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Avatar: Raeden the Father-King

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Chapter 3: Underworld Updraft

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Facts about Tirinead - The Dracorians #4

Gold Dracorians do not necessarily have golden coloured scales but have a full spectrum of colourations ranging from the deepest orange to the palest yellow. The natural sheen that comes from their scales tends to come from the delicate care they place upon their natural armour. With an official name of Fulguragons to separate them from the other subspecies of Dracorians, the Gold Dracorians possess the unique ‘lightning breath’. Contrary to popular belief, they don’t actually breathe electricity as such but rather they possess two glands that produce a fluid which, when combined, creates a powerful electrical discharge. Gold Dracorians possess the ability to eject these two liquids at high speeds at their targets and this gives the impression of breathing lightning.

During the Dracorian Civil War and the event that eventually became known as the Trinity Uprising, Fulguragons were normally found in the company of Cryagons or, more commonly known, the White Dracorians.

******

“We have to rescue Yhan!” Loraad shouted.

Whatever Duvon or Trihan’s reply was, it was muffled by the walls of the Skyward Fantasy. Raeden sat quietly a few rooms over, marvelling at just how loud Dracorian voices could be. Every word of the gold dragon’s was clear and crisp as if he were standing right next to his first convert. Though he had always expected someone else to be the first person he turned, he had no regrets over turning Loraad. The mighty warrior struck a very sexy and intimidating figure. Still, he could not help but feel a bit of guilt over exactly how the rest of the Marcliffs had learnt of their brother’s transformation.

Samuel sat quietly in the corner of the room, farthest away from Raeden but between him and the one door. In some way, he was Raeden’s jailer. No doubt the wolf-mage would not want him further complicating what was clearly a family matter amongst the Marcliffs. The Avatar respected that even though he sorely wished to be in that room using his charm and wit to convince the rest of the Marcliffs that their priority should be Yhan’s safety and not Loraad’s condition. That became increasingly difficult, however, as every time his Partner-Friend roared and shook the room, memories of how that muscled form could be so hard and soft at the same time against his scales came rushing back to derail his thoughts.

He needed a distraction.

“Samuel,” he began. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course,” answered the mage-knight, quietly leafing through the book he held in his hands. “Fire away.”

“When you redecorated the Skyward Fantasy, did you know that I would turn Loraad?”

The wolf’s deep blue eyes shifted towards him. Beneath that helm, Raeden was struck by the chilling sensation that the mage was smiling. “What makes you think I was the one that redecorated anything?”

He gave his Saviour-Adviser a coy smile. “Come now. You need not pretend to me. How else could the furnishings of the Fantasy come about?”

“I am surprised you had not deduced it by now.” Samuel slowly shut the book in his hands. “There is a balance of life and death. When we are born, we need to feed upon the nourishment of the world around us to grow and maintain ourselves. When we die, our corpses feed the earth which in turn feeds the animals and the cycle continues. To maintain a balance, when someone dies, something must be born in turn. The Skyward Fantasy was made when you died, Raeden.”

The Avatar jerked upwards in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“The Old Gods reforged the voice that they would not give back to you into this airship. Don’t you think it strange that it seems to change and furnish itself based on your perceptions of the people that visit it? Similarly, it’s it a little convenient that it answers your call when you cry out its name?”

Conflicting feelings clashed. It was both clever and insulting at the same time to use the very thing that he had sought not two days ago as the material to forge the airship. “Is this some form of divine jest?” he spat. “If so, I am certainly not laughing.”

“It is no jest. This airship is your voice. Metaphorically speaking and literally.”

The black dragon found himself stunned at the revelation. “Does that mean… I can change the Fantasy whoever I see fit?”

“Much like your own voice, you can change it to a degree. It takes training and practice before an aspiring chorister could ever hope to be at the level of a true performer.” Samuel plucked a vase that was sitting beside him and held it out towards Raeden. “Try practising with this.”

The Avatar regarded the bland, white vase with curiosity and inclined his head to the side. Focusing upon it… did not do much. It only strained his eyes and gave him a strange tingling sensation in his throat. With a defeated sigh, he cocked head to the side hoping that viewing it from a different angle would somehow allow him to change its shape. Still nothing. It was a white, porcelain vase with no discerning features apart from the fact that it had yet to be filled with anything.

“I cannot be inspired by this… this dull, bleached piece of home-ware!”

“You want to know what I see?” Samuel pulled the vase towards him, regarding it with some curiosity. “I see a blank canvas. Perhaps there was some symbolism to why the Skyward Fantasy was coloured white because in my opinion, this vase — this supposedly passionless, generic porcelain vase — is fully capable of becoming anything that I want. It’s able to absorb whatever I throw at it and I can reshape it to whatever I wish.”

The wolf-mage placed the vase back on the table then retrieved one of his many chests from deep within his starry cloak. After the ritual of smashing the container, he retrieved what appeared to be a palette full of paints and a brush. He smeared some of the paint on one of the shattered boards of the chest, dipped the brush within them and then delicately traced colourful lines along the surface of the vase.

“I cannot do that, I am afraid,” sighed Raeden. “I draw inspiration from my surroundings. I cannot simply create something out of nothing. I need to be given a topic!”

“And in that, perhaps, is your failing as a lyricist.” Samuel turned the vase ever so delicately. “You claim you cannot create and yet you were more than willing to fabricate incestuous edges to an innocent tale of hardship and familial bonds.” He pointed the paintbrush in the Avatar’s direction. “Deep down, you know you are fully capable of making something truly beautiful. It’s in your subconscious. The Fantasy reflects this. Yet outwardly, you are too busy trying to artificially inject meaning and profoundness to your creations that it mars the underlying message.” The adviser picked up the half-finished vase. “When you can look at something as a blank slate and see beyond it, only then will you be able to create lyrics that would resound in the souls of those that hear them.”

“That does not make sense,” answered the Dracorian with an edge of frustration. “True musicians are inspired by the world. How can they execute their craft if they have nothing to work with?”

“Oh but they do.” Samuel lifted the vase to be level with Raeden’s face. He turned it in such a way that the glossy, white surface, unmarked by his painting was pointed straight at the Avatar. Raeden spent a whole ten second just staring at the vase.

“Your message is lost upon me.”

The wolf-mage handed the vase to him. “When you do, let me know. Maybe then you will be able to compose a true song and control the insatiable lust that burns within.”

Raeden set the vase back on the table and frowned at his adviser and friend. “I intended to ask of that. I have been struck by the bite of desire and passion before and yet I have never been so overwhelmed by lust as I was when I was with Loraad. I mean, not to brag but I was with him for most of the day and he was equally as ravenous. Certainly that sort of stamina is nothing short of divine.”

Samuel inclined his head to the side curiously. “I’ll not deny that is certainly an interesting point. It is something worth investigating. I highly suggest you avoid being so aroused around Loraad. It might be more of a detriment that could lead to a painful albeit hilarious way to die than an experience of release. Especially given the circumstances around the corner.”

A feeling of dread quickly built up within his stomach and he turned to look at the door that the mage was guarding. “Will Yhan be alright?”

“Depends entirely of the outcome of the next few moments.”

“How do you mean?”

“I can see things going in one of two ways. The first, should Loraad somehow convince either of his remaining family members to rescue Yhan, there is a distinct possibility that we will all go to the rescue of the wayward orphan and someone will die. It will not necessarily be Yhan.”

Raeden shook his head in incredulously. “How is that possible? We will need all the help we can get if we are to storm Don Cazzallo’s manor.”

Samuel gave him a pointed look. “Do you expect that help to come from a newly made Dracorian, a chef set in his ways and a former thief just turning his life around?”

“Ah…” The Avatar’s mighty chest deflated. “You have a point. I… I am trying to inject fantasy into reality again, right?”

“Correct. This is not an epic tale where we all go charging against the evil force and somehow all manage to escape the manor unscathed while succeeding on our goal. Neither Duvon nor Trihan are trained in arms. Don Cazzallo has thugs but they have better knowledge on how to wield weapons than those two. Similarly, Loraad is fresh from his transform and does not benefit from the knowledge you were granted by the Old Gods of how to use a Dracorian body.”

“I’m sure he has gained some experience of how to use it after his… private training session with me,” chuckled Raeden. He felt Samuel’s withering stare and forced down his grin. “But you have a point.”

“The other possibility is that we take this to the authorities. I sincerely do not believe that Don Cazzallo will hurt Yhan especially if he was just trespassing. The Don knows full well that his hold over Heuveir rests on a precarious balance between the fear of his gang and the willingness of the local authorities to look the other way. I am sure we could negotiate for Yhan’s safe release were we to get an audience with him.” Samuel retrieved another crate from within his cloak and patted it lightly. “A man such as Cazzallo would surely want something I can create for him.”

There was a loud crash from the other side of the door and Raeden heard heavy, furious footsteps storming down the hallway. That was clearly Loraad though he was unsure how he could tell. He moved towards the door just as the golden-scaled dragon stormed past, looking both incredibly arousing furious but also quite frustrated.

As the Avatar left Samuel, the wolf mage turned absently towards the half-finished vase.

“Let me guess,” he wondered aloud. “This enthusiasm for sex amongst other Dracorians he has is a chain around his neck. Something that you can hold over your chosen species so that when the Dracorians once again rise to prominence, they will praise the Great Dragon of Death of the continuous pleasure their hedonistic society celebrates.”

A jet of flame erupted from the ground a few feet from him. It did not burn or emit heat. Lovantier the God of Fire did not yet have enough power within himself to be able to directly affect the world around him. At least for the moment, the feline god was able to act somewhat independently of his siblings. The flames flared outward and formed the features of a tiger with a distinct six-pointed star patter planted on his forehead.

“Nothing so crude, Writer,” rumbled the God. “Did you know of Malgorin’s original identity before mortals twisted his role into something else?”

“Balance,” Samuel stated. “There was never a true God of Death. He brought balance to the world. Garrodrash as the God of Life would recycle souls and bring new life into the world but it was Malgorin that regulated the flow of those spirits on this mortal plane. Your point?”

“You know that there is now a great imbalance in Tirinead. With the curse of sterilization upon the other races, no other race apart from the Alliance Races are capable of truly reproducing. Though humans, dwarves and elves may rule dominant, they are in no way capable of being substitutes for the other races reproducing children of their own.”

“Yes and because the Triad is so hungry for more war and had devoured the souls of those killed in any conflict whatsoever, the rate of birth is dropping drastically. I am aware of this, Lovantier. What I am not aware of is why you would build such a crippling handicap into the Dracorian Avatar. In the presence of other Dracorians, his sex drive will become a hindrance. I shudder to think what would happen were he to lead an army or how that very same army would fare.” Samuel inclined his head to the side. “Unless, of course, you do not intend the Dracorians to be a fighting race. Planning to forge another Alliance only this time with the disenfranchised races?”

The God of Fire chuckled softly. “Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?”

“Mostly because I’m wondering if it’s a possibility to weaponize Dracorian cum. That’d be an interesting way to mock your machinations.”

The fiery tiger’s head shook his head grimly. “Can you not see that by uniting the other races with dependencies upon one another, we will form a utopia on this world? The orcs will form the army. The Dracorians, the centre of art and culture, the Rhakmirim the mages and so far and so on.”

Samuel spun towards the God, flicking his starry cape back in agitation. “So you would pigeonhole a person based entirely on the species that they become? What if a Dracorian wishes to become a mage? What if an orc wishes to take the path of a druid or a simple farmer? You would take away their choice as well as the body they were born with?”

“There will always be choice, Writer. One would simply need to be touched by the seed of another race and be turned to find their new calling.”

Samuel lifted his chin lightly. “So that’s it. You’re not locking down a species based on the first ‘new age’ man that touches them.” The wolf-mage grimaced and placed one hand on his hip. “Not everyone will be satisfied with the role they have but they can also be very happy with the body they have been gifted. Restricting certain roles to the mortal forms of a certain species just because you think they were designed for such a role is narrow-minded and racist. You are restricting these people’s opportunities to grow and develop. You will be surprised how innovative someone can be when they are given the chance to write their own destinies.”

“And we are giving them that.”

“No you are not,” Samuel fumed. “All you are giving them is the opportunity to change their forms if they become dissatisfied with their lives and current bodies. That is fine, in a sense, but by building an alliance where every race has its role and this is rigidly set, you are not giving the chance for a Dracorian farmer, orc scholar or Rhakmirim soldier the chance to bloom and redefine themselves.” He flicked his free hand in agitation. “The world you are creating will eventually grow stagnant, you know. People will mock the Orc scholar, the Dracorian sailor or the Rhakmirim warrior.”

“You do not have a say in the matter, Writer. You are here to guide the Avatar. How we decide to reforge our world is outside of your purview.”

The wolf-mage turned. “Perhaps, but what you fail to realize is that I can guide the Avatar however I wish. I do not think Raeden will be all too pleased with the idea of telling the same tired stories of a species over and over again.”

“That is not for you to decide. After all, he may just be crippled by the undeniable need to procreate.”

Samuel froze. He could not help but smile at the conniving nature of the Old Gods and their trickery. “Clever. So that is your plot.” He crossed his arms, back still to the fiery pillar. “I suppose I will just have to find some way to incentivize restraint.”

“You will be hard pressed to find some means to rein in the most primal desire and pleasure of all mortals.”

The Writer of Reality turned his head, casting his deep blue gaze at the fiery tiger before him. His pupils cut into his irises, two, jet-black, eight-pointed stars against a field of blue. That gave the God of Fire pause and the flames visibly withered. “And again, you underestimate the power of mortals. Then again, I would expect nothing less from someone that denies their own mortality.”

“We are gods!”

“That were very close to fading away into oblivion had outside interference not saved them.” Samuel strode towards the door. “But thank you for this enlightening talk, Lovantier. I now know exactly what I must do.”

Samuel strode out of the room, the mystical fire dousing behind him. He followed the path to his left, knowing exactly where the Avatar had gone. They were in Raeden’s room, farthest away from where Duvon and Trihan were quietly mulling over their situation. Without entering, he hovered at the edges of the slightly open door and peered within.

Loraad paced the room. Every footstep was a furious stomp and his tail carelessly slapped against every piece of furniture as if he had intended to break it. The gold dragon had stopped flinching every time his tail struck something, having gotten used to the odd sensation of having another appendage. Though Raeden was in the room as him, he did not dare speak, not yet, for he was fairly sure he would be vomiting lightning had he opened his muzzle. It was still odd seeing that large, bulbous frame blocking a portion of his vision. It was as if he had a very large nose… which it was in some sense. He turned, making for another lap of his pacing and, as with every time he repeated the action, his eyes fell upon Darespine. There was every temptation to pick up the enormous sword, spread his wings and charge right to Don Cazzallo’s fortress and rescue his brother. But his father’s words haunted him.

At the moment, there was a chance that Yhan had yet to be discovered. Perhaps he had yet to be discovered, after all. But if the Marcliffs were to charge at the Don’s heavily fortified manor with his dozens of guards and thugs, then there was a good chance that Yhan would be discovered and potentially killed. That was not accounting to the fact that Loraad had yet to grow accustomed to his body and he was as like to cleave the arms of his friends and family as he was to hack away at a goon of La Famille.

But he could not just sit by and do nothing.

“Cannot Samuel do something about this all?” he asked furiously. “He is a mage of great power. Could he not simply spirit Yhan away?”

“To what end?” asked Raeden. “Don Cazzallo will know and he could hire other magic-users or even clerics of the church to come after us. Perhaps Samuel could combat other mages but should we truly allow Heuveir to get caught in between our feud?”

As much as Loraad wanted to call the Avatar a coward, he knew that the black dragon spoke true. All of Heuveir did not need to suffer for his carelessness. Part of him wanted to blame Raeden for instilling this madding lust that took all of his effort to curb. When in the presence of Raeden, his two cocks sprang out of his pouch to greet the Avatar like a lewd salute. It was impossible to deny it and as the two collapsed into a tumble of scales, muscles and cum, a gnawing guilt kept him from enjoying the moment too much. At the very least, he was able to restrain himself to a single session before he started to ponder and think about his adopted brother again. But it was growing harder and harder with every passing moment and Raeden was clearly starting to feel the effects of the ravenous desire again. The pacing helped to keep himself busy but he was already at half-mast and dripping with each step. His new body certainly had much more energy than his previous one did.

“What can we do then?” he demanded. Lifting a hand, he tightened it into a fist, his sharp claws resting against the thick, leathery pads of his palms and preventing them from piercing his flesh. “I have all this power and yet I can do nothing with it!”

Raeden rose and Loraad took a step away from him. Seeing the enormous Dracorian’s muscles move in such fluid motions stirred the primal beast within him. He bit his lower lip and had to grip the edges of a nearby cabinet to keep himself from pouncing upon the magnificent male before him. Never before had he been drawn to another man in such a way. It was not love. It was lust. He was smart enough to understand the difference, but it was still incredibly difficult not to tear off what scant clothing he had and tackle the Avatar to the floor, grinding their cocks against one another.

“Dracorians tend to split themselves into two distinct classes after the War of Apotheosis,” said the Avatar softly, gently rubbing his chin in thought. “The nobles that cavort in their palaces and manors while their infrastructure is maintained by Alliance Races that migrated over.” He lifted a finger. “And mercenaries who make a living selling their services to anyone that would offer them enough gold.”

“Your point?” asked Loraad angrily.

Raeden gave him a coy smile. “How is your acting?”

******

Don Cazzallo’s manor was known as Bluewood Manor, so named after the vast Bluewood vineyards that lay sprawled all over the hills that it was perched upon. Located a good distance away from Heuveir, it marked the southern border between the port city and the Scorched Lands. Placed at the very edge of Kalsammar’s Divide much like Heuveir, the towering three storey sandy-coloured manor was perched on a precarious edge of the Divide. It had a sprawling view of the grasslands beyond the Divide on one side and the vast snow-white canopy of the Bluewood vines on the other.

Upon approach from the dusty road, it was possible to see the azure trunks of the wispy Bluewood plants. In the spring, they blossomed and produced grapes that became vintage wines that Cazzallo sold as his supposed official business. The wine unfortunately tasted terrible. Raeden remembered having a sample in a nearby lord’s home and it was used as a joke on what not to produce. Supposedly a bitter palette cleanser to make the sweeter wines all the better. There were rumours amongst the nobles that the taste rubbed taste buds raw so that when something more delectable came along, they were primed and fresh. In truth, Bluewood plants were known more for the contents of their alabaster leaves than their wine. The ghostly leaf shrubs could be processed with machinery and magic to become a highly prized narcotic known as Blue Salts. When huffed by mages, it rapidly restored their magical strength. When used by the common man, those without any form of magical talent, they became uninhibited and hit by a sense of euphoria.

Raeden had his fair share of Blue Salts when he had travelled across the Scorched Lands. The sensation was certainly addictive but he was wise enough to avoid it at all costs. As a bard, he needed all his mental faculties functioning for even the slightest quip could land him in jail or worse. Remembering how one such tryst had nearly gotten him killed and had his voice turned into an airship, he reined in his focus as he marched up to the gates of the Cazzallo manor. That was incredibly difficult, however, considering how Loraad marched beside him dressed in rather tight-fitting leather armour whose sleeves should have rolled down past his elbows but due to his increased size, barely covered his shoulders. The big, golden dragon’s belly was exposed because of the size and there were no trousers or leg armour that could fully fit his enormous thighs so they had to go with studded leather pteruges. Loraad had been opposed to wearing what was effectively a leather skirt but Raeden insisted that it was necessary to maintain the illusion of a wandering mercenary as the style of armour was favoured more by the Minotaurs and Rantori further south where it was warmer. For himself, the Avatar had convinced Samuel to purchase him bracers to go with his enchanted greaves. Apart from that, he maintained his sleeveless vest, shirt and trousers.

“I feel ridiculous in this,” rumbled Loraad. “In no way must this be practical.”

“Minotaur and Rantori legionnaires are one of the most powerful and organized militaries there is,” Raeden answered. “It was through their organization that the Holy Alliance built their Holy Legion. They were dressed much like you are now.”

“In leather skirts? In this weather? Were it not that my cock shrank inside me now, I would have been convinced they had fallen off due to frostbite.”

The Avatar chuckled at the colourful euphemism. “It really is not that cold.”

“You at least have the benefit of not having a wayward draft reveal your genitals!”

He was half-tempted to peek backwards at the sexy golden dragon’s rump but decided against it. The ride from Heuveir proper to its vineyards had left his dicks somewhat sore. Having rather large, erect members jostling up and down whilst riding at full gallop was not very good for his genitals - a lesson he learnt all too painfully. Instead, he turned his attention to the approaching cream gates of Cazzallo’s villa. It seemed like a quiet, secluded winery but when one looked, it was possible to see just how heavily guarded it was. The second floor of the villa had open walkways where men bearing crossbows strolled having an uninterrupted view of the surrounding vineyards. The men guarding the gates themselves seemed rather casual and unassuming but as they approached, there was a clear aura of danger and menace about them that made Raeden hesitate. Normally, he would be turning away from danger especially the large number of people milling about inside of the villa - far too many for a simple winery.

However, he had already delayed this rescue mission to the morning using a veil of logic despite Loraad’s protests. To turn away now would appear craven to the golden dragon. Ironic to be called yellow-bellied in the presence of the powerful Dracorian.

“Remember your accent,” he rumbled softly from the corner of his muzzle. “Or better yet, do not speak.”

“I know,” snarled Loraad. Few would scarcely believe that someone as large as Loraad let alone a mercenary would be so well spoken. They had worked through the evening to try and instil some form of slurring and slow speech patterns to prevent him from standing out too much. It was not as convincing as some of the thespians Raeden had often toured with, but it would have to do.

“Just try to look threatening,” counselled Raeden. “Grumpy even. Look frustrated and impatient.” He glanced at his friend and grinned. “Yes! Just like that.”

The guards at the door, humans naturally, approached. One of them held up a hand to stop them.

“Halt. What business do you have here?”

Raeden placed his hands on his hips confidently. “Ah ‘erd th’ Don wus hirin’ sum extra muscle. Thought we cud ‘elp. Fer th’ right price.”

The two men exchanged glances.

“You’ve got some balls to just march up here like this,” growled the guard. “We’ve got men out in town that sorts out the scum from the real warriors.” He jerked his head in their direction. “You’ve got the builds, I’ll give you that. But no idiot would use a farming tool for a weapon.” The two men drew their weapons - daggers. “You best turn around and —”

Then Loraad was moving. As fast as the lightning he spewed, the gold Dracorian charged forward and seized the shoulders of the closest man, bringing them down forcefully as his leg came rising up. His knee slammed into the guard’s diaphragm, knocking the wind from the man’s lungs. Before the goon could recover, Loraad shoved him away and swung his mighty fist with enough strength that it dislodged a tooth and sent it careening into the other guard’s face accompanied by a splatter of blood.

“Oi!” the remaining guard shouted and charged forward.

“Loraad!” exclaimed the Avatar in shock.

His companion was already moving, unsheathing Darespine from over his shoulder and lifting the wide blade over him. The remaining guard was already lashing out with his dagger and it bounced against the broad metal of the massive blade. An eerie, crimson sheen immediately shot down the length of the blade, highlighting the swirling patterns on its surface. The same light was reflected in both Loraad and the guard’s features. Their eyes became locked on one another. Raeden knew that no matter what he said or did, he would not be able to dissuade his friend from the spell of Darespine. It was small comfort that the same spell prevented him from being attacked by anyone else.

“All that effort for nothing,” he huffed softly. From the fallen guard’s side, he plucked the key to the gates. An arrow smacked into the ground right beside him and he immediately jerked away, pressing his broad back against the cream-coloured walls of the villa. Archers had spotted him and Loraad. The feral cries from both the gold dragon and his opponent only drew more attention. Another arrow sailed towards Loraad but the moment the projectile came within an inch of the burly Dracorian’s wings, it abruptly stopped in midair like all momentum had been drained from it. The wooden shaft dropped to the ground, useless and impotent. The pointed arrowhead had become blunted and squashed as if it had struck a wall.

“Amazing,” breathed Raeden.

A scream erupted from the battle. For a moment, he thought Loraad had lost. Then he saw the flash of lightning and the scream turned into a series of rapid guttural blubbering. Cazzallo’s goon flailed wildly, dropping his weapon while bolts of scintillating yellow lightning danced all over his body. Every limb locked and his body dropped to the ground, jerking madly with his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He had been rendered unconscious. Perhaps near death. Loraad abruptly spread his wings, letting loose a mighty roar and a blast of lightning from his maw. The muscles all over his arms and chest bulged. Raeden could swear there was a new branch to the veins that ran up his forearms.

A tell-tale twang of a bowstring cut Loraad’s celebration short. An arrow shot right through the dragon’s left wing and the lightning-spewing Dracorian turned to flash a fierce snarl at the oppressor. Blood dripped from his wing but it was not profuse. Raeden didn’t even had the opportunity to stop him as another arrow came soaring through the air and Loraad was instinctively lifting his blade to block. The moment the projectile twanged off the blade, the Avatar realized just what a danger Darespine was.

The weapon once again glowed crimson and Loraad was compelled to face his one and only target. Whatever might he may have gained from his initial victory was enough to encourage him to slam his shoulder again the gate. The force of the impact was enough to cause the reinforced wood to shudder but not enough to break it. Loraad retreated two steps. He did not even blink when several more arrows rained upon him and struck that invisible barrier that drained them all of their strength and left them limp and blunted on the ground. Loraad slung Darespine over his shoulder, resting it against the wide leather pack that he hung it upon. With a cry, he launched himself at the gates, his huge claws digging into the wood. Raeden’s jaw dropped as the powerful compulsion of the weapon easily carried Loraad over the top of the twenty-foot gate and down into the villa.

A shadow cast over him and a flurry of wings followed by a gust of wind heralded Samuel’s arrival astride the wyvern Valerie.

“What happened?” asked the wolf-knight, once again fully armoured.

“Loraad just struck at the guard! Then he defended himself with Darespine and now he’s in there…” A burst of lightning erupted from beyond the wall. It must have struck something flammable as people quickly began shouting ‘fire’ over and over again.

“I was afraid this would happen,” Samuel sighed. “I’ll look after Loraad. Remind him he’s here to rescue his brother and show restraint in using Darespine. You find Yhan and try and get as many people out of there as possible.”

“Me!? You expect me to go into a villa filled with men armed to the teeth!?”

“You were going to do that anyway, right?”

“Under false pretences that I am sure my charm could have maintained! Now they will likely kill me!” He gestured at his body. “Black-scaled Dracorians are rare! They will know I do not belong!”

Samuel was smiling at him again. That chill down his spine was a sure tell. “You are a dead man given a second chance, Raeden Windsong. If you don’t belong amongst scoundrels and thugs plucked off the streets to serve a crime lord in relative comfort, then you do not belong anywhere.”

There was that sharp, scathing wit again. Raeden had to remind himself that he had to keep himself at his best around the wolf.

“Back!” shouted Samuel, turning Valerie towards the gates. “Back from the gates! I am breaking them open!” The big, black wyvern with electric-blue linings along her scales and bright, yellow eyes reared back, her winged forearms flapping in the air and lifting her off the ground. With her powerful, muscular legs, she smashed her claws against the gates. Reinforced wood was no match against the wyvern’s might and the gates were reduced to splinters. Dozens of thugs and servants came pouring out, coughing and screaming in panic as they fled a sight of carnage. Since he stood well above all of them, he could see most of Cazzallo’s villa was now afire. Bolts of lightning occasionally erupted from one of the shattered windows and he saw the bodies of Loraad’s defeated foes either bloodied or scorched.

Samuel was in the air, riding Valerie over the retreating crowd and scanning for Loraad.

Raeden made to give chase when he heard a cry from behind him. Glancing back, he saw the two wounded men that Loraad had assaulted desperately curled into balls on the ground, heads tucked between their arms in a vain attempt to protect themselves from the panicked crowd. One part of him wanted to leave them; they were thugs that would slip those daggers between his ribs the moment he gave them a chance. The other part recalled Samuel’s words spoke just a few moments ago.

Just as Loraad was compelled by Darespine, Raeden was pulled along by a powerful force. He used his bulk to muscle through the fleeing mob and seized the two men by their shoulders. He dragged them away from the stampede of feet and propped them against he wall.

“I am sorry about this,” he said, quickly checking them for wounds. Nothing fatal but certainly injured and out of the fight. “Do not move. Help will come.”

Conscience clear, Raeden spread his wings and let the gift of the Old Gods carry him easily into the air even though the wind was blowing in the opposite direction. By sheer force of will alone, he leapt high above the villa, scanning the burning facility for any signs of movement. His mind raced. Logically speaking, the Don would throw a prisoner in the basement but there was no assurance that Yhan had been caught. At the same time, if Yhan had wanted to speak to the Don, he would likely take the young man to some ‘private’ setting away from the inner workings of the winery. Anyone would be fleeing the blasts of lightning that Loraad was spewing so Raeden strafed through towards the eastern side of the building where the fire had yet to reach and the windows were yet intact.

His heart leapt to his throat when he saw one of the windows burst open. A maid peered down at the three storey fall and immediately retreated. There were others behind her and in their rush, they pushed her clear over the edge. She flailed, screamed and desperately tried to snag something to stop her fall. Raeden moved faster than his mind could react. She landed squarely in her arms and she gasped upon seeing him. He settled her on the ground and looked up towards the remaining staff.

“Jump!” he shouted, holding out his arms. “I will catch you!”

There was no time to be spending on pointless heroics especially if Yhan was still within the facility. Yet he could not just leave these people to die. Again, Samuel’s words rang in the back of his mind. If he did not belong amongst these poor souls who knew they were serving a criminal master, where did he belong? His moment of introspection was interrupted by a heavyset man landing squarely in his arms. As he had not been prepared for it, his knees bucked. His tail immediately balanced him out and he was able to gently let the man roll off his arms back onto the ground.

“Thank you, kind lord!” cried the man, tears streaming down his face. “How can I repay you?”

A golden opportunity presented itself.

“Tell me, did the Don happen to catch an intruder last night? A young boy? Skinny.” Raeden found himself struggling to remember any other discerning features Yhan may have possessed and was mentally kicking himself for not committing anything more to memory.

“An intruder?” the man shook his head as another servant landed in Raeden’s arms. “No. The only visitor we had the previous night was the Lady Ailiva and she stayed the night as it would take too long to travel back to town. She is in there now.”

“There was the Marcliff boy,” said another servant. “He came in pleading for an audience and the Don met him alongside the Lady Ailiva.”

A fourth man came into Raeden’s arms and he was able to hide his sigh of relief behind a grunt. “Where are they now?”

“Last I heard, they were in the study on the third floor.”

Then that was where he had to go.

Just in time as the last servant landed in his arms and he thanked them for the information. Trusting his body once more, Raeden took the air, big, black wings spread. He soared low enough to avoid the billowing plumes of smoke but high enough that he was at level with the third floor. Movement from the corner of his eye told him there was someone within the rooms of the mansion. The Avatar drew Doomtalon from his shoulder and held it out in front of him like a spear. He charged through the air, his weapon leading the charge, and shattered the window. Glass shards danced around him, glinting off the firelight as he landed within a large trophy room. About a dozen people were pressed up against the far wall while flames licked at the ground beneath them. The fire had eaten through the first two floors and had started to weaken the ground beneath them.

Amongst the people he saw a white-scaled Dracorian mercenary and the woman he protected. Then there was Yhan.

“You!” Yhan shouted.

“No time for introductions,” Raeden announced, charging over to them. The floorboards shattered beneath his feet and he was forced to dance along the fiery edges as the flames grew more and more intense. “We need to escape!”

“Your ability to state the obvious is painful!” snapped Yhan. “How do we escape!?”

“Carry me out of here,” demanded a pudgy man. “I am Don Cazzallo! I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams! Leave everyone else to burn!”

“Cazzallo!” Ailiva screamed. She pushed past him, her nails digging into his shoulders and pulling him back. “Take myself and my bodyguard out of here. Then you two, with your combined strength, can catch us all as the rest drop from this floor through the window.”

Cazzallo’s eyes boggled in terror. “You mean for us to jump!? Woman, have you not seen what is outside? Why do you not simply wait with us!?”

They were on the eastern face of the manor which meant that it was the side that overlooked Kalsammar’s Divide. There was no ‘ground’ to catch anyone on.

Ailiva lifted her head arrogantly at him. “And risk anyone looking up my dress!?” He pulled the long, silky, seafoam green dress she wore. “I still have my dignity.”

“Then die with it!” he scowled back, pushing past her. “I order you, as Don of La Famille, to take me out of here!”

Raeden lifted his hands. “Slow down. All of you. I will get you all out of here.” The question was, how. Then, through the window he had entered from, he caught sight of Samuel, hovering. He waved at the wolf-mage and gestured towards the nearby window. Samuel nodded and ducked out of view. He moved towards the nearest window and pushed it open. Cazzallo, Ailiva and Savid - Ailiva’s bodyguard - followed him.

“Samuel!” Raeden exclaimed as the wolf-mage came around. “We need a way off this floor. The other exits are blocked and I fear that we have no time to catch everyone one by one as they jump. Can you aid us?”

“There wouldn’t be enough time to get everyone out,” said the mage, inclining his head to the side. Cazzallo began resorting to threats both at Raeden and Samuel but he was swiftly ignored. Despite the heat from the rising flames, Raeden still felt that chill from the wolf’s hidden smile. “Use your voice.”

He frowned in return. “I beg your pardon.”

“Sing. Sing of your Fantasy.”

His eyes widened in surprise and a broad grin crossed his features.

“What is this madman speaking of!?” demanded Cazzallo. “Get us out of here you lunatic!”

Ailiva hushed him. “Quiet!” She rested a gentle hand against Raeden’s arm. Her soft eyes actually looked quite genuine in her pleading. “Please. Save us.”

Raeden nodded and gripped her hand gently. “Of course, milady.” He turned towards the skies as Samuel and Valerie soared away. “Skyward Fantasy!” he roared.

Far back at Heuveir’s docks, he could feel the airship - his voice given form - immediately pulling away from the pier. The ropes that had pilled it to the docks were immediately snapped and the stunned dockworkers screamed as the ship - somewhat sentient - heard her master’s call. Its reactor was primed, its wings were readied and its thrusters roared. Then the Fantasy shot into the air, skilfully ducking between the other airships and soaring straight towards them. Raeden could almost feel the wind rushing along its sleek, white hull.

“Madness!” Cazzallo cried. “Ailiva, your thug can make that fall! Have him catch us!”

“Hush!” snapped the elf.

The roar of the winds past the Skyward Fantasy’s hull grew louder and Raeden opened his eyes, never realizing he had closed them. Everyone around him cried out in shock as the light airship came screaming in, the winds that it carried blasting away the smoke and even causing much of the flames to die but not them all. The ship immediately came to hover beside the manor, its gangways unfurling like arms reaching out to embrace their master. Raeden could not help but smile and leapt out of the window without hesitation. He hovered beside the gangway, ushering everyone on board. Cazzallo, the fat troll, was the first and pushed past Ailiva and Savid to hurry onto the ship, waddling up the metal path like a muffin on legs. Ailiva was carried by the bulky Savid up the gangway. Yhan, however, was the last to board but there was no hesitation when he jumped from the burning mansion and hurried below deck. He did spare Raeden one glance, however, and a firm nod of thanks.

No one else was within the burning study so he quickly dove into the Fantasy, hurrying through the hallways and straight to the bridge. Ailiva and Savid followed him. He perched himself on the captain’s seat and quickly began piloting the ship away. To his surprise, Savid took up position in one of the nearby consoles and began turning dials and pressing buttons.

“What are you doing to my ship?” he demanded.

“Adjusting the wings and pulling up the gangway,” answered the white-scaled Dracorian. “The wings of the ship will suffer damage from the smoke as the ash gets caught in the gears. Best to reel them in. The gangway is also still extended and were we to leave it, it could potentially get caught on something.” The dragon lifted a thumb into the air over his shoulder. “Leave the peripheries to me. Pilot the ship out of here.”

There had to be some form of irony in the fact that this Dracorian was helping him bring the Fantasy to safety after, not too long ago, he had been had been hurled off the edge of another similar airship by those brutish hands. The sound of the collapsing manor reminded him that there was little for introspection and he steered the advanced airship away from Cazzallo’s crumbling home. The Fantasy moved as easily as he would through the air and it peeled away from the manse. Samuel soared across the bridge’s view, astride Valarie and with a golden Dracorian clutching to his back like a frightened cat. Loraad was safe at the very least.

Nothing was stopping the fire. Raeden tilted the Fantasy slightly so he could see the conflagration spreading from Don Cazzallo’s villa and into the Bluewood fields. He could swear he heard Cazzallo ranting and raging through the walls of the airship. He did note the faint smile on Ailiva’s lips. No doubt she had something to gain from the sudden loss of the Don’s source of wealth and influence. A crowd had gathered some distance away from the rapidly burning fields and that was where Raeden set down the Fantasy. Curiously, Samuel was not amongst them and neither was Loraad. Probably for the best. Many of the survivors could likely accuse the golden Dracorian for starting the fire.

Once he had parked the airship, Raeden followed Ailiva and Savid out into the crowd. Cazzallo was already amongst them, red-faced and demanding to know what had happened.

“Some mad, gold-scaled Dracorian just started spewing lightning everywhere!” one of the servant exclaimed.

“He wielded a sword as tall as he was and it glowed blood red!” shouted another.

“There was just… just fire everywhere!”

Cazzallo was having none of it. “One Dracorian!? One? A single scaly fucking skink tore down all my guards and set fire to my villa without any of you bastards doing anything about it!? Look at my vineyard! My wine! My stores! My home!”

“You do not understand, Don Cazzallo,” pleaded one of the soldiers. “Arrows just bounced off him! Any blows swung at him struck some form of invisible barrier! The moment he set his eyes upon you, no one could harm him!”

“And he seemed to grow stronger with every challenge won!” exclaimed another. “He tore down the winery doors with a single hand!”

How many victories did Loraad amass during his rampage? How much stronger had he gotten? Raeden glanced over his shoulder at Doomtalon and had to wonder if he had fallen behind given that he had yet to kill anyone.

“And where is this dragon now?” spat Cazzallo. The Don was practically frothing. “Where is the lizard that ruined me!?”

Ailiva coughed softly and the Don spun towards her angrily. “Please be mindful of your words, Don Cazzallo,” she said curtly. “After all, it was a Dracorian that saved us.” She smiled brightly at Raeden. Now there certainly was irony in the fact that he had fought so hard to earn that smile from her as a human but only now was she gracing him with that smile. A bitterness rose from his gut, however, knowing how toxic the person was behind that smile. Feigning innocence, he offered her a light bow; no more than a slight tilt of his head.

“You!” scowled Cazzallo, spinning towards the Avatar. “It was you, wasn’t it? I don’t know who the fuck you are. It must’ve been you!”

“No, Don Cazzallo,” pleaded one of the servants. Raeden recognized her as one of those that he had saved. “The Dracorian that attacked was golden in colour.”

“Then they must be in cahoots!”

“You’re swinging wildly, Cazzallo,” Ailiva reprimanded.

“Can’t you see how convenient it is that this bastard just so happens to be striding along with his magical airship that comes at his beck and call while another Dracorian attacks my people!?” Cazzallo was flailing his pudgy little fists everywhere. “This was all him! I know it!”

Raeden lifted his head, glaring down upon the puny little man. He toyed with the idea of pretending to just be a passer-by but with Ailiva right there, the bitter sting of betrayal and the sour taste of deception left an acidic taste in his mouth; one that burned his permanently injured throat.

“I freely admit that the Dracorian that attacked was indeed a comrade of mine,” he answered.

Cazzallo’s eyes widened and the servants all turned to one another in shock. Many of them looked heartbroken that the dragon that had saved them had, in fact, orchestrated the attack. “Ha! You see! He admit its!” The Don turned towards Ailiva. “You must arrest this man!”

“Do not be so quick to judge, Cazzallo,” growled Raeden. “For you see, we attacked to free all these people from under your thumb.” He gestured at the gathered crowd, spreading his wings. Everyone around him became enchanted by the sheer size of his leathery membranes and he remembered that one of the Old God’s gifts was some form of compulsion instilled into his wings. Those that viewed them became enthralled by him. How far he could convince others, however, was still a question he dare not test with falsehoods. “My comrade, my —” He paused for a second, wondering if it would be wise to announce Loraad as his ‘Lover-Friend’ to the crowd. Upon seeing Savid, however, inspiration struck him. “… Brother-Bodyguard had his family attacked by your thugs two nights ago. Under no provocation. He and his family would have paid you what they owe and yet your goons came by to accost them for no reason.”

The accusation was vague but knowing men like Cazzallo, he would not have personally kept track of every infraction against his name. His assumption proved true as there was no shred of innocence in the crime lord’s beady eyes. Just guilt. Guilt and a desperate man’s calculations on how to turn these words against him.

“So you fancy yourself judge, jury and executioner then, lizard?” scowled the Don. “You would enact vengeance and kill my men over the actions of some rogue mobster? I would have had them punished! I am a man of my word!”

“And we all know that you will keep your word,” countered Raeden. “But were a ‘rogue mobster’ to cripple my Brother-Bodyguard’s family to the point where they would never be able to repay you your dues, then you would not be inclined to keep your word, now will you? Sure you will ‘punish’ your lackeys. Perhaps a week peeling potatoes? Relegated to guard duty? Maybe they will only take half of their usual cut of Blue Salts? But where would that leave my friend? The debt would be outstanding and you will continue to collect until each of them is dead.”

Cazzallo was unfazed. These were accusations he was used to. Many other families or authority figures must have come to him over the years for extortion. None of them could ever be proven, of course. But Raeden was not targeting the Don. No, his eyes were settled directly at the crowd. Fear kept any of them from voicing their opposition or acting out against the Don of La Famille. But now, there was someone standing up to him. Someone divine.

“You have no evidence of this,” scoffed the Don. “We have laws and due process for a reason, lizard. You are not allowed to go about taking the law into your own hands.”

“Can we truly obey a law that is broken?” countered Raeden. “How can we stand by and allow the corrupt and rich to grow even more corrupt and richer on the suffering of others. Someone has to take a stand. This is not just about you, Don Cazzallo. This is about all of Tirinead!”

“Hoping to be a Senator?” laughed the Don. “Ailiva, I think you and I have heard enough. This fucker is clearly mad and —”

“I am the Avatar of the Dragon of Death, Malgorin!” Raeden bellowed loudly. He drew Doomtalon, causing Cazzallo to back off in surprise. Upon his will, he was lifted into the air with no movement from his wings. The sight caused everyone around him to gasp and even Ailiva was stunned. “I am here to deliver the Dracorian race from their languishing lifestyles and to cleanse these lands of the foul stench of criminals like you!” He pointed the scythe at Cazzallo. Even though it was not how to wield a scythe, it was still fairly intimidating. “In Death, all are equal. Worship the Holy Triad if you must but know that Malgorin continues to reap your souls and he has sent me to act as his hand on this earth!”

Cazzallo shook off his fear as much as he could but he still stuttered his reply. “Y - Y - You certainly make for a stunning mage, dragon. But there are mere theatrics. If you seek to strike fear upon us all by invoking Malgorin’s name and threatening us with death, let me remind you that Malgorin was cast down by the Holy Triad.” The mobster grinned savagely, gaining confidence with every word. “You have no power here.”

Perhaps it should not have been a wise idea to invoke Malgorin’s name. The Dragon of Death was hated by many and now there was fear in the eyes of the crowd instead of awe and support. Now, instead of rallying the crowd against Cazzallo, the roles had been reversed. The Don’s words were driving him back. Strangely, the Dread Dragon’s own words came back to provide more inspiration.

“Death is silent. Death is reserved. Death is patient. The Dragon of Death will not take life until it is needed. This is why I saved as many people as I could. It was not your time.” That sparked the memories in the crowd of how he had gone to lengths to save them. “Malgorin’s name was twisted and marred by the Triad. Death is a natural part of life but what the Triad did to the Dracorians, condemning them a slow death without ever having hope of bearing children and passing on their legacy is…” His muse struck and he stared daggers at Cazzallo. “… is no better than what Don Cazzallo is doing to all the people of Heuveir.”

“Blasphemy!” shouted the Don.

“Quiet, Cazzallo!” snapped Ailiva. She had her arms crossed beneath her sizable bosom and was smiling at Raeden encouragingly. “Go on, my dear.”

It was still very strange that she was supporting him. Then again, she had no idea he was that Raeden Windsong. Turning towards the crowd, he said, “Some of you have had to joy of bearing children. You know that your name will live on in their memories, the stories and songs that they will carry with them in your name. But the Dracorians do not have this. They are doomed to this one life that they have. This one, fleeting life that can abruptly end. Malgorin will take mortals when it is their time but even the Great Dragon of Death weeps when there is naught but death. Even he will die when all die. If there is no life to balance death, then there can be no existence.”

“Perhaps that is for the best.” scoffed the Don. “The Alliance won the War of Apotheosis. Everyone else can just go fucking die.”

Poor choice of words. There were a few Dracorians amongst the crowd and already their hatred for Cazzallo was rising into new heights.

“How fitting you would say that given that is exactly what you are doing to the people who find themselves indebted to you or under your service,” countered Raeden. “You do not see it yet, Cazzallo, but one day, there will be nothing for you to exploit and you will be left with nothing. You are reducing all these fine people to little more than the very grapevines that now burn around you!” He swept his arms in the direction of the burning vineyard. “They will give you fruit, you will process their labours into wine and you will sell off their leaves to make narcotics but one day, this land will grow barren and you will have nothing left. They are naught but fodder for you. And look at how quickly you would discard their charred remains! You do not even shed a tear for those that died in your villa. Your first lamentation was for your belongings.”

The fire from the Dracorians spread. Now, even those that were human, elf or dwarf that stood beside their scaly comrades were infected with the distaste for this fat, greedy man who saw them as nothing more than livestock.

“You will do anything to insure your assets,” growled Raeden. “Even before I admitted to having a hand in this attack, you were already throwing around accusations. Never mind that I saved your life. So long as there is someone that could be made to pay, you will turn on them. Just as you would with all the poor souls in Heuveir who will suffer your tyranny forever. None of them will ever be free of your shackles. At least the Dracorians will die within their lifetime. You will ensure that generations will be in your debt all so that you can live in comfort.”

Soft footsteps heralded the crowd’s advance. Cazzallo realised he had lost the crowd. Even those guards that had survived were approaching menacingly.

“Stop!” cried the fat man, waving his hands madly. “I order you! I pay you!”

“He saved my life!” snapped one of the guards. Raeden realized it was one of the men he had pulled away from being trampled. “He didn’t have to. I could’ve been trampled but he still saved me!”

“My life isn’t so worthless that I would sell my soul to you, Cazzallo!” screamed another.

“Get him!”

“Hang him!”

“Gut him!”

Ailiva suddenly made a sharp gesture with her hand. “Enough!”

No matter what power Raeden may have mustered, Ailiva just had this immense presence that caused the crowd to balk and Cazzallo’s features to break into relief.

“We still have the rule of law and order here,” she said curtly. “Were we to enact mob justice, we would be no better than he. Tempting as it is and the fact that we could simply throw his body into the fire and watch it burn and sizzle in its own fat…” Her biting words made Cazzallo cringe. “… we are better than this. Too long have the authorities turned a blind eye to La Famille’s activities. This ends today with the rise of the Avatar.”

She stepped forward, spreading her arms wide. “Let it be known. A new age comes! An age where La Famille falls and the bonds that bind the people to them will be shattered…” Her eyes turned towards Raeden. “… same as those that shackle the Dracorian people.”

Many times before, Raeden had received a chill down his spine from one of Samuel’s hidden smiles. But this time, when that tingling scrambled down the length of his spine, it set his mane on end and filled him with a terrible sense of dread. A sense of de ja vu hit him. Once again, he was ensnared by Lady Ailiva’s machinations only this time, he was unsure if he would survive them.

******

The Battered Edge was the name of the Marcliff’s restaurant and it had certainly seen better times. Located in the northeastern quarter of the city - commonly known as Lowtown - the restaurant sat amongst other ratty, broken, buildings along a road that was more mud than stone. A dog whimpered and pawed at the broken door which had its upper half sheered off. The design allowed for the alluring smells of a cooking kitchen to waft out but the overwhelming stench of the streets drowned out even the most delicate of meals. The windows were glazed over with dust and cobwebs. A tattered sign bearing the name of the establishment hung over the top of the door frame but it was lost amid the rest of the brackish, brown colouration of the wooden, mouldy neighbourhood.

The dog - a mutt with coarse grey and black fur, floppy ears and lopsided eyes - perked up the moment Yhan approached. He let out a yelping bark and bounded over to Yhan excitedly. Though he came from multiple large breeds, the poor pup was so malnourished that his ribs were clearly showing through his ragged fur. Still, he seemed happy to see one of his many masters. Yhan gave the mutt a little pet between the ears before pushing past the door. The dog immediately looked towards Loraad, appearing puzzled at first and tilting his head to the side as he sampled the odour coming from the Dracorian. His stubby tail began wagging again and he charged forward, dancing between Loraad’s wide legs and eagerly sniffing at his master with familiarity and curiosity.

“Good to see you too, Feast.”

“Feast?” Raeden asked. “You named your dog Feast?”

“He is not so much my dog as he is a Marcliff,” chuckled Loraad. “He just found his way into our kitchen and Trihan began feeding him. With my father’s penchant for picking up strays, he just become one of us in time. He comes and goes as he pleases but always finds his way at our dinner table. Thus his name.”

Feast looked up to Raeden curiously but quietly shuffled back between Loraad’s legs upon the sight of the black dragon. Raeden waved at him and the pup jolted back in fear.

“I do not think he likes me very much.”

“It takes time for him to warm over to anyone,” answered Loraad. “Like Yhan in many ways. Perhaps it would be best if both of you stayed out here and let me talk to my family before either of you make an appearance.”

The Dracorian Avatar laughed heartily and placed his hands on his hips. “Surely Yhan would be pleased to thank me in person for his rescue? Duvon and Trihan must be grateful for the safe return of his sons as well!” He hiked a thumb proudly at his chest, his claw sinking between the hardened cushions of his pectorals. “It was thanks to my quick thinking that we were all brought safely out of the fire, after all.”

“After prompting from Samuel,” Loraad reminded, immediately deflating Raeden’s ego. “Samuel was also the one that stopped my rampage and was smart enough to keep me away from your theatrical accusations of the Don that only made things much worse. Let’s not forget that it was our mistakes that drove Yhan into Don Cazzallo’s hands.” The golden dragon shook his head miserably. “I still need to wonder what would possess him to do such a thing.”

“Ah… Well, I suppose when put that way perhaps it would be better if we stay out here until you tell us it is safe.”

A nod from his Brother-Bodyguard and Raeden wandered over to the side of the restaurant, perching himself on a couple of boxes that managed to maintain their integrity despite his weight. Feast padded after Loraad but had the door shut on his squat muzzle to his whimpers. Then the large, scrawny dog noticed Samuel and wandered over to the armoured mage, sniffing at the wolf’s feet. His tail immediately began wagging and he began rubbing himself against the mage’s legs. Samuel knelt down beside the dog and gently petted it with his armoured hand with no regard for how the grime of the road would affect his starry cloak - not that anything every stuck to it.

“You certainly have a way with animals,” observed the Avatar.

“What can I say? I’m a dog-person. That and when it comes to animals who don’t have the burden of societal pressured and etiquette, they can only see the truth in people.”

“And what truth do you think Feast sees in you?”

Samuel chuckled softly and reached into his coat, producing one of his crates. He rested it on the floor which Feast began sniffing and pawing at. The mage smashed the chest with a fist, revealing a cornucopia of cured meats. Feast immediately began munching on them. “That I have food.”

Raeden laughed softly. Soft shouting could be heard from the upper floors of the restaurant. While the first floor served as the dining room, the second was where the kitchen was positioned. He could tell thanks to the large metal chimney that protruded from the second floor. The third and fourth floors had to be where the Marcliffs made their residence. Being such a narrow building, he could not imagine that there was much room to move. Loraad probably had great difficulty following his family up those stairs to engage in whatever debate they were having.

“What do you think the outcome of their discussion will be?” he asked aloud.

Samuel rose from where he was crouched and positioned himself next to the door. “It would all depend on the contents of the discussion. It’s possible that they will see the opportunity to cook for the governess of Sareseou will be too great an for them to pass up that they concede to following you. Alternatively, Duvon’s stubbornness could have him thanking you for your aid but he would return to his restaurant. Yhan could easily dissuade them from associating with any of us as it is a form of ‘debt’, a concept which he despises.”

“You mean you do not know?”

He felt that chilling smile beneath that help once more. “I can tell you all the possibilities and the probabilities ties with those possibilities, but I can’t tell you for certain which path the future will hold. Mortal fate shall and always will be in mortal hands. Even if all the signs point to one scenario occurring, someone could just turn and decide to change their fate for another scenario.” Feast came up to the mage, tail wagging and tongue drooping out from his muzzle, demanding attention. Samuel smiled down at the mutt and gently petted him. “It’s why I enjoy witnessing the tales of others so much. Nothing is set in stone.”

Raeden hugged himself, wrapping his wings around his shoulders in an attempt to warm himself. “I would still feel more comfortable if I had some degree of certainty. Especially now.”

“You really have no one to blame for the outcome save yourself.”

“I know, I know!” he groaned, running a hand down his face. “I just wanted to undermine Cazzallo’s authority there and then! The ungrateful cur did not even take a moment to be thankful of the life that he was given! The first thing he turned to was his possessions and his empire! He did not even have the courtesy to thank me!”

“To be fair, you did burn down his manor.”

“He was already accusing me before he knew that!” Raeden snarled angrily. “Perhaps had he actually shown me some gratitude, I would not have shamed him in front of everyone and found myself in such a precarious situation as having Lady Ailiva of Sareseou inviting me over to her manor to discuss my position as Avatar!”

Samuel cocked his head slightly. “You sound exactly like Cazzallo.”

That caused the Avatar to bristle. “I am nothing like that man!”

“You mean apart from the fact that you are solely focusing on how he should have shown you gratitude and forgetting the altruism that came from saving people’s lives or believing your own missive of bringing peace and freedom from the shackles of bondage to the people?”

Raeden jerked back at the scathing remark. “That goes without saying…”

“Does it really?” Samuel accused with a pointed stare. “Or is that just the sweetened topping to beautify an otherwise poorly baked concept?”

He actually felt like the mage was digging a rusty blade into his heart. “I… I suppose I may have… used the situation to my advantage…”

“I find it somewhat interesting that your friend, Taydir Wingsever was the one bound to a wheelchair and yet you are the one that must rely on a handicap such as your inspiring wings to sway a crowd. The Old Gods certainly have a sense of humour.”

“A bitter comparison indeed.” Raeden sighed heavily and shook his head. “What do you suggest?”

“Learn how to speak of your true feelings. There is a time and a place for honesty as there is a time and place for rousing speeches that pull at the right heartstrings but leave others untouched. But no matter what comes out of your mouth, if is filtered and not truly what the heart says, you will find yourself in this very situation where you will be incapable of defending your own statements because you do not believe them yourself.”

Raeden frowned at him. “You are telling me to believe in my words.” Samuel’s words about using a genuine experience to write his own songs rose from the depths of his mind and he could not help but utter a little laugh. “Sing of a tale that I have experienced to provide that sincerity…”

“Exactly. Take this message when you face down Ailiva tomorrow when she holds court.” Samuel crossed his arms and Feast whimpered as the mage’s mood darkened. “I strongly suspect that she purposefully gave you the rest of the day to ‘recuperate’ in an attempt to entice you to fleeing.”

“Because were I to flee, it would lend little credence to my claim as an Avatar and were I to make claim in another town, she could simply bring my actions back to haunt me.” The black dragon nodded gravely. “I see the wisdom in that but also hate her for being so conniving.”

“Is it just that you hate her for or is there something else?”

There truly was no hiding from the mage’s dark-blue eyes. “I still resent her for my ‘death’. I long for the day that I will reveal to her who I really am.” He shuffled from one foot to the other. “I confess that I willingly went along with her ploy so that I could orchestrate that reveal.” Upon scratching his chin thoughtfully, he became aware of the thickening stubble there. “I see now that may have been an error.”

His Savior-Adviser bobbed his head from side to side. “Perhaps. Use that drive of yours, Raeden. You are, if anything, a passionate man. It would not do to lose that to politics.”

“And if it does not come time for passion?”

“There is always time for passion. If you do not believe your words, you will not convince anyone of your convictions. Think of when you saved those servants. Did you think of the consequences? What about the guards you saved from being trampled? Did you know that they would help you?” Samuel shook his head. “No. When a heart reaches out to another, passionate and pure, other hearts will reach out in kind. Even if they outwardly spurn the advance due to hardened, you can be assured that it will leave a dent that will linger for the entirety of their existence.”

The Avatar threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. His mirth died down, however, as Loraad poked his head from the restaurant and gave him a sad little smile.

“We are ready for you,” announced the golden dragon.

His heart began racing in his chest. Even when Ailiva had levelled a knife at his throat, he had never felt so anxious. The idea of losing Loraad was unbearable. The male was certainly a fine specimen of a Dracorian but also the first man he had ever converted. That would never change. Odd as it was to find himself attached to someone, he also felt a degree or pride that he had proven Ailiva wrong. He did not just use people. Loraad was special and not someone he would discard as easily as Ailiva had crushed his lute.

He entered the Battered Edge with Samuel by his side. The members of the Marcliffs were gathered around a table, poised in a semi-circle and facing the duo. Duvon was seated while Trihan and Yhan were at his side. Loraad placed himself behind his father like a guardian dragon.

Duvon cleared his throat.

“We are all very grateful for everything you have done,” he said, unable to meet their gaze. His eyes, instead, were locked on his hands which were wrung together tightly. “You have provided us with shelter, protected us, wiped away our debts and even saved one of our own. For that, we can never repay you.” Yhan’s hand tightened into a fist and his adoptive father placed a hand over it to calm his impulsive son. “But at the same time, you have doomed us. I do not think we can stay in Heuveir for much longer.”

“Just as well,” Trihan began. “As much as Papa Duv loves this place, we ain’t gotten a single customer in days. Fair ‘nuff we’ve been workin’ th’ docks but we’re open afta sunset an’ no one has come in fer days.”

“It used to be that we could profit from tired workers returning home.” Duvon shook his head. “Sadly, you have seen the state of our neighbourhood. Most are like to avoid this part of Heuveir as they were to visit. I am honestly loathed to leave but seeing what has become of my home and my family… I am met with no other choice.”

The expressions on the Marcliffs were as varied as the colours of the rainbow. Trihan was valiantly trying to curb his enthusiasm. Concern was plastered all over Loraad’s features while Yhan’s face was impassive and unreadable. Duvon showed conflict, torn between his heritage as a Marcliff to Heuveir and the safety of his family. It was not easy to uproot generations of hard work and life in a single night but what choice did they have? It was a thought that left a bitter taste in Raeden’s mouth. Malgorin had cornered him into becoming his Avatar - it was die or serve. Did he wear Duvon’s face when he was kneeling before the Dragon of Death? Did he attempt to hide it behind enthusiasm like Trihan or did his questions and attempts at bargaining put him closer to Loraad? Should he have been unreadable like Yhan?

“No,” he announced, before his mind could catch up with his words. “I do not believe that is your only option.”

Samuel was giving him a sidelong glance and the faintest sliver of a chill ran down his mane like someone was brushing the tips of their fingers down his spine.

“No?” Yhan suddenly repeated. The dour young man’s features erupted into rage. “No!? You would flaunt your riches in front of us, place us into your debt with all your ‘heroics’ and then you would dare to say ‘no’ to us when we turn to you in our hour of need!?” He seized a fork from where it was sitting in front of him and lunged forward. Duvon immediately pulled him back while Loraad had already reached over his shoulder for Darespine. “You turned my own brother into your reflection! You would tear this family apart! Have you no mercy in your heart!? Can you not let us at least be a family under your wings!?” Hot tears were streaming down his face.

Raeden could not say he sympathised. What family was fleeting and insubstantial. He could, however, see the value that these four put in that. “You mistake my intentions,” he said, holding up a hand. “I do not believe you have no choice to leave. I firmly believe that you can stay in Heuveir.”

“How?” came the heated snarl through clenched teeth. “How when you have openly declared yourself as ‘Avatar’ of the Dragon of Death which makes you an enemy of the Holy Alliance and made an enemy of La Famille?”

Raeden glanced towards Samuel. He received the faintest of nods from the wolf-mage. Searching deep in his own heart, he gave himself a moment to coordinate what his conscience said versus what came out of his muzzle.

“The problem lies not with your ties with La Famille. The problem lies with Heuveir. You should not have to leave your home because you feel threatened. Even if you run from your problems, that very same strife will find a way of hunting you.” As well he had learned with Lady Ailiva. “You are being driven out of Heuveir not because there is opportunity elsewhere but because your business is not flourishing here and there is a large criminal presence. So I say, we stay in Heuveir and we turn it into the shining star of this land! A jewel that would outstrip Traelliviar!”

Duvon laughed softly and shook his head. “You have lofty ambitions, my young friend, but I would have to be the pragmatist here. That is an impossible task.”

“Who is to say what is and is not possible?” countered Raeden, beaming brightly. “I turned your son into a Dracorian. A fine Dracorian in fact.” He had to mentally kick himself and pull his eyes away from Loraad or he would tear his trousers with his erection. “You would put your life in my hands. Just a moment ago, you would pack your belongings and leave with us. Now I am telling you, you will not have to leave.”

“A noble sentiment. But how shall we implement it? You would be a target for La Famille.”

Raeden explained that the Lady Ailiva had called him to a meeting in the morning. It would take time for La Famille to learn of the imprisonment of Don Cazzallo so they had some breathing space. That would give them time to forge alliances. If they were placed under the protection of the governess of Sareseou, they are less likely to attack. Further, if they were to have the support of the people, their grip of fear amongst Heuveir would loosen.

“And I believe I have just the way we garner the respect and adoration of the people,” he concluded with a bright grin.

“And how might that be?” Yhan muttered miserably. The youth sat back down and was clearly more receptive to Raeden’s suggestions but still a pessimist.

He glanced over to Samuel. This time, his Savior-Adviser nodded resolutely.

“I have an idea.”

******

The timing could not have been better. The sun was setting to the west and the dock workers were just leaving for the evening. It was impossible to avoid the aromatic scents that wafted from the dock where the Skyward Fantasy was moored. A few crude benches made of crates and planks were arranged along the pier and atop each one was some dish that Duvon had prepared. The Marcliff children were manning the benches. Weary workers and tired sailors huddled over to Trihan who provided them with the initial cutlery and plates. After an hour or so of people approaching him for a meal, Yhan no longer had to force his smile and seemed genuinely happy as he served the workers several pre-prepared foods from large cauldrons behind him. Lastly, using his newfound strength, Loraad hoisted the piles of dirty dishes that were deposited on his bench near the entrance of the pier and hefted them all the way back to the Skyward Fantasy where he would wash them and then bring them along with more food prepared within the airship’s kitchen by his father back to the dock. All the while, Raeden stood at the forefront of it all, beckoning people over with wings spread wide and thanking them as the Avatar of Malgorin.

The lines grew and grew. Others apart from dock workers began arriving. They were carrying leaflets dropped from the sky by Samuel astride Valerie to advertise the completely free service being provided. The food was certainly not the absolute best in all of the land, but it was filling, aromatic and smacked of traditional Traellivian cuisine.

“Come all!” Raeden bellowed, pushing his cracked and gravelly voice to its limits. “Fill your bellies! All in the name of Malgorin for I am his Avatar! Fear not the Dragon of Death! Death is patient. Death will not come for you until your time! Malgorin wishes you all to live until he comes for you!”

It was a bit of a twisted message and he was afraid that it would drive people away but the prospect of free food was enough to draw people in. Malgorin and Samuel would have to forgive him for not being too genuine about his delivery. Some part of him could not believe that the same Dragon of Death that had threatened him with an eternity of being devoured would ‘wait’ for anyone to die. The rest of him, however, remembered how Samuel had told him that there was a balance in this brief existence. He only needed to look at the Skyward Fantasy and be reminded of his conviction.

“All this food is for you for free! Come back for a second helping! Bring your friends and your family!”

His heart and voice broke a moment when he noticed that there was a woman pulling along her two children, one in each arm, and a third draped in a sling across her chest. They looked weary, shrunken and on the edge of death themselves. The crowd beyond a certain point was the same. All poor, broken people with slouched postures and sunken features. What hope he could offer did not reach them as they gazed upon the line and clutched their stomachs in misery. Some were starting to turn away likely believing that their hopes and prospects for food lay elsewhere.

For a bard, the worst thing that could happen was for an audience to walk out.

Raeden took the air and glided over to where Yhan was positioned.

“Come to finally help instead of spouting your nonsense?” snarled the youth. His words came through clenched teeth but that was only because he was genuinely smiling and pleased.

“Come to bring some helpings to the people in the back,” he answered. “Can you prepare some servings?”

Then, Yhan lost his smile. “Why should they skip the line while others wait?”

The young man’s contrary attitude was starting to grate on him. “Because those people are those that have come all the way from halfway across the city, starved and with children. They are likely not to be fed for hours yet. It would be better if they went back to their homes and begged for money to buy food than wait in this ever-expanding line.” He gestured at the crowd that had spilt over to the other pier.

Yhan’s features softened as he looked out into the crowd. “And here I thought the Dragon of Death had no heart.” He raised his voice. “Tri, I need some extra plates!”

Though he was unused to carrying plates, Raeden was able to clutch six of the dishes to his chest and carefully flew them over the crowd. The fact that he was suspended in the air by the blessings of the Old Gods helped as well. He spotted the family of four and made for them. The crowd immediately began pulling away while the poor family shivered and quaked, trying to hide amongst the masses.

“Do not be afraid,” he said, handing the woman one of the plates. “You all look starved. Here. So you are not to wait a minute longer to stave off death.”

The woman, wide-eyed, took the plate and offered cutlery. She was in tears as she handed it to her eldest while Raeden offered her middle child one plate of his own. “Thank you, milord!” she cried. “Thank you!”

An opportunity presented itself and Raeden could not resist pawning off his message. “Malgorin comes for everyone in time, my good woman. It is not your or your children’s time yet. It is only the Triad that would leave such sweet, innocent souls to suffer and die without doing anything to help them.”

He did not give her a chance to say another word and he turned to the next family, offering them the remaining plates. Once he was finished, Raeden once more took to the air and returned to Yhan. Upon seeing him, the pessimistic man rolled his eyes knowing full well that Raeden was watching but still called to Trihan for extra plates.

“You realise we’re going to hit a logistical problem, right?” grumbled the youngest of the Marcliffs as he handed Raeden another six plates. “Those people aren’t going to wait to bring the plates back to the front for Loraad to clean. We are going to run out of plates.”

That was very true. “I… I think…”

“We should rely on the good nature of th’ people,” answered Trihan from the front, his bright grin like a ray of sunshine through the cloudy evening. “An’ hey! Get ‘em to bring th’ plates up t’ ‘ere when they’re done. Will mean people get fed sooner if we still get plates, right?”

Raeden beamed. “A brilliant idea!”

He took flight, once again landing near where he had first served the woman. Again, the crowd parted but they almost immediately closed in as he brought them food. “Please bring your plates and cutlery to the front. Pass them along so that we may clean them and serve your fellows.” To avoid sounding like some officer of the law, he added, “Life is to be shared, after all.”

Again and again, he made trips back and forth from the back of the line where the poor clamoured towards him, raising their hands as he approached and brought them their meals. Many were openly weeping at his approach and some even dared to fall to their knees and offer prayers to Malgorin. Surely that would appease the Death God. Some sought him out after their meals were finished and offered him their plates after they were done. Raeden happily took them and brought them back to Loraad who worked his hardest to deliver the meals.

The only weariness he felt was from carrying the hot meals back and forth as his wings were seldom used. The adoration and praise that he received from the crowd energised him and brought back memories of when he serenaded great courts. This, however, had a different taste to it. Even when he had performed at his best, the reception he had ever received was polite, controlled and held a chilly air about it. The hope, thanks and joy that came from the people he delivered food to… it was something else. It was… pure. Genuine.

Much as his songs ought to be.

Movement through the air caught his gaze. Samuel came riding in upon his wyvern with the electric wings. The crowd gasped at the approaching armoured mage particularly because he was carrying several sacks. Raeden flew to intercept him as they both made for the deck of the Skyward Fantasy.

“You have been making your rounds, I see,” observed the wolf.

“We have drawn quite the crowd.” He glanced over to the sea of people. “I find it hard to believe that so many people would want a free meal.”

“Want or need?”

He glanced back to Samuel, both puzzled and hurt by the question. Then dropped his gaze. “Samuel… I feel… guilty.”

“Of what?”

“For years I have cavorted with nobles and the aristocracy. I have dined on the finest this land has to offer. Yet looking at these people now… seeing how… desperate they are for the simple fare we give… I feel like I have been selfish and cold.” He lifted his gaze back towards Samuel, his brow furrowed. “Lady Ailiva lives and rules this land as much as Don Cazzallo did. I saw what the people though of him. Were they truly alike?”

Valerie landed without a sound on the deck of the Fantasy and Samuel began pulling the bags off her back. They were supplies. Likely to help fill the stocks that Duvon was tearing through.

“More than you could ever guess,” answered Samuel. “Both have lofty dreams of control and power. Both work under a guise of ‘innocence’.” He turned his gaze towards Raeden, a stare that made the Avatar find more interest in the polished white floor once more. “Both use people.”

“I suspected as much.” He laughed softly and ran a hand through his long, silvery hair. “Ailiva once said that were were much alike. We use people.”

Samuel handed him two bags. “Then take that lesson and use it to forge your message. Do not use these people. They need to be fed. Feed them with bread and do not force your rhetoric down their throats.” He stepped back and plucked a few more bags from Valerie. “And I mean that literally. I dropped in on a few bakeries that were closing for the evening with excess bread. I figured that if people had to wait for their hot meal, they might as well have something to tide them over before the main course.”

Raeden peered into the bag and, just as the wolf said, there was several pieces of pastry and bread inside. He beamed and spread his wings. “Then I shall take flight!”

There much relief from both the Marcliffs and the crowd when he came flying upon the masses, distributing bread. It gave much breathing room for Duvon to restock the food and for Loraad to wash the dishes. At the same time, while the unfed were waiting for their meals, they had something to eat. Raeden was unsure if it was the bread or not but the crowd stayed and had begun setting up little fires to keep them warm as darkness descended. The Avatar was more than happy to walk amongst them and distribute the food. It made his heart soar when dock workers who had already been fed took from his example and started bringing meals to those that still waited. It gave him an opportunity to rest. He returned to the Skyward Fantasy where Loraad was perched on the edge of the airship’s deck with his own meal. The golden dragon waved him over.

“Quite an audience you have gathered,” said the gold Dracorian. “I would hazard that half of Heuveir is here.”

He glanced out to the masses, at the little fires that had been lit up and down the docks and the people crowded around them. “Soon, I shall have all of Heuveir.”

Loraad gave him a curious look. “Is that truly your ambition? Would this be for Malgorin?”

“Partially.” Raeden squatted down next to his Brother-Bodyguard and peered out with determination at the city. “I’ve lived the majority of my life flitting about the edges of nobility. Ailiva once called me a parasite for I leeched off the wealth of others.”

“You are no parasite.”

“Oh but I was.” Raeden lowered his gaze, looking directly down at the dark pit of Kalsammar’s Divide. “I prided myself in my ability to seduce and entrance others. I deluded myself into thinking that I had power over them. I was a fool.” The night’s wind picked up and blew at his mane. “I was so blinded by my own arrogance that I did not see that the rich and affluent built their fortunes on the suffering of others. I do not know what it is like in the other nations but here, at least in Sareseou, good people like you are forced into poverty while others selfishly reap the rewards of your labor.” The weight of his words forced him to shake his head. “Death equalises everyone. No matter how much coin you have to your name or how famous you may be, you are equal in the jaws of death. You should be judged by your actions not your wealth.”

Loraad let out a soft, thoughtful noise. “You have not spoken of your upbringing apart from being a bard. Where were you born?” As recompense for the questions, he offered some of his food to the Avatar

Glad to be distracted from the solemn topic - albeit one he raised - Raeden said, “Nowhere and everywhere. I was born amongst vagrants.” He plucked some of the flat bread and scooped some of the flavourful, savoury chowder and munched on it. Even slightly cooled, it was delectable possessing rich and complex profiles that had him swimming through them long after he had swallowed.

That stunned the golden-scaled dragon. “You were a gypsy?”

He laughed softly. “I suppose I was. We had a caravan. One we took along the main roads. We performed in towns, bought and stole coin from our audience. When I came of age, my mother taught me how to seduce a woman and used me to bring in more… lucrative prey.” He took a strip of boiled chicken, wrapped it in the bread and dipped it in the chowder, giving the meal more texture and a bit more protein. Upon being blessed with some food, his stomach decided it was time to eat and made him very aware of how hungry he was.

“Sounds to me like you were in much the same position as my family and I. No home to call your own and resorting to stealing to get by.”

“A reason why I was not too furious at you when you tried to steal from me.” Raeden shrugged, taking more bread. “That and I scarcely had anything to steal.” He looked out into the crowds once more. “But after a while, I grew sick of travel. I found a lesser noblewoman who was very receptive to my charms and I abandoned my family in favor of luxury. But I was not so foolish as to believe it was love. I knew that her father would never have let us wed so when it seemed right, I gave her the best night of her life and left. I sought to return to my caravan. I sang in taverns, performed in beds and travelled long to catch up with them.” The weight of history fell upon his broad shoulders once more but he shrugged it off, ruffling his wings in the process. “Sadly, when I finally did catch up with them it was in the northern town of Isfanteu. They had a new mayor that did not take too kindly to gypsies and had my caravan tortured, killed and then hung out at the city gates to tell everyone coming into the city that they did not fancy any vagrants. I heard it had something to do with their inherent distrust of strangers as there were tales of Nagas luring people below the waves, devouring them and then wearing their skin to walk amongst them once more.”

Loraad jerked back in shock. “I have never heard of such a tale.”

“Myths up north are rather… gory. Comes from the harsh environment I wager.” Raeden shrugged and sat back, propping himself up on his arms while splaying his legs out before him. “But I was never too attached to my family. They may have birthed me by blood but to them, I was another mouth to feed and another pair of hands that could help them survive. Perhaps that is where I gained my ability to use others so indiscriminately.” Raeden did not want to devour all of Loraad’s meal and looked to him inquisitively.

The big, golden dragon sighed and patted his belly heartily, indicating that he was done. “I am glad, then, that you are changing for the better.”

Raeden laughed softly. “It only took my death and a bargain with the God of Death. I do wonder what Malgorin thinks of my… interpretation of his role.”

“Not favorably I wager. What God would want to go from having the world gripped by fear of your name to being one considered an inevitability?”

“Perhaps one that has learnt their lesson?” Raeden laughed softly. “If a stupid mortal like me can learn the value of the harder workers of this world, maybe a Death God can learn that there can dying need not be a painful experience.”

“You presume much comparing yourself to a god.”

“I can associate with them,” laughed the Avatar. “They fell from grace, I nearly died. Now we are both working our ways back to the top.”

Loraad’s golden eyes suddenly darted to the crowd, his long ears twitching. He turned in curiosity, prompting Raeden to follow his gaze. The masses were being pushed apart by what appeared to be a procession of guards. The crest that the Dracorian males became clearer as they approached and it was one that Raeden readily recognised; the black castle perched over a cliff against a rising sun - the insignia of Sareseou. Lady Ailiva had come to pay them a visit.

Raeden rose from where he was seated and took to the air. He mildly took note of how Loraad opted not to follow him through the skies and rushed back into the Fantasy. It would have been a great surprise if his Brother-Bodyguard had managed to learn how to fly within a day. Sometime in the future he would have to train the first of his converts in the art of flight. One of Malgorin’s edicts had been to bring the Dracorians back into the air, after all.

In his musing, he almost overshot the procession from Ailiva and spread his wings instinctively to brake in midair. The manoeuvre would have been impossible for a regular Dracorian but he was the Avatar after all. Ailiva’s ‘guards’ were, in fact, just armoured Dracorian men bearing the poles of a large litter on their shoulders. The tall, decorated vehicle was common further southeast and rarely seen so far up north but Raeden guessed it was part of elven culture so Ailiva had adopted it. Its towering, square frame was decorated as a deep, black with its edges decorated with reds, golds and oranges to make it look like the rising sun contrasting against the darkness of Kalsammar’s Divide. Its curtains were a silky yellow. Ailiva’s bodyguard, the white Dracorian Savid, marched beside the door.

“As I recall,” Raeden began, “our meeting was not until the morrow.” His tone was edged with the frustration of Ailiva using her authority to effectively mow down the peacefully eating crowd.

“Lady Ailiva heard of a commotion here in the docks,” Savid said gruffly. “Some mention of the Avatar of Death feeding the masses. She was curious.”

The elf’s supple fingers brushed back the saffron curtains. “I can speak for myself, Savid.” She pushed open the door and her servants immediately moved to bring the litter closer to the ground. In her finery, she was robed in a sable gown with a bright green sash wrapped from her shoulder to her waist and then curled around her abdomen. Her hair was left to tumble past her shoulders and it was clear she had no intention of entertaining this evening as the usual blush on her cheeks, highlights in her eyes or gloss to her lips were absent. Still, she was even more stunning without the flourish of court. Despite her inherent beauty, Raeden could not find himself aroused by her.

Savid offered her his hand to help her out of the litter but she simply ignored him and turned to face the Avatar.

“Imagine my surprise when not even a day after our fateful encounter that I get word that the Avatar of Malgorin is hosting a feast at the docks. I would have considered it an insult not to be invited.”

Raeden was refused to apologise to her. “I believe my adviser took great pains to sweep all over Heuveir to bring invitations to all its peoples. If the winds decided not to carry one of the many pamphlets to your doorstep, then perhaps it is the elements you should aggrieving.”

Ailiva appeared pleased by his response. “Perhaps my Gods simply did not wish me to cavort with a heretic such as yourself.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Quite.” Her lips turned upwards ever so slightly. “As I understand it, you offer these meals for free? Might I partake?”

Raeden glanced over his shoulder were the Marcliffs were staring at him, waiting for his response. Most if not all of the gathered had been fed with a few left in the line. A bard knew his audience well. As much as he wanted to snub her, he reminded himself that he was in a precarious situation. To insult her would be to bring about another bout of vengeance that could see him dead. Perhaps Samuel could save him but he also had the Marcliffs to consider. It would be selfish to put them all at risk for his own petty revenge. But at the same time, the wolf-mage’s words echoed in his mind. He needed to find his voice.

“Of course,” he said, offering her a respectful bow; artfully dipping his body until his entire half was almost parallel to the ground, right arm draped over his chest over his heart and his left leg sliding backwards, almost to the point of bending. “Allow me to feed your litter-bearers and bodyguard as well. We have much food to spare and you must have a long journey back to your residence on such a cold night. It would be best for all of you to have warm food in your bellies.”

He did not need to look up to know that her smile had lost its genuine amusement and had become frozen to hide her annoyance. In the fight of egos, charity had won.

“Why not?” she said haughtily. “If they have the capacity to eat.”

“My lady is most generous.”

He spread his wings once more and launched back into the air in a single, swift movement. The Dracorians serving Ailiva - Savid included - gawked at the movement which would have been impossible especially given that their wings were so terribly atrophied. With their jobs being solely to bear Ailiva on their shoulders, their wings had been removed to avoid them getting in the way of the poles and the litter. The sight of these wingless dragons made him wonder at how much he took advantage of his gifts.

Setting the thought aside for the moment, he returned to where the Marcliffs were already desperately working to heat up the food they had prepared. Raeden gladly took the prepared dishes - the finest Yhan had arranged - and brought them back to where Ailiva was waiting patiently. Of course he had to offer her the first of the meals but he made a point of offering the rest to the grateful litter-bearers. Savid refused it, however, giving him a steely gaze that was far more intimidating that it should be. Perhaps because the white dragon was about as tall as Raeden already and he was far from enhanced by the Old Gods.

“Perhaps not the best fare I have had but it certainly is quite pleasant,” Ailiva said, sampling the tiniest of bites. “My compliments to your chef.”

Raeden beamed. “That is high praise from the governess and first wife of our Lord Farondiir.” He knew that it was a point of insult to her at being called Farondiir’s first wife. He did not give her a moment to retaliate as he once again lifted up into the air. “Allow me to fetch our esteemed chef. I am sure he would be most pleased at your comments and would be grateful for how best he could improve.”

He had to keep himself from grinning as he ducked back into the Skyward Fantasy and entered the kitchen. “Duvon!” he exclaimed. “Lady Ailiva wishes to give you her compliments!”

The chef stared at him, stunned. Samuel was in the room as well, peeling apples of all things. Feast, that stray dog that lingered outside Duvon’s restaurant, was happily lapping up some slices that the mage-knight dropped purposefully dropped.

“S - S - she does!?” stammered the portly man. “I… I can scarcely believe that a noble such as her would find my dishes appealing!” He rapidly wiped his hands on his apron and brushed his hair back. “I must look presentable.”

“You look fine, Duvon,” Samuel insisted. “If you went out there looking like you’ve fed most of Heuveir effortlessly, you’ll be expected to do more. This was no mean feat. Take pride in it.”

“Right. Of course.” He smiled and rushed out the kitchen door, forgetting that he was still clutching a wooden spoon. Raeden watched him go with a smile. Feast remained behind, wagging his stringy tail back and forth and

“What was that about?” asked the Avatar.

Despite his armoured hands, Samuel peeled the apples with extreme dexterity. “I may be an adviser to you, Raeden, but as I mentioned when we first met, my loyalty rests with all of Tirinead. Not the Old Gods. Not the Holy Triad and certainly not you. It would not do you well to rely on my advice all the time.”

Raeden laughed softly. “You have yet to steer me wrong and if I were to hazard, should I follow your advice to the letter, I will do what is good for Tirinead. Would I be wrong?”

Samuel gave him that enigmatic, hidden smile; the same that always sent a chill down his spine. “Maybe. But just remember that it is not always my hands pulling the strings. You will find that others shall soon tug at your heart. One day, I swear this to you, you will be met with the choice of choosing me or those you love. I will assure you, that you will choose those you love.”

The Avatar rolled his eyes. “Take it from someone who has scarcely found himself ‘in love’ but touted it to entice others into bed. I am one who values logic and merit over affection. Perhaps not the best message I ought to be bearing but I can still feel connected to the downtrodden and poor without being in love with them, no?”

“That would make you a fine politician.”

That made him laugh and Samuel shared in the light mirth. “I must go and entertain our dear Lady Ailiva,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “Will you join us, Master Mage?”

Samuel wiped his armoured hands with a towel and flicked the rest of the water from his fingers. He absently petted Feast who trotted happily beside him. “I might as well. Were we to arrive at court without making introductions, I am sure that she would feel ‘insulted’ that we didn’t meet this evening.”

Ailiva likely had enough ammunition against him without arming her with ‘poor manners’.

With the mage-knight in the lead, Raeden walked the gangway back down to the crowd. He was surprised, however, when he found countless people had surrounded Duvon and the chef looked to be in tears. Instincts demanded he leap to help the chef. Samuel held him back and gestured towards the thankful crowd. The gathered were not mauling him. In fact, Duvon was being praised and thanked. Ailiva had even been pushed back by the swarm of gratitude. The look of displeasure on her face lingered for a brief moment after she caught sight of Raeden and then it was replaced with a pleasant, aloof expression. Likely the mask she adopted to hide her true emotions. Raeden instinctively tried to hide the smile that was creeping along his face but remembered the many lessons that Samuel had taught him about being genuine. A sense of relief eased into his jaw as he let that smile ease onto his muzzle. It was so alien to wear a genuine smile even if it was at an enemy’s expense.

He headed towards the crowd and wondered if he would ever be able to make it back to the governess of Sareseou. A loud screech from the Skyward Fantasy came from Valerie, perched on the deck. Her cry brought attention back to him… and Samuel. The sheer presence of the mage-knight was enough to part a path through the gathered audience. Raeden had to admit he was loathed to yield the stage to anyone but even he had to admit when he was beaten. Even Duvon, who had been the centre of attention a moment ago, had to step aside as Samuel approached Ailiva, bowing his head in respect and thanks.

Raeden stopped a few feet from Ailiva, his Savior-Adviser by his side. Savid, Ailiva’s ever-present bodyguard, had reached for his blade but had yet to draw it. Samuel stood impassively, his features unreadable beneath his helm. Had everyone not seen him walk towards the governess, it would have been easy to mistake him for an inanimate suit of armour. There was an air of unsettling silence as Samuel stood in front of Ailiva, unmoving. To her credit, the elf did not flinch.

“So you must be the great mage that has been making the rounds in this fair city,” Ailiva said. “I hear you perform miracles and are capable of producing riches with a wave of a hand.”

“It honestly takes more than a wave of a hand,” answered Samuel slyly. His words brought the faintest tug of a smile to the corners of Ailiva’s rosy lips.

“What brings you to Sareseou?”

“Theatrics.” Samuel inclined his head ever so slightly to the side. “Theatrics and the cool crisp night air.”

At first, Raeden could not understand why Ailiva’s eyes flashed briefly with irritation. Was it a slight against Heuveir and her county? No. It was a jab at her decision to host this conversation out in the open for all to see. The cunning governess clearly wanted something from Samuel but it was not clear what.

“I hope this country treats you well, Master Mage,” she said with a smile that highlighted her cheekbones. “I must admit that I had never seen or heard of a Fenrian with skill in the Arcane and yet I have heard tell of you striding about showing your vast power. Though I must say that in this land, it is often common courtesy to remove one’s helm when speaking to someone. More often than not it is out of respect to ones with authority.”

A trap! Should Samuel remove his helm, he would effectively be placing himself below Ailiva. But if he kept it on, he would be personally snubbing her. In public. She was using the fact that so many had already seen Samuel without his helm against him! She was truly conniving.

“Unfortunately,” said the mage, causing Raeden’s heart to plummet, “the positioning of my helmet is less out of disrespect for you but more for your protection. There are many who would not like what they see beneath this metal.” Samuel tapped the side of his golden crown.

Ailiva chuckled softly. Her eyes were glinting with a predatory stare like a hawk spying its meal from the skies. “And yet you have strode about in my streets without it in broad daylight? You must think me less than a commoner if you believe you must hide yourself for my benefit. As far as impressions go, Master Mage, you have made a poor one.”

Samuel shrugged absently and reached for his helm. “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

Raeden gasped. A sentiment shared by everyone around him. Many immediately fell to their knees. Savid let go of his sword and staggered back, slamming his back against the parked litter. All the colour drained from Ailiva’s face and her eyes bulged like she had just seen a ghost. Right in front of him, just a few feet away, was Taydir Wingsever… or at least the head of Taydir Wingsever mounted on the shoulders of the mage-knight.

“Taydir?” he stammered.

“Taydir?” exclaimed Savid. “What? Impossible!”

“What… what are you two speaking of?” shouted someone from the crowd. “That’s my Elisa! Elisa!”

Samuel immediately slipped on his helmet before further chaos ensued. “Those who gaze upon my face can often see the person that they most desire to speak to at the time especially when I am the sole focus of their attention. I try not to leave myself without a helm especially when a I’m the centre of attention like this.”

Ailiva took a long minute to compose herself. Clearly, the mage-knight had defeated her in this battle of wits. The blame for her state clearly rested on her and she knew how close she had been to losing control of the crowd.

“I… I see,” she said with a hard swallow. “A good… factoid to know.” A tight smile appeared on her face. “You seem to have many talents, Master Mage. Clearly someone of your abilities must have a fortune given such audacious behavior.”

Now she was calling him reckless. Her ability to recover from a terrifying experience was uncanny.

“If you are referring to this…” Samuel reached into his cloak and produced the silver tube that he had used a day earlier. He pulled the lid off the capsule and tipped it upside town. Perfectly cut, blue-green pieces of alexandrite can tumbling out as easily as rain. Those closest to the mage gawked as the waterfall of gemstones especially as it quickly began piling up around Samuel’s feet. None of the onlookers dared step forward and seize any with Ailiva there; a testament to just how much control she possessed. “… then you would be wrong. I do not consider this to be the source of my wealth. True wealth, my lady, comes from one’s bonds and the company one keeps. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Samuel spread his arm to his side, sweeping his cloak back. “Duvon Marcliff. If you would please step forward.”

Raeden tilted his head curiously at the theatrics before him and stepped back to observe. The chef approached, showing only nervousness at suddenly being the of attention. Ailiva watched with narrowed eyes as Samuel knelt down towards the ragged street dog, Feast. The mage-knight gently petted the pup.

“It is time, my little friend,” uttered the wolf. Feast barked happily, tail still wagging, even as an incandescent blue-white light wrapped around him. Everyone save for Raeden took a step back in shock and fear. Savid even wrapped an arm protectively around Ailiva’s chest, pulling her back in a curiously familiar, protective gesture for a mercenary.

Samuel reached out to Duvon. “Your spoon, my good man.”

Only then did Duvon realise he was still clutching the same spoon he had been using to stir the stock back in the Fantasy’s kitchen. Stunned, the chef took a moment to wipe the dried sauce on his apron before handing it towards Samuel. All the mage did was gently touch the tip of the spoon with a finger. The light that was Feast let out one last bark. Long wisps of gossamer thin strands sprung from the bulb of light and curled around Duvon’s utensil. The chef gasped but could not let go of the shaft even as the light completely encased it and the silhouette of Feast vanished. Small crystal flakes dropped from the spoon, revealing a long, metallic frame touched with the blackish wires. The spoon’s head was shaped like a canine’s upper paw with blazing rubies as the eyes. The base of the utensil tapered off reminiscent of Feast’s wry tail.

“I give you Livestock,” said Samuel, rising to his feet. “Taste, much like the face I may wear, is beholden to those that experience it. However, any food touched by Livestock will speak the universal language of health. Any ailment will instantly be cured. A Panacea.” He produced an apple and held it out to Duvon. “But any food, any cure, must be prepared with knowledge of those that is meant to consume it. You must know what it is that ails a person to heal them lest you prepare something that could potentially do nothing or, at worst, kill them.”

That made Duvon freeze as Samuel handed him the apple.

“Let us sample it,” said the mage-knight. He immediately pointed at Savid and the white Dracorian froze. “You lost the use of your left eye during the War of Apotheosis. Gauged out by your own son who sought to flee from his post at the fall of your platoon. Duvon, why not restore to him the use of his eye?”

The chef, innocent as he was, looked from one hand which held the magical spoon and the other which held an ordinary apple. Shrugging, he tapped the back of the utensil against the ruby red surface of the apple. Nothing seemed to happen but he still handed it towards Savid.

All eyes went to Savid… who in turn looked to Ailiva.

The elf was calculating. Raeden could see it in her face. So many possibilities presented themselves. Should Samuel somehow create a miracle, she would have her proof of his abilities and perhaps an ally. However, should his claims prove false, Samuel - and by extension Raeden - would be shamed. Ultimately, there was no loss to her. Except that last sentence that Samuel uttered. It was wholly possible that Duvon could kill Savid. Logically, a cold-hearted Ailiva would not hesitate to sacrifice her bodyguard for such a simple test. But she was hesitating.

There were more ties between Savid and Ailiva than just a bodyguard and charge.

“Eat it, Savid,” Ailiva ordered coldly.

“Milday?” stammered the alabaster Dracorian.

“I have commanded it. Eat the apple.”

There was a flash of indecision in Savid’s one good eye but his body was already moving to seize the apple. He paused as he brought it within an inch of his lips. Then he took a bite. No chewing. Just a cold, painful-looking, swallow. His eyes were shut… but that did not stop the faint trickles of bluish-white dust from sprinkling out from his left eye and floating into the sky. When he opened both eyes, the shining blue had been restored.

“I… I can see…!” he gasped.

Ailiva looked openly shocked.

A chill ran down Raeden’s spine and he was sure Samuel was smiling. The mage-knight rested a hand gently on Duvon’s shoulder.

“Well, Master Chef,” chuckled the wolf, “I do believe it is time for dessert.”

******

It went without saying that hundreds clamoured to Duvon for a miracle of their own. Those that had no reason to seek the ‘Miracle Chef’, immediately rushed to the streets, screaming of the magic that they had witnessed. All in the name of Malgorin who had created an Avatar on Tirinead served by a mage-knight of incredible power. Ailiva had silenced them all, however, with a quick snap of her fingers. She seemed pleased as she invited the weary Marcliffs, Raeden and Samuel to her manor. Raeden accepted if only to keep Duvon from overworking. They were escorted through the streets with Duvon riding inside Ailiva’s litter with her while Raeden and Loraad escorted it on either side. The townspeople dispersed as both Samuel and Savid brought up the rear some distance away with Samuel once again astride his black wyvern, Valerie.

Heuveir should have been asleep at that hour but news was quickly spreading of the miracle at the docks.

“You have played Lady Ailiva well today, mage,” Savid said gruffly. “I cannot help but wonder if you are naught but a puppetmaster hoisting the banner of the Death Dragon.”

The white Dracorian felt that chill that gave him the odd sensation that Samuel was smiling beneath his helm. They were speaking well away from the rest of the crowd as the knight’s mere presence gave them several feet of distance and the wyvern he rode gave them several more.

“Are you sore that Ailiva treated you as disposable by having you potentially devour poison?” countered the knight.

“She knew what she was doing. You would not have dared kill me in front of everyone.”

“Is that so? I would simply have to remove my helm and I would paralyse everyone in their tracks as they saw the face of the person they would so desperately seek to speak to. A snap of my finger and that moment of hesitation would be their last.” Samuel glanced towards Savid. “I do wonder if that is how Carlyle felt when you slipped that dagger between his ribs.”

The white-scaled Dracorian turned towards the knight and already had his sword halfway out of his scabbard. “You have no right to utter that name in front of me!”

Samuel reached for his helm and Savid found himself trapped between the terrible choice of being frozen by the countenance of his son and the desperate need to see that face once more. Strangely, when the mage-knight removed his helmet, he did not say the youthful if a little chubby cheeks of his beautiful baby boy but the countenance of a Fenrian with golden blonde hair and black fur.

“What…?” he whispered in surprise.

“I did not lie when I said that I had the ability to appear as anyone’s most treasured individual,” Samuels aid with that chilling smile. “I just never mentioned that I could turn that ability off at will.”

Even to that, Savid had to scoff. “You clever bastard. Lady Ailiva surely has her work cut out for her.”

“She would if she were the target of my attention.”

That gave him pause. “If not her then…?” He felt Samuel’s gaze upon him and stopped in his tracks. “What interest do you have in me?”

Valerie stopped her slow advance, allowing the mage-knight to turn to him. “A story does not end with death, Savid. But Carlyle may just wish for the sweet release of death given where he is right now.”

He drew his sword completely. “I warned you never to mention that name in my presence!”

Samuel’s features were dead still. Ailiva’s precession was well out of earshot range and they had entered the ‘rich’ part of town which meant no one else was on the streets. “The Holy Triad that rules over this land sustains itself on war. Your son was a victim of that war. They now feed on his soul, torturing him to sustain their eternal hunger. He calls for you for each second of pain he suffers.”

Savid snarled and shook his head furiously. “Your wild stories do nothing to sway me. The Holy Triad…” He faltered in his words, the grip on his sword shaking.

“You suffer the same ailment as the Avatar. You are an outward proponent for a cause but you do not truly believe it. Both of you are denying your hearts the truth. If you do not believe me, then I will bring you to within an inch of your death. I swear that I will save you. See for yourself what the ‘Holy Triad’ truly is.”

The white Dracorian scowled at him. “You think I would simply let you kill me!?”

“If I wanted you dead, I would have killed you when you ate that apple or the many times between when this conversation started to when Ailiva and their retinue moved out of earshot. No, Savid DeMonttire. I just want you to see the truth.”

“And why would you want that? To have me turn against my lady?”

The Fenrian shook his head sadly. “Not every story ends with a happy ending. Even if you get to start a new one at end of the book, it doesn’t mean I won’t try to make this one a little brighter.”

Savid shoved his sword back into its scabbard with a scowl. “I have had enough tales of wild magics, riddes and ‘theatrics’ as you put it for the night.” He turned furiously away from the wolf and marched to catch up with Ailiva’s retinue. “Keep your counsel, mage. I will hear no more of your lies.”

Samuel, for his part, sighed heavily as the dragon disappeared into the night. “Well… that certainly could’ve gone better.”

Valerie gave him a pointed look.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. “I still had to try.”

The wyvern let out a soft groan.

“Oh don’t be like that. It’s nice to fail. Reminds me that I’m still mortal.”

She let out a grumble.

“Don’t be so nasty. I’m not being sanctimonious. You know that is exactly how I feel.” His companion - and mount - was silent prompting him to gently pat her neck. “One day you’ll understand. Now come on. Let’s catch up with the others. The Star-Eyed Wolf is enigmatic enough without disappearing into the night.”

A snarl came from her lips.

“Fine, fine,” he laughed. “Next time we work together, you get to ride me.”

She twisted her head around and gave him a cocky smirk, batting her eyes at him slyly.

“You know what I meant,” he said, smacking the back of her head lightly.

******

It felt odd being in finery again. Raeden had forgotten how constricting the silken tunic and inflated pants really were. Though constructed for Dracorians, the outfit he had been given was in no way suited for a Dracorian of his size and build. Centuries of disuse had shrunken most Dracorians’ wings especially in the noble caste and this reflected in their clothing. The base of the Avatar’s wings stretched from about his shoulder blades down his back almost to the base of his tail. The holes in his tunic were only big enough for wings that sprouted up to six inches from his shoulder. He felt terrible tearing the hole to make it bigger but the tightness around his wings, especially how they cut into the membrane, was incredibly uncomfortable.

Worse was the hole for his tail.

“I swear,” he grumbled, hopping down the hall uncomfortably while tugging at his trousers. “It is as if someone has wrapped my tail in a vice and simultaneously pressing my undergarments between the cracks of my arse!”

Samuel, who strode beside him in a comfortable gait, chuckled softly. “It is quite refreshing to hear you drop the pomp and posture of your usual speech for something a little more crass.”

He gave his Savior-Adviser a curious look. “What do you mean?”

Samuel gave him a dismissive shrug and a slight wave of his armoured hand. “Just that when you speak, you use inflections and specific words more fitting of a noble than a commoner. When you address someone from the crowd, it gives the distinct impression that you were highborn.”

“Is that a crime?” he asked with a slight hint of hurt.

“Not at all. Seldom do our actions, our meaning and how it is received align when there are so stark differences between upbringing and background. Often times, an audience cannot help but colour the words of another based on their own opinion.”

“How do you mean?”

Samuel inclined his head to the side, cupping his hidden chin between his thumb and index finger. “A ruler might be beloved by his people but to the outside world, he is still a tyrant who potentially brainwashes those that he presides over. Similarly, the ‘oppressed’ could view those who would invade their culture as barbarians on a path to conquest. There is never any way to please everyone.”

“I beg to differ,” Raeden answered haughtily. “Music is universal. All can appreciate a joyful tune.”

“Music is but another form of language. The words that comes from your mouth is no different from a jaybird’s song. How it is received will always vary from person to person.”

The former-bard gave his adviser a smirk. “I shall endeavour to prove your wrong, my friend. I shall compose the greatest song there is! A song that will be universally accepted as was my intention!” He thrust a fist into the air and was met with a resounding rip that made him flinch and stop in mid-step.

“Interesting,” Samuel observed, continuing his stride unabated. “Your underarm hair is as stark white as your mane. The rumours about you dying your mane and scales would be very interested to see that as proof.”

Raeden blushed, grateful for his sable scales, and brought his arm down. “I had hoped Ailiva would have granted me something more suited to my size.”

“Maybe that’s the idea. Get you to come in to court, uncomfortable and then have a ‘wardrobe malfunction’ in the middle of the audience.” Samuel retrieved a crate from within his starry cloak and held it up. “Perhaps you would like to do the honours this time?”

Grateful for his Savior-Adviser’s help, he took the small crate, still marvelling at how anything could fit inside the chest and threw it with all his might at the ground. The shattering sound echoed in the long, narrow halls of Ailiva’s manor but went unnoticed by any of her attendants. Larger finery was produced but one that was identical to the kind that he currently wore only much larger. He quickly excused himself from Samuel’s company and hurried into an adjacent room. With the holes for his tail and wings much larger now, he was able to don the attire with ease and no longer felt like he was being suffocated by his own clothing. It was not until he was rid of the boots that he had been given did he realised just how constraining they were. The rush of blood back into his clawed toes gave him that awful sensation of pins and needles prickling at his flesh. The newer boots were many times bigger and fit snuggle with enough room for him to wiggle his toes though he had to wonder at the wisdom behind Dracorians wearing footwear at all.

Once he was fully dressed, he emerged from the room and followed Samuel to their destination: Ailiva’s audience chamber.

A pair of large, oaken double doors blocked their passage and two guards - both elves - stood watch. They immediately saluted at the two before proceeding to open the doors and allow them passage. The chamber was exactly as grandiose as a woman of Ailiva’s standing would expect. Banners possessing Sareseou’s insignia hung from the ceiling. A crystal dome stood right above the dais where a pair of thrones stood. Everything else was illuminated by dim candles ensuring the illusion that those one the throne were blessed by the heavens. Great, smooth pillars painted alabaster were decorated by golden vines in the elven tradition. Curiously, a golden carpet ran from the entrance of the chamber all the way to the throne. It was a bold statement given gold was the colour of royalty amongst the Dracorians - as purple was to the Holy Alliance. To have it leading up to the thrones spoke much about Ailiva. Not as much, however, as the fact that she stood in the bigger of the two thrones - the one traditionally given to the governor.

Raeden noticed that there was someone else parked before the throne and he immediately stalled the moment he recognised that silhouette.

“Ah Avatar,” Ailiva said, beckoning to him with a slim finger. “Please, come forward. Do not be shy.”

He could not. Every limb in his form was frozen as the man in the wheelchair slowly turned his mobile throne around and shot him a piercing stare with those fierce eyes; eyes that had once been the last thing countless Dracorians had seen before they were killed.

“Taydir…” he whispered.

“So that’s her plan,” Samuel whispered softly. “She certainly has a head for efficiencies.” He began striding forward, gently gesturing for Raeden to follow. “Come on, Avatar. Now is not the time to lose your nerve.”

Swallowing his fear, Raeden puffed out his chest and followed his Savior-Adviser. For each step he took, he was fighting against the force of Taydir’s distrustful and hateful stare. Were he in flight, he would be fighting against a terrible storm that sought to bring him to his knees and throw him back to his knees. It took all his effort not to stare directly into those eyes and stand beside Samuel. Thankfully, the mage-knight placed himself between Taydir and Raeden.

There was an edge of amusement in the corner of Ailiva’s eyes though Raeden did notice that Savid was shooting Samuel a particularly baleful look.

“Allow me to introduce our other illustrious guest,” she said. “Taydir Wingsever. A Hero of the Holy Alliance. He was in the neighbourhood and I thought it would be wise to bring him along to today’s proceedings given the spectacle at the docks the eve that just passed.”

“And this morn,” Samuel corrected. “The Avatar’s absence does nothing to stem hunger. I am sure many would be after Duvon Marcliff’s enchanted spoon and I made sure to escort them back to the Skyward Fantasy before this meeting.”

An edge of irritation crossed Ailiva’s features. It was clear that Samuel had tried - and rather obviously - to bait her into questioning why he had not informed her of the Marcliff’s departure. However, they were not under arrest or restrained in anyway. As guests, they were free to leave. She was smart enough not to fall for the trap but it was clear that she was none too pleased that such a powerful artifact was far from her grasp.

Taydir leaned forward and stared at Samuel incredulously. “Enchanted spoon?” he repeated.

“A device I forged for him. Made from the loyalty of a hound that Duvon has fed selflessly for years and a spoon that has likewise served Duvon unwaveringly. Any food touched by it will be granted the properties it requires to cure even the worst of ailments assuming the one who wields it knows exactly what ailment it is that he must cure.”

The great Dragonslayer gave Samuel a dubious look. “That sounds utterly ridiculous.”

“No more ridiculous that Darespine. It was the weapon that I gave. Duvon’s son, Loraad. Anyone that strikes the weapon will be forced into an inescapable duel with the wielder. None may harm either of the duellist during the contest which would last roughly a minute. Should the winner be the wielder of Darespine, they will be granted with greater strength. Should they win contest after contest, perhaps one day they could challenge the very gods.” Samuel gave Taydir a challenging look but the Hero had spent time in courts after his paralysis and was wise enough not to take the bait either.

Raeden had to wonder why Samuel would go about so flagrantly trying to insult the two most powerful people in the room. It was arguable that they could crush his budding religion even with Samuel’s great skills. Unless, of course, he was not playing them both. The Avatar glanced between Ailiva and Taydir… and came to a realisation. Taydir was not on the throne beside Ailiva. The Hero was not on her side. Samuel’s tete-ta-tete had revealed that both were paralysed by the other’s presence. And he could play on that.

“We have not come here to debate the power that my followers possess,” Raeden said boldly. “You summoned me for this audience, Lady Ailiva, and I have come. What is it that you wish to discuss?”

It was clear that Ailiva had hoped Taydir or Raeden would be at one another’s throats. But Samuel’s not-so-subtle boasting about his power to grant powerful artifacts was enough to give Taydir pause. A welcome development and left Ailiva to quickly regain her composure.

“Indeed.” The elf governess leaned back in her throne. “Tell me, Avatar, what are your intentions. While I consider myself to be welcome to all forms of worship whether it be to Malstraad, Kordain or Illirodur, those are the Gods of the Holy Triad. Opening a cult to the fallen God, Malgorin, is tantamount to heresy.”

Taydir was on edge but he did not speak. Raeden had to choose his words carefully especially given Samuel’s counsel just a few moments ago.

“I was given the task of bringing the Dracorian people back to their roots,” he said, spreading his wings. “The Dracorians have forgotten the pleasure of feeling the wind beneath their wings. They rely all too much on the airship technology provided by other races. Even then, one could argue that while the Dracorians once possessed the greatest navy in terms of sheer numbers, their ships were the most primitive. This is not the way of the Dracorians and not the path that Malgorin wishes for his chosen people. I am here to change that.”

“And preach of Malgorin?” Ailiva prompted.

“It was Malgorin who gave me my powers and it is in his name that I bring my message to the Dracorian people.”

“That’s heresy!” snapped Taydir. “Ailiva, why are you even entertaining this madman? You do know that if you brought him to Traelliviar that he would be slaughtered on the count of his scales alone! You’re putting yourself and this entire county at risk just by having him here!”

She did not respond, clearly waiting for Raeden to take up the contest. To that, the Avatar obliged her.

“Do not pretend that you have not seen the injustice that has befallen the Dracorian people, Taydir Wingsever,” Raeden said. He found the strength to turn towards the crippled Hero. Against those burning eyes, he could stand his ground. For now. “No race, no matter their crimes, deserves to simply prostate themselves against fate and wait to die. You share the same fate as the Dracorians. You have lost some part of yourself to war and now you simply wait until time cruelly comes to claim you.”

Taydir bared his teeth at him, in many ways more Dracorian than human. “Don’t you dare pretend to know me!”

“I am not pretending,” he answered with a gentle smile. “The Dracorians lost the use of their wings and now must use machinery to soar through the skies. You have lost the use of your legs and are forced to wheel yourself around in your chair. Both wait for the day when their suffering is put to an end. I can change that. I will change that.”

“You’re accusing me of having no purpose in my life!” he snapped. “That’s where you’re wrong. I do have a purpose!” He spun angrily towards Ailiva and pointed an accusing finger at her. “I will prove that she killed Raeden Windsong!”

The sound of his name coming from Taydir’s lips with such fierce, fiery conviction and purpose stunned the Avatar. He could not help but turn in surprise at Ailiva, waiting for her reaction. The elf governess merely rested her head on the palm of hand, elbow propped on the armrest of the throne. An amused smile was on her lips.

“You have come to my chamber more than once, Lord Wingsever, with the same accusation yet no evidence,” mused the governess. “Were I not so generous I would have you thrown into the dungeons of Sareseou for such baseless claims. But as you can see, I am more than happy to entertain any who would make such claims.” She gestured in Raeden’s direction. “Though I must admit, the dear Avatar has done more to prove his claims than you have.”

Taydir’s fury was barely kept in check. There was murder in his eyes and had he not been bound to his chair, he would have lunged at Ailiva.

“What is this Raeden Windsong to you, Lord Wingsever?” Raeden asked.

The hero calmed somewhat and averted his gaze from Raeden. “A dear friend. One who showed me that there was more to life than simply lounging on my ass and waiting for the day I will die. He was a bard. Wonderful singer. Terrible composer. Couldn’t read a room for shit. Certainly thought more with his cock than his head but then again, such was Raeden.” He shot Raeden a fiery stare. “So there. I have proven you wrong, ‘Avatar’. I have my purpose.”

And it was Raeden.

The Avatar closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, folding his wings against his back. “A bargain then, Lord Wingsever.” He opened his eyes again. “You will lend your aid in the restoration of the Dracorian people and Malgorin and in exchange, I will give you the whereabouts of Raeden Wingsong.” He inclined his head to the side slightly. “And the person who killed him.”

Ailiva’s smile vanished and Taydir’s eyes widened.

“You can do this?” demanded the hero.

“I am the Avatar of the Dragon of Death,” he answered, with a slight bow. “Any who die are under my god’s domain including the circumstances of their death. It is a simple matter to discern the truth behind the death and I can even lead you to the body.”

Taydir was shaking in his seat. “Deal!” he exclaimed, thrusting his hand out.

“A moment,” Ailiva interrupted. There was clear worry in her stance. Her face was unreadable but it was clear from how she was not smiling or the tenseness in her shoulders that she was far from amused. “You claim, Avatar, to wish to restore the Dracorian people to the skies. Yet you have not said how you will do this. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you, Lord Wingsever, to proceed with this agreement if it will mean a swathe of destruction across all of Sareseou to Traelliviar.”

Clever. Very clever. In Taydir’s eagerness to avenge Raeden, he could have fallen for a very quick trap. It would be just like a demon’s deal in the tales were Raeden inclined to be that evil. Taydir would have been honour-bound to do whatever it was that Raeden wished even if it meant slaughtering women and children. A lesson, as Samuel had put it, in how easily his words could be twisted. The Dragonslayer immediately pulled his hand back at this and was reconsidering his words.

Turning towards Ailiva, Raeden said, “It is not something I would freely discuss in public.”

“There is no one here but the us and the guards,” Ailiva prompted.

He thought fast and decided to prey on the very thing that she feared - loss of power. “I fear that were I to divulge my secret, it would spread far and wide. Much faster than I would care. A nation that grows too quickly would be cut down just as quickly.”

The elf’s brow furrowed. It took her a whole five seconds to decide to turn to Savid and dismiss him. The white-Dracorian paused then stiffly turned and ordered the other guards in the room to leave. Their clanking armour could be heard down the hallway even when the door shut behind them. When only silence remained, Raeden cleared his throat.

“I am not merely an Avatar of Malgorin,” Raeden said. “All the Old Gods blessed me. Each with a gift of their own. As you know, the Dracorians have been forbidden to breed by the edict of the Holy Triad. However, Garodrash, God of Fertility, gave me a gift with a means to circumvent this limitation.” He gestured towards his loins. “Any who come in contact with my seed will be transformed into a Dracorian of similar stature to myself. A true paragon of the Dracorian race and, I would assume, the same characteristics with magically imbued semen.”

Taydir let out a loud, boisterous laugh and even Ailiva looked very amused.

“Surely you jest!” exclaimed the Hero. “Is that your ploy? You’d form a cult and then sleep with your members? Let me guess. They have to sleep with you several times before they are fully transformed?”

His cheeks began to burn and he knew Ailiva almost had him. But he had one last trick up his sleeve. “If you do not believe me then perhaps a demonstration is in order?” He turned towards Taydir. “Allow my seed to touch you, Lord Wingsever. If I am wrong and you are not turned into a Dracorian, I will abandon my quest and yield that I have been deceived by the Old Gods. Publicly. Should I be right, you will continue with your vow to serve my cause with all your heart.” He offered Taydir a lopsided, cocky smirk. “And just to sweeten the deal, if I am correct, then you would regain use of your legs, have an extra pair of wings…” Then his eyes momentarily switched to Ailiva just so that he could see her expression when he said, “… and I will give you the killer of Raeden Windsong.”

Again, the temptation was there and Ailiva was thrust into the defensive. But the elf was a quick thinker and likely already had this possibility planned before Raeden even uttered it.

“A fine idea,” she said. “This evening. A private… screening of sorts. The Avatar shall bless a man with his seed. Only I and Lord Wingsever shall be in attendance so we shall not spread this too quickly as is the kind Avatar’s concern.”

With his own words coming back to bite him, Raeden immediately began mentally kicking himself.

“And just to further entice the Old Gods to ensure their Avatar’s success,” Ailiva said with a benevolent smile but sinister eyes, “should the Avatar’s claims prove true, I shall grant lordship of all Heuveir to him.” She leaned back in her throne. “You would naturally answer to myself and Sareseou but you would likewise be under our protection.”

The Lady of Sareseou truly had her flanks covered. Should Raeden’s claim prove false, a rival power would be disposed of and Taydir would be without a lead to Raeden’s death. But if Raeden did manage to turn Taydir this evening, he would have to answer to her as lord of Heuveir. Even if he revealed to Taydir that he was Raeden and that she attempted to kill him, she would have them both under her thumb as any attack they tried would be seen as a coup. Traelliviar would likely be involved.

Clever.

Very clever.

“Agreed,” Raeden huffed.

Ailiva clapped her hands haughtily. “After sunset then. At my private chambers. Savid will fetch you at the appointed time.”

“I look forward to it.”

The Avatar turned and marched out of the hallway, irked that the governess had managed to out-manoeuvre him but, at the same time, giddy at the thought of turning Taydir. There was a strange… queasiness in his gut that he had never felt before. Though many things were left uncertain, he was certain that he was looking forward to turning the great Dragonslayer. Raeden actually found himself skipping along slightly until he remembered that he still had Samuel striding alongside him.

“Uh…” he began bashfully.

“Well,” Samuel snickered. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

******

Between the morning and the moment when he would make his grand reveal to Taydir, Raeden had a lot of time. It would be foolish to spend that that time idling about and did not want his burgeoning following to think that he had lost interest in them. Though his mind was still on his inevitable encounter with his good friend, Raeden still perched himself on the docks and continue to preach of a patient, benevolent Malgorin while the Marcliffs prepared some food. Duvon recused himself to the kitchen of the Skyward Fantasy. Countless people all over Heuveir had been eager to sample the great healing properties of his food but there came the risk of dying should he not properly know what was ailing someone. To this end, Duvon did not want to be seen in the public eye and though many clamoured and begged for his magical touch, none were graced with it.

Ultimately, Raeden considered it a wise choice. As he had mentioned to the Ailiva; influence that grew too quickly was liable to fall just as quickly. Though it did leave him with a terrible, empty feeling in his chest at the sight of so many people pleading for good health but would just have to settle for some good food to break their long fast. They had tactfully repositioned themselves to the forefront of the Fantasy’s gangway to avoid anyone that would try to sneak into the ship’s kitchen and steal Livestock from Duvon. It was not clear if Samuel had explicitly bound the enchanted spoon to the chef but he would not take that chance. The spoon was the perfect platform to launch his sermon about Malgorin’s desire to let the people live until their time.

It was just a little past midday when no one was begging for food anymore and had decided to return to their chores or tasks for the day. Only about two or three dozen actually remained to listen to him preach about Malgorin. There was hope in their eyes. Even if he was imagining it, he believed that these few converts could strengthen Malgorin and through that, make him stronger. In that, he felt that he was starting to believe what he uttered. Though he had to admit there was some part of him that wondered if the reason the Dragon of Death had yet to strike him down was because the Old God had yet to grow enough strength to manifest and destroy him for besmirching his chilling name.

Raeden finished his speech and his small gathering milled about to discuss what he had said. To his surprise, Trihan Marcliff was amongst those that had aptly listened to him. The former-street-thief wandered over to him as he stepped off the makeshift soapbox.

“Ah must admit that ya paint Lord Malgorin inna much more benevolent light than th’ priests o’ th’ Holy Triad.”

He gave the lean young man a lopsided smile. “‘Lord’ Malgorin now?” he questioned.

Trihan shrugged absently. “If what ya say ‘s true an’ th’ Old Gods do seek ta return, they ‘ave done far more fer us than th’ Holy Triad. I ain’t gonna piss ‘em off.” The cockney twang in Trihan’s accent was grating. It reminded Raeden of all those black-toothed villagers he often had to entertain early on in his career before he exclusively turned his attention to the wealthy.

“So you would turn to the gods only if they continue to prove their existence?”

The young man grinned at him, flashing some broken and cracked teeth. “Yessir! If they ain’t gonna bother ta look afta us, I ain’t gonna bother worshipin’ ‘em!”

A curious approach to faith and divinity.

“Are you not afraid of divine retribution? The Gods created the world. Should they not deserve praise?”

“I dunno. The Old Gods created th’ Holy Triad an’ look what th’ Three did ta ‘em.”

Raeden glanced off to the side, unable to meet Trihan’s dark brown eyes for a moment. “That is a fair point.”

The young, athletic man was a curious enigma. The tallest of the Marcliffs but with sun-bleached, dark brown hair that hung in a tight ponytail at the base of his neck, he seemed like a ray of sunshine compared to the dour Yhan or the pragmatic Loraad. More than any of the three other sons, he seemed to embody Duvon’s positivity. There was a lust of life in his dark brown eyes and a spring in each of his wry limbs. Whenever he smiles, despite the crooked teeth, he brought the mood up around him. It was hard to think that he had formerly been a thief.

“I must know,” he admitted, “what gave you this insight into worship? Most people I have met are incredibly superstitious about offending the gods particularly the Holy Triad.”

Trihan gave him one lifted eyebrow. “Then ya’ve been hangin’ ‘round th’ wrong typ-a crowd.”

“How so?”

The young man gave Raeden a helpless shrug. “Th’ folks tha’ need ta rely onna Gods ta make their fortune ain’t doin’ nothin’ fer themselves. They’re no better than beggers.”

“That cannot be right,” he said with a shake of his head. “We beseech the Gods with prayers and sacrifices to appease them, to entice them to bless us. Are you saying all that is for naught?”

“Well… yeah. Ah mean we can give th’ Gods everythin’ an’ it ain’t like they haveta help us, ya know? If Ah were ta kill my family fer Malgorin, ya think the Great Dragon o’ Death is gunna make me rich an’ powerful?”

“I… think you would be the fool to ask a Death God for fame and fortune.”

“But ain’t he all ‘bout life an’ death in equal parts like yer sayin’? Maybe it wusn’t ma family’s time but shouldn’t he give me the shit they would’ve had?” Trihan shook his head and waved his hand over his ear to dismiss the depressing though. “Mah point is, if ya rely too much on th’ Gods to make ya happy, then yer no better off beggin’ in th’ streets cuz prayers an’ sacrifices is jus’ the same as beggin’ an’ performing fer scraps.”

A painful realization came to him from Trihan’s assessment. In previous times, he had gone from noble to noble, effectively swindling them for food and comfort with his charms. But, as Trihan had said, he was little more than a beggar. He gave them himself in exchange for what they had earned through whatever means they came to their fortune. In many ways, he was no better than those who devoted themselves entirely to the deities with the hope that their faith would save them.

“My message is rather skewed,” he murmured softly. “I am telling the people that Malgorin will not come for them until it is their time but he is not in power. They will not be able to survive unless they do something to save themselves.”

“Is jus’ like th’ old song said,” Trihan said with a grin. “Ya know th’ one? Th’ Black Rose.”

He did. It was a funeral dirge. “O Rose of Black,” he rumbled softly, unable to muster the perfect tune for the lyrics, “the winds, the winds are singing. From shore to shore, across the darkened sea. The journey’s end has brought us all weeping. From buried seed do you come to me. Dawn shall rise and sunlight kiss your meadow. Tears turn to dewdrops and warmth melt the snow. By our hands we raise you from the flows. Remember ye our blessed Black Rose”

Trihan snickered brightly. “Yeah. That’s th’ one. Used ta’ be tha’ wus the code of La Famille. If ya ever wanted ta get inta one o’ their safehouses, ya just gotta sing tha’ tune.”

Raeden tilted his head to the right slightly, regarding Trihan from the corner of his eye. “How do you know that?”

The former-thief’s grin became sheepish. “Used ta’ be Ah ran with ‘em. Heuveir belonged ta’ Don Cazzallo, ya know. A little pickpocket like me had ta share mah bounty with ‘em.”

“Yhan would not have happened to use this knowledge of yours to get into Don Cazzallo’s estate and that is how he managed to get so far in without being assaulted, did he?”

The shame on Trihan’s face was evidence enough. “Not like Ah told ‘im to do it. Yhan’s always been kinda… head strong. He wus kinda scared ‘bout how you ‘ad turned Loraad inta Dracorian. Thought you wus gonna do sum kinda weird mind shit an’ control us or sumthin.”

Trihan’s words stung deep. Not only because, in some way, he did have the power to ‘inspire’ minds were he to spread his wings. But he also had to question if that how the crowd saw him? It was impossible to predict how others would interpret whatever he said. Just as Samuel had said, even if his intentions were benevolent, there were no guarantees that those very same intentions would be clear to any listener. Should he stand up, spread his wings and blatantly tell everyone that he hoped to lift up the Dracorian race once more, there would still be others that would think him as some sort of power-hungry would-be-dictator.

“And how do you see me, Trihan?” he asked.

“Honestly?” answered the youth. “Ya kinda come off as no better than th’ Lady Ailiva.”

Those words stung but Raeden kept himself from exploding.

“See?” accused Trihan, pointing at him. “That right there. Ah can see that hurt ya an’ ya dinna do anythin’ ‘bout it. Ya jus’ shut yer yap an’ waited fer me ta finish like yer fishin’ for somethin’ ya can hit back at me with.”

This buck-toothed young man was far more clever than Raeden had given him credit for.

“Ya jus’ dun seem genuine ta me,” continued Trihan. He looked out towards the crowd that had already dispersed. “Ah think that’s why ya dun have so many people hangin’ ‘round ya. Ya sound like yer runnin’ fer mayor.”

“What do you suggest then?” Raeden asked.

The young man gave him another helpless shrug. “Honestly? Ah dunno. Ah ain’t no city official. Dun ‘ave any lofty dreams like that.”

“And what is it that you dream of, Trihan? If you were to have anything in the world, what would it be?”

A sheepish smile touched the edges of his thin lips. “Honestleh?” Trihan lowered his gaze and for the first time, could not meet Raeden’s eyes. “Ah want wings.”

The response stunned him. “I beg your pardon?” He followed the former-thief’s gaze and found it drifting towards the Skyward Fantasy. “Oh…”

“Yeah… Fer most o’ mah life, Ah’ve been onna streets. Never knew mah parents. Street urchin. Orphan. All that shit. Th’ nuns at th’ church will tell ya that Ah was dropped a’ their doorstep one rainy night an’ it wus by th’ grace o’ th’ Holy Triad that Ah they found me when they did cuz Ah would be dead otherwise.” He waved a hand absently at the story. “Always used ta use that damn story fer leverage ‘gainst me. When Ah was old ‘nuff, Ah got outta there an’ took ta th’ streets. La Famille took notice. Picked me up an’ taught me th’ trade.”

“The trade?”

“Ya know. Pickpocketin’. Swindlin’. Lookin’ cute. Wus easier when Ah wus small an’ cute. People would take pity on ya more. But when Ah grew older, had to be smarter ‘bout how Ah got around an’ met my quota.” Trihan pointed towards the tops of the cramped, wooden homes. “Up there is what we call th’ ‘Thieves’ Freeway’. Used to be that if ya were good ‘nuff, ya could jump from rooftop ta rooftop without bein’ seen or heard. Guards are too lazy ta look up an’ most o’ th’ time yer up there, people are already asleep. Could sneak inta placed an’ grab shit if ya were smart.”

A picture, a story, was slowly forming in Raeden’s mind. “And is that how you met Duvon? By trying to steal his… his ‘shit’?”

Trihan gave him a lopsided smile that showed off some rather cute dimples. “Chefs work till late. They’re th’ last ones ta eat an’ then they still gotta clean up a lot o’ dishes. Tried ta sneak inta Papa Duvon’s place ta steal stuff. Snuck past Loraad. Big Brother is a heavy sleeper but Ah’m also a light step. Duvon saw me though. Offered me food. Said that he had too much leftovers anyways.” A distant look crossed the spindly thief’s eyes and he shook his head wistfully. “Changed mah life.”

Raeden… found himself oddly envious of the effect that Duvon had his three sons. When he looked out into the crowd, his words may have rung true and offered hope to some people but they did not linger. The moment his wings were folded, they drifted away. But with Duvon, he had managed to convert a former thief, give hope to his only true son and instill such a strong sense of loyalty in an abandoned child that he would go to great lengths to free the family from under La Famille. That sort of command was just… supernatural.

“Tell me something, Trihan,” he said softly. “Between Samuel, your father and I, who would you follow unquestioningly?”

The young thief gave him a quizzical look. “What kinda question is that? ‘Course I’d go with ma Papa. But if yer askin’ who else Ah’d follow, it’d haveta be Samuel. Ya’d be dead last.”

Honesty. Seemed to be a trait all Marcliffs shared.

“And what his that?” he asked.

“Maybe ‘cuz ya ain’t genuine? Ah dunno. Maybe ya are but Ah ain’t getting that from ya.”

“And what would make me more genuine?” insisted the Avatar.

Trihan tilted his head slightly. “Erm… maybe dun try so hard?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like Ah said. Ah ain’t no politician. But if Ah can see yer tryin’ ta get mah vote jus’ fer th’ vote, Ah’m sure Ah ain’t the only one.”

Frustration began building in his chest. It was a message that Samuel had warned him of before and having those words return from someone like Trihan stung more than a thousand bees. “I have no idea what that means!” he snarled, digging his claws into his skull. “People wish me to inspire others. To guide them down one path and yet at the same time, they criticize me for not being ‘genuine’! How could I possibly be genuine for a cause I scarcely believe it!”

All too late he realized he had made his tirade in public. Thankfully, there were few within earshot range and those that were found themselves occupied with other matters. Trihan gently grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the bowels of the Skyward Fantasy.

Once away from prying ears, the young thief said, “Ya dun believe what yer tellin’ all those people out there?”

“In some ways, I do,” Raeden sighed softly. “Malgorin did nothing to tell me about the ‘truth’ of his existence. I do not know if he truly only comes for those whose time has run out in this world. That was my voice giving shape to his image. But with no confirmation of whether or not I am right, there ain’t no way of learning whether or not I am on the right path.” His frustration only grew when he noticed that Trihan was smiling at him. “What now?” he snarled.

“Ya said ‘ain’t’.”

He had barely noticed the use of the word. “I was a bard in a prior life and I often changed accents to better blend with the audience I was entertaining. Do not think on it too much.”

“See?” Trihan said. “Maybe that’s yer problem. Yer still tryin’ ta be someone who ya think ya need ta be. Why dun ya jus’ be you?”

Raeden had to roll his eyes at those familiar words, butchered by the cockeyed accent as they were. “That is such an overused cliche that I would rather eat the cud from a cow’s muzzle.”

A light nudge from Trihan’s bony elbow made him squirm slightly. “Jus’ like that. Ya jus’ need ta loosen up a little. Stop thinkin’ ya gotta be this gilded noble or sum such or bein’ who ya think you gotta be ta please people.”

He turned to Trihan, pleading for advice. “How else any I going to get my message across to them?”

“Who th’ fuck cares ‘bout yer message?” answered the former-thief, stunning the Avatar. “Most people dun really care what a mayor says anyway. But if yer gotta put yerself up there, ya might as well do it as yerself. No use tryin’ ta be ‘one o’ th’ people’ if yer not. Ah mean, at least if ya go down in flames, it won’t be cuz ya were pretendin’ ta be a commoner or a noble.”

As hackney and mangled as the advice was, they sang true.

“How though?” he lamented softly. “How do you stop trying to be someone and just be you?”

“Ah never thought ‘bout it like that,” answered Trihan with a shrug. “But fer me, when Ah jus’ gotta think ‘bout what Ah’d do, Ah jus’ shut mah eyes…” To illustrate, he closed his eyes and held up both hands against his ears. “Then shut out everythin’ else.” He closed his palms around his eyes. “An’ then I jus’ listen to th’ first thin’ that pops inta mah head. No thinkin’ ‘bout the consequences. Jus’ do it.”

Looking down at his little podium, Raeden found something within that was rising up, churning upwards from his gut, propelled by his lungs and boiling in his throat waiting to erupt. There was no inspiration. No eureka moment. He just spread his wings, glided out of the Skyward Fantasy and once more came to stand upon his little box. A few people turned their heads only to move away while some approached warily, more curious than genuinely intrigued by his words. Slowly, he folded his wings. He would not need their ‘inspiring’ spell for this.

All he needed… was to be himself.

“Has anyone ever noticed that over half of Heuveir’s vineyards are entirely Bluewoods?” he asked loudly. “One could stand upon the churches’ steps, see the vast greenery of the Scorched Lands and then - Oh look! It is where the mob makes their god-awful wine but at least they make decent narcotics!”

A wave of nervous giggles spread from those closest to him and they drew even closer. Someone actually dropped the crate they were carrying, stunned at his audacious proclamation against La Famille. H_e had to continue. This was _his voice. For the first time in his life, he actually felt like he was saying something with his own heart and soul.

“And you know we cannot burn it all down. After all, should we try the fumes alone would drive the entire town and probably all of Tirinead into a psychedelic trip that the gods themselves would have to come down and intervene! Just imagine Malstraad coming down with his fiery sword and going up to you saying, ‘My friend! Light that shit up!’”

Now he got more laughter and even more people started coming in as he deepened his voice in mockery of the God of Offence.

“Everyone is always praying for me to win their battles for them,” rumbled Raeden, mimicking one of the members of the Triad. “Sometimes, I just wish Malgorin would just eat them all up but then again, if everyone was dead, who would there be to make all this fucking sweet Blue Salts!”

The laughter encouraged him all the more and Raeden could not help but start to smile himself even though these were personally grievances he had long held.

“That is what we need! More Gods who realize their own flaws, who actively try to keep us from relying on them and who can get high as fuck while downing a whole bottle of piss-tasting wine!” He shrugged brightly. “If La Famille is gonna make Blue Salts and the wine is just the byproduct, why not have both right? Most people would be too drugged to care that their obvious front from a drug cartel makes the world’s shittiest wine that even the Dragon of Death would not touch it!”

The crowd grew and this time, it was far more… genuine.

“La Famille wine tastes like shit!” shouted someone.

Raeden could only smile as he continued his rant, drawing more and more people in while just… letting himself loose. He did not care if he was offending the Holy Triad or even Malgorin. Trihan and Samuel had been right. If he was not genuine, he would never get his message across and he was done pretending to be someone else to appease the masses.

This was who he was.

This was who Raeden Windsong always was.

And that resolve cemented a decision he had for this evening.

Back at the Skyward Fantasy, Trihan was holding his sides from laughter, tears welling in his eyes as the black-scaled Avatar continued to mock the very gods he served. Yet, at the same time, it made him question. Why had they allowed La Famille to make such obvious vineyards and drug empires right on their doorstep? Surely the nobility knew? Surely Lady Ailiva knew? Why did the Holy Triad do nothing while their community suffered under crime?

“Congratulations.”

The voice of Samuel made him jump and wipe the tears from his eyes. The mage-knight strode quietly next to him, peering out towards the docks where Raeden entertained an ever-growing crowd.

“You just inspired the first stand-up comedy act in Tirinead,” Samuel continued.

“Wussat?” Trihan asked.

“Think nothing of it.” The wolf turned to him, blue eyes shimmering. “What if I told you that I knew a way for you to get your wings?”

The thief grinned shakily. “Ah’d say yer pullin’ me inta some sorta plot of yers. But Ah haven’t figured ya out yet, Samuel. Ah mean, ya clearly wanted ta change Loraad an’ it wus good fer him. Ah’ve never seem ‘im so happy as he is now. Always been shy ‘bout his appearance, ya know.”

“I know.”

“And then there was th’ thing ya did fer my Papa. He’s always been really modest but he’s one o’ th’ best cooks in all of Heuveir. Ah know. Ah’ve stolen from those that claim ta be ‘th best cooks’. Yer makin’ him share th’ spotlight so he can have more confidence ‘bout his skills.”

“Two for two, so far.”

“Then there’s Raeden. Yer stringin’ ‘im along so all th’ focus is on ‘im while ya do yer shady business in the background.”

Samuel made a loud, buzzing noise. “So close. You could have gone for a hat trick.” The wolf-mage looked towards Raeden once more. “I am genuinely trying to help Raeden grow and become the person - not the Avatar - that I know he can be. However, Tirinead is still my priority.” He lifted a finger before Trihan could interrupt him. “I want you to remember something about this story, Trihan Marcliff. This tale has always been about freedom. Whether it be freedom from how others perceive you, freedom from your own self-imposed limitations or freedom from fate, it is all the same. The question I have for you…”

Samuel turned to look directly at him.

“… is what are you willing to give up for that freedom?”

******

As was to be expected from Ailiva, the Lady of Sareseou had thrown a banquet at her manor in honour of the prior day’s events. How she managed to organize food, entertainment and the venue in such short order was nothing short of miraculous. The manor’s banquet hall was naturally crowded. Ailiva seemed to take Raeden’s message of reaching out to the lower classes to fill the seats. There were few nobles in Heuveir itself and those that did exist fearfully but politely declined to attend for fear of La Famille’s retribution. Ailiva did not seem fazed by this and had hired entertainment to mock the criminal organization much to the joy of the attendees.

The majority of the attendees were arranged in a horseshoe-shaped table with the jesters and performers dancing at the centre of the semicircle. Those that were deemed not too important to be dining amongst the hosts were placed in more traditionally designed tables with poor visibility of the entertainment. Seated amongst the central tables, Raeden and the Marcliffs found themselves the centre of attention. Loraad did not mind the hundreds of eyes pointed in his direction and busied himself with devouring whatever was on his plate. Becoming a Dracorian that was almost twice the size of the average man clearly came with an appetite as he almost finished an entire turkey by himself. Trihan was enjoying himself greatly and clapping along with the music and the crowd while Yhan, gloomy as always, politely ate his meal with the offered cutlery. To his direct left, Duvon quietly and nervously tried to eat his meal in the most ‘noble’ way possible without spilling anything on the borrowed finery he wore.

In contrast, Ailiva sat to Raeden’s right. The seat to her left was empty, a tribute to her husband and a reminder to everyone that she was technically not the governor. A clever nuance that did not pass the Avatar’s attention. Curiously, Savid did not dine with her and instead stood stoically beside her chair, ever alert and sharp, newly-restored eyes darting back and forth at any would-be assailants. Samuel mirrored him, perched behind Raeden like an animated suit of armour. Where Savid had to breathe and occasionally shift his weight, Samuel was still and completely unmoving.

“Will you not eat, Master Mage?” Ailiva asked. “Surely you must be starved. Such great acts of magic tend to exhaust most mages and I have heard that it would take weeks for even the greatest of wizards to forge incredible artifacts such as Lifestock.”

“Livestock,” corrected Samuel calmly. “And you speak of mages who practice the Arcane Arts. There are many other forms of magic than what is commonly taught in Trispire.”

“Is that so? And what form of magic do you practice then? I have scarcely heard of spells that would produce nearly anything from the simple destruction of an enigmatic box or to produce jewelry ad infinitum.”

Whatever spies she may have had, they were very good. Few had seen Samuel’s magic box of mystery in action and fewer yet had learned of its function. It was clear that she was trying to flaunt her knowledge of the mage-knight. Perhaps she thought that the wolf’s enigma was what kept him in power. Was she trying to unnerve him? Outdo him? What was her game?

“What do you think my abilities are?”

And just like that, Samuel had turned the tables on Ailiva. Raeden hid his smirk behind a carefully lifted silver goblet though he feared that with his longer muzzle, Ailiva could still see the edges of his lips turning upwards in amusement.

“I do not claim to be an avid practitioner of magic,” answered Ailiva. A cool tactic to prevent embarrassment should she answer incorrectly. “But it is my opinion that your cloak offers some form of portal. You have a stock of these items you require somewhere, perhaps your wizard tower, and simply bring them about at your leisure when it suits you. Same with your cylinder of jewels. Mages tend to possess great interest in jewellery, after all. Is it not common practice amongst you to imbue great power into gemstones?”

“And based on this you believe that I am the same?” Those harsh words caused a slight frown to touch Ailiva’s lips. “Sadly, milady, you have been misinformed in your information by the noble Lord Wingsever.”

Raeden choked on his drink a little. Taydir had been the one to give Ailiva this information? Was he truly trying to work against them?

“My power stems from one simple face: sacrifice.” Samuel pointed towards the half-eaten turkey that Loraad was still tearing through. “A life had to be taken to feed you tonight. A life had to be cut short to form the table you sit upon now. Even the silk gown that you don necessitated the death of countless silkworms to make it. I draw upon the same power.”

“You consume a life to make your magics?” Ailiva asked, appearing shocked but there was an edge in her eyes that was predatory and calculating.

“No. Not death. That is Malgorin’s domain.” He reached into his cloak and produced another box, setting it on the table between Raeden and the Governess of Sareseou. “Balance. When something is destroyed, that something is seemingly lost forever. Death merely claims one aspect of that; the life that filled it. I take everything else.”

Raeden wasn’t sure he understood. “And what do you claim when you destroy the box?”

That chilling smile sent the hairs along his spine to stand on end.

“The mystery,” answered Samuel. “You do not know what is inside this box. But when you destroy it…” He grasped the box, his armoured hand shattering the wooden frame with ease. The resounding crack went unnoticed by the crowd. The splinters collapsed onto the polished, wooden table and he gently brushed them aside. Inside was a large bouquet of black roses tightly wrapped in gossamer thin white silk and devoid of their thorns. The roses themselves were immaculate, perfect and much bigger than what should have fit in the box. Samuel gently picked up the bouquet and offered them directly to Ailiva, the bindings of the blood-red bow facing her.

“These are… Hauntingly lovely,” Ailvia said, grasping the flowers in awe.

“Do you know of the song of the Black Rose?” asked the mage.

“It is a simple funeral dirge,” answered Ailiva, smelling the flowers. “Honestly, I cannot see why such lovely and rare roses could be sung of in such a maudlin way.”

“The song actually has little to do with death.”

Raeden glanced at Trihan. The young Marcliff was too busy with the entertainment so he had to nudge the former-thief with an elbow to get him to pay attention to what Samuel was saying.

“The Black Rose is actually a song about childbirth.”

Ailiva gave him a dubious stare. “Is that so?”

“Yes. The original composer built it to celebrate his newly born daughter which he names Rose and had hair as dark as the night. He sang of how the world itself was joyfully praising her birth from one horizon to the other. The hard journey of childbirth had brought everyone to tears of joy. He went into detail of how blessed he feels and how the birth of his daughter had brought warmth and life into his household. The second to last sentence was a not-so-subtle mention of a woman’s ‘flows’ after the child was delivered from the womb.”

“Not ta mention th’ line ‘bout a ‘buried seed’,” added Trihan.

“That too,” agreed Samuel.

Ailiva was clearly amused by the statement but still kept the roses close to her bosom. “An interesting interpretation. I should ensure that is something I should inform a funeral director should I have the misfortune of ever attending such a dour event.”

“Both accounts are certainly valid. It is seldom intention that matters, after all, but interpretation.” Samuel glanced up towards the revelry as they finished their set. Raeden followed his gaze and noticed that there was a particularly grumpy Hero waiting impatiently at the far end of the hall, hidden amongst the shadows. “Milady, I believe we should prepare for your moment of proof. I believe Lord Wingsever is none too pleased that he was not invited to the festivities.”

A sarcastic smile touched the elf’s lips. “Oh I invited him. He was just not taken with the idea of enjoying himself prior to such a momentous occasion. But we are slaves to the public, are we not? We must maintain appearances.” She quietly rose from her seat, Savid pulling out her chair for her. “But I suppose we must not keep him much longer lest me make a spectacle. I would not want this evening soured by one of his temper tantrums.”

Were he not more careful about his words, Raeden would have leapt to his friend’s defense. Instead, he took solace in the fact that, very soon, he would have his best friend by his side once more as a powerful, Dracorian. He rose from his seat, striding after Ailiva with Samuel escorting him as Savid escorted the elf. Few took notice of their departure while the party continued. Taydir huffed when they approached and wheeled himself grumpily out of the banquet all. Raeden already found himself growing excited not only at the idea of bedding Taydir - a desire that he did not know he needed up until that point - but also at the thought that he would undo Ailiva. He considered when he should reveal to the Dragonslayer that he was Raeden Windsong and decided it would be best to do it after he had turned Taydir into a Dracorian. Whatever plots Ailiva may have had, it all hinged on the truth about his abilities. No doubt she had a plan regardless of the outcome. Likely she would have Savid kill both him and Taydir under some falsehood that they had killed the human Taydir in some act of betrayal. Was that perhaps why she had hoped to scope out Samuel’s powers? As some way to learn of his weaknesses?

He could not help but grin and rumble in excitement. The moment when he snatched victory away from her would be sweet indeed.

“Samuel,” Ailiva said calmly as they approached one of the rooms. “I ask that you not attend.”

Raeden went rigid in surprise. “What? Why?”

She gave him an innocent smile. “To verify the veracity of your claim, I ask that the great mage-knight not be present. I would not wish for any of his magic to intervene, after all, and to leave no doubt that you are indeed the Avatar of Malgorin.” Her eyes drifted to Taydir. “Is that not right, Lord Wingsever?”

“I don’t trust you,” Taydir growled directly at Samuel. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Samuel bowed elegantly. “A fair assessment. I shall take my leave.”

Raeden mentally screamed but could do little as his one ally in a sea of doubtful eyes left. The wolf-mage did give him one last glance over his shoulder, however, and a single, encouraging nod. Suddenly, he was having second thoughts about ploughing Taydir in front of both Savid and Ailiva especially since he remembered how crippling the lust was once he had found himself in the arms of another male Dracorian. A quick thought and he remembered that he did not have to necessarily have sex with Taydir. The Hero just needed to come in contact with his seed. Perhaps there was an en suite he could excuse himself momentarily, think of the dragon that Taydir would become or imagine himself being stuffed by Loraad’s thick, fat dick and then come back out with a drop of his seed. Surely that would suffice.

They entered the room which had been cleared of most furniture save for a single bed. Lamps were lit by Savid and Taydir wheeled himself to the side of the bed. Sadly, there was no other room which he could excuse himself. The armoire did not look big enough to fit him but perhaps he could shuffle behind it to produce some seed.

“Let’s get this farce over with,” rumbled Savid. He began stripping off his armour, tossing the heavy leather hard and roughly against the wooden floor.

“Ah…” began Raeden in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t tell me you’re as dense as you look without your lapdog mage,” snuffled the white-scaled Dracorian. “You’re meant to spill your seed, I’m meant to touch it and then we prove once and for all that you are nothing but a sideshow.”

Raeden balked in surprise. “You? Was I not meant to bed Taydir?”

The Hero scoffed. “Is that what you’re after, Avatar? To fuck me of all people as some sort of vengeance for what we did to your people? Think again.” Taydir’s eyes dropped even though he kept a fierce snarl on his face. “I would rather keep what little dignity I have left.”

Losing the use of his legs had injured him more than he clearly let on. Raeden remembered the days when he sung beside Taydir, trying to bring cheer to him. It had been one of his attempts to cozy up to those of renown and he had assumed a Hero would be a prime target. But as he continued to sing his songs and try to bring Taydir out of his spiralling depression, he grew to actually like Taydir. The man was a challenge. Someone who was trying to rein him in constantly. It was a joy trying to dance around his chains and at the same time, watching him put an effort into something. He had thought those days of depression were long behind him.

Or perhaps it was because ‘Raeden Windsong’ had abandoned him?

“Taydir…”

Rough hands suddenly seized Raeden’s shoulders and threw him hard against the bed. Savid was already naked and for the first time, Raeden had a full view of the big, white dragon’s grizzled form. Savid’s short, share muzzle was completely white save for the red tattoo of a stylised dragon rising up to wrap its jaws around his once-damaged eye. Now that he got a closer look on it, the crimson ink hid some scars that likely let to his former blindness. The tail of the tattoo curled down his thick, sinewy neck and extended down over his broad, melon-sized shoulders, swirling in mesmerising patters up and down his entire arm and ending just before his wrists. All crimson and all contrasting against the white of his scales. His chest was perfectly chiselled by a strange set of hardened light, greenish-blue scales. Where Raeden and even Loraad’s belly were decorated by softer scales, Savid’s was protected by a natural breastplate that perfectly hugged his toned pectorals and muscled abdominals. Though his head was devoid of any mane, there was no hiding his natural hair colour with the presence of thick, bushy red hair coming from his armpits and the curly hairs wrapped around his genital slit. These hairs matched with the pinkish scars that decorated his unmarked arm, his chest and even his broad, powerful legs. The horns that he bore were small, blunted little nubs that stuck out from the back of his head that made him look more lizard than dragon. With his distinct lack of wings as well, he looked like half a dragon but made up for it in sheer size and masculinity.

“What are you waiting for?” growled the white dragon. “Fuck me or do whatever you got to do to get off. I draw no pleasure in this.”

“But I do,” purred Ailiva. The smile on her face held both an edge of sadism and genuine lust. “Come now, Savid. We must eliminate all doubt of the outcome of this… test. See to it that our dear Avatar reaches climax.”

This was her plan. Once more, Raeden found himself trapped beneath her thumb and again being threatened by the brute that was Savid. Fear seized his heart. Images flashed before his eyes. Again on the edge of an airship, teetering over the edge of Kalsammar’s Divide with a knife in his throat and the brutish Dracorian’s hands wrapped around him, ready to throw him off into oblivion. No wings. No means to cry for help. Helpless. Human.

But that was not who he was now.

He was Raeden Wingsong, Avatar of the Dracorians.

A growl rose from his throat and silvery flames flickered from between his fangs. The sight of them stunned Savid and the white dragon reeled. Raeden used the moment to shove the thuggish dragon off him and swing his legs over the bed.

“If we are going to mate, you will do so with some modicum of dignity,” he growled. “I will not be raped by your brute, Ailiva.”

The elven lady seemed amused and gave him a dismissive wave. “I suppose your finery would be wasted should they be shredded.” She rested her angled chin against her delicate fingers. “Try to be more gentle, Savid. The Avatar demands romance.”

Her jabbing words did nothing to give him a rise and that was likely another angle she was using to attack him. Savid’s glaring eyes from across the bed were expectant, smug and all too pleased with the prospect of the Avatar of the Dracorians being unable to find arousal around him. Trapped between Savid’s rough lovemaking, the humiliation of being fucked by this brute and then the political ramifications should he fail bore down upon him. The pressure was immense and he could feel it like a vice closing in around him. It was all he could to remain standing.

Then he remembered Trihan’s words.

Just shut his eyes. Block out all other voices. Listen to the first thing that came to mind.

Kiss him.

Without opening his eyes, he grabbed Savid’s shoulders and pulled the stunned white dragon towards him. Their muzzles collided and his thrust his tongue deep into Dracorian’s muzzle; exploring, tasting. There was no seduction in it. He just wanted to taste Savid. No thoughts about this being his last moments or the pain that could come from the roundhouse punch that would come from Ailiva’s bodyguard. Just the pure, unfiltered pleasure of his tongue dancing along Savid’s cheeks and flicking along the sharp, powerful fangs.

Savid pulled away, gasping. Doubt began creeping in but again, he followed Trihan’s advice and shut it all out. First thing that came to his mind. That neck. Savid’s sinewy neck was so juicy that Raeden just had to taste it, feel the blood pumping through the veins against his tongue. He had his jaws wrapped around Savid before the white Dracorian had time to protest and whatever words he had meant to say came out as a gasp. Raeden’s long tongue snaked out past his lips, sliding up and down Savid’s throat. The muscles were so tense, hard like steel but with enough room for blood to pump through them and the Dracorian’s pulse to beat against Raeden’s lips. The Avatar imagined this would be what it’d feel like to have Savid’s dick in his mouth.

The grizzled Dracorian’s hand lifted and Raeden braced himself for the pain that was surely to follow. There was a jabbing pain at the back of his head, just at the roots of his mane. Savid yanked his head back. He kept his eyes shut out of sheer survival instinct; he did not want to see the fist that slammed into his face. A powerful force slammed into his muzzle but this was quickly followed by a penetrating tongue that finally caused his eyes to split open in shock. A low moan rose from his throat as Savid’s tongue tenderly and skillfully kissed him. There was a forceful element to the contact. Savid’s lips gyrated like they were doing the tango and the white Dracorian was taking the lead. The way Savid guided his muzzle to the left, pushing his tongue in that direction only to follow it up with a free hand sliding up his chest was masterful; it pushed blood and a rising sensation from his chest, up his throat and along his muzzle in the same direction as his muzzle was pointing.

Raeden was left utterly surprised. This was no simple tongue-play. All of Savid’s - and as a response, Raeden’s - head moved with the force of the kiss. The Avatar found more energy in his kiss, more activity and more raw, animal passion that stirred deep within him.

Savid pulled his lips away, leaving the two of them panting heavily.

“That is how you kiss,” growled the white-scaled dragon.

Raeden wrapped his arms around Savid’s broad shoulders. “Teach me.”

His face firm like he was on a mission, Savid pushed Raeden down onto the sheets and this time, the black-scaled dragon did not resist. Before his vision was obstructed by the hulking figure of Savid, Raeden noticed that Ailiva was not so subtly reaching up the hem of her dress towards her own loins, her eyes fixed on their bodies. The sounds of a loud tearing brought his attention back to Savid. The dominant male had torn his tunic straight down the middle and buried his muzzle in between Raeden’s two, mountainous pectorals. For a moment, he was unsure what his partner was doing. Then he felt that long, flexible tongue sliding between his pecs. Its warm, slick length made Raeden shudder. He never knew just how sensitive the flesh between his chest muscles were but as Savid lathered the valley with his saliva, he could not help but clench his chest to trap the warmth between them. A long, low moan rose from his throat and he reached above his head, seizing the headboard of the four-post bed for support.

Savid’s clawed hands seized the edges of his trousers and tore at them. He could smell his own musk rising up along with his cocks. Savid lowered himself inch by inch, tongue sliding up and down each abdominal muscle. The delicate touch of the slimy tongue tickled the Avatar, forcing him to buck and squirm beneath the big white dragon’s advances. All the tickling prepared him for the inevitable rush of pleasure when the probing tongue brushed up against his genital slit buried in the stark white crotch fur. Raeden’s toes curled and he was forced to clamp hard on his bottom lip to prevent his silver flames from shooting out of his muzzle. Fire burned from his loins as Savid pried the slit open with his enthusiastic but considerate licking. Precum was pouring out of the opening in gallons, filling the air with his musk. Blood quickly rushed towards his members and within moments, the first of the two spires was poking out from the forest of his crotch like a bright, red spire begging for Savid’s attention.

But the white dragon was not interested in the thick, throbbing, barbed member. He continued to tease Raeden’s hole, drawing lower and lower, following the natural curve towards the Avatar’s needy balls. The touch of Savid’s nostrils against his scaly scrotum made Raeden flinch until the warm, soothing breath eased his tension. He was surprised when Savid eagerly gripped his thighs, lifting them up into the air and thus pushing his balls higher until they nestled perfectly on the mercenary’s muzzle. He wondered exactly what it was that Savid intended for about ten seconds. That was when the hot, wet tongue that had molested a good portion of his body danced along the rim of his hole.

A shiver ran up Raeden’s body. That same passion and consideration radiated from Savid as the dragon’s tongue pushed up against a far more sensitive area. Many times before had he been penetrated by a far more dominant man but there was never a sense of danger or peril behind it. Raeden had always been confident in his approach, believing himself to be the one in control. This time, though, his heart was racing hard against his chest and even as the soft tongue lashing at his hole and probed its way into him, he had a sense of helplessness that only served to thrill him all the more. Bizarrely, his cocks were rising to salute Savid and the rise and fall of the white dragon’s head massages his balls, pumping his seed into the twin lengths; ready to fire.

“Oooooh…” he moaned.

Taking the noise as approval, Savid pushed in deeper. He could feel the dragon’s tongue penetrating him. Unlike another male’s member, it was flexible. It squirmed to the right and Raeden could not help but arch his body in the same direction. Then Savid flicked his tongue to the right with the force of a whip cracking. Raeden was thrust in the same direction. His tail curled around Savid’s strong, muscled chest, pulling the dragon closer to himself while his wings flared wide. He was completely in the white dragon’s power, his whole body acting like an extension of Savid’s tongue as he was flicked, snapped and twisted in this direction and that. The bodyguard might as well have stuck a long, flexible, fleshy rod up his ass as along his spine because he had become the puppet to Savid’s puppet master. In the corner of his consciousness, he was vaguely aware of Taydir watching on with an unreadable expression. Far from the foot of the bed, Ailiva took no pains to hide just how much she was enjoying watching the two males curled around one another.

The warmth within him began to retreat and Raeden could only let out a loud, almost feminine moan. He had not even noticed he had closed his eyes until he had to open them to see why Savid had pulled away. The brawny bodyguard lifted his head into the air, puckering his lips. A white, icy cloud rushed out from his lips. Tiny flakes of snow descended down to the ground. Their chilling touch was light against Raeden’s scales, leaving him with a tingling sensation that contrasted against the fiery heat that burned in his veins.

Raeden became aware of another source of heat between his legs - two invasive spires that pressed up against his balls, almost cradling the orbs between them. He glanced down between his legs and just saw the deep red, bristled members that were attached to the bodyguard. Though nowhere near as broad as Loraad’s, he still gulped loudly as Savid pushed his dicks down into the freshly lubricated hole. After the tender touch of a tongue, the stiff length of Savid’s dicks was a sharp contrast. Instead of feeling like he had a life snake squirming within him, he was being stuffed and stretched.

“Breathe,” Savid eased, his big, ham-like hands rubbing against Raeden’s chest hair. “Breathe.”

He took a breath and in doing so, opened himself up for Savid to push an inch deeper into himself. There was a flash of pain followed by a radiating warmth that eased him into accepting the alien length within him. Savid’s members pushed into uncharted territory as the length drove deeper and deeper into him. With each inch that entered the Avatar, more and more precum came pouring out of Raeden’s twin dicks, growing thicker and thicker by the moment. Raeden realised he was inadvertently holding his breath to relish the moments of respite until those cocks pushed deeper into himself. By sheer force of will, he took another breath. Savid drove another inch into him. His dug his fingers into the wooden headboard, his claws scraping against the polished wood. Another ragged breath but this time, Savid pulled out slightly, giving him some respite. Only when he gave the white dragon a firm nod did the surprisingly considerate lover push deeper. The latest incursion sent him gasping, arching his back and lifting himself up into the air.

That was a mistake.

When gravity took over and pulled him back to the ground, he inadvertently speared himself further on Savid’s twin members. A whimper left his lips. Savid’s warm hands wrapped around his thighs, resting them on his broad shoulders and providing more leverage and some added support. With slow, gentle movements, the alabaster bodyguard pulled back, his cocks letting out a soft slapping noise as it slipped out of the Avatar. Then he pushed them back in, his scale-covered, hairy balls rubbing up against the base of Raeden’s tail. The touch of those twin, heated rods within him and the rhythmic thrusting eased Raeden into a pattern of pleasure and release. With every thrust, there came the wave of delight as he was filled. When Savid retreated, he was allowed a moment to breathe and it was his own dicks’ turn to be the source of his pleasure. It was only a pity he could not seize them with his own hands.

Though an idea did spring to mind.

Trying to focus against the slow, measured thrusts was difficult. The pressure in his balls were mounting but his cocks went unattended. The keys to his release were left to throb in the air and slap hard against his hardened abdominals. Every time he was given a moment to breathe, it was like he had taken two steps back from his climax. That needed to be fixed and he had to push his tail’s flexibility to the limit to achieve that.

Gasping between clenched teeth, he curled his tail around Savid’s thighs, reaching past the white dragon’s waist and angling the tip towards his crotch. He let out a moan of frustration as he came within a few inches of his members but could not quite curl around them. That was when Savid pushed hard into him, slamming the base of his dicks against his ass. Raeden was left gasping but at the same time, the last few inches was granted and he seized the base of his members within the curls of his tail. Barely able to afford two circles around the twin towers, he could at least pull them back, angling them into the air. When Savid pulled back for another thrust, Raeden’s tail slid down the length of his dick and when the dragon pushed in, they rode up to the tip, pushing the thickening precum out all the more.

Savid thrust and Raeden moaned, his cocks finally pleasured. They quickly fell into a rhythm which developed a chorus of their guttural, sensual noises. Savid grunted and it was accompanied by Raeden’s moan. A loud gasp from the Avatar and a sigh from the bodyguard. Whenever Savid breathed out, a cloud of ice spilt from between his lips, descending upon the bed. Though the flakes melted long before they reached Raeden’s overheated, sweaty body, it gave the Avatar the impression of seeing stars as he was sensually fucked. Their song was broken only by the squeak of the bed and the whine from Ailiva as she joined in their pleasure from a safe distance.

The intensity within Raeden’s cock and balls grew to the breaking limit but it was like a storm was battering the levies without quite breaking them. The need was great but the force just was not there. Unlike the savage, primal fucking from Loraad which could quickly bring him to orgasm, Savid’s gentle, considerate approach was lacking that one, last explosive burst to push him over the edge.

He needed something to tip him to orgasm.

“Kiss me,” he pleaded.

Savid grunted.

“Kiss me now!”

The white dragon propped himself up, twisting Raeden’s waist and legs upwards until his cocks were angled towards his pectorals. But it was enough to allow Savid to lean down. Just a few inches between them. Raeden grunted with exertion, stretching his neck forward, inch by inch, spurred on by Savid’s constant thrusting. Their breath washed over one another, glistening white snowflakes dancing before Raeden’s eyes and forcing him to shut the rest of the world away.

Then their lips met and Savid went to work. That incredibly skilled tongue of his pierced Raeden’s defences, shattering the levies that held back the tide. As it lashed back and forth, making Raeden’s eyelid flicker, the Avatar’s body convulsed. A loud, whine rose from his throat as his cum came barrelling out of his balls and blasted out of his twin dicks. Savid was considerate enough to give him one, last powerful thrust, destroying the rest of the dam and unleashing the flood. Hot, molten seed splashed down against Raeden’s chest and came rushing out with enough force that they splattered back up against the underside of Savid’s chin. Somehow, the white Dracorian was skillful enough with his tongue that he was able to slide it from the side of his muzzle, lap up the splatters of cum and then thrust it back into Raeden’s muzzle, giving the Avatar a literal taste of his own seed.

A sudden weakness overcame Raeden, the joy of afterglow setting in. He sighed contently and slumped back into the bed, finally releasing the headboard from his claws. Arms splayed by his side, wings loosened and tail flopping against the bed, he moaned softly in bliss. Only the creak of Taydir’s wheeled chair kept him from slipping into unconsciousness.

“And there we have it,” grunted the Hero. “No magical transformation. All of this was just a convoluted ploy for sex.” He shot a begrudging look at Ailiva who was flushed red with pleasure and with eyes burning with both lust and a bit of disappointment. “You were right.”

She grimaced softly even with her fingers still deep within herself. “I… I suppose you were right…” She pursed her lips, likely a last ditch attempt to push herself to orgasm but was met with failure. “Savid…”

The white dragon didn’t move, his eyes were locked firmly with Raeden’s.

“Savid?” repeated the governess. “We are done here.”

Suddenly, Savid hunched forward, his claws digging into Raeden’s thighs and a deep grunt rising from his throat. “Oh…” he growled. “Oh gods!”

“Savid!” Ailiva exclaimed, stepping forward but was stopped when the white Dracorian threw his head back and let out an ear-splitting roar.

A torrent of white, freezing ice shot from his muzzle, piercing the canopy of the four-post bed. That roar that rose from his throat grew deeper and louder, the already sinewy neck broadening with a sound like stretching leather barely audible beneath his primal cry. Both Ailiva and Taydir watched in awe as Savid’s bald, almost lizard-like head morphed before their eyes. The nub-like horns stretched, growing broader, thicker and obtaining a long, almost-circular curl to it so that the tips faced forward like a ram’s horns. Between the horns, deep, almost blood-red hairs sprung from his bald scalp, sticking upwards in short waves that ended just at the base of his neck without looking like a mane. The same hairs spread rapidly along the sides of his head, crawling down the underside of his jaw and over his lips, forming a short but beard that contrasted against his white scales.

All the while, Raeden felt the changes in Savid as the Dracorian’s cocks grew bigger, thicker and throbbed with greater need within him.

Savid thrashed his head to the right as his left shoulder erupted. The already broad muscles there ballooned out, forming clear divides between his deltoids and his traps. Thick veins crisscrossed the mounds like rivers rolling down a mountainside. His left arm went rigid, thrashing out and momentarily releasing Raeden’s leg. The entire length of the limb grew at least by a quarter but its thickness and mass doubled. Every muscle became highly defined and even as Raeden’s leg began to slide off Savid’s shoulder, it was stopped by the powerful burst of power as Savid’s bicep inflated with mass and power. Perhaps by instinct of conscious desire, Savid’s huge arm wrapped around Raeden’s leg, pulling it back into place. Now glistening with sweat, Savid’s white scales was soon decorated by tiny red hairs, not as thick as his hair or mane but enough to give him a crimson halo. These hairs grew thicker around his forearms where they became like fur that carried his musk and sweat all too easily. Even the bush of hair under his armpits became even thicker, encroaching against his broad chest and thick back. The force of the transformation forced Savid to clamp his jaws shut and throw his head to the left. His right arm underwent the same transformation, doubling in mass and lengthening. Raeden was able to curl his legs around Savid’s thick shoulders, allowing the hulking white dragon to clench his right fist and slam it hard against the bed as raw power pumped through the thick vine-line veins running up and down its broad, hairy length.

“Oooooooooh…” Savid moaned, his voice rising into another roar. The force of his cry rose from his chest but instead of erupting from his lips, it blasted out from his chest cavity. The already massive Dracorian thrust his chest out ward, his chest increasing in size. His two pectorals alone pushed up against his scales to the point where each one was strained to keep the delicate flesh beneath covered. If humans suffered from stretch-marks, this muscled Dracorian’s scales were close to suffering the same. The very sinew of his chest muscles pushed up against his natural armour like hard, symmetrical rows of a farmer’s field across a broad hill. The valley between those hills was deep and cavernous, decorated by thick red hairs that formed an downward pointing arrow that drew the eye towards Savid’s immense abdominal muscles that heaved and rose with each ragged breath.

Raeden found himself rising further and further off the mattress as Savid’s upper body stretched higher and higher to bring his widening body into proportion. He quickly realised that this could very well be the biggest Dracorian in all of Tirinead! The giant among dragons let out another grunt. His thighs widened, sliding across the silken sheets doused in water, sweat and seed. Even as thick, red hairs covered his ballooning calves, he could not keep himself from slipping across the sheets. The only thing that stopped him was the columns of the bed - that was just how wide his stance grew. As more and more power pumped into his legs and his feet grew to the sound of crackling bone, the wood snapped and splintered. Savid instinctively kicked out and the posts shattered. The broken canopy came falling down upon the two dragons.

Savid instinctively slumped forward, pressing himself against Raeden. Being at least a foot taller, Raeden found his muzzle buried in the cleft of Savid’s chest, taking in the white Dracorian’s musky, powerful scent while the twin dicks within him continued to grow even bigger. He could sense the need in Savid growing with every pound of muscle that the white dragon put on. He wanted all of that to himself. His legs slipped down Savid’s shoulders, running down the V-shape of the bodyguard’s flanks and wrapping around his waist, he curled his arms arms around his lover’s back, feeling the back muscles vibrating and undulating beneath his fingers as they grew bigger, more defined and stronger.

Another roar grew in Savid’s throat and Raeden could feel the muscles beneath his fingers all gyrating towards two points like they were funnelling their strength upwards, towards Savid’s shoulder blades. At the same time, Savid’s thrusts into him grew desperate, savage and needy. The dragon’s heavy balls slapped hard against his hole and he could feel the hot precum within growing thicker and thicker with each passing moment of absolute bliss. All too late, Raeden realised what that meant. The dragon threw his head back once more, letting out a titanic roar and blasting a wide cone of ice high into the air, shattering the rest of the canopy. At the same time, two, huge, white wings exploded from Savid’s back, restoring that which was lost to the Dracorian. Like a newborn dragon rising from his egg, Savid threw off the remnants of the bed, spreading his new wings and blaring his icy breath for all to see. This was in stark contrast to the hot seed that pumped into Raeden, making the Avatar feel strangely full but warm even as ice rained down around him.

Savid shut his muzzle with a growl, looking down upon Raeden with the same lusty desire that Loraad held when they were together. The Avatar instantly found his own cock rising to the occasion despite having just cum and their lips collided before he could think. His body needed more of Savid and he knew the bodyguard wanted exactly the same thing. Neither of their members had a moment of softness as they savaged one another with their tongues, explored one another’s bodies with their hands and pressed their dicks against hardened muscle and scale.

Strangely, it was only Ailiva’s banshee-like wail of climax that brought him out of his stupor.

It took all of his will to tear his lips from Savid. Still, the gravity of their mutual, primal attraction could not be denied so he grabbed the back of the white Dracorian’s head, pressing his lips against Savid’s ear and growled, “More to come later, my savage Lover-Guardian.”

Savid was taken aback by the title and it was enough to give him some degree of control over his primal urges. “Urf…” was all he could manage, however.

Raeden smiled and looked towards Ailiva who had slumped against a nearby armoire, fanning herself with eyes half-glazed.

“Proof enough, I hope, milady?” he taunted.

It was impressive that Ailiva was capable of maintaining coherence despite her orgasm; her climax looked particularly powerful. “Y - Y - Yes. More than enough.” She swallowed hard and took no pains to disguise her exhaustion. “I… I will need rest for the rest of the evening. W - w - we will arrange for the official handover of your title as mayor of Heuveir… say… at the end of the week?” She offered him a weak smile. “These things take time, of course.”

No doubt she wanted to explore Savid’s body during that time. It did make Raeden wonder if the seed of his converts was as infectious as his own.

“Of course,” he rumbled.

The squeaking of Taydir’s wheelchair and the subsequent slamming of the door made him realise the Hero had left in a huff. He made to rush after the Hero but he was still impaled on Savid’s dicks. There was a moment when Savid’s primal instincts took over again as he tried to pull away. The white and crimson dragon seized him, pulling him against his thick, furry chest and ran his tongue all the way up from Raeden’s shoulder up to his cheek. Tempting as it was, Raeden’s sole focus was on Taydir.

“Later,” was all he said he used all his will - and might - to pry himself free of Savid’s cock. He rushed out of the room, still naked and still dripping with seed.

Taydir had not gotten far.

“Taydir! Wait!”

The Hero turned his wheelchair around but immediately retreated as Raeden approached, still coated in the infectious cum. At least Wingsever did not call him out on his current state.

“You got what you wanted,” growled the Hero. “Mayorship over Heuveir. I’m not exactly pleased given I serve the Holy Traid… Well… served, is far more accurate.”

“Do you not remember?” Raeden said with a faint smile. “I did offer you something should I win this little wager.”

Taydir rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. My dear friend’s location. Perhaps it can wait until the morning. This…” He gestured at Raeden. “… is a lot to process.”

Raeden pursed his lips and glanced over his shoulder. The hallway was empty.

“No, Taydir, it cannot wait.”

“Lord Taydir Wingsever,” corrected the Hero. “Just because I’ve seen you fuck another dragon doesn’t mean we’re on a first-name basis.”

“But I’ve known you for years, Taydir,” said Raeden with a faint smile. “Ever since that day I sang at the Fallen Wings Tavern and you were deep in your fifth mug of mead.”

There was a moment when Taydir’s features darkened… then his eyes widened in surprise. His lips slowly parted in shock.

“No…”

“Yes. It’s me. Raeden Windsong.”

******

It took an entire hour for Ailiva to clean herself. Never before had she experiences such arousal and such a powerful climax as when she had seen Savid burst into the hulking monster that he was now. Were she a more base woman, she would have seriously considered keeping the Avatar as some personal pet to uplift other Dracorians to be her personal army of muscled, hulking soldiers. The idea of becoming some sort of barbarian dragon queen tickled her fancy but it was nothing but a fantasy. There was too much at stake to let her carefully laid of plans dissolve into nothingness over the passion of her loins.

To this end, she did not have Savid accompany her this night. He was now more of a temptation than ever and she needed her head clear.

Just as well.

She had business to attend to.

Though she enjoyed the pleasantries of being carted around on the shoulders of powerful men, she was no stranger to slinking in the darkness. With her Cloak of Eternal Shadows draped around her shoulders, she went unnoticed as she slipped past her own guards and into the night. Heuveir had fallen asleep and even the men trying in vain to remain asleep at the city jail were nodding off. Little wonder this town in particular was such an eyesore in all of Sareseou.

It was so simple to slip past the town watchmen and enter the jails itself. No one noticed as she quietly glided through the office and down into the cells themselves. Of course, the biggest and most secure of the cells was devoted to Don Cazzallo. Fear of La Famille’s retribution kept other guards from personally watching over him but the point was moot. The rest of the cells were empty anyway. Heuveir might as well have had a penal system with no door. Criminals came in as quickly as they left and the cells were seldom filled for extended periods of time.

La Famille’s influence without a doubt.

Ailiva approached the Don’s cell and quietly dropped the cowl over her head.

Cazzallo was still dressed in the smoke-damaged finery that he had during the escape from his chateau. His beady little eyes were none too pleased to see her.

“You’re a spineless bitch, Ailiva,” he hissed.

Had she not reached climax earlier, the sight of this poor deluded man squirming beneath her mercy would have her probing her loins. “I am an opportunist, my dear Don. I merely made the best of the current situation.”

“You had me arrested! The moment La Famille hear of this -!”

“I wonder,” she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully, “would the other Dons really act against the will of the Gods old or new?”

“Don’t tell me you believe the bullshit that lizard was spouting!”

“Oh trust me. I believe. I know he is a threat and so is that wolf-headed mage he has tagging along behind him.” The power of Livestock alone was enough to make any person shiver. If what Samuel said was true, his power came from death and destruction. Simply sending her forces against him would likely only empower him all the more. No, she needed a swift, decisive strike to end him and the threat of this Avatar but she had to do it subtly and cleverly. “So I have come to renegotiate out deal.”

“I have nothing to negotiate with you!” he spat.

“Indeed.” She smiled coldly, leaning forward until she was just inches from his bars. “You are at my mercy. If you threaten me with La Famille’s justice, I must simply put all of my resources behind the Avatar and Samuel. Do you think La Famille would be able to stand up against divine justice?”

“You think the Holy Triad would stand for this?”

“Would the Holy Triad mind if a usurper to their throne destroyed a heretical criminal organisation or at least kill one another in the attempt?” she countered with a single, lifted eyebrow. “Think of it, Cazzallo. I am offering you an opportunity to return to La Famille a hero. You will have killed the Avatar of Malgorin, threatened the firstborn of Callaroeu and propelled the future Queen of Traelliviar to the throne. Would it not be a great opportunity to have the monarchy as good friends?”

“You’re still pandering that shitty plan?”

“With greater stakes,” she answered, straightening. “It is not longer a simple matter of threatening Garrison. You must threaten his life but also kill Samuel, the Avatar and Taydir Wingsever.”

“And how do you propose I do that locked behind these goddamn bars?”

“I will arrange for some leniences but you must understand that you must remain locked in your cell for most of the time.” Her lips curled upwards with a smirk. “You have until the end of the week to make all the arrangements.” She reached into her cloak and produced a small parchment. “Your instructions are here.”

Cazzallo snatched the parchment from her fingers and regarded the contents. His eyes widened - the biggest she had ever seen them - and he gave her a petrified look. “You’re mad!”

“You can agree that the Avatar, if allowed to spread his influence, would be highly damaging to all of us. Samuel is the greatest immediate threat as well. He must be eliminated first and foremost. It must all be done swiftly, decisively and as a surprise. If they suspect anything, we will be undone.”

Cazzallo smacked the parchment with the back of his hand. “But to do all this in a week? It is impossible!”

“Then how about some added motivation?” she asked coldly. “You will be executed at week’s end. Either you save yourself by doing exactly as I ask or you die by the blade.”

Ailiva turned, waving a hand over her shoulder while slipping on her cowl once more.

“No need to answer, Cazzallo. Your silence speaks volumes.”