would be rather ostentatious,” he admitted. “What do you suggest?”

Samuel reached forward and pressed a button on the left side of the console. Magical energies danced to his left, blocking off sight of the knight. The energies formed a large rectangle, divided into smaller squares. Arcane lines drew across the squares, forming irregular shapes, weaving between a large central mass and even forming words. A map. A map of Tirinead. Samuel pointed at one particular location marked by a large, red triangle.

“This is us,” he said. Then he moved his finger to a place slightly north of them. “This is the town of Heuveir. It is only a small port that overhangs the Divide and serves as one of the many entryways into Dracorian territory, but it sells cheap clothing and would be a good place to start your mission.”

“Why would I need clothing?”

Samuel gave him a stare. “Comfortable as you may be in your new scales, you would only draw attention to yourself by strutting about in little but a pair of greaves particularly if you sprout an erection every so often.”

Raeden glanced down and blushed again as he realised he was very much naked. “Ah… this will take getting used to. It still feels like I am wearing armour at all times.”

“It will take us a few hours to reach Heuveir. I think it would be a good opportunity to revise yourself on Dracorian customs.”

The former bard laughed and waved a clawed hand absently through the air. With the ease of one born for flight, he turned the Fantasy towards the north and the town of Heuveir. “There is no need, my good adviser. I have mingled amongst Dracorians all my life. This form only brought out the man within me for I had already been a Dracorian in all but birth.”

“Is that so? How then would you refer to someone such as Taydir Wingsever?”

The question came as odd and he shrugged. “He is a good friend. I would call him such or simply Taydir.”

“Not ‘Brother-Friend’?”

There, Raeden balked and tilted the ship slightly in his surprise. “Oh… Ah… I had not thought…”

“Exactly,” chastised Samuel. “As a human, Dracorians adapted themselves to refer to you using human customs because their dying species has been subjugated by the Alliance. You have the form of a Dracorian now. You will be expected to know the customs that Dracorians hid from you out of fear. Things that you would have to do consciously must now be done unconsciously. Dracorians refer to one another using these honorifics as a sign of genuine familiarity. You have to do exactly the same.”

The Avatar frowned grimly. It was considered a sign of closeness and affection if a Dracorian were to refer to anyone using their titles. Raeden never had the honour given that he often flitted between lover, noble and merchant only to disappear later. But it was something Dracorians would constantly do especially when they were in close quarters. The first word dictated the personal relationship a Dracorian held for an individual and the second was their literal relationship. It was effectively calling someone family while also stating that they were not related by blood. If Raeden were, for example, to call Taydir his Brother-Friend, he would be saying that Taydir was like a brother to him even though they were unrelated by blood. Often, this led to non-Dracorian races becoming confused especially when fathers and sons would refer to one another. Terms like ‘Son-Friend’ or ‘Father-Guardian’ would sound strange to alien ears.

“I see your point,” mumbled Raeden. “I suppose you would be my…?”

“Ally-Adviser, at most,” answered Samuel.

“Come now. You saved my life. Surely you would at least be my Adviser-Rescuer.”

“As you wish but you would have to spin quite the tale of how I saved you without revealing your role as the Avatar.”

“And why must I hide?” Raeden asked, spreading his arm and inadvertently spreading his same wing. “Malgorin wishes me to spread his name. Why must I do it from the shadows?”

“Because you would lose your head otherwise. Remember, few enjoy the idea of a big, black dragon consuming their souls at the end of their lives and I doubt many would welcome the idea that same dragon has sent a mortal representative to do his bidding.”

“A fair point,” said the former-bard. “Subtly it is then!” He exclaimed the last by thrusting a fist into the air. “What else must I know about the Dracorians?”

Samuel lectured Raeden on the subtler points of being a Dracorian. Wingspan was obviously a big point of conflict. The size of one’s wings was seen as a direct comment on one’s station. If a Dracorian had small, piddling wings or no wings at all, it meant that they could afford to move about in the skies without the use of their own muscles. Large wings like Raeden’s meant he was likely so poor that he could not afford simple airfare. Similarly, spreading wings was seen as a threatening gesture so Raeden had to consciously keep them folded.

“Most of the towns apart from Traelliviar were razed by the onset of the Alliance,” Samuel said. “When they were rebuilt, they were done so in the image of the Alliance races. That means that they didn’t take into consideration the extra height or width Dracorians have because of their horns and wings. Which will already be difficult for you as you are much larger than an average Dracorian.”

After the War of Apotheosis, most Dracorians split into two distinct lifestyles - the nobles and the mercenaries. Accepting that they were no longer capable of reproducing but having been shown mercy by the Alliance, some Dracorians chose life on the road and became sellswords. They scattered into the wind, rarely staying within the immediate area of Traelliviar or the former lands that had been conquered by the encroaching dragon army. Some held hope that they would someday gain enough wealth to join the nobles in Traelliviar across the sea on the claw-shaped island and within the Winged Palace. There, the nobles cavorted, played games of intrigue and whittled away their lives, waiting until they would eventually die but choosing to die in comfort.

Raeden regarded his thick, muscled arm. “I obviously will blend in with the former.”

“Indeed. That is also not accounting the colour of your scales.”

The Avatar regarded his adviser curiously. “What is wrong with my scales?” He sensed a smile from the knight.

“Have you ever met a black Dracorian before?”

Searching through his memories, he had to confess that he had never seen a black-scaled Dracorian. Reds, greens and blues were the most common. A white-scaled one was considered the rarest and those with metallic scales such as golds, silvers or bronzes were fairly common amongst the nobility. “No…”

“That is because black-scaled Dracorians were once seen as the blessed of Malgorin. After the War, any Dracorian with black scales was immediately killed as Traelliviar denounced the Old Gods and accepted the Triad as their new pantheon. But you need not worry. This was culling was kept a secret by the nobility so this far away from the capital island, you won’t encounter any would-be executioners.”

Raeden swallowed hard and rubbed his neck. “I assume that is another reason why you steered me towards Heuveir instead of the Winged Palace.”

“One of many. Incidentally, given that you will be playing the part of the mercenary, I suggest you pose as my bodyguard. People are more likely to believe that a knight in colourful armour is being escorted by a black-scaled Dracorian that is mostly nude than the other way around.”

His eyes twinkled at the idea. “Ah! Some theatrics is it? I am more than enthused at the prospect!” He jumped up from his seat and took a theatrical bow. “I was part of an acting troupe once, you know.”

It his surprise, Samuel had reached past him and seized the steering wheel. “Ever played the part of a Dracorian in a crashing airship?”

Realising that he had let go of the steering wheel, Raeden blushed and seized the device once more, grateful that Samuel had been there. “Sorry. Theatre has always been a recurring love of mine.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Past, present and future are all part of a single tide. It is very easy to get caught up in the currents.” The knight pointed ahead of them. “The key is not only to keep your head above water but to also learn how to swim with the sea.” Samuel surrendered the controls to him. “We’ve arrived.”

Heuveir was a relatively small town in comparison to the other locales that Raeden had frequented but it was still quite sizable. Perched on the edge Kalsammar’s Divide, it was a network of winding stone roads, wooden structures and a single chapel to Illirodur, the elven aspect of the Holy Triad and God of Intrigue. The spires of the chapel boasted the highest tower of the entire cityscape. Given that it was still only mid-afternoon, the port town was quite busy with several airships docked at the hanging, wooden wharfs protruding over the edge of the town. They looked perilous given that they were poised just over the gaping maw of the Divide. The dock-hands and airshipmen were more than comfortable disembarking and carrying their wares to and from their ship despite the vertigo-inducing view.

Samuel guided Raeden on how to dock the Skyward Fantasy on one of the available ports and happily followed him out of the airship. The smell of sweat, grime and fresh produce was in the air. Offensive compared to the heavily perfumed and clean halls of the Winged Palace, Raeden recoiled and retreated a step back into the Fantasy. His eyes caught sight of the countless eyes gawking at the pure white ship and its owner. Courage and confidence flooded him and he strutted forward, spreading his wings instinctively. As a bard, he had a keen instinct when it came to telling where people’s attention was directed. He preened when he became the focus of that attention and beamed brightly, flashing his sharp fangs and spreading his arms wide as it to welcome his audience.

Then the attention drifted away from him.

The eyes had shifted to the quiet armoured knight striding down the metal gangway, his starry cape billowing out towards the south with the gentle winds; each step falling soundlessly. An air of menace and mystery surrounded Samuel. Raeden was left puzzled why he, the physical paragon of the Dracorian species, was being snubbed in favor of the admittedly colourfully dressed knight. His pride took a hit and that reminded him of his role in this play. Folding his wings back, he followed Samuel down the gangway and stood behind the knight, trying to look menacing.

“She is a fine ship, good sir,” mumbled a dockworker, nodding towards the Fantasy. “Never seen her like.”

“I would be surprised if you had,” answered Samuel. “I assume there would be fees to docking here.”

“Just the standard, Sir Knight. Ten gold pieces.”

“Ten!?” blurted Raeden. “That’s robbery!”

The worker, a human with a grizzled eye, gave him a foul stare. “We have special guests in Heuveir today, mercenary. Prices are understandably up.”

Samuel retrieved one of his special chests and placed it on the ground. Before anyone could ask what he was doing, the knight smashed the chest with his foot. Precious gems spilt out, at least a thousand of them. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. All of them with a few thin links of gold to add to the pile. Everyone gawked at the sight and more than a few onlookers pushed forward to make sure that they were not hallucinating the pile.

“I hope this will suffice and more,” Samuel said coolly. “Please see to it that the Skyward Fantasy is taken care of and that everyone respects our privacy. We will be staying here only to resupply.”

The deck-hand, eyes boggling, fell to his knees at the pile. “Y - Y - Yes, milord!” He was almost grovelling at Samuel’s feet. “I shall see to it at once!”

With a single nod, the enigmatic knight strode forward. The crowd immediately parted ways to permit to pass, at least leaving a good five feet between him and their open jaws. Raeden was awed at the respect and attention that Samuel commanded. Not five minutes in the presence of the crowd and they were eating from the palm of his hand. The gold and jewellery must have played a part in it. Flash wealth in front of anyone and they will prostate themselves for more.

Still, he felt unsure if that was everything.

He hurried after Samuel as they left the hustle and bustle of the docks for the equally busy streets of Heuvier. “Might I ask something, Sir Knight?” asked Raeden.

“Go ahead,” answered the man, peering into one of the shops. “As long as you tell me which you’d prefer. Leather, cloth or steel? In armour that is.”

“Cloth, honestly.” He inclined his head towards the nearby stores. “What are those chests that you continuously produce only to destroy?”

“Simple chests with a simple enchantment,” he answered. “They will provide the destroyer exactly what they need at the point of being destroyed. However, I can only produce six of them a day.” He held up three fingers. “I have used my first three today. I can produce another three before I must wait until the day is done to be able to make more.”

Such a fascinating ability. “Truly a talent gifted by the Gods.”

“I wouldn’t say so,” Samuel responded, turning his head down the road. “There are no gods. Just mortals.” The knight continued striding down busy street, carving a path through the crowds with the ease and comfort of a ship cutting through the tide. Raeden found himself having to stick close to the man in the white and gold armour for anything less than a few feet would see the crowd closing in around him and barring his path despite his size.

“Why is it so crowded?” he grunted gruffly, shouldering past a few people gawking at the finery on display.

“Fial’Lluvayn,” answer Samuel. “Traditionally a week-long affair.”

Raeden glanced about the town and though he could see some of the bright colours that came with the festival, it was far more muted than the celebrations at Traelliviar or the Winged Palace. At most, clothes lines that were stretched across alleyways were decorated with colourful pieces of underwear. It was certainly not the Festival of Life he was used to. An air of depression hung in the air.

“I suppose the most such a sleepy town could hope for is being along the path of a noble’s sojourn to the capital,” he sighed heavily.

Samuel stopped in front of a market stall where the merchant was eagerly pawning him some fruit. The apples looked like the only thing remotely edible. Even the roughly cooked venison that the knight had provided when Raeden had first awoken was far more appetising. Grimacing at the sight of the produce, the Avatar looked away lest his stomach rebelled against him.

“We all have brief lives,” said the knight at length, examining one apple. “In a perfect world, our worth in the afterlife should be judged not by how well we adhere to some superior being’s edicts but how well we lived the time we were given to the best of our abilities, how well we stayed true to our own convictions.” Samuel plucked one apple from the stand, catching Avatar’s curiosity especially since his other hand reached for his helmet. Raeden gawked as Samuel slipped off his helmet.

Having never seen the knight before without his helm, the black Dracorian was surprised that somehow the human-shaped helmet had masked the features of a Fenrian. A wholly lupine face was revealed, one with pure-black fur save for a set of short, spiky golden blonde hair sitting between two, large triangular ears. The merchant gawked at the sight of the wolf in front of him. As far as anyone knew, the Fenrians had remained neutral during the War of Apotheosis and had since retreated into their forests. Sightings grew rarer and rarer with each passing year. For a wolfblood to be standing in armour and striding amongst others was rather surprising. Especially for one to bear a very human name like ‘Samuel’.

Raeden could not help but realise this could all pertain to the prophecy about a ‘Star-Eyed Wolf’.

The wolf-knight took a bite from the apple even if the flesh looked slightly bruised. Raeden gagged when he noticed that there was a little brown circle at the centre of the apple’s otherwise white flesh. When the worm poked its head out of the new opening in its home, the merchant visibly paled.

“I - I - I apologise, milord!” pleaded the grimy man. His scarred hands ran through his batch of apples, searching for one that was more appetising and likely less infested. In his hurry, the mound began to topple. One apple rolled off the pile and plummeted to the ground. Raeden didn’t even bother to try and reach for it. Samuel was fast, however, and snatched the fruit before it was crushed on the ground.

“No need, my good sir,” answered the wolf, handing the apple back to the merchant. His hand now freed, he reached forward and with surprisingly delicate fingers despite being encased in white and gold metal, Samuel pried the pink worm from his apple. He held out the grub on his palm towards Raeden. The former bard shied away from in in disgust. “We all have a purpose in our life. This little one is likely simpler than most, but it could have all ended had I bitten into the flesh of this fruit an inch deeper.”

The Avatar grunted softly. “Somehow I get the feeling you knew exactly where to bite.”

Samuel gave him an enigmatic smile that sent a shiver down his spine. “You would not be wrong. But my point is that we all have the capacity to do great things in the world. I’m not necessarily saying that it has to be good things but great things. I believe we just all need to be given the chance.”

An ethereal blue glow encased the worm. The merchant let out a gasp and staggered back into the back of his stall at the sight of the spell. The noise attracted the attention of onlookers and the all watched as the tiny invertebrate grew to at least twenty times its size and immediately curled around Samuel like a serpent. Raeden was immediately on edge, his fangs bared and silver flames licking from between his lips. The glow from around the worm faded and instead of a long, pink, disgusting grub… he was met by what appeared to be a mix between a minx and a serpent. The creature had soft, white fur covering its entire body with tiny mouse-like feet placed near the front of its long, serpentine body. It only had a set of front paws. The rest of its lower body was long, serpentine and strong enough that it could curl around Samuel’s arm with ease. A small, button nose the colour of summer roses was placed at the tip of its adorable, pointed muzzle while big, blue expressive eyes looked about in curiosity as rounded, pink, ears swivelled around cutely.

“Awww…” cooed Raeden.

The creature glanced at the Avatar, wiggling its little nose in his direction before immediately scampering and slithering up Samuel’s arm. The little length of fluff curled around the wolf’s neck comfortably like a scarf and rested itself on his shoulder, watchful but also relaxed.

“Dessein,” Samuel stated. “His name is Dessein.”

The merchant relaxed slightly but not so much that he stopped clutching his heart in fear. “Are… are you a mage, kind sir?”

“I would rather not define myself by the standards of others,” answered Samuel. He nodded at the half-eaten apple in his hand. “Thank you for the fruit, my good man.” He gently lifted the apple towards Dessein and the little mouse-like creature took it in its hands and adorably began nibbling on it. “And the gentle friend. Allow me to repay you.”

Before the merchant could protest, Samuel waved a hand in the direction of the stall. Every fruit and piece of produce suddenly glimmered and was revitalised. The apples looked succulent and red, flawless. Oranges were plump and ripe. Greens had no stain of brown or dirt on their crisp leaves. The man gawked at the sight and his eyes watered in gratitude.

“Enjoy your Fial’Lluvayn,” Samuel said, turning to leave.

People immediately began clamouring towards the stall, eager to pay the merchant for the magic-touched fruit. Raeden followed shortly behind the retreating mage.

“You are doing a fine job of attracting attention to yourself,” said the former-bard. “I thought we were trying to avoid suspicion.”

“Flying in on an ostentatious white ship of unknown design already defeated that purpose,” answered Samuel calmly. “But our purpose was to avoid drawing attention to you.”

A realisation dawned upon him. Samuel was purposefully being theatrical and elaborate to draw attention to himself instead of the big, very-much naked, black Dracorian tailing him. But there was something else to it as well.

“You wish to know who this ‘special guest’ is,” accused the Avatar.

Samuel nodded quietly. “Heuveir isn’t a very big town. A bustling port, yes, but it is a merchant city and one that would not attract the attention of anyone for Fial’Lluvayn lest they were making their way to Traelliviar and then only during the early parts of the celebration.”

Now that he thought of it, the celebrations at the Winged Palace was the height of the festival and was generally held near the end of the week. Guests should already have been at Traelliviar which was still many hours flight by the fastest airship. A guest that would have had a sleepy town such as Heuveir in such a frenzy would be very important but also someone who either was heading home early on or had reason to be far from the capital. His eyes widened as the pieces began falling into place. The weight of the realisation stalled his steps and he came to a full halt, causing Samuel to turn and regard him with those enigmatic, dark-blue eyes.

“It is the Lady Ailiva?”

The wolf’s slow nod was like a hammer nailing down his coffin.

Heuveir was at the very edge of Dracorian territory. Few nobles outside of the Dracorian lands would come to celebrate Fial’Lluvayn especially since it was the dragons’ affair and scarcely recognised elsewhere in Tirinead. For someone of importance to arrive at Heuveir would mean that they were either very late to the celebrations, intended to arrive after the festival or… or stopped to resupply after killing a bard that had slept with her sister-in-law.

“Why?” Raeden asked, quivering in fear. His hands instinctively went towards his neck but the presence of his sharpened claws reminded him all too well of the very blade that had plunged into his throat and nearly ended his life.

Samuel gestured for Raeden to follow him and they shuffled through the crowd towards an alleyway, left abandoned by the hustle and bustle of the cobblestone streets. “Heuveir is still within the county of Sareseou. Do not you think it a little odd for the Lady Ailiva to dispose of your body at Kalsammar’s Divide, ridiculously far from Traelliviar, many days by horseback away from the festivities? Had she wanted to get rid of you, she could have easily thrown your body into the middle of the ocean between the island and the mainland. But no, she made an effort to come all the way here just to throw your body away.”

Raeden shrugged absently. “Perhaps I was just worth the effort. I did defile her sister-in-law and leave the poor girl heartbroken, I suppose.” Samuel gave him that pointed look, lifting one golden eyebrow. That made him groan softly. “Fair enough.” He rubbed his chin lightly. “She mentioned she was to return to Traelliviar after she disposed of me. So, you think she has another purpose here? Why would it be of interest to us?”

“We must start somewhere, yes?” answered the wolf with a wave of his hand. “Think of it this way, Raeden. What better place to convert the masses back into Malgorin’s favour than from a seat of power? Should we find some form of illegal activity from Ailiva, perhaps that will gain us favour with Farondiir. From there, it would be possible to gain more influence. Piece by piece, rung by rung, we shall work our way up the ladder until we stand beside the Crown of Traelliviar.”

“Must we truly?” groaned the bard. “Is there not some faster way that this could be done?”

Samuel crossed his arms. “Death is patient, remember?”

“Those three words shall haunt me,” groaned the Dracorian. “Very well. Where do we begin?”

The wolf gave him a sardonic smile. “How about we start by you telling me where you placed Doomtalon.”

Raeden’s features fell. “I beg your pardon?”

“Doomtalon. The scythe gifted to you by the Old Gods that is tied to your strength and will grow stronger the more people die by its blade. Surely you were not foolish enough to leave it on the Skyward Fantasy where anyone could steal it, were you?”

“Oh… Oh dear.”

Samuel’s smile told him this was another lesson. “Why don’t you retrieve the weapon of divinity while I find you some more appropriate clothing? I shall meet you at the Fantasy.”

Raeden was mentally kicking himself as he hurriedly agreed to the proposal. Without thinking, he muscled his way through the crowd and back to the docks. He couldn’t believe that he had been so foolish as to leave a gift from the divine back on the airship without thought! He was unused to carrying a weapon let alone a scythe. At most, a lute was strapped to his back. For every running step he took, he tried to remember where he had left the weapon and prayed to the Old Gods that no one had picked up accidentally. Though he suspected that with the money that Samuel had presented and the commotion he was quickly causing, few would be willing to brave the ship without permission. Then again, there were the foolish who would try anyway.

Much to his relief, the Skyward Fantasy seemed untouched when he arrived, and a wide berth was being given to the ship. As he approached, many were already whispering and murmuring about the mysterious armoured Fenrian who wielded magic with ease and turned a worm into a brand-new creature. No one stopped him as he marched up the gangway and stepped into the bowels of the Fantasy. Vague memories of the scythe sitting on the bridge were false. He had never taken it with him up there, but he checked anyway. Through the windows of the ship, he could see much larger airships docked along the port. Was one of them Ailiva’s ship; the very one that he had been thrown off and left for dead?

He shuddered at the thought, tail lashing out in aggravation. Doomtalon was his goal. No time to be maudlin about something that had passed.

“The engine room,” he announced with a snap of his fingers. There was a spark that erupted from his sharpened talons from the gesture; something he would have to get used to.

Returning to the bowels of the ship, he passed the various empty rooms but stopped when he noticed one of the doors was firmly shut.

“I do not think I had left any of these closed,” he wondered aloud. On his tour of his ship, every room apart from the bridge had been empty. He quickly grew bored of exploring empty rooms and had merely pushed open the large metal doors to poke his head in before moving on. He distinctly remembered leaving those doors open. Raeden reached for the door handle…

BANG!

And jumped back when a loud noise erupted from the other side.

“Hello!?” came a shout from the other side. “Is anyone out there!?”

“Help!” cried another voice. “We’re trapped! The door just shut behind us!”

Raeden inclined his head to the side. “Who are you and what are you doing on my ship?”

There were hurried murmurs from the other side. “We… We’re cleaners, milord! We were hired to ensure that your decks are polished and rooms dusted!”

Being a bard — or at least a former bard — Raeden was very much used to spinning tales and that had to be the poorest excuse for a tale he had ever heard. “Why do I not believe that?”

More whispers from the other side. “Fine! We’re just poor dockworkers who saw an opportunity! We didn’t think that you two would miss a few supplies.”

“Please, milord!” exclaimed a third. “We’re not even full-time dockworkers! I’m a cook! We all are cooks!”

Raeden leaned against the side of the door, arms crossed, curious about the story he was about to be told. “So, what are cooks doing thieving along the docks?”

There was genuine misery in the voice. “The festival drains us, milord. Those with gold to spare are able to make their meals at a discounted price for the exposure. The rest of us are forced to compete against such reduced prices and we simply cannot maintain it for an entire week. Thus, we must find work elsewhere.”

That placed a frown on the Dracorian Avatar’s lips. It was common for there to be sales and special prices during Fial’Lluvayn. Generally, that was how even the peasantry could make it to the Winged Palace; by buying cheap finery with their savings. Having attended the festivities from on high, Raeden had never considered the impact such cheap prices could have on others. But surely this was another deception.

“Why are you working on Fial’Lluvayn?” he asked. “Should you not have saved your coin during the year and spent this week in merriment like the rest?”

“That is assuming we have any savings. You assume we can do more than scrape by.”

Raeden opened his muzzle to protest but found himself without a voice. Lowering his gaze, he sighed softly and gently rapped his knuckles on the metal door. “I shall return. A moment.”

He quickly moved back down to the engine room and, much to his relief, found Doomtalon there, resting beside the staircase leading down to the quietly humming engines. Plucking the weapon from where it sat, he returned to the ship’s prisoners and tested the door handle. Much to his surprise, the door was not locked at all and he easily pushed it open. Inside were four men of different sizes. One was a rather portly fellow, another was thin as a twig, a third had to be little older than twenty-summers and the fourth looked related to the first but with rather blemished, pockmarked skin. If anything, they all had strong, meaty arms that were built from years of carrying cargo to and from ships.

The sight of them stirred a primal instinct within Raeden. His body reacted by starting to produce fluids from his genital slit.

“Thank you, milord,” said the leading man - the portly one with a pudgy face. He bowed respectfully towards Raeden. “I plead for your mercy.”

The Avatar pondered putting Garodrash’s gift to use, already justifying that these men would be better serving him as their Avatar than their current miserable lives. His body was certainly willing to make the change for them, but his mind pulled him back. These men likely had families and friends. They had livelihoods. Could he honestly take that away from them? Could he be death in some form and kill the men that they were and replace them with draconic slaves?

“Mercy you shall have,” he answered. “On the condition that you grace me with your tale. I am curious how anyone could be miserable and resort to thievery during Fial’Lluvayn.”

The men exchanged glances. “If a tale you wish…” began the man. “A tale you shall have. But would it bother you if we spoke elsewhere? This ship… makes me uncomfortable.”

An odd statement but Raeden shrugged and agreed. He asked the man if he had some form of strap to help him with his scythe and the youngest offered him a belt. It was crude, but it was enough for the Avatar to wrap around his otherwise naked waist and sling the scythe over his shoulder, the handle slipping between the band and his bare back. He escorted the men out of the Skyward Fantasy but not before he glanced over his shoulder at the door that had kept these would-be-thieves locked. The door had been open… so why had they not been able to escape sooner?

The dockworker with the scarred skin whispered into the leader’s ear.

“Sire,” said the leading thief. “Would it bother you if we spoke while my boys and I worked? We are behind as is and we would not see our wages should we linger.”

Though he hated the idea of sharing attention with anyone else, Raeden could not deny them a seemingly reasonable request. “I suppose.”

“Thank you, sire.”

Raeden followed them to a nearby ship where the four men quickly went to work forming a line and carrying crates and boxes of food towards the ship itself. They were merely one part of a larger chain that made the process much easier and more efficient. As soon as the four arrived, though, a large man in a rather bright leotard approached, carrying a ledger.

“Duvon!” barked the man in a screechy, nasally voice that must have been caused by his ridiculous oiled, curled moustache. Raeden had heard that such moustaches were well fashionable amongst the Merchant Lord of the Horanmut. “Where have you and your boys been!? You were gone hours!”

The leading man bowed apologetically in the traditional Horanmut greeting; feet together, palms pressed over his head and bending all the way down from the waist until his torso was parallel to the ground. “Apologies, milord. We were simply —”

“I care not for your excuses! These supplies and spices are meant to be on the ship hours ago. Your men could’ve had us on time! I’m taking that out of your wages!”

With a huff, the man turned and began berating more people as he moved down the line, leaving Duvon looking dejected. Raeden couldn’t really feel that much pity for the man who had tried to steal from him and Samuel.

“Apologies for the ugly sight,” murmured Duvon as he began hefting the crates down the line. “The taskmaster works for one of the Merchant Lords or Princes of the Horanmut in the Neverborn Desert. He is as merciless as they are and equally as frugal. He finds excuses to cut our wages at any given moment.”

Raeden shrugged. “Perhaps you should not have tried to steal from my then given that the Fantasy was not even the ship you were working on.”

Duvon lowered his head. “Perhaps so.” Then he gave Raeden a brief smile, showing off a death tooth. “But I promised you a tale, good sir, so I shall regale you with our story of misery and hard work.”

Duvon Marcliff was born in Heuveir as had his father and his grandfather before him. Even when it had once been part of a great wall built by Kalsammar, the Marcliffs had stayed. It had been one of the many points of entry that would allow people to pass through the wall. When the War of Apotheosis ended and the Divide became a canyon instead of a wall, Heuveir fell into disrepair. Funds were constantly spent to repair the damage and the inhabitants had to adjust from being a town that thrived on foot traffic to one that was merely a stopping point for airships. The Marcliffs adjusted as best as they could but with the wider range of the airships, exotic food and ingredients came in. The traditional cuisine of that they pawned fell into disfavour.

“So we all had to find other means of employment to merely keep us afloat,” finished Duvon.

“And all four of you are related?”

“Some in blood but some in familial bonds.” He nodded at his pockmarked son. “Loraad there is my only son by blood. His mother died when we were hit by a plague. The same plague that scarred his face. She refused medication in his favour as we only had enough to purchase treatment for one.” Then he nodded at the skinny fellow. “Trihan there was a thief. Tried to steal bread from me once. I gave him food and lodging instead.” Duvon lowered his voice and winked at Raeden shamelessly. “He still sometimes steals fresh ingredients for me.” Then he gestured at the youngest. “Yhan is my youngest. His parents were close friends of mine. They had amassed enough money to move closer to Traelliviar, at least two towns over. However, they could not afford to take care of Yhan. They left him with me with the promise that they would send for him should they amount enough money. That was a decade ago.”

There was a song to be made from this sordid tale. Four men connected by bond and blood, sent into poverty by the shattering of a great wall and but sustained by the love and loyalty that they held for one another. Perhaps he could even slip in some incestuous undertones within the lyrics. The greatest of ballads were often laced with forbidden temptations and that was what made them so enticing. Fantasy was filled with mortals that rose to great heights as great heroes, but it was often the controversy that surrounded them that made them such intriguing individuals. He still recalled the tales of great Taydir Wingsever who was one of the three major Heroes that pushed back the Dracorian invasion during the War of Apotheosis but also went out of his way to preserve as many dragon lives as he could. His nickname haunted him in the songs and there were often renditions that were not so subtle about who exactly he preferred to take to his bed.

“You asked for our tale, great sir,” mumbled Duvon. “And there you have it.”

Raeden smiled. “It is a charming tale. By any chance are you so poor that you must use the one bed for all four of you?”

The poverty-stricken cook chuckled softly. “We are not so poor as to require such concessions. We have two beds for the four of us. Why do you ask?”

The Avatar chuckled softly. “I just wonder what the muses would say of this encounter,” he answered. Leaning back against one of the many crates, he wondered at the notes that would be played for this song as the lyrics flowed from his lips. “A name as old as the very divide that mars the land, a tale of a man who makes history’s supper from his hand. Thrown into the gutters by the whimsy of fate, the world’s doors opened and for death he must wait. Three men under his wing, no voices of heroics for their tale to sing. A rascal and a thief saved from the cold night, stealing what he could to preserve their waning might. An orphan, left by parents for a richer dawn, thrown on poor Marcliff’s lawn. One son born of his flesh, scarred by plague while his wife bled. No coin to his name, cook and dockworker by day and his blood to take to a single bed.”

Duvon blinked a few moments at him before throwing his head back and letting out a hearty laugh. “Be you a performer, my good dragon? Did the muse strike you so that you would make a song about this lowly cook and his sons?”

“Not much of a singer,” rumbled Yhan. “His voice alone would grate anyone’s ears.”

Raeden frowned while Duvon gently boxed the miserably boy behind the ears. “Manners, Yhan! Who knows if this travelling dragon’s words might spread? For you know, we might be immortalized in song!”

“Unlikely…”

The cook-slash-dockworker-slash-thief shook his head miserably. “You must forgive, Yhan. He has had very little to hope for in his young life.”

“I shall,” rumbled the former-bard, staring daggers at the retreating youth’s back. “This once.”

“Why?” came a familiar voice. “Why waste your forgiveness on someone who merely states fact?”

Both men turned as Samuel strode towards them, carrying a pile of clothing and satchel. Some of the other dockworkers paused at the sight of the armoured Fenrian and Duvon visibly paled. Yhan stopped what he was doing and sullenly retreated while the burly Loraad and the skinny Trihan stepped forward to protect their father.

“My voice is not so damaged that I cannot sing,” answered Raeden defensively.

Samuel just gave him a pointed stare and the Dracorian Avatar ducked his head slightly. “I suppose we are all subject to our opinions. ‘Truth’ is not as monochrome as justice would have us believe.” The wolf’s blue eyes turned towards Duvon. “Though I am pleased you made some friends.”

“Thieves-turned-friends,” Raeden answered, brightening. “These rogues tried to steal from the Skyward Fantasy.”

Duvon immediately bowed, performing the same action that he did with his supervisor. “A thousand apologies, my good wolf. I meant no harm. We were simply trying to find something to alleviate the hunger in our bellies.”

“Is that so?” Samuel answered. His features were even more unreadable as a wolf than it was without his helmet if that was at all possible. “I will have to apologise then that we scarcely have anything worth stealing. The Skyward Fantasy is rather barren and one of the many reasons we came to Heuveir is to resupply.”

“It is?” Raeden wondered loudly.

“It is.” The wolf turned back towards Duvon. “No harm was done. I see no need to forgive a transgression where no one was harmed save perhaps for the time you lost scouring the empty ship. If anything, I should be apologising to you. Perhaps you will let me treat you and your family?”

Raeden balked at the offer but he could also see the brilliant charm and charisma that radiated out of the wolf. Those few who were close to the conversation were quickly becoming enthralled by the knight’s words and generosity. It was clearly a ploy, perhaps to spread his influence even more, but the black Dracorian doubted it was all the mage-knight’s charm. These were simple folk. They toiled in the sun and worked hard to make a meagre living. Anyone who showed them the slightest bit of attention would have their loyalty forever. Though it sickened him to make the comparison, they were like wild dogs. Their fealty lay with those that fed them.

“You are too kind, milord,” Duvon sighed. “We —”

“Duvon!” came a shout from the crowd. The supervisor returned, looking red-faced and even at the sight of Samuel, did not balk. “Get back to work you lazy peasant! Your wages are already cut as is! I will not hesitate to send you home with empty pockets!” He jerked his pointed, hook-like nose at Samuel. “And you, dog, get away from my workers! I will not have some two-bit street-mage bother my workers.”

Dessein, the white mouse-snake curled around Samuel’s neck hissed at the supervisor. To his credit, the man did not flinch and merely curled his lip upwards in a scowl.

“My apologies,” said Samuel with a gentle nod. “Am I right in assuming you are making the trip on behalf of a Horanmut merchant? A Lord, Prince or perhaps even the King himself?”

The supervisor puffed up his chest haughtily. “You are right to assume so. Thus, I am very busy.”

Clearly not busy enough to avoid needless flattery, Raeden thought.

“And what, pray tell, are you shipping?”

The supervisor waved his hand absently through the air. “The normal. Trade stuffs. Supplies. Horanmut wares are well sought after this far north especially during Fial’Lluvayn. Our colours and dyes help put much-needed vibrancy to this otherwise drab territory.”

Raeden had dealt with men like this supervisor before. They puffed up their own self-importance because they were uncomfortable at just how disposable they were. At most, they were just one step above the bottom rung of slaves but because they could command others, they preened and boasted so that they could be louder and be more easily noticed. The best way to deal with them was the flatter them until they became a friend. He pushed away from the crate he was leaning upon but severely underestimated his strength. The crate itself slipped off from where it sitting and toppled to the ground. The lid flew open and several, bright blue fruits the size of his fist came toppling out.

“You clumsy oaf!” shouted the supervisor. “I expect you to pay for that!”

Samuel lifted one golden eyebrow and plucked one of the fruits from where it had rolled over to his feet. “You mean for us to pay for some drakefruit?”

“Of course!”

“Drakefruit. That you were going to bring to Horanmut.”

The supervisor’s eyes suddenly widened and Raeden glanced between the two of them in confusion. “Ah… well… you see…”

“You are aware that it is forbidden to transport drakefruit outside of the Scorched Lands, yes?” Samuel asked, referring to the part of the mainland that had once been fully Dracorian territory during the War. It was so named because when the armies of the Alliance came charging back to conquer the previously unclaimed lands, the Dracorians had burned everything in their retreat to prevent the Alliance from nourishing themselves on the supplies. Interestingly, the ashen lands became quite fertile as a result. “Drakefruit has a rather pleasant taste but that is derived from the faint hallucinogenic toxin it produces. You would have to devour at least a hundred of them to become fully delirious with pleasure. Should you dry the fruit, the toxin becomes far more potent. Drying it, perhaps, on the long journey back across the Neverborn Desert.”

The dockworkers and onlookers immediately took a step away from the supervisor.

“Just what are you accusing me of,” snapped the man. “I have done nothing illegal.”

“No. Perhaps not as you have not left port with the drakefruit. Though I cannot help but wonder how the local authorities would respond to this news. This would not be the first time you have visited Heuveir, would it Zhas O’klein?”

The man took a step back and dropped the quill and ledger he was holding. “H - H - How do you know my name!?”

“Surely a man with keen ears such as yourself has already heard of my reputation,” answered Samuel lazily. “After all, the ship I came upon is just a few wharfs over.” The wolf handed the fruit over to Raeden. “So I’m going to make you a deal, O’klein. I will not inform anyone of this potential breach of trade conduct and you will sell off these drakefruit here and now. Further, the Marcliffs will be free of your employ. I will even pay you for their services. Double, in fact, for what you have paid them. Does that sound fair?”

The supervisor’s eyes darted back and forth between the stunned dockworkers and the crates of contraband. He mustered his courage and puffed out his chest again. “And what makes you think that your empty threats have any effect on me?”

“The Merchants of the Horanmut count their coin in the time that it takes to make it. Even were you detained for a few days as your cargo was inspected by the port authority, you will have cost them money. Further, merely having this drakefruit regardless of whether or not you argue that you intend to sell it to another town on your way back to the Neverborn Desert will throw doubt on all your previous travels. I am sure your employer would not enjoy the extra scrutiny.” Samuel reached into his cloak and retrieved a long, silver tube. The top of the tube could be twisted open and when he tipped it to the side, it produced a stream of semi-precious stones. Alexandrite from all appearances. They were polished to an amazing quality and he handed them towards O’klein. “You can take these as a sign of good faith. What say you?”

The supervisor’s eyes glimmered with greed at the semi-precious stones especially as they tumbled from Samuel’s armoured hands and onto the ground like a bright, green waterfall. “Very well,” he huffed gruffly. “Take these lazy pigs away and leave. I have lost enough time as is.”

“I am glad we came to an agreement.” Samuel tucked away the silver canister once more and handed O’klein the stones he had. Turning away, he once again carved a path through the gathered crowd with Raeden and the Marcliffs following shortly after. The shady dock supervisor began barking orders again as they made their way back towards the Skyward Fantasy.

“Did you know that O’klein was smuggling drakefruit?” Raeden asked.

“Actually, no,” Samuel answered with a chuckle. “That was just a happy coincidence. I had every intention of paying him off with some gems. Thank you for that.”

The Dracorian turned towards the stunned Marcliffs. “I am just happy that my new friends here would not be caught in the aftermath of whatever fallout might befall that slimy man.”

“To what end?” Yhan snapped angrily. “You may just have branded us as lazy oafs! How will we find work now!”

Duvon gripped his youngest son by adoption tightly. “Hush, Yhan. These men did what they thought was best.”

Raeden exchanged glances with Samuel and they shared exactly the same though. When the wolf nodded, Raeden beamed.

“Well, I must confess that there was some selfishness in what we did,” said the former-bard with a smile. “You have seen how barren our ship is. We have far to travel and I strongly suspect that we would require the assistance of a cook and his kitchen hands.” Duvon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Would you do us the honour of joining us on our journey?”

“We cannot just leave!” protested Loraad.

“Of course we can!” exclaimed Trihan. “I have dreamed of a life in the air! We accept!”

The bulkier of the siblings grabbed Trihan’s arm and pulled him back. “But what of Don Cazzallo?”

Raeden had heard that name many times before or at least the title of ‘Don’ many times before. Part of the underworld group commonly referred to as La Famille, the Dons were the heads of their respective crime syndicates. They operated as far away from Trispire as possible especially in the other territories which had been annexed from the non-Alliance species. La Famille were spoken in hushed tones amongst the nobles for it was never guaranteed who was in pocket of the Famille. He had not heard of Don Cazzallo specifically but if the Marcliffs were involved with them, he did not want to be involved with them anymore than necessary.

The Avatar shuffled towards Samuel and slowly leaned towards the wolf. “I know you are meant to be my adviser, but may I offer some of my own counsel?”

The blue-eyed Fenrian flicked an ear in his direction. “Go ahead.”

“I do not wish to tangle with this Don Cazzallo. We are but two men. Powerful as we are, I do not believe we would have the might to take down a Don of La Famille let alone incite the wrath of the entire Family_.”_

Samuel offered him an enigmatic smile. “Where is your sense of adventure, Raeden? Would it not be a fitting tale to tell if the first act of the Dracorian Avatar was to defeat a Don?”

He knew he was being manipulated but his mind instantly went to the ballads of great heroes who could strangle snaked when they were but babies or who slew mighty beasts in their teen years. Though he was only in his mid-twenties, he was well behind in terms of heroics.

“You have convinced me. What do we do?”

“First, let’s find out more about the Don. We should be saving people for the right reasons not just because of their names.” Samuel stepped forward towards the Marcliffs who were arguing amongst one another. “If I may,” he began, addressing them, “what exactly is your relationship with this Don Cazzallo?”

Nervous glances were exchanged amongst the Marcliffs but it was Duvon who stepped forward as the patriarch of the family and spoke. “Well milord, we fell upon hard times and had to resort to borrowing money from less than reputable sorts. As much as we would like to go with you, I have my roots with this Heuveir…”

“You mean your debt.”

“And my family history. Heuveir is my home…”

“It’s gone to shit, father,” snarled Yhan, stomping a foot angrily into the ground. “It is naught but a cesspool for the criminal underworld and a doorway for smugglers!” He threw hand in the direction of O’klein. “You saw what that asshole was trying to do!”

It was a fair assumption that the strict supervisor was not the only one to try and slip contraband past Traelliviar’s laws. Since the War, the Dracorian Crown’s army was severely diminished especially with most of the dragons having drifted into the winds as mercenaries. The remaining soldiers were career soldiers or those born into families of the military. The Holy Alliance had minimal presence outside of the island capital as well with feuding lords and ladies claiming ownership of counties and territories. Many believed that as soon as the last Dracorian died, there would be a war between the lords and ladies of the Scorched Lands for the rights to claim the Crown. Being so far from the capital and a port town, it was conceivable that Heuveir would be a gateway for illegal activities.

Yhan was shaking in fury. Perhaps there was more to the boy’s rage than simple anger at his misfortune. His brothers pulled him back, gently comforting him while Duvon stood firm.

“I fear that should you rescue us from our debt, we will only bring the ire of La Famille upon you,” confessed the elder Marcliff. “It is best you not involve yourself with us. Though that is not to say that I do not appreciate your generosity.”

Samuel gave Duvon a piercing, withering stare that made the man’s knees visibly shake. “I cannot claim much for your own experiences, Master Chef, but I can tell you that I have seen this tale play over and over again. You genuinely believe that should you repay your debt to La Famille, you will be free of their influence. However, you also know that deep in your heart, they will continue to extort you no matter what happens. It is how they build their connections and their network. Even should you re-establish your restaurant, Yhan were to find his true parents or Trihan turn his life around to become an honest soldier, they will hold the years of servitude over you and pull you back.”

Raeden was momentarily confused by Duvon’s shock when he realised that the chef had never told Samuel his sons’ names or their backgrounds. Perhaps Samuel’s eyes did see more than even the gods.

“La Famille is too powerful…” whispered the chef.

“There is only power when we surrender,” Samuel answered, turning towards the Skyward Fantasy. “When we accept an inevitability, that is when we grant others power over us.” He turned his head back towards The Marcliffs, his piercing blue eyes shining with such intensity that even Raeden’s heart was forced to seize up and his breath freeze in his lungs. “No tale is written in stone, no fate sealed, no ending determined.”

The wolf didn’t even usher the Marcliffs forward or invite them onto the ship but the moment he started striding up the gangway onto the white airship, the four men were immediately compelled to follow. Raeden was already a few steps ahead of them when he realised what he was doing and forced himself to stop and re-examine what had just occurred. His hand went to his bare heart and then he watched Samuel stride up the gangway, that starry cloak of his billowing out behind him.

“What was that…?” he whispered to himself softly.

The Avatar waited for the Marcliffs to enter the airship before he rushed after them. Samuel directed them to some washrooms and a few places that they could clean themselves up. That was curious given that the airship had been completely devoid of any furnishings just an hour or so ago. Still, something else was on Raeden’s mind and he lingered beside his adviser while the newest members of his crew moved through the ship.

“Samuel, I must ask,” he said once the Marcliffs were out of earshot. “How is it that you can inspire such action in people? Even I was literally moved by your words and you did not even beckon me to follow.”

Samuel gave him a soft smile. “Because I was being genuine.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The mage-knight turned to him with his eyes shining and a smug smile on his lips. “As a bard, you retell stories and sing epics. However, you can never feel the genuine emotion that inspired those tales because you have never experienced the loss, hardship or trials that the characters in those songs endured.” He gestured towards the direction that the Marcliffs vanished. “Take the impromptu lyrics of our newest friends you created. No denying that you are capable of stringing rhyme together but your words were disingenuous. You were purposefully injecting innuendo and sexual tension where there was none.”

“It is all for the purpose of entertainment.”

“Then why are you asking me how it is that I inspire others if all you wish to do is entertain?”

Those words struck him hard; so hard in fact that he staggered a step back in shock.

“To entertain and to inspire are two separate objectives, Raeden,” Samuel warned. “They’re not mutually exclusive but if your goal is to simply entertain, then I suggest you reposition yourself to that goal.”

The former-bard frowned. “What do you suggest I do, then?”

Samuel gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps identify in which direction you wish to take your divine mission first. You will certainly be able to spread Malgorin’s name through entertainment, but you can similarly spread it through inspiration. Decide at your own pace as well. There is no rush. Death is patient, after all.”

Those three, recurring words made him groan and offer Samuel a smile. “Regardless, I believe I should experience the hardship of the very tales that I sing, correct?” He turned his draconic head towards the bridge. “Perhaps this is where I should start. What do you know of this Don Cazzallo?”

******

It came as a surprise that the Skyward Fantasy’s interior had changed. There was now a fully furnished kitchen beside a broad dining hall and several private quarters for each of the Marcliffs. How this had come about was a mystery and Raeden could only assume it was Samuel’s doing. The Dracorian Avatar was not at all bothered by the mage’s redecoration of his airship. Making sure the Marcliffs were comfortable would mean that they could produce equally amazing food. Happy workers were productive workers, after all. There was also a part of him that felt like one of those rich, free-spirited Dracorian nobles that travelled the world with their fortune and was waited on. Certainly, a lifestyle he would not be opposed to.

Raeden found Duvon, manning the kitchen and cooking. The aroma was delectable, savory and filed with elegant spices. There were a variety of techniques that were unique to Traelliviar. At one point in time, Traevillian cuisine was envied across the world. When compared to the hearty and often excessive style of the dwarves, the preachy vegetarian diet of traditional elven cuisine or the bizarre tendency of humans to use every part of an animal, Traevillian dishes tended to be delicate, artful and pushed culinary limits. However, Trispire’s domination of Tirinead had made the unique meals somewhat of a delicacy only to be served to the highest of nobles.

The scent of the delicate, clear shellfish consommé decorated with fresh herbs alongside some aromatic poached fish brought the Avatar drifting back to his time cavorting between the nobles of Traelliviar, using his charm to entice such delicacies from them in exchange for song and the occasional sexual romp into their bedrooms. Just the thought of it had Raeden quivering both out of hunger and sexual desire. Thankfully, the clothing that Samuel had given him was up to the task of absorbing his juices. The brown, cloth trousers were nothing too fancy, but they kept the clean, white tunic that contrasted against his black scales very well tucked by the waistband. The flared sleeves would have looked fashionable on an ordinary human but to Raeden, they were stretched taut and barely passed halfway down his forearms. He could not complain too much. At least now he was fully clothed. Black leather straps wrapped around his waistband as a belt and across his chest in an ‘X’ formation to serve as a sheathe for Doomtalon which he resolved never to remove. He wore a brown, leather vest that fit snugly around his shoulders but could never be closed and its rims only came about halfway down his torso. Naturally, his greaves remained over his trousers and his big, clawed feet were allowed to remain free of boots.

Duvon noticed him as he entered the kitchen. The chef had shaved his ragged beard but left a rather handsome goatee that somewhat brought attention away from how his rosy cheeks were still quite pudgy and almost melted seamlessly with his thick neck. They highlighted his bright, brown - almost auburn - eyes and now that the grime and muck had been cleaned from his hair, Raeden could see that it was a nice dark colour with faint flecks of grey that hinted at his maturity.

“I see you have shaved,” he noted.

“Stray hairs are rarely welcome in the kitchen,” laughed the chef. “I only allowed my beard to grow out since I had been working the docks for many weeks now.”

That made the Avatar frown. “Fial’Lluvayn has only been going on for a few days. Tell me you have not had to work two jobs to keep your family afloat.”

Duvon laughed softly and returned to his cooking. “I wish I could, but I was taught as a child to avoid lying lest Malgorin devour my soul.” He stirred the broth through a thin cloth to ensure the impurities were kept out and the broth itself preserved its clear, amber colour. “I am grateful for you and Lord Samuel’s offer but sadly, we must decline. I aim to make this meal at least in gratitude but then we shall take our leave.”

“You’re likely pushing your family to death,” accused Raeden. “Cazzallo will likely never let go of your leash and your reputation on the docks will be sullied with our interference. We owe it to you to provide you with shelter and a means to provide for yourself.”

“Lord Samuel has already offered us gold and jewels that will see us well through the rest of the year,” answered Duvon with a thankful smile. “Perhaps we can even pay off Don Cazzallo for a little while. Start the restaurant once more. But I cannot leave Heuveir. It is where my roots lie.”

Raeden’s mind was quickly working. “And if I told you that we intended to hunt down Don Cazzallo and bring him to justice?”

Duvon laughed softly but bitterly. “I would call you a fool. No matter your power, two men would not be able to stand against Don Cazzallo and La Famille. Even should you somehow succeed in destroying the Don, you would have to contend with the rest of the Famille and the power vacuum that his death would bring. You would plunge all of Heuveir into chaos as would be gangs and mob bosses attempted to become the new Don.”

A bitter truth but it was also the bitter truth. Taydir had often railed against the existence of the La Famille because he could do nothing against them not only because he was physically crippled but because the authorities were so tightly embroiled in their machinations that to act would be to invite doom upon the land. There was no means to act in any official means and there was certainly no way to save Duvon from his debt.

Except perhaps…

“If I were to tell you that I was once human and turned into this magnificent Dracorian form on behalf of Malgorin as a means to restore the Old God to power, what would you say?”

Duvon gave him a blank stare. “I say you must surely have lost your mind.” The deadpan look slowly turned to one of surprise… then confusion… and finally worry. “But… you are being truthful, aren’t you?”

“The Old Gods gave me the power to change the fate of the Dracorians. Within my seed lies the power to turn any human, dwarf or elf into another Dracorian. If you but touch it, you could become a new man. We could falsify your death alongside your family. I could turn you all into Dracorians. With the funds Samuel provides, you could buy your restaurant once again. Perhaps at a reduced price. Certainly, less that it would have taken you to buy it in the first place. Start your life anew out from under the Famille’s influence.”

The corners of the chef’s lips pulled back tightly. His eyes darted between the meal he was making and then back to Raeden. “Your offer is kind and certainly tempting but…” He shook his head sadly. “I must think of my sons as well. We all have an identity. Perhaps it is something we take advantage of. Something we scarcely notice but at the moment when we are to sacrifice it, I must confess that I am unwilling to give up this life for it is my life. A life of my own making.”

“How could you claim that when a criminal organisation is pulling your strings?” Raeden demanded. “You could be free of them! I am even offering you a chance to join us on our divine mission! We could sail from one corner of Tirinead to the other spreading word of Malgorin and you could be part of the newly revitalised Dracorian race! You could fly!” He spread his enormous wings for emphasis. “How could you turn that down?”

Duvon gave him a sad smile. “Perhaps because I am an old dog and one that cannot so easily let go of something he has invested so much time and effort into.” He turned back towards his meal. “It is much like creating a dish, my good friend. You could slave for hours, mix, season and fold over a hot stove but the moment of truth comes when it is time for that one taste that determined whether your effort is a success or a failure.” Duvon dipped a spoon into the broth and lifted it delicately to his lips, taking just the faintest sip. With a nod, he beckoned Raeden over, offering him a taste.

The Avatar took the lightest sip from the offered spoon. The seafood taste was not overpowering, just the faintest wisp of lobster. Coupled with the aromatic tinges of the fresh herbs, the broth was complex in its taste and yet so deceptively simple. It was Traevillian cuisine at its finest.

“That’s amazing,” he commented. “How long did that take?”

“I began a little after when Samuel showed me the kitchen. Perhaps an hour or two.” Duvon regarded the soup proudly. “But had it not been perfect, I would not be so quick to just throw it out and begin again. That is two hours I will never have back and all this stock and supplies that will have gone to waste. It would be better to try and fix the meal instead of let it all go to waste.”

“But that is soup!” protested Raeden. “This is your life!”

“Exactly. If I was unwilling to discard the soup so quickly, why should I be so quick to set aside the life I have built here?”

“There must be a point where you can clearly see that it is worth far more effort to cling onto a dying dream than it would be to let go.”

“Perhaps.” Duvon gave him a smile that knocked the wind out of his lungs. There was sympathy in the edges of his lips. “Or perhaps you never held onto something long enough to make that decision.”

Raeden found himself haunted by visions of that same sympathetic smile but on another’s face. He growled at himself and spun furiously around, stomping away from the kitchen and wondering when everyone in the world had magically transformed into a sage that constantly spewed words of wisdom. The air was suddenly very stifling in the roomy airship. The memories of a thousand pitying faces closed in around him. Hastening his steps, he rushed to the deck of the Skyward Fantasy. The white, mechanical doors slid aside with a loud humming noise, exposing him to the elements and the freedom of the air that it brought. A wave of relief washed over him and those spectres that had sought to haunt him disappeared. He instinctively spread his wings and found the sensation of having the thick membranes catch the blustery winds rather comforting like he was being embraced by the world itself.

With a sigh, he lowered his arms only to realize that he was far from alone on the deck.

“Loraad,” he stated, catching sight of the portly, pockmarked man. “I had thought you would be assisting your father down at the kitchen.”

The pockmarked fellow gave him a tight smile. “My father’s obsession with the kitchen is infectious but of us all, he is the only one that truly belongs over a stove.”

At least he had some allies amongst the Marcliffs but he also suspected that none of them were willing to abandon their father. Much like Samuel, Duvon’s generosity and charisma pulled another into his orbit with the strength of their gravity. Sadly, it was also a death sentence. Duvon was dragging his sons into a doomed life in Heuveir at the hands of Don Cazzallo.

“And where is it that you believe you belong?” asked Raeden. “If not the kitchen, where?”

Loraad gave him a faint smile and turned back to look at Heuveir. “Honestly? I had dreamed of becoming a soldier.” He lifted his thick, pudgy hands. “My fingers are too clumsy to wield the knife as deftly as Trihan or my father. But I can brandish a butcher’s knife and I thought could translate that into becoming a soldier.”

“What stopped you from achieving your dream? Surely you could still be a soldier here in Heuveir without leaving your father’s side?”

Loraad lowered his arms, the weight of the past causing his shoulders to slump and a dejected sight to leave his lips. “I know what you think. It is not my father’s pride or some sense of loyalty I have for him. I love my father. I would do anything for him, but he has never kept us chained down.” A quiet shake of his head shook the stringy hair from his features. “It is… It is this.” He gestured at his features.

“I do not follow.”

A humourless laugh left his lips and for a moment, Raeden caught sight of his crooked teeth. “The plague ravaged my family, milord. Though it left me alive, it left its mark on me.” Reaching for his brow, Loraad pulled back some of his hair. The Dracorian Avatar could not help but flinch when he noticed that some of the scars had even reached up through his scalp. His long, ragged hair masked the patches of bare flesh but when pulled back, it was clear that his entire head looked like it had been burned or boiled. “The mages and physicians claim that the plague had reached my brain and caused damage. That I am a simpleton. They also claim that it may have reached my seed and that I have been rendered impotent by it.” He offered a dry smile towards Raeden. “Perhaps some divine justice over what we humans did to the Dracorians, eh?”

Perhaps there was some irony in that but Raeden could not help but feel pity for the poor fellow. Scarred and wounded, he was forced to huddle in the darkness and avoid being seen by people lest they recoil much like how the Dracorian had. Dreams of becoming a soldier were dampened by the baseless accusations of mental deformation. They had just looked at this survivor of a plague and immediately refused to give him a chance.

There was a tale in that.

Perhaps an even greater one if this wretched man could become the Dracorian Avatar’s bodyguard.

“So, your fate is tied to your father because he is the only one willing to give you a chance and employ you?” asked Raeden. “Lucky then that the winds of fate brought me here.”

Loraad turned to him, brow furrowed and lowering his hand. While his tangled hair tumbled down back around his features, they momentarily brushed aside to reveal the man’s deformed ears. It seemed like the plague had also ripped them from his head leaving him with little more than little holes on the side of his head. Whatever that plague was, it had devastated the young man’s features.

“What do you mean, milord?” asked Duvon’s only biological son.

“I mean that I can offer you a way to not only repair your features but also adopt ones that will make you a proud, strong Dracorian!” He spread his wings for emphasis. “I have been blessed by the Old Gods to bless any mortal that comes in contact with my seed into a Dracorian of similar stature to myself! Simply take of my seed and you will be as mighty as I am!” He lifted one arm, flexing the appendage so as to stretch the fabric of his new shirt as much as possible.

Loraad gave him a stunned stare for a good, long minute. Then he broke out into laughter. For a brief moment, there was a flash of what this man’s features could have been had fate not plagued him with such ugly scars. Raeden was beset by the image of a young man with soft, rounded, rosy cheeks, waves of silky brown hair that matched his almond-coloured eyes and rather handsome cleft chin. “Oh, milord. That is certainly a jest.”

“I do not jest,” answered Raeden, his pride slightly wounded. “I genuinely have this ability.”

The chef’s son inclined his malformed head slightly to the side. “So, it is my impression you have the ability to turn me into a handsome Dracorian and all I must do is pleasure you and devour your seed?”

“Yes. That is the truth of it.”

Loraad shook his head and turned away. “I must admit, I have heard tales of nobles being so sick of the sex that they indulge themselves in up in their ivory towers. But I never thought a scarred and ugly man like myself would be the object of one such noble’s desire.”

Raeden jerked his head back in shock and dropped his flexed arm. “That is not the case, Loraad.”

The man gave him a withering stare. “I may be shunned by the common man because of my appearance but I am not deaf, milord. Your attempt at seduction was certainly creative. I have never heard it’s like. Still, your schemes are transparent to me.” His features softened, sadness entering his eyes as he turned away. “Please. Leave me to what little dignity I have left.”

Confused and hurt, Raeden stood in shock. His charms and confidence had never failed him before and yet here was Loraad - a peasant - rejecting him. Fury filled his blood, boiling it and pushing silver flames from between his bared fangs. Unwilling to sacrifice any other potential converts from the Marcliffs, he turned and left without further pushing the topic. He stormed furiously back into the Fantasy, charging through the winding hallways. His eyes peered into each of the passing rooms, most of them still empty. Bursting into one of the empty rooms, he found Samuel standing beside one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing absently out into the lands past Kalsammar’s Divide.

“The Gods have cursed me!” he snarled angrily, shutting the door for extra privacy. “They have given me this foul, draconic body that is unfit to charm even a lowly, diseased peasant that has never known the touch of a woman!”

Samuel didn’t turn to face him. “I’m assuming you’re talking about Loraad Marcliff.”

“Who else would I be talking of?” he snarled furiously. “I offered him a chance to become a Dracorian like myself. To shed his foul human flesh and be reborn anew as a Dracorian! And yet he turned me down!”

“I see.”

“He even had the gall to accuse me of being some noble sick of the pleasures of sex and seeking more exotic partners by sleeping with someone as undesirable as him!”

Still, Samuel did not turn to him. “Are you calling him undesirable because of your heated blood or is that how you truly feel about him?”

Raeden scoffed and crossed his arms. “He certainly is not some prized catch amongst the courts of nobility. Were he not gruesomely scarred nor were his hair not so thin and wispy like an old man’s, I would be able to look past his missing ears and hunched posture to find him somewhat intriguing.”

“And therein lies your problem.” The wolf-mage turned to him, one golden eyebrow raised. “Not everyone would benefit from good looks. Often times, those who must work in the mud develop thicker skin and stronger will than those that would deal with court intrigue and hold their appearances as one of their primary assets.”

“Such high talk from one that is so attractive yourself.”

Samuel gave him a single laugh. “Have you noticed I do not have a tail?”

Raeden inclined his head to the side and tried to peer past the mage’s starry cloak. He was given the courtesy of Samuel pulling aside his cloak to reveal only an armoured behind. “I… Had not noticed. Were you born with such a deformity?”

“No. It was ripped from me in an act of spite. It would be well within my abilities to simply regrow one but then what would be the point?”

“To appear desirable? To be complete? Why would you choose to appear mauled and mutilated if you have the option to make yourself whole again?”

Samuel turned to him with a calm, wise smile. “The same reason why some people bear their scars with pride. It is a reminder to me of what had happened and how I became stronger for it. Don’t look at Loraad as if his circumstances prevent him from cleaning up these scars. He chose to wear those scars of his because it likely reminds him of something that he holds dear.”

“What could possibly be worth the rejection of his peers?”

“Perhaps the death of his mother? The same mother that refused the one cure they could buy in favour of his life?”

Raeden’s face fell and a pang of guilt struck his heart. When he had offered to make Loraad into a Dracorian he had only done it so that the boy could have a way to shed his damaged skin. But in doing so, he had not only essentially called him ugly, but had struck a blow to the man’s own ego. Him offering to rid him of his scars would be as if the sacrifice of the poor man’s mother meant so little that it was to be shed and tossed into the wind. Samuels words haunted him.

“Everyone has a story to tell, Raeden. I will be your adviser on this journey for as long as you’ll have me. I will be sure to remind you never to underestimate the value of any one person’s story. A single life is all it takes to turn a tide. One blade to win a war. One word to change a mind.”

“I… I think I see what you mean,” whispered the Avatar. “I have belittled their sacrifices and their lives, haven’t I?”

“I am doubt they thought of it on such a level but if you wish to convince them to join you, it would not hurt to acknowledge that their decisions and their sacrifices were all worth something and will not be lost when they adopt the guise of a Dracorian.” Samuel turned back towards the distant lands beyond the Divide. “They say you are unable to take anything with you once you die.” He cocked his head to the side, one ear folded. “I argue that it is not so much what you take but rather what you leave behind. And becoming a Dracorian through Malgorin’s Avatar is much like death, is it not?”

******

There was much merriment on the Skyward Fantasy as Duvon’s meal was shared amongst the crew. Samuel had purchased some tasty ale and even the usually sombre Yhan had become more amenable with the introduction of a little liquor into his system. The Marcliffs laughed and exchanged stories with the two strange travellers while dining on the feast that their family patriarch had created with a couple of additions from Samuel as well who had cracked open one of his chest and produced some fine desserts - Duvon’s culinary weakness.

Loraad excused himself before things grew too rowdy. His bladder demanded release and urgency demanded that he forget trying to search every room on the airship for the lavatories and instead relieve himself outside. Perched on the edge of the docks, he removed his flaccid, circumcised member from his trousers and relieved himself over the edge, his golden stream disappearing into the maw of Kalsammar’s Divide. Night had fallen, and the stars were out. Some part of him wished dearly that he would not have to give up the comfort that Samuel was offering but he could not leave his father. That and he doubted his could ally himself with someone like Raeden who seemed just as shallow and arrogant as the very people who kept them in permanent poverty. To think that the cocky lizard had gone to the length of calling himself an avatar of the Old Gods in a vain attempt to bed him for some sick pleasure… It made Loraad shudder just thinking on it.

Movement appeared from the corner of his eye and he glanced towards the dock. Four men were quickly approaching. This late at night, those that mounted the pier would have business on the ships moored there. Since the Skyward Fantasy was alone on the long, rickety length of wood, it meant that they had purpose. Loraad quickly finished and shook his dick before stuffing it back in his pants. He barely had time to turn back towards the Fantasy before one of the men seized his shoulder and turned him around.

“Well lookie here, boys,” growled one the men. “Looks like we got the pockmarked one. A few more cuts and welts on his face will go unnoticed.”

Thugs. Likely under the employ of La Famille.

“What are you doing!?” Loraad shouted, trying to pull away. Another of the men had moved behind him, barring his escape. “What do you want?”

“What are you doing?” mocked the first of the thugs in a high pitched and yet lethargic voice, mocking him for being a ‘slow child’. “What do you want?” He broke from the mockery and snarled at Loraad, his foul breath laced with alcohol. “I’ll tell you what we want. We heard that you and your family were seen cavorting with a Fenrian mage and his Dracorian bodyguard that just flew into town. A mage that was rich. The Don believes you are trying to weasel out of your obligations by asking favours of this mage.” There was a flash of metal and Loraad flinched at the sight of a small knife. “He doesn’t like it when mice try to break free of their contracts.”

The young, scarred man ran through the possible responses quickly in his mind. “H - H - He wouldn’t attack so brazenly. We have done nothing wrong! H - He wouldn’t act on rumours alone!”

“You think you know the Don, little duck?” scowled the man, drawing his knife across Loraad’s cheek. The cold night’s air bit into the wound, making it sting more than it already did. “The Don would be very happy to have an example made of Marcliff’s son. Besides…” Loraad suddenly found himself being twisted around and held at arm’s length by the man, teetering precariously over the edge of the wharf and the darkness of Kalsammar’s Divide. Only his heels remained in contact with the ground. “… who is to say you simply did not get drunk and plummeted to your death?”

“P - P - Please!” stammered Loraad. “We have no intention of leaving town!”

“Your family certainly will not be leaving. You though… Well… perhaps the Triad will welcome you into their open arms.” He leaned forward, his foul breath wafting directly into Loraad’s nostrils. “Don Cazzallo sends his regards.”

The man’s fingers loosened around Loraad’s collar and his other hand gave the chef’s son one hard shove. Loraad desperately tried to cling onto anything but the man was surprisingly strong. He screamed as the night air rushed by him. The four grinning faces of these thugs were the last he would see, and tears of panic and fear streamed from his eyes as Kalsammar’s Divide began to swallow him in its cold, black embrace.

Whump!

Until something big, strong and warm slammed against his back. His trajectory was abruptly changed while a thick arm wrapped around his chest, holding him against the warm wall. He was dragged upwards, coming to level with the four stunned men. A thick, scaly, black arm was pressed firmly across his pectorals, pinning him against a thick, muscled frame. Just a few feet from him, attached to another muscled arm decorated by a network of veins that glistened in the night sky and framed by a tremendous, black wing, was a familiar black scythe.

Turning his head upwards, the back of his head pressing up against a defined collarbone, he caught sight of Raedan’s furious features.

“I had hoped this evening would be filled with nothing but merriment and a warm farewell to good friends,” growled the Dracorian. “And yet here I find you accosting my guest mere steps away from my airship. Your Don has no concept of manners.”

The four men gawked as Raeden hovered through the air without ever flapping his wings. Indeed, it was with uncanny control that he was able to move sideways effortlessly through the air and place Loraad back on the wharf without even a single wing beat. That strong arm unwound from Loraad’s chest and Raeden spread his wings to allow the young man to slip behind him. Duvon and his brothers came rushing down the gangway towards him. Loraad could not stop the tears running down his face.

“You think we are threatened by you, dragon?” scowled the thug, flashing his blade. “You come sweeping into town like you’re the cock of the walk with your mage friend flashing his wealth and magicks wildly? This is Don Cazzallo’s town! Not yours!”

Even with these brazen words, the men began to back away.

“We have done nothing to harm the Don nor have we done anything to threaten his sovereignty over this city,” snarled Raeden. “Leave us in peace and do not threaten the Marcliffs any further. They have done nothing to offend the Don.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, little lizard,” snarled the thug, taking a bold step forward. “Any man who dares to come to Heuveir with the audacity you two did without paying respects to the Don first greatly offends him.” He nodded towards the Marcliffs. “Those that dare to associate with you also offends him. You will be made to show the Don the respect he deserved!”

“And what would the Don say to you throwing about his name without his express permission?” came a calm, collected voice from behind the thugs.

The four men immediately turned around and Raeden craned his neck to look past them. Samuel stood on the other side of the thugs, hands folded behind his back and Dessein curled around his neck. The thugs exchanged glances and huddled together, two men facing Raeden and two facing the wolf-knight.

“What are you talking about?” barked the leading grunt. “We are here on behalf of the Don!”

“Really? So either the Don is stupid enough to send four men armed with knives to take down a mage and a Dracorian with the full knowledge of their perceived abilities or he is very confident in your abilities.” Samuel tilted his head to the side and tapped his cheek absently with a finger. “Then again, he could also consider you four so disposable that he sent you on this suicide mission. But I have full confidence in your Don’s abilities and it is my suspicion that you four just go drunk, saw an opportunity in poor Loraad relieving himself and sought to earn the favour of the Don by sending a ‘warning’ on his behalf. But he never asked you do this, did he?”

The men quivered in place.

“Tell me,” Samuel said coolly. “Does the La Famille not have some rather stringent sets of rules and a code of honour? Do they not look poorly upon brazen acts of criminality such as this? After all, the reason the Holy Alliance has not stamped out La Famille is because everything they do is technically legal or at least very hard to prove. Yet here you stand, assaulting an innocent citizen while simultaneously confessing to extorting them. I wonder how Don Cazzallo would react to that?”

The thugs began letting out whimpers of terror. They realised that they were trapped. Between Raeden and Samuel, they could easily be killed and yet if they returned to the Don and attempted to incite the wrath of La Famille upon the mage, they would have to explain what they were doing accosting Loraad. It was a clever gamble but one the young man sincerely doubted was foolproof.

“You do not scare me,” snarled the leading thug. “If you kill us, the Don will come after you.”

“You are assuming your lives are worth the time and effort to take,” Raeden growled, lifting his head and folding his wings back. “Go. Leave this place and do not return. If you dare it, take this message to Don Cazzallo.” Silver flames flared out from the corners of Raeden’s lips. “His days of holding Heuveir hostage are numbered.”

“You dare threaten the Don!?”

“I would be more concerned about your own wellbeing,” he growled. “Go!” He swung the scythe threateningly through the air. “Or perhaps I should send you back to the Don in pieces.”

The thugs wailed and fled, shooting past Samuel with little regard for the mage. The Fenrian did not flinch and merely watched them go with his keen, dark-blue eyes. Once they were gone, he turned towards Raeden with one eyebrow raised.

“Your acting skills are quite impressive indeed. Had I not known better, I am fairly sure I would not have guessed you have no idea how to wield that scythe as a weapon.”

Raeden relaxed and laughed heartily.

“It was a simple matter to read what would scare them,” admitted the Dracorian. “Just wave the scythe about and look threatening!” His mirth faded as he regarded the weapon he held in one giant hand. “I must admit, however, that I think I will require some form of training to wield this properly.”

“Training I would be happy to provide,” Samuel answered with a gentle bow. The wolf strode towards the Marcliffs. “As for you, our honoured guests, I would suggest you stay within the Skyward Fantasy at least for the night. What those crooks will do with Raeden’s threat is still up for debate but Don Cazzallo will hear of this eventually.”

Duvon gave Samuel a teary-eyed smile. “Thank you for saving my son.”

“Think nothing of it. Especially do not think of it as an obligation to stay in our employ.” Samuel’s blue eyes switched to Raeden. “I have a feeling that we will have to deal with the Don and La Famille down on our journey.”

Loraad felt a chill down on his spine. The winds blew against his cheek and he could feel them changing.

******

Heat. Powerful, passionate heat. It permeated Raeden’s body, piecing his scales, suffusing into his muscles and sinking through his bones. The lips of the man around his twin dicks had him shaking violently into the cocks of other men pressed up against his scales. Everywhere he turned, there were dicks of different shapes, sizes and colours pressed up against him, dripping clear liquids onto his scales and enhancing the fiery passion that he felt deep within him. His tongue curled around one such member and he drank the salty seed that came pouring out. Once it was drained, he moved to the next available cock, just having to turn his head a couple of degrees before he found his muzzle filled with another fleshy organ of pure maleness. Pressure built within his rear and he knew that he was being penetrated by more than one man.

Then there was a knocking.

The Avatar’s eyes snapped open and he grimaced as light invaded his unprepared retinas. The source came from the windows that he had failed to shut after the evening’s festivities. A victory drink had been in order after scaring off the Don’s goons and he was now suffering from the folly of having gone to bed utterly inebriated. With a grimace, he slipped off his bed, resting his large feet on the steel ground.

That knocking came again, sounding more like church bells.

“Enter,” he rumbled. “Quietly.”

Samuel emerged from the other side of the door, once again with his helmet on. “Time for your lessons.”

“It is still morning,” yawned Raeden. “Can this not wait until I have had least had breakfast?”

“It is past noon.”

Blinking in surprise, Raeden glanced out the window and saw clear, blue skies and the sun blazing high above their heads. “Ah… I must have drunk more than I had thought…” he mumbled. “What of the Marcliffs? How fare they?”

“Shaken but they are at least not opposed to staying in our company at least for a little while longer. Young Trihan has gone to scout out their home and restaurant. Yhan has taken to staring out windows while Duvon is cooking and storing meals for us for our journey.”

“What of Loraad?”

“Secluded to his room. He is still very much on the airship but still haunted by his experience.”

Raeden shook his head and rose completely from his large, soft bed. “A near-death experience can change a man. I can attest to that.” He rubbed the back of his neck and padded over towards the door. “Allow me to make myself more presentable then we can begin.”

The knight brought over a basket carrying what appeared to be some aromatic bathing supplies. “That Horanmut overseer, O’klein, provided it to me this morning as a means to ensure my silence on the matter of his less than legal activities. I though you would best benefit from them.”

He took the basket and was instantly overwhelmed by the overly spicy smells that assaulted his sensitive nostrils. The Horanmut were renowned for their exotic spices and obsession with cleanliness. Likely drawn from living in the sandy Neverborn desert and preferring not to track sand anywhere. “You do not need them?”

“I have simple needs,” Samuel answered, turning to leave. “Plus a chest I can produce six times a day that will spill forth whatever it is I need at the time; so I can do without these.”

Raeden thanks his adviser and padded over to adjacent bathroom where a large, porcelain tub was present for him to bathe. Pipes and odd machinery powered by the reactor pumped heated water into the tub through the twists of a few dials. With his newfound scales, it was harder to feel the heat and he had to turn the dials to their utmost highest before he could slip into the bath and feel the relaxing warmth seep into his body. Though the temperature only awoke memories of the vivid dream that he had experienced. He glanced down at his members, already erect and poking out of the clear waters, taunting him.

In the past, he had often found himself in the company of others when he was drifting through his dreams but it was rare when he found himself in the company of men. Though he had slept with many males in his young lifetime, he never found himself dreaming of them so… vividly. Moreover, he had never dreamed never exclusively of his own gender with such erotic fervour. A woman had always been present. Yet he could not deny that the dream had left him craving for a man’s touch. He ran a hand down his face, still stunned at the square muzzle that jutted out from his skull and the odd feel of his horns.

“What is happening to me…?” he mumbled to himself.

Even with the clear bath waters, he could smell his own musky arousal filling the air and immediately reached for the basket of soaps and shampoos. The fragrant substances caused colourful bubbles to form as he splashed about and hid the strong aroma of arousal in a blanket of spiciness. Though it offended his senses somewhat, he would rather he smell like he had taken a dive through some Horanmut Spice Vats than like he was in heat. He made sure to wash his long, white mane but found it difficult to reach behind his back. His wide frame and his enormous wings simply got in the way. A quick dive beneath the waters sufficed and once he emerged, he felt cleaner and more refreshed. Any semblances of dehydration or intoxication were gone. The Horanmut really did know their herbal remedies though they were second only to the Fenrians.

There was ample clothing for him to don, all made for a Dracorian of his stature. It made him wonder just how many Dracorians there were of his size and build and if Samuel was somehow involved in the Skyward Fantasy’s constantly changing shape. He made a note to ask the adviser when he had a chance but for the moment. His current problem was getting used to wearing clothing that was made for someone with wings and a tail. Samuel had helped him put on the clothing the previous day but now that he was on his own, he was puzzled how to put on what appeared to be a reversed vest with sleeves and the pants with a distinct hole for his tail. Drawing from memories of the previous day, he remembered that the shirt had two sets of laces that wrapped around his back and looped towards his chest. He slipped it on as if it were an apron and though it wrapped around most of his back, it did not close in completely so that there was room for his mane to sit comfortably free and his wings were not limited in their movement. Due to how broad his back was, he could not easily guide the bows back towards his front to tie the shirt down. The mirror at the corner of the room helped and after a full ten minutes, he was able to set the shirt comfortably across his muscled chest.

The pants, however, were the greater challenge. Slipping them on was easily enough but it was keeping them on that proved to be a problem. There was a built-in belt of sorts made of thick, white string that wrapped around the waist with the two ends meeting at the back of the garment. After he slipped the trousers on one leg at a time, a large circular hole wrapped comfortably around his tail. The string would draw the two open ends of the waistband together and after being tied into a knot, would hold the garment up. His problem was that he was not used to tying a knot without looking. Again, the mirror helped but he fumbled with it for another fifteen minutes before he was satisfied that his trousers would not descend at an inopportune moment. He slapped on his shin guards for good measure before he picked up Doomtalon and slung it over his back.

The deck was likely the place for Samuel to give him arms training, so he emerged from the bowels of the ship into the broad, wide open space of the Skyward Fantasy’s deck. There was a bit of risk in standing out on a solid, metal deck without any form of railing around the edges but there was also something romantic about it. Samuel stood alone with a simple, silver sword in his hand, the winds whipping his starry cloak behind him while his features were once again hidden by that crowned helm of his.

There was an air of menace about him but at the same time, Raeden was struck by a sense of awe. This, he marvelled, was what a hero looked like.

“Doomtalon’s power is tied directly to how many people you kill with it,” instructed the wolf, lifting his blade and pointing it at the scythe. “As such, the more that die from your hands, the greater it’s capacity for killing. However, the Old Gods purposefully built it as a scythe, a farming tool, to emphasise the point of control. Death, even accidental death, is not without its consequences.”

Samuel took a few steps back and placed the sword blade down in front of him, gripping the blade with both hands. “Now try and attack me with your scythe.”

Raeden nodded grimly and lifted Doomtalon with one hand. A cry rose from his throat as he swung the blade at Samuel. The mage-knight didn’t even move as the scythe’s blade swung behind him, missing him entirely. The only part that actually hit Samuel was the long shaft of the magical scythe.

“One of the many reasons scythes are not used practically in the battlefield,” said the wolf. “It’s blade is aimed to cut inward. The rest of the weapon is otherwise useless to the casual observer. Try and get a better understanding of your weapon’s length and reach.”

“Could I just not pull back and slice you from behind given how we stand now?” Raeden asked coyly.

“You could but then…” Samuel lifted his sword, it’s point levelled directly at Raeden’s face. Though they were about two feet apart, he could see where Samuel was going with the lesson. “You would lose the advantage of your reach.”

“Point made,” Raeden rumbled, pulling the scythe back. “Have I mentioned that I am a lover and not a fighter? A bard and not a barbarian?”

“You have and I am sure you have also recognised that you will have to change were you to fulfil Malgorin’s request.”

“Because he is the Dragon of Death and I must inflict death to spread his name?” he asked with a bitter smile. Again, he swung the scythe but this time, he came up short and the blade fell within an inch of Samuel.

“No. Because there will be others that will seek to silence your voice and you will be forced to defend yourself against them. Whether you kill them or not is entirely up to you. The point of Doomtalon, after all…” Suddenly, Samuel moved and there was a sudden gust of wind. Raeden froze in place when he found the tip of Samuel’s blade just an inch from his left eye. “… is control.”

The wolf took a few steps back and swung his blade through the air. “Malgorin is the Dragon of Death but without life, there can be no death. Were everything to die, then he would be without a purpose and die himself. Selfish as he is, the Dread Dragon would be just as willing to see people live and give birth to the next generation before he claimed them within his jaws.”

“I had not thought of that before,” confessed Raeden. “I had honestly believed the old tales of how Malgorin would constantly be waiting for all to die and devoured their souls hungrily without care. Legends claim that he created the Dracorians to be his children and to rain death and destruction upon the land until the Holy Triad rehabilitated them.”

“I suppose you also believe that one day the Triad will forgive the Dracorians for their transgressions and grant them the ability to breed once more.”

The Avatar scratched the side of his cheek absently. “I would not be here if that was their promise, now would I? Besides, how could the Dracorians even breed without any females.”

“A very good question.” Samuel gently tapped Doomtalon with the flat of his blade. “Though you are strong, try wielding the scythe with both hands for greater control.”

“I must confess I do not even know how to wield a scythe,” Raeden laughed. “I have never played the part of a farmer.” He gripped the weapon with both hands and swung it at Samuel. The mage took a step back from the weapon.

“Good. But do not hesitate with your swings. You remember what I said about your songs being disingenuous, right?”

The former-bard gave him a sour look. Those words still stung and hurt. “Yes. I do.”

“Similarly, do not be indecisive with your swings.”

“If you say so!”

Raeden let out a small shout and swung Doomtalon with all his might. The swing was a little too powerful however and he found all his bodyweight being thrown into the blow. This caused him to fall out of balance and to stumble forward. His tail lashed out instinctively to keep him balanced but it slipped beneath his flagging foot. Pain erupted from the appendage as he pressed half his weight against it. His shout turned into a yelp of pain and the instinct to pull his foot away from his injured tail. That left him severely unbalanced and crashing to the ground. Doomtalon skittered across the ground.

He expected another lesson from Samuel but the wolf mage was oddly silent. Samuel’s eyes were fixed elsewhere and when he turned to follow them, he found a pair of feet positioned right next to his scythe. His eyes followed those feet up to the pockmarked features of their own. Loraad looked furious.

“Is that the limit of your abilities?” fumed the chef’s son, swiping Doomtalon off the ground. “You pretend to be this avatar of the Old Gods but you are little more than a liar! You do not even know how to wield your own weapon!”

Raeden staggered to his feet and offered the young man a faint smile. “I will confess that I have not been an Avatar long and I am still learning about my abilities but what I told you was the truth. I do have the ability to turn any man into a Dracorian.” He quickly held his hands up. “But you have made your position clear on the matter. I am not a rapist. I will not force myself onto you.”

“I care not for that!” snapped Loraad. “I care that you may have doomed us!”

Puzzled by the accusation, Raeden glanced over to Samuel.

“He means that the Marcliffs are effectively forced to join us on our journey and abandon their home or the Don and the La Famille will come after them in an act of petty revenge. Honourable or not, Cazzallo will no doubt want to display his power either by executing the thugs that accosted us last night for marring his name or to come after us directly.”

“You knew this?” Loraad accused. “And still you acted? Still you threatened them?”

“Would you rather we let you die?” Raeden countered.

“If it would mean my family would not have to be forced to choose being leaving our livelihoods or constantly looking over our shoulder in fear, then yes!” Loraad gripped Doomtalon tightly, his crooked teeth grit in fury. “Either case, we are doomed to die! I wish we had never met you!”

The words hurt and Raeden instantly felt regret over their meeting. Perhaps had he not insisted on hearing the tale of the Marcliffs, none of this would have happened. Even had he just let them go instead of hounding them on the docks, this would not have happened. As Samuel has counselled, every story was important, every word had its weight. Perhaps he should have added more value to this poor family’s instead of trying to spin it with his own voice.

“Let us not dwell on the past,” Samuel said, striding forward. He tossed the sword he held casually towards Loraad, hilt first. The chef’s son immediately dropped Doomtalon out of instinct and grabbed the blade by the hilt. Raeden didn’t move to retrieve his weapon and just watched as the mage approached Loraad. There was a flash of fear in Loraad’s eyes as he lifted the longsword at Samuel.

The knight did not stray from his course and merely placed a hand against the tip of the blade.

“Every life is precious,” uttered the wolf. “When a cow is slaughtered, its flesh is used for food. When a tree falls, its trunk is used to build the foundations of buildings. Even when we die, our bodies decompose and feed the land to begin the cycle anew. At times, we may become careless with our actions and fail to remember the value of our lives but that is just in our nature. Do not dwell on the past but draw strength from your past experiences to move forward. Look to the future, learn from the past and lead the present.”

Loraad scoffed at him and tried to pull the sword away but Samuel had a grip on the blade. “Empty sentiments.”

“Is that so?”

Dessein, still curled around Samuel’s neck, suddenly scampered down the knight’s arm and crawled over the blade. Loraad gasped as the little half-snake, half-mouse curled around his hand, its serpentine tail wrapped around the guard of the blade. A shimmering, white glow suddenly encased the weapon and Loraad let out a cry of terror as his hand was wreathed in the brilliant light. The blade itself grew, lengthening and widening until it was almost as broad as Loraad’s chest and as long as he was tall. Samuel had to step aside as his magic reforged the blade. The cocoon of light peeled away, beginning from the pointed tip to reveal a dark grey metal beneath. The sharpened edges of the weapon was pure white just like the Skyward Fantasy’s hull, framing the hulking weapon. As more of the weapon was revealed, swirling white designs were revealed across the flat of the blade. It was reminiscent of Dessein’s twisting, serpentine form. This was only further confirmed when the guard of the blade, golden and stretching across the width of the weapon, was shaped like the serpent-rodent’s features.

Then the weight of the blade took hold.

Loraad let out a yelp as the weapon pulled him down and forced him to stumble forward. The weapon bit into the Fantasy’s hull, making Raeden flinch.

“Darespine,” Samuel said. “Those who strike this weapon with an armament of their own will be forced to engage the wielder in one-on-one combat.” He pointed at the swirling filigree along the length of the blade. For a moment, the spirals flashed red. “The markings will turn red and then slowly drain back to white as time goes on. Once all the markings have turned white, both wielder and challenger will be free of its spell. No others may damage the participants of the duel but…” He lifted a finger. “… the victor of the duel will grow stronger from their success regardless of whom wields Darespine.”

Wolf mage plucked Doomtalon from the ground and held it out haft first for Raeden. “This would be a good opportunity for both of you to practice.”

Raeden stared at the starry-cloaked knight incredulously. “Wait… you want me to fight him? I mean, sure his blade will ensure that I must fight him but he can barely lift the thing! Moreover, I am twice his size! It would not be a fair match!”

A loud cry erupted from past Samuel. Loraad came charging forward, dragging Darespine across the deck of the Skyward Fantasy, causing sparks to fly as the harsh metal was scraped against the white plates of the hull. The sound was grating to Raeden and it was all he could do to dodge aside as Loraad swung the enormous blade at him in a wild, circular swing.

“Are you insane!?” barked the former-bard. “You could kill me!”

Loraad stumbled slightly as the weight of Darespine flung him to his left. “Were it so easy to kill an Avatar of the Gods then you have no right interfering with my family’s life and damning us to follow your doomed crusade!” Again, the scarred youth came charging forward, sweeping the monstrous sword upwards. Raeden jumped back out of range of the weapon. The weight of the sword caused Loraad to stumble and fall backwards.

“Samuel, you can’t be serious about this!?” he exclaimed.

The wolf mage shrugged. “He has a point, Raeden. You will have to defend yourself one way or another and if you can be slain in a mock battle, how can you expect to represent Malgorin to the rest of the world?”

“But he has a divine weapon!”

“No. His weapon was made by me with the assistance of Dessein.”

Loraad was tenacious and though he was severely unbalanced, he quickly adapted and lifted the enormous sword in both hands, pointing it forward and charging at Raeden with it under his arm as if it were a lance. The Avatar spread his wings and immediately lifted off the ground, hovering over the edge of the Fantasy and away from Loraad’s reach.

“Get back here, coward!” roared the young man.

“Not until you calm down and realise that I had not intended to do you or your family harm!” Raeden replied. “Please, believe me, Loraad. I have nothing but the best intentions!” He caught Samuel’s pointed look and sighed heavily. “Alright… perhaps my intentions were far from magnanimous.”

“I have no idea what that means!” Loraad shouted, pacing angrily along the edge of the deck. “If you would challenge Don Cazzallo, you could not hope to face him flitting about the edges of the battlefield like some mosquito waiting to strike at blood!”

Of course, the boy was right. Sadly, Raeden had no experience in combat. Every conflict he had ever ‘won’ was thanks to his charm and wit. The times when he could not win his opponent over with seductive words, then he ran. Where could he run, however, when his opponent stood at his very home and challenged his manhood?

“Use all your gifts to your advantage, Raeden,” Samuel advised. “You are a Dracorian. Fight like one. Claws, wings, tail, fangs and flame. Doomtalon is not your only weapon.”

Drawing inspiration from those words, Raeden dove down at Loraad. The would-be-soldier immediately - and predictably - swung upwards in the hopes of striking him from the air. Raeden dove down lower, however and as he passed Loraad, his tail snapped out and wrapped around Loraad’s right leg. The young man was immediately swept off his feet and stumbled. Cursing, Duvon’s only son by blood staggered to his feet, face red with fury and gripping Darespine until his knuckles were white.

“Loraad,” Samuel began. “Just because you have Darespine as your weapon, it does not mean you must rely on it exclusively.”

The man shot the knight a foul stare just as Raeden came swooping towards him again. Raeden took a deep breath and using the knowledge of his new anatomy, drew upon the Flames of Death. The silver flames poured out from between his jaws but he was sure not to aim directly at Loraad but just the space in front of him. Loraad drove Darespine into the ground, forming enough of a barricade in front of him that the flames licked harmlessly against the metal. Raeden swept past and immediately felt a hand seized his arm. Loraad had cleverly used Darespine as a shield that blocked him from Raeden’s vision where he could launch an ambush. The chef’s son pulled Raeden out of the sky and they both came crashing to the ground in a mess of limbs. With his superior size and weight, Raeden was able to plant himself on top of Loraad and pin him to the ground using the haft of Doomtalon.

“This is not usually how I prefer to be on top of a man,” panted the Avatar with a sly grin. “But I suppose I could work with it.”

Loraad gave him a smile. “You have inspired me.”

Those words came as a surprise. “I have?”

“Yes!”

WHAM!

Tears of pain erupted from Raeden’s eyes, pain exploding from his bruised testicles. Though they were covered in scales, the softer, red scales could do nothing to protect him from Loraad’s brutal punch. He instinctively cupped his balls with his hands, releasing Doomtalon and tumbling off his foe to protect his masculinity all the more. For his part, the quick-thinking youth pushed Doomtalon aside and rushed back towards his weapon. Raeden fought back the pain and scrambled for Doomtalon. He was able to snatch it in time and spin on the ground, grimacing as his wings and tail were crushed beneath his weight, and lift the weapon up. Darespine and Doomtalon clashed mere inches from his face, the mighty sword’s weight finally coming to use as it pressed down on the scythe’s haft.

“Ha!” shouted Loraad. “You’re mine now!”

Both men watched the patterns of the enormous sword, one anxiously and the other with triumph.

They did not turn red.

“What?” Loraad exclaimed. “Why is this not working!?” He pressed a foot against Raeden’s chest and kicked him back down. As the Avatar caught his breath, he spun angrily towards Samuel. “You said he would be forced to engage me!”

“If he struck your weapon with his own,” corrected Samuel. “You were the one that hit him. To trigger Darespine’s effect, you must attacked with intent and not the other way around.” The wolf mage gestured at the place where the Flames of Death had once burned. “Even when Raeden unleashed his breath upon you, he did not do so with intent to strike you. It was just to scare you and he aimed several paces away from you. Had he intended to strike you, then yes, he would have triggered the effect. Darespire is a defensive and retaliatory weapon. Not an offensive one.”

Loraad scowled and jammed the giant blade into to the ground. “More tricks and deceptions. It was the same that ensnared my father into this situation in the first place!”

“Perhaps had you and your family not tried to steal from us, it would not have escalated this far.”

“That was Trihan’s idea,” muttered Loraad. “He only meant well…”

“As Raeden meant well when he saved you and protected.” Samuel approached and rested a hand gently on the young man’s shoulder. “Rarely do we have the benefit of foresight especially in the heat of the moment. But we all benefit from hindsight. We could go in circles trying to place blame but if you are ever to grow and move on, you need to let it go.”

Loraad stared at the mage for a long moment. With a huff, he slapped away Samuel’s hand and stormed past him, leaving Darespine embedded into the Fantasy’s hull.

“He is a stubborn brat,” Raeden rumbled, rubbing his injured balls. “I thought your advice was sound.”

Samuel shrugged helplessly. “No matter how sound the advice, those that receive it are free to discard it as they see fit. That’s why it’s called advice and not an order or instructions.”

The Avatar regarded the magical blade embedded into his ship. “I cannot help but feel that he is being impudent. The more I am exposed to him, the more I am inclined just to leave him and his ungrateful family to their devices. They clearly do not want our help and we have little to gain from their loyalty save for perhaps some cooking staff.”

“This goes beyond just their culinary skills.”

He gave his Mage-Adviser a curious look.

“What do you think Lady Ailiva would say were we to eliminate the influence of the La Famille here?”

Raeden’s eyes sparked with ambition. “Oh… I see. We destroy Don Cazzallo and get into Lady Ailiva’s good graces!” He clenched a fist and thrust it into the air. “Then we can worm our way into her inner circle and then I can reveal unto her my true identity as the bard that she mercilessly slayed, returned to bring the word of Malgorin to the world!” He spread his wings triumphantly. “She shall be my first convert and with her influence, we will spread across the Scorched Lands and eventually to Traelliviar!”

He felt Samuel’s eyes upon him and felt the chill of disappointment from their gaze. “Is this what you really want or are you just artificially weaving a tale again in the style of others that you have sung?”

Raeden beamed and slapped the wolf-knight’s back heartily. “Come now, Master Mage, even you have to agree that there is no crime in being inspired by the tales of others!” Lifting one hand into the air while crossing Doomtalon against his chest, he said, “Though I solemnly swear that I shall not force the tale and take from it the authenticity of the experience. I shall travel along the journey first. Then I shall embellish.”

Samuel shook his head and offered a helpless shrug. “It’s a start, certainly.” The wolf turned and moved towards the opening into the Fantasy. “If you will excuse me, I shall see about finding some way to repair the damage you both inflicted on the Fantasy. Why don’t you bring Darespine back to Loraad?”

Raeden reached for the massive sword and grunted with effort as he pulled it from the airship’s deck. It was much heavier that Doomtalon which was light as a feather to him. “Are you sure it is wise to be arming the baby with such a big knife?”

“Would you rather we leave it here unattended for anyone to pick up?”

The point was made and Raeden hefted the enormous blade over his shoulder, careful not the pierce his own wings. With Doomtalon in his other hand, he carried the weapon down into the Fantasy while Samuel went in another direction. The living quarters of each of the current residents were actually placed near the front of the pointed ship. Each of the Marcliffs had their own rooms which, from what Trihan had said over dinner the previous night, was a luxury that he had never had before. That they had their own beds as well was apparently something that they would miss once they returned to their lives outside of… well… this fantasy. Raeden felt a little guilty for exposing them to the fineries of such living only to throw them back into squalor. At least the various nobles he had bedded had riches to cushion their fall. These folks had nothing.

Loraad’s room was naturally in the sector with the rest of his family and his was facing the west with windows. Without knocking, Raeden entered the room. It was far from the most luxurious suite he had ever occupied but it was certainly better than the rough camp that he had and Samuel had made back at the bottom of Kalsammar’s Divide. A large bed big enough to fit four men was positioned as far away from the slanted floor-to-ceiling windows as possible. Cabinets devoid of any possessions were positioned opposite to the bed while there appeared to be a mannequin placed beside them both, likely to house armour. A weapon rack was placed against the wall near the window but it was empty of any arms. Plaques capable of having trophies or even other weapons were mounted on the walls but all remained empty for the moment.

The occupant was gazing out the window, one hand pressed against the thick glass.

“Come to gloat?” snarled Loraad.

“Come to give this back to you,” Raeden said, entering the room and holding out Darespine. “Samuel made this for you. He sacrificed an adorable little…” The Avatar paused for a moment as he was unsure exactly what Dessein had been. “… something to make this for you. The least you could do is accept it.”

Loraad growled at him. Were he not human, he would make for a fine Dracorian with how much snarling he did. “Leave it anywhere. I allowed myself to get caught up in the fantasies of becoming a soldier and actually thought I could beat you. Maybe if I defeated you, the Old Gods would see me as superior and I could become the Avatar, defeat Don Cazzallo and save my family from their debt.”

An admirable goal but Raeden could not help but regurgitate the warnings that Samuel had given him. Of course he couldn’t say everything word for word. “Is that really what you want or are you just trying to spin your tale into some epic to be remembered across time?”

“I don’t know!” snapped Loraad. “I want to be a soldier. I want to fight for my father! I want Cazzallo off my back and out of my mind! It would just be so simple to march up to him and raze his mansion if only I had the power!”

“I have offered you that power,” Raeden said. “So has Samuel. Why do you not take it?”

The chef’s son turned to him with a sour expression. “You mean that tale about how your seed could turn me into a Dracorian of immense power and stature? Perhaps enough to wield Darespine without such limitations?”

“I am not lying. I truly can turn another into a Dracorian should they touch my seed.”

“And how many have you turned at this point?”

There, Raeden hesitated. “Well… I have only been an Avatar for a little over a day…”

“So none,” accused Loraad. “What makes you think that you really are this Avatar and not just another creature that Samuel has conjured? He seems to be a mage of incredible ability. Perhaps he just made you think you are this Avatar to serve his purposes.”

Could it be that Samuel just created him? After all, he had supposedly died. But the Old Gods had appeared to him. They had spoken to him and specifically spoke of how they had stolen his voice because of his choice of lyrics. That all pertained to the destiny and past of Raeden Windsong. It could not be a falsehood and he could not be a mere construct.

“Because I believe,” he answered firmly. “Sometimes you must have faith.”

Loraad shook his head gruffly. “Faith is for those with the luxury of not having to live in the real world.” He gruffly turned towards his bed and sat down, back turned to Raeden. “My father provided as much as he could for me. He had me attend the schools at the church. Had me train as a soldier in the barracks when I was old enough. He provided me with everything I could but it was still not enough to see my dreams reach fruition. His faith was misplaced and now he is indebted to La Famille because of how much faith he put into my brothers and I.”

That was why the three brothers curtailed their dreams for their father. Duvon had given so much for his sons and put so much hope for them. But circumstance and perhaps prejudice had prevented any of them from seeing the fruits of their endeavours. Perhaps Trihan’s past as a thief cast him in unsavoury light. Maybe Yhan’s abandonment had made him seen unwanted. Duvon’s skills in Traevillian cuisine may have been seen as tired and dated. Loraad’s scars made him appear diseased when he was perfectly healthy. All anyone saw was what was on the surface and judged these courageous souls based entirely on that.

“And I am no better…” whispered Raeden.

“What?” Loraad asked.

“Nothing,” said the Avatar wish a shake of his head. “Let me tell you something.” He rested Doomtalon and Darespine against the weapon rack and sat down beside Loraad. The bed was surprisingly firm and didn’t sag against his weight. “Before I became the Avatar of Malgorin, I was a bard.”

“With your voice?” mocked the young man. “You must not have been very good.”

“My voice was good enough that it caused the attendees at the Fial’Lluvayn celebration at the Winged Palace to pause and applaud. But I also drew pleasure in cavorting with the nobles. I am not skilled at weapons and…” He paused a moment, gulping and physically swallowing his pride. “…I have been told that my original compositions seem contrived. But I used what I had to my advantage. Both my flaws and my strengths. I was quite the charmer, in fact, and I moved between lover to lover, men and women, to survive. At most, I would spend a month in the company of a wealthy suitor only to abandon them when another prospect came about.”

“Sounds to me like you were a whore.”

“I was a bard without a single gold coin to his name,” Raeden corrected tersely. “I believe that you have talents of your own and that were you to stop sulking about what is lost, you could utilise them to your advantage.”

“And exactly how would this” - Loraad gestured at his features - “be of use to me?”

He had already anticipated that exact question. “Have you ever heard of Ivan the Burnt?” Loraad indicated that he had not. “Ivan was a northman, just like yourself. There is a song about him that I used to sing.” He coughed softly, trying to work with his gruff and grizzled voice. “Ivan, Ivan, Ivan the Burnt. Used to wish for things that weren’t. Danced with women whose beauty all would envy, till a jealous man thought his was one to many. Ivan, Ivan, Ivan the Fool. Tricked to a shed and scarred by a hot tool. Branded by for the crime of lust, tossed to the wind, banished and lost. Ivan, Ivan, Ivan the Hated. Donned armour of vengeance and to a day he waited. Trained his body and masked his shame, erased from history his true name. Ivan, Ivan, Ivan the Dreaded. Returned to home to all the women he bedded. Cleaved them in two with sword and cock, no helm so the dying could see the face they mocked. Ivan, Ivan, Ivan the Bloody. Took to the streets and killed all that called him ugly. Haunted the land well past his years, the brand on his face enough to make the bravest man burst to tears.”

Loraad inclined his head to the side. “Were it not for your terrible voice, I would be chilled right now.”

Raeden rolled his eyes at the youth. “My point is that this legendary figure used this brand that was given to him unjustly as a weapon. He wore it with pride and it became a means for him to strike terror into the faces of those that he encountered! You could do that as well!”

“You mean rape women and split them in two ‘with sword and cock’?”

There was humour in his voice. That was good. Raeden gently knocked shoulders with him. “You know my meaning. Be not ashamed of your appearance. It marks you as one that has survived the plague. Besides, I am sure that were you to ask, Samuel could cleanse you of those marks.”

Loraad regarded his hands with a distant smile. “I am not sure. That song of yours makes me want to keep them. Perhaps I could use it to my advantage somehow.”

“Then let us start now!” Raeden sprang to his feet, leaving Loraad to bounce on the bed for a moment due to the sudden shift in weight. “Stay here.”

The Avatar, his long tail swishing from side to side happily, hurried back to his quarters which was at the end of the hall, at the front most point of the airship. He retreated into his bathroom. He rifled through the assortment of bathing supplies that Samuel had provided him earlier in the day and grinned when he saw a razor. One would think that since he was covered in scales he would never need to shave again but Dracorian biology was very closely related to a human’s than a lizard’s and he still grew hair around his muzzle. Though it was faint at the moment, he could feel a few stray strands starting to emerge. Every Dracorian he had ever met had always been clean shaven. Was that because those Dracorians were all from ‘high society’ or was it because it was just part of their culture?

Supplies in hand, he hurriedly left his room and returned to Loraad’s quarters. Half of him expected the moody young man to have left but Loraad was still there, staring pensively at Darespine. Raeden announced his arrival by shutting the door loudly and stepped up behind Duvon’s son.

Loraad gave him a dubious stare. “What are you planning to do with those?”

He set the basket on the bed and began rummaging through the myriad of bottles and equipment. “Take it from someone who had formerly made a career out of putting on impressions and acting for the masses. People have an uncanny ability to sniff out shame. The moment you try to hide something is the very same moment that they will try to find out what it is.” A blue, glass bottle with a unique pump attached sat at the very bottom of the basket and a quick sniff of it and he knew he had found what he had been looking for. A quick press of the pump and a bluish-white foam gathered in his large hand.

“What is that?” Loraad asked.

“Foaming cream. The Rhakmirim have all these unique technologies that we could only ever hope to imagine and one of them is this unique substance that smells wonderful and at the same time, makes it easier to glide a razor over flesh. I believe it helps soften the hairs so that when you do draw the blade, you are met with less resistance.”

Loraad sighed and shrugged helplessly. “Very well. I suppose I was due for a trim regardless.” Turning his back to Raeden, the young man perched himself on the edge of the bed and made to remove his shirt. Strong muscles were revealed slowly beneath the sweaty, brown tunic. Though he lacked the defined V-shape of a lean, fit warrior, Raeden had to admit that there definitely was strength that shone through the layers of fat that clung to Loraad’s figure. The doughy appearance faded whenever his muscles moved and it was clear that the softness hid a far more powerful beast within. Watching his shoulder blades move and gyrate, showing the taut tendons across his thick shoulders and neck muscles was mesmerising in its own way. A single vein ran across the back of Loraad’s big, meaty forearms. The scars on his body did not mar his back or limbs. Just his face and from the slight reflection off Darespine, his chest.

Raeden took a step forward towards the man, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips. Only when his erect members brushed up against the fabric of his trousers, the sensitive barbs on their underside sending messages to the primal part of his brain, did he realised he had been staring. Shaking his head free of the rapacious thoughts, he beckoned for Loraad to sit down while he gathered more of the foam on his palms.

“The plague that marked you like this,” he said, desperately searching for a topic to remove his mind from his throbbing dicks. “What was it?”

“They called it the Shedding Plague,” Loraad said. “It would start off as a cough but then your skin would start to grow hard and dry. Your flesh would peel off as if you were a reptile that shed their scales.”

Seeing where this was going, Raeden quickly said, “Dracorians don’t shed their scales.”

“Dracorians are not reptiles either,” said the young man. “You really have not been an avatar long, have you?”

Clearly, he had been mistaken. Loraad did not have some form of resentment against Dracorians because of the plague. “I am still learning.” He gently reached forward with his foamy hands, careful not to cut Loraad with his claws. Slowly, he began to massage the foam into Loraad’s shoulder-length, stringy, brown hair. “What made the Shedding Plague so fatal? It sounds to me like you were just peeling away surface flesh.”

“To an outsider’s perspective, perhaps,” mumbled the young man. “But you would shed your skin faster than it could heal. You would peel away a layer and then just a minute later, you would be met with the same itchy and irritating sensation as a layer of dried flesh and be compelled to scratch it off. In the span of a day, you would be bleeding constantly as you were driven mad by the constant scratching and removal of skin. It would start in your head and…” His hand slowly glided down towards his scarred but strong chest. “… and work its way down your body. My mother died mercifully before it made it halfway down her legs.”

That seemed a horrible way to die. Constantly scratching at drying flesh and screaming as their skin was peeled back to reveal the muscles beneath. Just thinking about it caused Raeden’s erection to rapidly deflate.

“Clearly it left its marks.” The Avatar plucked the razor from the basket and began to slowly and carefully draw it across Loraad’s scalp. The sharpened blade glided effortlessly across the thin, broken strands of hair. Beneath was the pinkish, blotchy skin of someone that had suffered from the Shedding Plague. “Was it ever discovered what the source of the plague was?”

“It was the Nagas and the Beruanites.”

Raeden flinched, the gesture causing the razor to skew slightly and nick Loraad’s scalp. The young man grimaced and shot him a piercing look.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “But how did you know it was the Nagas and the Beraunites?”

“They said as much themselves,” said Loraad. “The Beraunites raided caravans across the Scorched Lands and then left plague-infested materials for our people to recover them. When the plague was at its worst, they returned with terms to seize lands stretching from the Dragonfang Coast to Soronmir’s Watchtower. They claimed the lands around the Coast would belong to the Nagas and they would claim the inlands.”

The Dragonfang Coast was a stretch of coastline far to the north, kissing the immense mountain ranges known as the Fangs of the World. Though normally inhospitable, there was an odd town or two around the coast that provided ports for traders and delicious fish from the northern ocean. It got its name from the treacherous sharp rocks that looked like fangs jutting out of the ocean that littered the coastline. The bigger spikes that looked like miniatures of the Fangs of the World were easy to avoid. The spires that lay beneath the murky waters were far more dangerous as despite the ages, they remained treacherous and sharp, enough to shred any unwary sailor’s ship with ease. It was said that the locals of the towns knew exactly where the spikes were and navigated them all with ease. One of the many reasons Dracorians chose to use airships instead of traditional seafaring vessels.

Soronmir’s Watchtower, on the other hand, was a township located at the middle of the Scorched Lands. Originally, it was simply a single watchtower that had been built during the War of Apotheosis. However, when the Dracorians were being pushed back by the onset of the Heroes, a small platoon led by the general Soronmir refused the order to retreat further and made a stand at the watchtower. They built fortifications around it and despite the overwhelming force of the Alliance, managed to hold for three months. In honour of their noble sacrifice, Taydir had personally engraved the names of the soldiers under Soronmir’s name into the stones of the watchtower. The stories mentioned that was the point when Taydir’s heart began to bleed for the Dracorians. Raeden had never made to ask about it as he had grown tired of how people would always mention the event to his friend. He would always find an excuse to recluse himself from the conversation, often leaving Taydir to recount the events alone while he went off to cavort with some courtesan or a bored guard.

The lands between the Coast and the Watchtower were vast and fertile. If the Nagas and Beraunites laid claim to them, the Dracorians would lose much of their infrastructure. Something the Holy Alliance would likely not look upon too kindly.

“How did they eventually cure the plague?” Raeden asked, being careful as he worked around Loraad’s diminished ears.

“Alliance clerics came. Did what they could and distributed cures for a price. Apparnetly, the Rhakmirim had created the potions but needed supplies from all over Tirinead. Thus it was expensive to make and even more pricey to ship it here.” A bitter snort left Loraad. “Heuveir is also so far from Traelliviar that it was one of the last places to receive the cure.”

“Odd because Traelliviar is so far from Trispire. Given that this place stands on the very edge of Kalsammar’s Divide, it should have been one of the first to receive the cure.”

“One would think but no one cares for a dilapidated town run by crime. Perhaps it was the onset of the plague that even propelled Don Cazzallo into power.”

Raeden finished with half of Loraad’s head and moved to the other but before he did so, he placed a hand gently on the young man’s shoulder. “Do not think of Cazzallo. Samuel and I will deal with him in time. Of that, you have my assurance.”

Loraad turned and Raeden had to immediately jerk the hand holding the razor away lest the suddenly movement slice the youth. “Do you swear it?” demanded Loraad. “Do you swear you will kill Don Cazzallo?”

Kill. Not remove from power. Not shame or bring to justice. Kill.

“Do you hate Cazzallo so much for what he has done to your family that you would wish death upon him?”

“It is not just my family!” shouted Loraad. “Cazzallo had this entire town under his thumb! Everyone lives in fear of displeasing him! We actually have no mayor! He lives in the biggest, richest part of town and governs as if he were an elected official. Those aristocrats who claim ownership of Sareseou do nothing so long as the funds keep flowing in to their capital of Larmout. Cazzallo simply paid for them to turn a blind eye. Little do they know that the La Famille continues to spread elsewhere.”

This was no mere vendetta against someone who had wronged his family. No, this was a desire for justice to be brought to the masses. Loraad saw the pain and strife of the people and wanted to do something about it. In some ways, he was an idealist. Raeden envied that.

He turned Loraad’s head back to face the window and continued his work. “You realise that killing Cazzallo will not solve the issue. The La Famille will still be there and they will seek vengeance. Also, killing Cazzallo will not resolve this town’s poverty.”

“But Samuel can produce jewels! We can sell them in abundance! I hear the Rhakmirim use gems for all sorts of arcanery and the Horanmut love anything that glistens! We can start trade routes. We can bring prosperity back to Heuveir!”

“And all that from killing Cazzallo?”

“Yes!”

Raeden shook his head in exasperation. “I do not think I am much older than you but allow me to impart upon you some wisdom.” Gently, he placed a hand on Loraad’s shoulder, partially to steady himself as he continued to shave the hair off the young man’s head and partially to reassure him. “Mortals are inherently driven to selfish desires. It is rare to find anyone that is completely charitable. The moment we rid the world of Cazzallo, someone else will take his place. Law and order go hand in hand with crime and chaos. Without one the other cannot exist.”

Much like how death and destruction could not exist without life and birth.

“But what happens when there is too much of one?” insisted Loraad. “Surely this cannot be the ultimate end of things? Where is law if it is subjugated by criminal lords? Where is order when those that enforce it turn a blind eye away at chaos? We are all in denial! Just waiting for death to claim us!”

His idealism was inspiring and Raeden found a spark in his heart that twitched at the thought of storming Cazzallo’s mansion and killing him. “Perhaps someday we can bring him to justice,” he said patiently. “But for now, I need to learn how to use Doomtalon and you need to have a look upon your new visage.”

He plucked a towel from the basket and vigorously rubbed it along Loraad’s now bare scalp. There was a small hand mirror in the basket as well and he gave it to Loraad to view. The young man tilted his head left and right, reviewing his new bald features.

“I look like I was boiled,” he admitted.

“And that is how people will see you. Do not hide your features or your past.” Raeden patted his back gently. “Use it to your advantage. How do you think Cazzallo or his goons will respond when you march up to their mansion looking like a man risen from the grave to bring justice to them?” He laughed heartily. “In fact, you could claim that you were scarred by their greed as they hoarded the cure for the Shedding Plague to themselves and now you are here to bring them to justice!”

Loraad laughed and turned to Raeden with a sarcastic look. “I am not sure how my father would respond to you putting such thoughts into my head.”

“You may not be strong enough to destroy Cazzallo now, but it is always good to aspire to something. Want is the very heart of our economy, after all. If we mortals wanted for nothing, the gods would grow bored for lack of prayer.”

The young man laughed again, his voice quite youthful and bright when it wasn’t twisted into a growl. He tilted back, lying back on his bed with his arms splayed to the sides. “I will admit that I still dream of being a soldier. Though these days I question the futility of it especially should I become a soldier here in Heuveir. Will I just be another pawn under Cazzallo’s thumb? How much good could I truly do?”

As he lay there, Raeden had a clear view of the young man’s impressive chest. Those strong arms of his had built great strength in his pectorals, making them firm and powerful even though they were slightly softened by the presence of his distended gut. Where the scars stopped around his chest, curly, brown hair had emerged. Raeden could imagine just the kind of man Loraad would look like had he not been unfortunate enough to be struck by the Shedding Plague. A tall, powerfully built bear of a man with perhaps a thick beard, hair arms and a bright, joyful smile that would light a room. He just imagined the man in taut soldier’s armour, attending to the bar at a tavern and lifting a mug of ale that would eventually spill into his beard. Then he imagined pulling the young man into bed with him and suckling the liquid from that beard before invading the man’s luscious lips with his tongue.

Before he could stop himself, he had said, “Perhaps not as a man.”

His mind quickly caught up with his tongue and he rapidly thought to backpedaled until he saw the look on Loraad’s face. Conflict. Fear. A burning determination that only had to be directed.

“Will your gift rid me of my scars?”

Raeden flicked his ears back. “Your scars? What of what I said about using them to your advantage?”

“Better in theory than in practice,” admitted the youth. “Besides, were you to compare copper or diamonds but of the same value, would you still not take the diamonds?”

“You would be forsaking your humanity.”

Loraad gave him a wry smile. “I appear less human already and most people apart from my family treat me as if I were one of the species damned by the Holy Triad.” The young man sat up and crossed his legs, crouching beside the Avatar. “I have made my decision. If your gift is true, then I will use it to bring low Don Cazzallo and the La Famille. Even if I must sacrifice my former self in the effort and lose my family, at the very least I will have freed them of this shadow that has kept them bound for so long.”

“A noble sacrifice,” rumbled Raeden. “You would die for them.”

“I am sure my father would ultimately understand,” Loraad answered with a soft smile. “Trihan and Yhan harbour no ill feelings towards Dracorians.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “My father will not change, and he will keep on his path until he is forcibly dislodged from it. I cannot live under the Don’s shadow forever. I must do something about it. If that means transforming into a Dracorian to wield the weapon that Samuel gave me, then so be it.” Loraad nodded towards the black-scaled Avatar. “So now, how does this work?”

Raeden blinked in surprise and glanced down at his pants which were already starting to tent once more with his arousal. His manly juices were soaking his trousers, forming a distinct spot that brought him some shame. “Ah… well I suppose you must simply come in contact with my seed.”

“And I suppose it is too much to ask that you had simply kept it in a jar for this very purpose?”

“Unfortunately not,” chuckled the former-bard.

“Then what will arouse you?” Loraad stood and gave him a mocking bow. “Shall I dance for you, milord? Or shall I retrieve some leather straps and allow you to bind me?”

Raeden rolled his eyes. “Your sarcasm certainly does not help.” He inclined his head to the side, observing how the midday light caught the lines of Loraad’s chunky frame. “Why don’t you flex your muscles for me?”

The young man’s attitude was immediately derailed, and he looked stunned. “Ah… my muscles?”

“Yes. Turn at different angles. Let the sun highlight the contours of your body.”

“If…” Loraad swallowed hard. “If that will get you aroused.”

Slowly, the cook’s son lifted his arms bashfully, bunching his muscles and tightening his fists. Raeden was able to ignore the scarring across his arms in favour of the thick mounds beneath them. Loraad must have seen him staring because he blushed and spun around, placing his hands on his hips and making an effort to show off his back. The soft canvas of his back suddenly became rigid with teardrop-shaped muscles, perfectly symmetrical. It was all Raeden could do not to reach out and touch the succulent flesh before him. With Loraad’s head momentarily turned, Raeden allowed himself a light lick of his lips. Some beast was waking inside of him. A hunger for flesh and was greater than anything he had ever experienced as a human. The fire that had turned him into a Dracorian burned into a inferno, turning his shame into ash and compelling him to guiltlessly rub the twin members poorly hidden beneath his pants.

Loraad must have sensed his desire before he turned around, interrupting Raeden’s view of the beautiful back and crossed his arms against his chest.

“This… this is foolish,” he mumbled.

As he did so, his pectorals jumped, tightening momentarily and that made Raeden’s eyes spark with hunger.

The Avatar reached forward and held onto the bare muscle. “Do that again.”

“What? This?” Loraad tightened his right pectoral, the mountain tightening beneath the Avatar’s hand and stirring the beast within him all the more.

It was like the perfect combination of power and control, a lesson that Samuel had attempted to instill into him earlier that day. One moment, Loraad’s chest seemed so relaxed and shapely but then it would tighten and move, multiplying its strength all the more. Raeden let out a soft growl and his other hand seized Loraad’s other pectoral. The young man blushed and could not keep his gaze but the slight turning of his lips at the edges indicated that he was enjoying the attention. More so when he began to bounce his pectorals one at a time to some unheard rhythm. The hunger and beast within the Avatar grew with every moment and he was visibly drooling at the sight of the man’s level of control and strength before him. Never mind the scars that made the flesh beneath his palms uneven. It was the muscles beneath that drew him in.

“I think that’s enou —” Loraad began.

Unwilling to let his feast go, Raeden leaned forward and gently wrapped his lips around the young man’s neck, not enough to encase the thick, corded length completely in his jaws — even though it would have been simple — but at least to give him a gentle nibble. Loraad moaned softly, the heat of his blush washing over Raeden and urging him further forward. He gently squeezed down upon Loraad’s chest, careful not to let his claws puncture the skin. In return, Loraad tensed his muscles, the pectorals beneath his hands tightening all the more. Raeden was salivating madly, his drool coming out as a waterfall from his reptilian jaw and sliding down Loraad’s neck. It almost had a cooling effect against the hot skin it slid over.

A moan left the young man’s lips. “Oh Gods…” His crotch pressed up against the Avatar’s. Through thin fabric, their groins made contact and the heat from Raeden’s rising arousal washed over Loraad’s. Primal instincts took over both men and Loraad found his own cock filling with blood and draining precious resources from his rational mind. Dreams of being touched by another mortal, sensually treated and entices to tear off his clothing and years of being deprived of such release due to his scarring broke the dams of repression. It did not matter than the creature that was lapping at his neck like a gentle lover and worshipping his chest with the hunger of a subservient dog was not human or a man. His thick fingers clumsily reached for Raeden’s tunic, pulling at the edges to tear if off the dragon’s head.

Every part of Raeden wanted to be curled around the man before him. Many prior lovers did not compare to the sensations of having this new, alien body craving sexual release. Though he had the knowledge of how to use his body, he had yet to fully experience it until he felt Loraad’s fingertips gliding across his abdominal muscles in a valiant attempt to tear off his tunic. Expertise in lovemaking guided him into cupping the back of Loraad’s neck as he twisted his head around and planted his muzzle firmly against the young man’s. His tongue immediately dove between the parted, shocked lips of the man before him. Longer and more flexible than any human’s, he was free to glide his tongue over Loraad’s teeth, pushing the edges of his cheeks outward and even brushing up against the roof of the youth’s mouth. Loraad’s legs grew weak with Raeden’s expert manipulation. The Dracorian Avatar guided him back onto the bed, gently resting him against the cushioned mattress.

His scaly flesh craved for Loraad and he reached down to remove the tunic from his head. Too late did he realise that with his wings, it was more of a chore to put on and remove clothing than it had been when he was a human. With his much broader shoulders, he lost some degree of flexibility as well. He got the white fabric up to his neck and then found himself at a dead end as the article got caught in the roots of his wings. Loraad’s soft chuckle caused him to blush and he would not have this moment diminished by humour. With a grunt, Raeden easily dug his claws into the fabric and ripped it to shreds. His might chest was heaving from the effort. Loraad stared in awe at the mighty Avatar before him.

Before fear could set in, Raeden down forward again, cupping Loraad’s cheeks in his might hands and pressing his muzzle into the youth’s face. His tongue lashed within Loraad’s mouth, causing the would-be-soldier’s eyelids to flutter and his hips to buck. Now both shirtless, they had the benefit of grinding their bare chests against one another. The touch of Loraad’s hairy belly against his soft, red scales sent tingling sensations throughout the Avatar’s body. The contrast between hardened muscles reinforced by scales and soft flesh cushioned by layers of fat was not lost on Raeden. He adored how regardless of their physical differences, they still came together in their primal need for sex.

Raeden reached towards the edge of Loraad’s trousers, hooking the edge with once claw. A thick, white rope held the garment against the young man’s waist and with a quick flick of his claw, he severed the length. He gently reached down the trousers, sliding his big hand down Loraad’s thigh, squeezing ever so tightly and rubbing the hairy meat beneath with all the care and attention of one would give a precious vase. Loraad responded, his bare toes curling against Raeden’s calves and his legs instinctively curling around the Avatar’s thighs.

Their moans rose as did their hips with every lustful thrust, a harmony of sensual sounds. Loraad all too eagerly reached for his own pants and pulled them down as far as he could, the waist getting caught around his knees. Even with his eyes half-closed, Raeden was able to expertly find the band and slide it off Loraad. The strong smell of sweat and musk wafted into his nostrils. Vague memories of such odours offending his sensibilities and desperate attempts to hide his own desire beneath layers of cologne conflicted with how his body responded to the scent. His twin dicks throbbed all the harder, his heart pounded in his chest, every scale yearned to be touched and his lips were dripping hungrily. Loraad broke the kiss, biting his lower lip in an adorable attempt to keep himself from releasing to soon. His clumsy fingers roved down Raeden’s back, gliding down the white mane and sending a tingle down the Avatar’s spine. With the size difference between them, his fingertips barely touched the edges of Raeden’s trousers.

The Avatar leaned down, pressing his lips against little crook where Loraad’s collarbones met. A tender kiss there usually sent his lover reeling, arching their neck and back while letting out a long, lusty moan. Though he must have performed the move over a hundred times before, his body demanded he do it another way. His long, thick tongue snaked out between his lips and before he could stop himself, he drew its dripping length up from Loraad’s chest all the way across his neck and then over the young man’s cheek. Loraad vibrated beneath him and that was enough to encourage him to find the little knot just above Raeden’s tail. Just one tug of the string and the noose was undone. Raeden eagerly rid himself of the garment, happy that it would not take another fifteen minutes to slip them off. His twin members pressed up against Loraad’s nude form, the fin-like barbs on their underside pressing up against the young man’s belly and clear precum oozing from the pointed tips. Pressed between their bodies and with the youth’s own thick dick curling around the base of his belly, the three members throbbed with the sexual need drove them both into a whirlwind of activity.

Before Raeden knew what, he was doing, he had one hand behind Loraad’s neck and his jaw wrapped fully around the lower half of his partner’s mouth. Loraad did not resist as Raeden’s hot breath wafted over him and that long, thick tongue danced across his cheeks and occasionally probed his mouth. The Avatar’s other hand cupped Loraad’s rear, squeezing it tightly and pulling him closer to his immense, scaly form as if to try and merge them together. For his part, Loraad’s hands roved the black Dracorian’s form, holding onto broad, vascular muscles, sliding across hard ebony scales and brushing across the dragon’s white mane. Raeden’s tail thrashed madly from side to side, thumbing the side of the bed in tandem with his powerful thrusts that shook the mattress with the force of an earthquake. It was all that Loraad could do to hold on, but he fought to find some form of handhold against the dragon’s constantly moving body. That is until he found Raeden’s stark, white horns. He grabbed onto the spikes as Raeden’s thrusts grew more and more fevered.

There was a momentary spark of fear in the young man as he feared that these mighty thrusts would crush his pelvis, but he was stubborn and addled with sexual desire. Each thrust was met with an explosive burst of pleasure from his groin as his cock slid between the diamond-hard abdominals of the Avatar and was tantalised by the molten, red rods of Raeden’s manhood. The heat from Raeden grew more and more intense and the Avatar was forced to release Loraad’s body from his grip for fear his passion would cause claws to dig too deep and injure the lad. Before he gave himself entirely to the lust, Raeden pulled his jaws away from around Loraad’s head and seized the headboard, digging his claws deep into the ancient wood.

Deep, primal grunts and hard, heavy pants left his muzzle; sounds that the old Raeden Windsong would never have uttered. He was an animal, a beast of pleasure. There was no dignified dance and social repercussions to the act. There was no need to perform and ensure orgasm for the other party for fear of rebuke or injury to reputation. This was freedom.

And he loved it.

Raeden threw his head back. He tried to hold back a roar but in doing so, he turned the guttural sound into a torrent of silver flames that launched from his muzzle just as his creamy, white seed came shooting out of his twin dicks. The sensation of having his heavy sack pumping his cum up to the base of his genitals and then the fluids splitting off into two directions was entirely alien to him. It was twice the pleasure of that incredibly second before release when the heat from all over his body shot through his members before blasting out from the tips. He became a slave to the moment and he unleashed the fire from deep within without any care for the consequences while his seed oozed out from between him and Loraad, drenching the young man’s balls before seeping out from the small gaps between them and soaking into the sheets.

It seemed like an eternity before the flames from his gullet faded and he was left panting. Bleary-eyed and gasping for breath, he looked down to Loraad, all too aware that the young man was still gripping hard onto his horns. Silver embers descended around them like snow as Raeden fought for words. His heart plummeted upon seeing the young man’s furrowed brow and tightly pursed lips. Was he angry that he had not achieved release? Was he man that he had not become a Dracorian? Had Raeden inadvertently crushed his body beneath him and he was just barely keeping in the pain?

He fought for words, for the first time ever, rendered speechless.

Then Loraad opened his mouth… and bolts of crackling lightning came tumbling out, striking Raeden in the face and sending every hair on his body on edge while locking every muscle. Stunned in more ways than one, Raeden was compelled to squirt more of his seed out onto Loraad as the young man’s body convulsed beneath him. Panicked and quickly clamping both hands over his mouth, Loraad just stared in surprise at the Avatar. A sound like cracking bone emerged from his very fingertips. Sharp, white claws pushed his nails from his hands. Soft, scarred skin hardened but instead of falling off or becoming itchy like the effects of the Shedding Plague, they obtained a lustrous yellowish colour and smoothened out. Loraad held his hands out in front of him, awed as the bones beneath his transforming flesh stretched and grew with each inch of added mass bringing to him tiny bursts of pleasure that had lightning cascading from his lips.

Raeden immediately tumbled off the young man, partially because he was still slightly paralysed from the electric shock and also because he was stunned that his seed had actually begun a transformation in another human. Loraad immediately sat up but then hunched forward, gripping his head in both of his morphing hands. Against the light from the windows, the flesh on his back stretched and tented. Two new points pushed up against his skin from the inside. But they were not breaking the skin but rather stretching it. The bones grew longer, branching out and pulling the flesh on his back along their lengths into a long, thin membrane with blood vessels clearly visible along the yellowish skin. Hardened amber scales gripped the edges of the wings, securing them in place. Loraad was overcome with new sensations as these new appendages grew. Every inch that developed was like another inch of his cock hardening and filling with blood. He was gasping soundlessly, wreathed in seemingly endless pleasure all the while, his erect dick matched the jarring jolts of grown from his back with its own tense throbs. The last few inches were close, and he had all of a second to brace himself before his new appendages reflexively spread wide and his cock celebrated their arrival with an erupting of his seed - perhaps the last of his human seed.

Unfortunately for Raeden, he was sitting too close to Loraad when those wings emerged and as they unfurled, he was slapped soundly on the muzzle by the powerful appendages and flung back. He was stunned only for a moment as he heard shuffling on the bed. Loraad had shifted around, lying on his belly while his wings stretched and brushing against the ceiling. The young man’s features were strained, thick veins popping along his neck and brow. Fitting as those very same veins pumped blood into his rapidly growing features. The scarred features stretched forward, carrying with it the strong, square, masculine jaw and accentuating its angles all the more. Bone grew out mandibles of Loraad’s jaw and his muzzle came in, two stubby spikes emerged from the base his chin like it was replacing the clef chin that he had lost as his visage became more and more draconic. His nostrils flared as they flatted on top of his heat. His grimace became outlined by rows of sharpened teeth. Blackened or lost teeth were immediately replaced by sharper, white fangs that could do nothing to hold back the bolts of lightning that lashed out from between his lips. Two thick spikes grew out from the edges of his brow, curling back like horns. Instead of hair, the scarred flesh on his head hardened and became like waves of smaller, sharpened horns that cascaded along the curve of his head. The amber scales washed over his face, banishing the last of the facial scarring. Not to be forgotten, however, some of the scales blackened around his eyes and the bridge of his muzzle like a faint dusting of freckles.

Raeden found himself drawn to those masculine and at the same time, soft features. He must have blinked too long because before he knew it, he was locking jaws with the forming Dracorian, their muzzles intertwined perfectly and tongues instinctively dancing. Loraad gained confidence and strength and his tongue invaded Raeden’s with a force that the Avatar found incredibly arousing. His twin dicks, that had never gone soft, throbbed with new exuberance while his hands readily explored the young male’s changing body.

Right beneath his fingers, he felt Loraad change. Those already broad shoulders spread out like the very wings that he bore. The grow broader and bigger than even Raeden’s and there was no doubt in the young Avatar’s mind that Loraad’s wingspan would be greater than his. All the fat that had hidden the curves and muscles vanished with thick veins pumping hot blood right beneath his fingers. Enormous arms that were already powerful in their own right ballooned to become bigger, thicker and more than capable of hoisting the immense Darespine with ease. This was all teasing and foreplay as Raeden — and Loraad — knew the main course was the young Dracorian’s pectorals. Raeden hungrily growled while he pawed at Loraad’s chest. The muscles beneath tensed and bounced. Whether it was from the effect of Garodrash’s gift of Loraad’s own playfulness, it did not matter as Raeden found himself dripping with need while those impressive mounds broadened and thickened. Pressed up against Loraad, he could feel those chest muscles growing bigger and bigger almost like they were trying to push him right off the bed. He was vaguely aware of the growth of his partner’s belly as well but it was nowhere near as intense as the upper torso.

Suddenly, Loraad tensed and pulled his muzzle away from Raeden’s. Lightning blasted out from between his lips, his eyes shut firmly. Behind him, a long, serpentine tail erupted and his toes curled around Raeden’s, newly made claws scraping against the Avatar’s scales even as they continued to grow and stretch beyond the black dragon’s.

“Gods…” he panted as Raeden felt the gush of fresh seed against his chest. “This… this is amazing!”

“The best is yet to come,” Raeden teased, reaching down towards Loraad’s still human member.

“Oh?” queried the young golden dragon. When he opened his eyes, gone were the almond-coloured eyes. In their place was bright, yellow, slitted orbs. “Oooooooh…” Loraad’s eyelids fluttered.

Raeden was all too aware of the sensation that was engulfing the young Dracorian. Growing a second member was an experience that he would never ever repeat but the memory of that pressure growing, the dual pleasures of its development and the new sensitivity to his former member before that final release was unlike anything he could describe. Knowing full well how easy it would be to lose control in the moment of heat, Raeden wrapped his jaws around Loraad’s shoulder. He bit down, not enough to draw blood but enough to secure himself against the Dracorian even though their legs were intertwined, their arms wrapped around one another and their tails were curled around the base of the bed.

Loraad began shaking against him, the golden dragon’s eyelids squeezing shut. He could feel that second member emerging, brushing up against his thumb and the genital slit that that it emerged from. Loraad pressed himself against the Avatar, his mighty chest rumbling like the distant thunder of a rapidly approaching storm. Raeden held himself tightly, biting down a little harder. One of his partner’s hands curled around his head, holding onto his horns for further stability just as that rumbling grew louder.

Then Loraad roared.

His cry was enough to shake the entire room and a ferocious beam of crackling electricity erupted from his lips. Raeden shut his eyes as the scintillating lighting was too bright for him. Every part of Loraad’s body tensed and his seed came pouring out in buckets. Raeden could not help but get caught up in the moment as well and his own body celebrated the emergence of this beautiful, newly made Dracorian. A sound like a thousand cracking whips snapped at his ears and made his hair stand on end but beneath it all, he could hear Loraad’s voice crying out in pleasure, a song of triumph, power and freedom. He joined the chorus even though he kept his flames firmly in check.

When Loraad found the strength to control his electrical breath, he was left panting, huffing and holding Raeden closely to him. Slowly, Raeden released the young gold Dracorian from his fangs’ grip and met the gaze of his first lover as an Avatar. No words needed to be said and their lips immediately met. Their bodies still desire more and within moments, they were exploring one another’s very study bodies once more.

******

“This… This is incredible.”

The sun had begun to set by the time Loraad and Raeden had found the willpower to pry themselves from one another. It had been difficult as the two made the mistake of fucking to exhaustion the first two hours. When they awoke an hour later, they were re-energised and watching Loraad’s immense, muscular form rising from the bed had compelled Raeden to drag him back beneath the shredded sheets. The Avatar could scarcely accept blame. Loraad made from an incredible specimen of a Dracorian.

Standing at least half a foot taller than Raeden, Loraad was bigger, thicker and much stronger. His wings, as Raeden had predicted, were much larger and had served almost like a sex tent when the two had toppled off the bed and fucked on the ground. Bright, yellow scales covered most of his body save for the underside of his jaw, his chest and the bottom of his tail which was lighter, creamy colour. What truly set him apart was the thick, brown chest hair that decorated his delicious pectorals and formed a treasure trail down into his genitals. Raeden had decided his new favourite game was to take in the manly scent carried by Loraad’s chest hair and lick at the dragon’s genital slit until the two spires of the golden dragon’s cocks emerged for another round.

Loraad was not as lean as Raeden though. Like he had appeared when he was a human, he looked more like a very thick, yellow-coloured tree trunk, distinctly lacking the ‘V-shape’ that Raeden possessed. His belly was not as distended and he could see the outline of strong abdominals beneath the scales but that only made him seem softer and more cuddly. It was as if someone had crossed a dragon with a bear. Loraad also lacked the mane that ran down his spine. Instead, he had a few small spines that made it a little difficult to lay on top of him. Perhaps that had been the idea. Loraad Marcliff was never to be mounted.

Raeden shook himself from the mesmerising spell of Loraad flexing his biceps.

“We best get going,” he said. “Any more of your posturing and I am like to drag you back into this bed.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Loraad asked, licking his lips. “I will admit that I never had a hunger for men before, but you clearly know what you are doing and any woman I stick my dicks into would likely be split in half!”

“Did you always crave men?”

Loraad shrugged. “I’ve had the odd woman or two. Before the plague, that is. Never a man. You would be my first.”

Raeden laughed heartily and stood. He bowed towards the golden dragon mocking. “It was an honour to enlighten you, milord.”

A fluffy, half-mauled pillow struck Raeden’s face. “Jackass,” rumbled Loraad. “I will admit, though, that being with you and being with another man was far more pleasurable than a woman. I did not have to worry about some courting or consequences. It was just…”

“Liberating?”

Loraad’s golden eyes shone. “Yes! Exactly! It feels like I can consider you both a sexual partner and a friend.”

Raeden suddenly chuckled, causing Loraad to inclined his head to the side and ask him what was so humorous. “Oh nothing. Merely that Dracorians have this custom where they refer to one another with honorifics if they are close. It consists of two titles, the first being their emotional relationship and the second being the literal one.”

“What would we be?” asked Loraad. “Fuck-Friend? Friend-Fuck?”

“Nothing so cure,” chuckled the Avatar. “Perhaps… Partner-Friend?”

The golden dragon shrugged and stood, hoisting Darespine with ease from where it stood. “Call me however you want but to me, you are my Lover-Avatar.”

“A Lover-Friend then,” agreed Raeden. “I look forward to more of our sessions together.” He stretched and rolled his shoulder. “For now, we must get cleaned and then show you off to your family. I am sure that this will come as a shock to them.”

Loraad snickered, lightning licking at the corners of his lips. “Literally.”

Smiling at the jest, Raeden headed for the door.

The moment he pulled it open, he froze.

Samuel was standing there, helm and all. The look in his eyes was filled with incredible disappointment.

“Ah… Samuel,” he greeted. “May I re-introduce —”

“Loraad,” interrupted the wolf-mage. “I am well aware. As was everyone else.”

Raeden’s heart plummeted. “Really? How?”

“These walls are thick, Raeden, but not so think as to muffle the sounds of two Dracorians carelessly roaring and blaring fire and lightning in all directions as they made sweet love to one another. Repeatedly. It does not help that you kept shouting one another’s names as well.”

His eyes widened and he flung around in time for Loraad to nearly bowl him over.

“My family,” demanded the golden dragon. “Where are they?”

Samuel gave the new Dracorian a grim stare. “Trihan is still on the Fantasy. He was not at all repulsed by what happened. Your father, however, has returned to his restaurant, trying to drown his sorrow at ‘losing a son’ in work. Yhan, however…”

There was a stillness in the air that might as well been the Dread Dragon’s presence.

“Where is he?” growled Loraad.

“Yhan often believed you to be the strongest of your brothers,” Samuel began. “When news had reached him of your transformation, he had actually hoped that you would help free the family of your debts with your newfound strength. He had stayed with Trihand… initially. Until hours went by with you two locked in your room and —”

The big dragon reached forward and seized the mage-knight’s coat. “Where. Is. He!?”

Samuel did not flinch. “Trying to resolve what had hoped you could.”

Raeden’s eyes widened in terror. “Don Cazzallo…”

******

The wine was poured, and all the guards save for their most trusted had left.

That meant Ailiva was with Savid and Don Luciano Cazzallo was with some nameless thug. In the vast boardroom of the Cazzallo estate, the two met cordially through a thin veil of politeness. The elf governess had to tread lightly. Cazzallo was a ruthless member of La Famille. She feared him not because of his might. No, the pudgy man who always kept two dogs by his side, was not an intimidating man. It was the power of the La Famille behind him that she feared. There was no doubt that she could crush him should she want but inciting the wrath of the crime family upon her little township was a quick way to die. Perhaps a better way to put it was that that angering La Famille was a quick way to lose power. They would not let her die quickly.

“I must admit that I hadn’t expected you to come here like this, Ailiva,” Cazzallo began in his crass, uncouth access and way of speaking. No sense of respect in any word. “So, let me get straight to the point. Why the fuck are you here?”

Such a boar.

“It is Fial’Lluvayn,” she stated.

“You don’t need to tell me what I already know, and I know a conniving bitch like you didn’t come here because you wanted to taste the shit I’m drinking.” He roughly threw the glass he was holding, shattering it against a crimson wall and letting the wine drip down the sides. Such a pity. That was actually a decent vintage. “Now tell me why the fuck you’re in my town, getting everyone worked up and clogging up my business!?”

“I was getting to that,” Ailiva answered patiently. “As is tradition, during Fial’Lluvayn, most people in this little part of the country of ours try to make it to Traelliviar for the celebrations. This is no exception for the royal family. Particularly Garrison Callaroeu.”

“The eldest son of the king?” growled Cazzallo. “Why should I care about him? He’s off serving the Holy Triad as some military captain or some shit. Part of the agreement from Traelliviar to keep the peace.”

“Yes. Garrison serves in Trispire while Elluvea, the youngest, sits with the elves farther south. But given our dear king’s ailing health, Garrison has found a way to make the sojourn here for the events. He is a few days late, of course, but he will arrive here in Heuveir in two days and then take an airship to Traelliviar.”

“He’s be fucking late. Fial’Lluvayn will be over by then.”

“Perhaps. But it is more a familial visit than anything else. You see, Garrison knows he will never be the next king, but he is still one of the royal family. He simply wishes to see his father before something were to happen to the poor, ageing dragon.” Ailiva swirled the wine in her glass, enjoying how the deep crimson reminded her of blood. “Of course, there are those of us that would rather not see another dragon on the throne.”

Cazzallo’s eyes narrowed at her. “You want the fucking Throne of Wings?”

“Not I,” she said, feigning innocence and batting her eyes at the fat man with more chins than he had eyes. “My husband.”

“Your husband,” scoffed Cazzallo. “Farondiir is a horny bastard as dense as stone. We all know you pull the strings. You would put him on the throne and rule from the shadows. Make him the target.” Cazzallo’s eyes narrowed. “And you know that the Dracorian people would never approve of an elf on their throne let alone an elf with multiple spouses.”

The Don leaned back in his big, cushioned chair. “So, you want me to kill Garrison on his way to Traelliviar.”

“I would never hope such a fate on the dear child,” she answered with a sly smile. “But as you said, the Dracorian people would never approve of an elf on the throne. But someone of the royal family now…”

There, the Don’s eyes widened. Then he threw his head back and slapped the armrest with a big, pudgy hand. “Ha!” He pointed a finger of that hand straight at Ailiva. “So I see your plot then. You would have me throw my goods at Garrison, you come to his rescue like a good maiden and servant of the Alliance and then seduce the boy. He’s a soldier. He is given to the soldier’s lust. Probably have something for that fucker Vidayn then. To remove him from succession.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” Ailiva said, tilting the glass to her lips slyly. “But if Vidayn were to become ineligible for the crown, then the only logical step with be Garrison. He has served the Holy Alliance for years, will have Trispire’s blessing and the Dracorian people will be complacent with another one of their kind on the throne. Should he take an elf lover, however… well… who will argue?”

“You’ve got some ambitions, bitch,” snarled Cazzallo. “But what is it in for me?”

“All of Sareseou.”

And with that, she had the Don of La Famille.

It was convenient then that one of the Don’s goons came barging into the boardroom only to hurriedly lean down towards his ears and whisper something. The man scowled and stood. “Something’s come up.” He gave her a dismissive way. “Go. I’ll think on this.”

“Do not tarry,” warned Ailiva. “Garrison will be upon Heuveir in two days and the best place for him to meet with an unfortunate ambush is in a town known for its crime.”

Cazzallo scoffed at her and marched out of the boardroom, leaving her and Savid in relative quiet. The only sound came from the crackling fire.

“What if he does not decide to take your offer?” Savid rumbled.

“He will,” she said with a shrug. “And even if he does not, our ally in the Winged Palace will be more than happy to orchestrate something else to position Garrison into my arms.” She swirled the wine again in her glass. “Worry not, my dear Savid.”

A dark, sinister smile touched her lips as she lifted the glass once more to her lips.

“Traelliviar will be mine.”