The mechanical whine and grinding of heavy gears came to a halt as the main gates of a fortified stronghold groaned open. A small cavalry unit emerged, their armor forged of black and blood-red dragonsteel, glinting ominously in the torchlight. Each rider bore the mark of their order—shields and banners checkered in crimson and obsidian, a blood dragon emblazoned at the center like a herald of dread. Even their steeds were clad in matching dragonsteel barding. Clydesdale horses with skin tones wrapped in hues of midnight black, ashen brown, and ghostly white. Most of the knights carried swords at their sides, while others bore massive lances strapped to their backs. The firelight danced along the stone walls of a towering three-story structure as the riders passed, their formation curving around its shadowed corners before vanishing into the mosaic of buildings and winding streets that composed the fortress’ sprawling campus.
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At the rear of the building, beneath the only lit torch flickering under a weathered awning that bridged the structure to a sprawling line of stables, sat a solitary figure cloaked in dark brown. He perched atop a stack of old crates, the soft curl of smoke rising from a long, slender pipe clenched between his lips. Wisps of short, deep brown hair spilled from beneath his hood, just enough to frame the faint outline of a face cast in shadow. His gaze was fixed downward, calmly reading from a worn book titled The Dragon Nation.
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Flashes of lightning veined across the storm-laden sky, casting brief, jagged shadows against the walls as thunder rolled with a force that seemed to rattle the earth itself. The man exhaled a heavy plume of smoke, calm and unbothered, before casually turning a page of his book. The tome lay open in his lap as he sat cross-legged, the hem of his cloak billowing gently in the storm’s restless breath. With practiced ease, he turned another page, then reached beneath his cloak to retrieve a small pouch. From it, he drew a pinch of ground herbs, packing them into the bowl of his pipe. A flick of a match later, the pipe’s end flared with a warm glow. He inhaled deeply, the ember pulsing bright, before releasing another languid cloud of smoke into the storm-tossed air.
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The rusted hinges of a heavy wooden door groaned like a dying beast as it creaked open behind the man. Reinforced with steel plating, the door gave way to another figure clad in a simple brown tunic and weather-worn cloak, cradling a metal fuel canister in his gloved hands. Wordlessly, the man stepped into the torch-lit gloom, moving with deliberate care as he approached the perimeter of the building. One by one, he extinguished the flickering flames of the mounted torches directly beneath the rain, unscrewed their reservoirs, and filled them with fresh fuel. Rain crashed in from the above, hissing as it kissed the smoldering wicks. With practiced precision, he sealed one of the torches, reignited its flame, and shuffled toward the seated reader. Without a word, he placed the canister on the crate beside him, drew a wooden pipe from beneath his cloak, and began packing it with herbs from a pouch fastened to his belt.
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With a deep grunt as he cleared his throat, the man asked, “Aye, Cyrex. You got a match?”
Without lifting his eyes from the pages of his book, Cyrex casually tossed over a small pouch. Sewn into the fabric was a piece of porous striking stone, worn from use. The man retrieved a match from the pouch and dragged it across the rock a few times until it flared to life with a sharp hiss and a sudden blaze.
He returned the pouch to Cyrex and brought his pipe to his lips, drawing in the first pull of smoke. Letting it drift slowly from his nostrils, he spoke in a gravelly voice, “Didn’t take you for a reader.”
Cyrex kept his eyes fixed on the book and muttered, “Books are the only thing keeping me from driving my blade through the necks of those imperial free loaders. I’ve seen newborn orcs hold their whiskey better.”
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The man let out a low chuckle. “Aye, and they’ve no mercy for the johns, either. If it weren’t for the dwarven plumbing, I swear those bastards would be shitting in the halls.”
Cyrex finally looked up from his book, his expression half-shadowed beneath his hood. “Exactly how long are they supposed to be here, anyway? I thought they were just stopping by to pick up the dragon Roberto captured. Didn’t expect it to turn into a fucking imperial sleepover.”
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The man fired back, “You’re not the one cleaning up after them! They've already broken four of my finest glass mugs. One of ’em even murdered the prostitute he bunked with last night—I spent my morning burying her out by the waste bog. Had to send a postman to the next town just to fetch a new damn mattress.”
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Cyrex, returning his gaze to his book, asked, “What did Lucius have to say about that?”
Without missing a beat, the man replied, “Why would I tell Lucius? Wasn’t one of our girls he killed. No reason for him to know. He’d have just told me to take care of it anyway, so I figured I’d do everyone a favor and bury the bitch myself.” He hacked violently and spat onto the cobblestone with a string of rasping coughs.
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Turning a page, Cyrex muttered, “Been a while since I’ve seen a dragon. The only ones you hear about these days are from off-continent.”
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The man chuckled as he picked up his canister and turned toward the last unlit torch. “The last dragon I saw, I was about your age. Lucius brought in a captured adolescent after a dungeon raid. While they were marching it through the gates, the damn thing clamped its jaws around one of our guy’s necks.”
Cyrex looked up again and asked, “Did he make it?”
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The man laughed, “Fuck no! That dragon nearly bit his head clean off. Only thing holding it on was a flap of skin and a sliver of muscle. Bastard shit himself the moment those teeth sank in—sprayed blood everywhere like it was L’Rossa’s Lunar Rain.”
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“You’ve never seen L’Rossa’s Lunar Rain,” Cyrex shot back. “It hasn’t happened in nearly a thousand years.”
The man shrugged as he unscrewed the last torch’s canister lid and poured in the remaining fuel. “Yeah, well—I imagine that’s what it would’ve looked like. Turns out he had a bastard son. Wonder whatever happened to the little shit.”
Cyrex packed another pinch of herb into his pipe. “I’m surprised you didn’t make the kid clean up the mess.”
With a deep, wheezing chuckle, the man replied, “Even I’m not that ruthless. Let the dragon eat what was left—armor and all. Didn’t even flinch. Rain washed the rest away.” He pulled the door open with one hand, continuing over his shoulder, “Figured since he was already dead, might as well let the beast get its fill. Burying him would’ve just given some grave-hopping necromancer an easy puppet to play with.”
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Light from a nearby torch flickered around the corner of the stables just as the man tending the flames vanished behind the heavy door. The sharp clatter of hooves echoed across the slick cobblestone under the veil of rain as a lone rider—one of the men who had passed earlier—came to a halt before Cyrex and his book.
A jagged flash of lightning split the sky above the stables, illuminating the rider as his voice cut through the night like a cathedral bell:
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“Cyrex Vaxari of North Sky, you are summoned by the Heads of the Dragon. Report immediately to the Citadel. Lucius Cornelius II awaits. You are to arrive in full regalia and bear both of your dragonsteel daggers.”
His horse pawed uneasily at the wet stone as thunder rolled in reply, as if punctuating the decree.
Cyrex stood, slamming his book shut with a sigh before hopping down from the crates. “Really? At this hour? It’s nearly Essentide.”
“The Blood Dragon sleeps and wakes on its own time, I’m afraid,” the rider quipped with a touch of sarcasm, before softening his tone. “I can give you a ride up to the Citadel, my friend—once you're changed.”
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Cyrex moved toward the door, pulling it open with a creak. “I’ve never been fond of another man’s arms wrapped around my waist—nor his groin pressing into my spine.”
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The rider let out a hearty laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. There’s no shame in sharing a horse, lad. I’ve got my hands full with a wife and our mistress. No need to go adding another to the roster—I’m already too broke to keep them both from whipping me senseless.”
Cyrex paused in the doorway and shot back, “You’d have more coin if you kept your cock in your trousers instead of letting your women drain you dry.”
Without hesitating, the man bellowed, “And what would be the point of having one, then? Might as well change my gods-damned name from Richard to Dickless! Aint no reason to have a pecker if there’s no one to put it inside of.”
Cyrex smirked, half-turned toward him, and muttered before closing the door behind him, “There’s more to life than fucking.”
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The heavy door slammed shut behind him, echoing through the narrow corridor of brick and stone. The air was thick with dampness, the scent of mildew and old smoke lingering like a curse. Dim, canister-fueled torches flickered weakly along the walls, casting long, twitching shadows as Cyrex moved quickly through a series of doorways. He passed a wide chamber where a roaring hearth fought back the gloom, casting golden light across a bar crowded with Imperial soldiers. Their raucous laughter filled the room, echoing with drunken songs about the spoils of war—crude verses glorifying slaughter, plunder, and worse.
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Cyrex ignored them, his expression unreadable as he descended a stone spiral staircase that twisted down into darkness. At the bottom, he snatched a torch from its iron sconce and stepped into the pitch beyond. The flame barely pushed back the black, illuminating little more than the edges of the narrow tunnel. He came to a worn wooden door, its surface scarred by time and use. From beneath his cloak, he retrieved a ring of keys and began to fumble through them in silence.
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A voice sliced through the darkness like a red-hot dagger.
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“I’m surprised you didn’t stay out there all night, reading your little book.”
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Cyrex nearly dropped his keys, his heart lurching.
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“For the gods’ sake, Lilian,” he hissed, regaining his composure. “Must you always do that? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Stepping into the torchlight was a tall woman, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and across the chest of her silk-black tunic and cloak. Beneath the hood, two wolf-like ears rose from the top of her head, twitching with amusement. Though her face bore no fur, faint streaks of it traced down either side of her neck before disappearing beneath her clothes. She leaned languidly against a wooden staff, her hands clasped over its top as she rested her full weight on it, taking a deliberately provocative stance.
Behind her, a swaying, blonde-furred tail stirred the stale air. The gust it created lifted the hem of her tunic just slightly as she smirked.
“Afraid the big bad wolf was going to gobble you up?” she teased, her voice rich with salacious playfulness.
Cyrex chuckled as he finally slid the key into the lock.
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“Hardly. I was referring to the stench you drag around with you. A man deserves a warning before it hits him.”
Lilian’s tone shifted in an instant, her growl sharp and indignant.
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“Oh, fuck you, Cy! I’m the only one around here who bothers to bathe. We even had new dwarven plumbing installed—and you still reek like an outhouse in the Solari heat.” Her voice softened into a sultry purr. “I could even keep you company, if that’s what it takes.”
As the door creaked open, Cyrex replied, “Tempting. But I’ve been summoned to the Citadel—and I’m expected to show up in full regalia.”
Before he could step inside, Lilian slipped past him, sauntering into the room and collapsing theatrically onto his bed. She tossed her staff carelessly to the floor, where it landed with a hard clack. In the same breath, a hidden mechanism triggered—two limbs extended from the staff’s shaft, revealing a concealed crossbow. With a sudden thwip, a bolt shot across the room, narrowly missing Cyrex’s head before embedding itself deep into the wooden door just as he slammed it shut behind him.
A deep frown twisted across Cyrex’s face as he barked, “What in the hells are you doing? Get off my bed! You nearly killed me! Gods, do you ever think before you act?” He hung the torch on the wall mount before making his way across the room to his wardrobe.
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Lilian rolled over in laughter, her voice echoing through the dim chamber like a cackling specter.79Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXzqWmH7vIu
“Oh, quit your moaning! I could probably have revived you if it had killed you.”
As she squirmed with amusement atop his bed, a thick black grimoire slipped from the folds of her cloak and tunic and thudded onto the floor beside her. Its cover was stitched from dark dragonhide, the surface engraved with ominous runes that shimmered faintly in the torchlight.
Lilian wasn’t merely a healer—she was a master of Demonic Restoration. Where most medics and divine clerics relied on traditional medicine, unaspected spells, or divine magic, she delved into the forbidden. Her powers allowed her to channel infernal energies not to raise the dead in mockery, as necromancers do, but to fully restore the living—so long as enough of the body remained. Blood, limbs, organs—enough to manifest essence from. When holy spells failed and mortal medicine gave way to death, Lilian called upon the very forces that most dared not name to mend the broken.
Lilian dropped to her hands and knees atop the bed, arching her back and burying her face into Cyrex’s pillows with a mischievous purr.
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“Come on,” she said, voice low and sultry. “Let’s fuck.”
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Cyrex unfastened his cloak, revealing a sleeveless dragonhide vest lined with dark studded leather.79Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVVpXtpEpfM
“Sorry,” he replied coolly, “you’ll have to wait.”
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He hung the cloak neatly on a hook within a large, ornate armoire carved directly into the stone wall, then began unbuckling the vest’s clasps.
With a groan that sounded more like a wounded beast than a woman scorned, Lilian tumbled off the bed and sprawled dramatically across the cold stone floor.
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“Gods, come on! We haven’t both been home in months! We’re not even on assignment tomorrow, and you’ve been buried in that damn book all week.” She rolled onto her back, arms splayed, cloak pooled beneath her. “You know whatever they summoned you for, it’ll just be another scolding over something you said. Go, get it over with. I’ll be here... waiting.”
With a sigh that carried centuries of irritation, Cyrex swung open the twin doors of the wardrobe. Inside gleamed a set of black dragonsteel armor, its cuirass trimmed in deep crimson, polished to a spectral sheen.
“I can only imagine what they’ll bitch about this time,” he muttered. “I didn’t exactly keep my opinion to myself when Sheeno told me those imperial pricks would be bunking in our guest quarters while they wait for Roberto to drag that damn dragon back.”
Lilian sat up from the cold floor, her tunic wrinkled and riding high enough to expose the curve of her rear against the stone. With a sigh, she toyed with her staff—its polished shaft resting between her legs—her tail flicking back and forth in agitation. She slid a small mechanism on the weapon’s side, causing the extended limbs of the hidden crossbow to retract seamlessly into the staff’s frame. From a concealed holster stitched into the inner seam of her cloak, she produced a small bolt and deftly loaded it into a nearly invisible slot carved into the weapon’s shaft.
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“Must you reload that thing inside my room after nearly skewering me?” Cyrex asked, his voice tinged with caution.
Lilian responded cheerfully, “Of course I must! You never know when one of those Imperial pigs is going to burst in here, nose-deep in lust, looking for a rear to defile.”
Cyrex narrowed his gaze and fired back, “Isn’t that exactly what you’re after anyway?”
At once, Lilian shot to her feet, her voice rising into something between outrage and heartache.
“Do I mean nothing to you?! I would never lay with another while my heart belongs to you! What in all the hells is wrong with you, Cyrex?”
Her expression twisted, equal parts fury and wounded pride. “I’d rather wander the Darkwoodz naked and let a Dark Wolf rut me raw than bed an Imperial dog.”
Cyrex exhaled deeply, his tone heavy with buried resentment.
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“Forgive me. I’m just… tired. No matter what I do, it’s never enough for the Hearts or the Heads of the Dragon. I’m always left trailing behind Roberto’s shadow. Even as his second-in-command, he gets the credit for the things I’ve done. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
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Lilian flopped backward onto his bunk, her sigh lingering in the dim room like smoke.79Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfnc28cgKeW
“It’s fine,” she murmured with a hint of mischief. “I just wish you’d take it out on me in other ways.”
She rolled onto her back, lifting her legs and resting her feet against the cold stone wall, her voice softening into weariness.
“It’s the same for me, you know. I’ve been leading my party for over a year, and somehow, the harder I work, the less I’m seen. They get the praise for every successful kill, every mission completed, when they’d all be corpses without my healing. Feels like the moment I stepped into leadership, all my recognition just... vanished.”
She slid her feet in opposite directions along the stone wall, the hem of her tunic yielding to gravity. It slipped down just enough to reveal the crimson sheen of her silk undergarments beneath.
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Cyrex, clearly agitated, growled, “Will you stop? It’s not that I don’t want to be intimate, but I’ve got to brace myself for the Dragons’ verbal lashings.”
Lilian let out a soft, sultry laugh.
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“What exactly did you do last night?” she asked, amusement curling in her voice. “I heard one of the soldiers had to be dragged to the infirmary, but I didn’t bother checking the details. I figured it was your handiwork.”
Strapping his belt of daggers around his waist and securing the buckles on his chest plate, Cyrex replied with feigned nonchalance,
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“Oh, you know... nothing a few of Samsara’s healing incantations couldn’t patch up.”
“Come on, just tell me,” Lilian moaned with a teasing whine.
“I used a spell scroll Olive gave me the other day—turned him into a frog after he said something foul. Then I stepped on him.”
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Lilian exploded with laughter, collapsing off Cyrex’s bunk and slamming onto the stone floor, her groin fully exposed as she howled with mirth. The flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows across the pale expanse of her bare legs, which she casually draped back over the edge of the bed. A trail of short, blonde fur crept up from beneath her boots, fading away at her knees into porcelain skin devoid of any hair.
Her vibrant blue eyes shimmered in the dim light like twin moons as she squealed, “That’s diabolic!”
“No,” Cyrex replied coldly, “what’s diabolic is his ignorance—his absolute lack of compassion for anyone who isn't a pure-blood.”
Lilian blinked, confused. “But... you are a full-blood Hume.”
Draping a black and crimson cloak over his shoulders, Cyrex adjusted it, snapping the fabric into the grooves of his armor. His voice was low and simmering with restrained fury.
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“What he said wasn’t directed at me—it was about you, and the other demi-humes and beastfolk here. He compared you all to livestock—goats and barnyard animals—useless once they’ve outlived their purpose.”
Fastening the clasp at his throat, he continued, his voice steady and grim.
“I wanted to slit his throat. To sever his head and let him watch his own body fall into the mud with his dying breath. Then bury his head somewhere far away so no healer could revive him in time leaving his corpse for the necromancers to play with. But instead... I chose mercy. I gave him a taste of death—as a frog. Let him feel how small life can become, before letting the infirmary raise him.”
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After catching his reflection in the mirror embedded in the stone-carved wardrobe, Cyrex offered a grim smile and muttered, “If it weren’t for the time I’ve spent with you, I probably would’ve killed him. Permanently.”
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With a gleam of sarcasm in her voice, Lilian replied, “That might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Cyrex turned, his black and crimson cloak billowing behind him as his dragonsteel greaves clanked against the stone floor. He stepped over Lilian, now seated again on his bunk, and leaned in to kiss her gently on the forehead.
“Hopefully,” he said with a half-smirk, “when I return, I’ll still have my tongue and fingers attached—and I’ll fuck you like a Dark Wolf from the Darkwoodz.”
Lilian grinned mischievously. “Now that’s actually the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He patted her head softly, a rare tenderness in his touch. “Hopefully, it won’t be long. It’s a bit abnormal to be summoned this late—whether for a scolding… or dismemberment.”
Without another word, Cyrex swept from the room. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the flickering torch still mounted on the wall. His footsteps echoed through the narrow stone corridor, the clamor of greaves ringing like distant war drums. At the base of the stairwell, he snatched a fresh torch from the sconce and began his ascent into the dark above.
Slowly swallowed by the rising chatter and laughter spilling from the mess hall, Cyrex stepped past the arched doorway. The heavy sound of his greaves clanking against the stone floor caught the attention of the rowdy Imperials dining inside.
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“Blimey!” one soldier jeered, lifting his mug. “There’s the pretty boy himself! As if he heard his name rattling through the stone. And look—he’s even dressed in his big boy armor!”
Cyrex came to a halt, his expression calm but glacial. His voice was low and razor-edged as he responded, “The tongue is a muscle. Some say it can grow back. But sever it deep enough—that wouldn’t be the case.”
He turned at the waist, standing half in the light of the archway, half shrouded in shadow. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer a game of grab-ass in our newly installed dwarven showers with your mates? That seems more your speed.”
The soldier stood from his stool at the bar, flanked by two of his companions. His smug expression darkened.
“Those sound like fighting words, boy. Don’t think that armor makes you untouchable. Wouldn’t be the first time we roughhoused with a Syndicate mutt.” He cracked his knuckles. “Especially one that turned my man into a puddle over some petty insult. The higher-ups might be eager to punish you—but I wouldn’t mind softening you up first.”
Without flinching, Cyrex fired back, his voice calm and venomous, “Or would you rather I cut off all your cocks, save the goats the burden of your affection?”
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The room fell into a thick silence as the soldier—still unarmored—gritted his teeth and drew his sword with a hiss of steel. “Not if I cut yours off first,” he growled.
“Enough!” a voice boomed, snapping through the tension like a warhammer on glass. “I spent last night cleaning up the fucking mess you bastards made—along with Cyrex’s!” From behind the bar, a short, barrel-chested dwarf barked his fury. His arms, corded with muscle, slammed down hard enough to rattle mugs and silence the room. “This is my establishment. My bar. Sit your asses down and drink your bloody ale!”
He pointed a thick finger at Cyrex. “Go on, lad. I know you’ve been summoned. Your chariot’s waitin’ outside. And let me make this clear—the only mess I’ll be cleanin’ tonight is the one I make with my axe if the lot of you don’t shut the fuck up.”
The soldier gave Cyrex one last glare before slowly sheathing his sword. “You’re lucky the dwarf’s here, boy,” he spat. “Or I’d have your cock and balls clenched in my fist.”
The bar erupted into laughter—raucous, unhinged, and mean—as Cyrex continued through the corridor with a scowl carved across his face. His jaw tightened with every step, the urge to double back and gut them all held at bay by a thread. All except the dwarf. Him, he might spare.
As he neared the rear exit, the low murmur of the rain outside became a roar. He paused, listening to the downpour crash against the stone, and let out a quiet sigh of relief. If the dwarf had called it a “chariot,” he could only hope it came with a roof or tarp. At the very least, he’d be spared the storm’s full wrath.
As Cyrex opened the door and stepped back beneath the awning connecting the stables to the main building, a look of pure horror swept across his face.
There was no wagon.
No chariot.
Only Richard—standing beside his horse with a smug grin, drinking ale from a glass mug while the storm raged overhead. Lightning tore jagged paths across the sky behind him, briefly illuminating the courtyard in flashes of ghostly white.
“Aye! There you are!” Richard called out cheerily. “Thought you weren’t comin’ back and I’d have to come drag ya out by the scruff.”
His cheerfulness clashed harshly with the grim, storm-lashed night, sending a chill down Cyrex’s spine. The unease clung to him like the damp air.
“What do you mean, drag me out?” Cyrex asked, voice sharp. “Am I being detained?”
Richard laughed so hard he nearly choked on his ale, coughing and snorting as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh, gods no! Wouldn’t be able to detain you if I tried.” He chuckled again. “One of the Heads of the Dragon just said if I didn’t come back with ya, they’d have me hung for incompetence. I’m just the poor bastard tasked with the message.”
Cyrex narrowed his eyes. “That still sounds like I’m being detained.”
Setting the mug down on a nearby crate, Richard climbed into the saddle and adjusted his cloak. “Well, I could put you in shackles if that’d make you feel better.” He gave a devilish grin. “But they didn’t say restrain you—just to fetch you. Sounded important, but I make it a habit not to overhear things I don’t need to. Helps keep the ol’ neck uncut.”
With a light nudge, he coaxed the horse into a slow trot toward the Citadel, rain pelting down in sheets around him.
Cyrex sighed heavily and called after him, shame and irritation in his voice, “Hold up... I guess... I’ll take that offer for a ride.”
Whipping back around with a chuckle, Richard called out, “Thought you weren’t the type to have a man’s cock at your arse?”
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Cyrex frowned, his voice flat and tired. “Shut your mouth and just give me the damn ride. This armor is heavier than I’m used to.”
Richard extended a gauntleted hand down to him. “Don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “This big bastard’s got room for two—comfortable, even.”
Cyrex climbed up onto the horse, shifting awkwardly until he was settled behind the saddle horn. Without hesitation, Richard let out a sharp cry, and the steed surged forward, galloping through the rain-slick fortress streets.
Unfazed by the downpour or the weight of two fully armored men, the horse moved with remarkable grace—taking sharp turns with practiced ease, its hooves clattering like thunder over the cobblestone. Beneath its noir black and crimson red-plated barding, its pristine white coat shimmered faintly in the flickering torchlight, almost radiant against the gloom.
As they passed a side building, two men—one a hume and the other a tall wolfman—turned from where they loitered beneath an overhang. They gave a casual wave as the riders sped by, their silhouettes briefly illuminated by the soft glow of nearby lanterns.
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Barely able to keep hold, Cyrex shouted above the rush of wind and pounding rain, “Must you ride this fast?!”
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Grinning beneath the curtain of rain, Richard answered, “The night isn’t young, my friend. And assuming they don’t lop off our heads for that little prank we played on our imperial associate, I’d like to return swiftly to my quarters and finish a painting I’ve been working on.”
“A painting?” Cyrex asked, surprised. “Of what?”
Still smiling as the rain slashed across his face, Richard replied, “Ah, but just as an illusionist never reveals his tricks, an artist never unveils his work before it’s complete. And even when it’s finished, truly—it never is.”
With a tired frown, Cyrex muttered, “Well… here’s hoping you live long enough to show me, assuming we get to keep our heads.”
As they neared the back of the fortress, a grand citadel emerged through the veil of storm. Its fortified walls reached outward, encircling the complex like a stone colossus, offering shelter to the shadowed hearts within. The main gate groaned open, revealing a slick cobblestone path leading up to towering blackened doors. The horse, unshaken by the storm or the weight of its riders, galloped forward, its iron-clad hooves striking sparks beneath the torrential sky.
Torches blazed defiantly in the downpour, their flames hissing and flaring against the wind. Massive banners draped down from the citadel’s towers—checkered black and blood-red, emblazoned with the silhouette of a snarling Blood Dragon—rippling wildly in the storm. As the riders dismounted, the rain fell heavier still, drumming against their armor like hammer blows. A silent guard stepped forward from beneath the awning, took the reins of Richard’s horse, and led the beast toward the nearby stables.
Cyrex and Richard exchanged a glance before stepping through the looming entrance, leaving the chaos of the storm behind as the citadel swallowed them in stone and silence.
Unlike the usual dim austerity of the citadel, the grand halls tonight blazed with light. Every torch along the main corridor burned with unwavering intensity, casting flickering shadows over lavish murals of dragons and divine beasts—each carved with masterful detail and painted in hues that danced beneath the firelight. Portraits of former Heads and Hearts of the Dragon lined the walls like silent sentinels, their solemn gazes watching all who passed toward the heart of the fortress.
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Richard and Cyrex moved quickly through the radiant corridor, entering the great chamber beyond—a massive vaulted hall crowned with crystal chandeliers that refracted the firelight into an ethereal prism of color. The air felt charged, ceremonial… grim.
To Cyrex’s surprise, the entirety of his party stood in formal silence, split evenly across both sides of the long crimson carpet that stretched from the threshold to the foot of the throne—a towering structure forged in the likeness of a twin-headed dragon, sculpted from black obsidian and rose-gold metal. Twin seats were carved between the curling necks of the beast, where the current Heads of the Dragon stood flanking Sheeno.
None of them wore smiles.
Their faces were drawn and serious as they turned to acknowledge Richard and Cyrex's arrival. The chandeliers above and every torch along the chamber walls burned fiercely, illuminating every etched scale and scar in the dragon-throne's design. Even the altar beside it—rarely used except for the highest rites—was lit with its braziers ablaze. At its center stood a large decanter, glasslike and ancient, filled with what could only be described as glimmering, freshly drawn crimson blood.
Cyrex’s heart sank with a familiar weight.
He had seen the citadel in such grandeur only twice before: once for a wedding, and once for a beheading.
Both, tragically, had occurred during the same ceremony.
>As if synchronized with the lightning currently tearing the sky two voices ominously rang out as one, “We will now start the ceremony!”
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Richard slipped into formation beside the rest of the party without a word, leaving Cyrex to stand alone before the two Heads of the Dragon and Sheeno. The air in the chamber grew heavy, the once-roaring firelight now casting solemn shadows across the walls. A tense silence settled like dust, thick and expectant, as all eyes fell upon Cyrex.
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At last, Sheeno broke the stillness, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade through flesh.
“Cyrex Vaxari, it is with great regret that I must inform you of the passing of your party leader, Roberto Alvarez.”
He did not pause to allow grief to settle. In the same breath, he continued, firm and resolute:
“But when one claw of the dragon is lost, another must rise in its place. Effective immediately, you are to assume leadership of his party—and you must choose a new second-in-command to stand at your side.”
Without ceremony, Sheeno turned and retrieved a badge from a pouch sewn beneath his dark ceremonial robes. He stepped forward and affixed it to Cyrex’s cloak—a sigil in the shape of a dragon’s claw, forged in blackened silver with veins of crimson gem running through it.
Then, one of the Heads of the Dragon spoke, their voice deep and ritualistic, echoing through the vaulted chamber:
“Now drink from the ancient blood of the Divine Dragon. Let it bind you to the will of the Syndicate and mark your soul as one of its mighty claws.”
A servant approached the altar, carefully pouring the glowing red ichor from the ancient decanter into a goblet of red-and-black dragonsteel. With reverent hands, the servant turned and carried the chalice to Cyrex, holding it with arms outstretched.
Cyrex took the goblet in his hands. As its rim touched his lips, the thick, warm blood carried the weight of power—and the cost that came with it. He drank deeply, sealing his fate with every swallow.
Still reeling from the tension—his heart pounding from the fear that moments ago he might have lost his head—Cyrex felt the blood’s heat crawling down his throat like molten stew, thick and almost bubbling as if on the edge of a simmer. He hadn’t truly considered whether he had a choice in any of this. He didn’t know the details of Roberto’s death, or why Sheeno had been the one to deliver the news. But he wasn’t about to argue. Keeping his head and receiving a promotion was more than he’d dared hope for tonight.
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The taste of the dragon’s blood wasn’t as foul as he had expected, though it clotted thickly at the back of his throat, forcing him to swallow it like a chunk of over-chewed meat. He fought the urge to gag, forcing each mouthful down with grim determination.
Lucius stepped forward for the first time, his voice deep and deliberate, unaccompanied by the other Head of the Dragon. “Roberto’s quarters and all that he owned are now yours. Do with them as you see fit.”
Cyrex, still stunned and fighting nausea, drained the last of the goblet in one final gulp. He gasped for breath as the scalding liquid burned its way down his chest, and managed to rasp, “My lords… if I may ask—what became of Roberto?”
The second Head of the Dragon answered in a tone as cold and precise as steel drawn at midnight. “According to his attendants, the dragon he captured turned on him—after being reunited with its original owners. He was killed. Your first task as leader is to leave at Dawntide with your party, investigate the matter, and retrieve the dragon. The Emperor was promised a beast… and a beast he shall receive.”
Cyrex swallowed what lingered in his mouth—thick, metallic, and burning—and convulsed forward with a sudden cough. As his chest clenched tightly, he forced out a final question through gritted teeth. “And… what of the dragon’s owners? When I find them… would you have me bring them back with the beast?”
Lucius turned abruptly, his tone curt and final. “No. Make sure to dispose of them. Once we have the dragon, we don’t need any witnesses reporting to the Empire’s Dragon Guard. The Emperor made it clear—this operation is to be done discreetly. Eliminate any able-bodied warriors, and return only with demi-beings deemed valuable for the slave trade.”
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Without another word, both Lucius and the other Head of the Dragon turned and began walking toward a shadowed passage behind the throne. As they passed beneath the arched doorway, their voices rang out in unison, echoing off the stone like an oath from the gods themselves:
“The Dragon has spoken.”
The heavy silence broke as the room shifted—everyone in the chamber stood at ease and began clapping in recognition of Cyrex’s promotion. Sheeno stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder with a proud, if slightly mischievous, smile.
“So,” Sheeno asked, “how’d it taste?”
Still dazed, Cyrex blinked, then muttered, “Surprisingly not that bad… it was the thick, chunky consistency that nearly killed me.”
Sheeno chuckled. “You’ve got a stronger stomach than I did. I was fighting for my life on the john for a week after I drank it.”
Cyrex’s expression dimmed, a frown forming as the weight of the moment settled in. “I thought I was going to lose my head tonight over what happened… And to learn that Roberto’s dead? It’s… a lot.”
Sheeno’s voice shifted into something more serious, though tinged with bitter acceptance. “Yeah. I overheard your new servants telling the Dragon Heads what they saw. Said the little bastard dragged him into the sky and dropped em. There wasn’t anything left but pulp and mush when he hit the ground.”
Cyrex swallowed hard, still feeling the hot residue of the dragon’s blood crawling in his chest. “And now I’m supposed to face a dragon… and bring it back alive? I don’t even know how to begin with that.”
With a dry grin and a shift in tone, Sheeno gestured to the rest of the warriors lining the hall. “Oh, come on now. You’ve got all these fine bastards to help you.”
He leaned in slightly and smirked. “Besides, the beast is still an adolescent. Given what they described, I’m surprised the scaly little shit even managed to lift Roberto’s lazy ass off the ground. You’ll be fine.”
"Do we know how many owners that dragon had?" Cyrex asked, his voice heavy with fatigue and wary curiosity.
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Sheeno scratched the back of his neck, eyes narrowed as he thought. “They didn’t say. Only that after Roberto’s death, the survivors bolted and hoofed it all the way back here. Took them a full day without horses.”
Cyrex exhaled sharply and turned, already beginning to walk toward the exit. “Lilian’s not going to be thrilled that I’ve got work at Dawntide.”
From behind him, Richard’s voice rang out like a drunk troubadour at a tavern brawl. “And you’re not gonna like the ride back either—with my cock at your arse. Stiff as the damn flagpoles out front, waving our banner, now that we know we’re not getting beheaded!”
Laughter erupted from the rest of the party still loitering near the throne, their voices rough and rowdy as they finished offering their congratulations before slipping out into the rain-drenched night one by one.
Sheeno clapped a firm hand on Cyrex’s back, his tone shifting from celebratory to sincerely somber. “No one deserved this more than you. Just a damn shame Roberto had to get himself killed. Maybe if he hadn’t gone in without you and his full crew, he’d still be standing here.”
He gestured subtly around the now-empty throne room. “Take that as your first lesson as a leader—don’t go in alone. Even a dragon struggles when it's up against a full party. You’ve got brains and steel in equal measure, and all those history and war books you bury your nose in? Might finally pay off.”
Descending the few steps from the throne’s platform, Sheeno turned and added, “Get some rest. It’s already late, and dawn’s not far off. You can crash in your old bunk tonight—but Roberto’s quarters are yours now. Keys on the dresser. Make it your own.”
With that, Sheeno vanished into the corridor, his silhouette swallowed by the storm howling outside.
Cyrex remained, still standing in silent disbelief as the final echoes of footsteps faded. One by one, the last of his companions slipped into the night, until it was just him—and Richard, who leaned lazily against the stone wall with a grin too smug for the thunder that loomed overhead.
They walked in silence through the stone corridor toward the citadel’s front entrance, each lost in thought but quietly grateful to still have their heads. As they pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the storm once more, Richard muttered with a crooked grin, “Well, my friend, it seems we live to prank another day. Maybe no one gave a fuck about that imperial bastard after all.”
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Rain slapped against their cloaks as they stepped beneath the torchlight once again.
“But still,” Richard continued, his voice half-drowned in the downpour, “now that you hold a higher rank, I’d suggest keeping those blades of yours sheathed unless you’re drawing them on proper enemies. You might be a Dragon’s Claw now, but you’ll always be my friend. And I’d hate to see you lose your head over the next little joke.”
The same guard who had taken Richard’s horse earlier returned, leading the great beast by the reins. Cyrex and Richard climbed atop the saddle together—awkward but practiced—just as the rain thickened to a curtain of water around them. Without delay, Richard kicked the reins, and the horse shot off into the fortress streets like a ghost set loose.
“I feel like it’s been raining for a week straight!” Richard shouted over the wind, gripping the reins tight as the beast barreled down the narrow roads.
“It’s strange,” Cyrex replied, barely managing to stay mounted with only one set of stirrups. “This much rain this late into Umbryth? Doesn’t feel natural.”
The barracks came back into view as they rounded the final bend—its familiar silhouette cast in flickering orange torchlight and black shadow. The stables loomed ahead, and as they pulled under the awning, Richard called out with a grin, “You know, you really ought to spend some coin and get your own damned horse, my friend. Unless, of course, you like riding cock to arse!”
Cyrex hopped down and stretched, grumbling, “Maybe I’ll just ride with Lilian from now on. Then it’ll be cock to arse on my terms.”
Richard roared with laughter as he swung one leg off the saddle and landed beside him. “Now that’s the kind of tactical thinking I like to see! Next, we’ll find you another woman to wrap your arm around—maybe one with less teeth and fewer emotional issues.”
Cyrex chuckled under his breath as he pushed through the door. “One woman is enough for me,” he called out behind him. “I don’t think I have enough cocks for two.”
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Richard’s laughter echoed loudly from the stables behind him, fading into the storm as Cyrex descended into the dim corridor beyond. Alone once more in the quiet halls, his thoughts wandered. While others dreamed of harems, gold, or glory, Cyrex dreamed of only one thing.
Lilian.
She wasn’t merely an equal—she was divine. A goddess cloaked in the form of a demi-hume, blessed with strength and fury and a healer’s touch. No one else in the fortress came close to her abilities—not even Samsara, the clan’s official medic. Lilian’s power wasn’t only in her magic but in the way she moved through battle with cold elegance, her feral transformations barely hindering her clarity or grace. Most Canidae lost control when the rage took them, but not her. She danced through blood with the precision of a killer and the calm of the moon.
The way she moved, the cadence of her voice—all were a mysterious melody of moonlight dancing through his mind at most moments of the day and night. In a place where violence ruled and loyalty was thin, Lilian was the only one who could get under his skin and leave no scars. The only one for whom he would throw down blade and breath alike—not for duty, but for her alone.
As he passed the archway of the pub, the drunken men from earlier called out—slurred apologies tumbling from their mouths like spilled ale—but Cyrex ignored them entirely, letting their voices die in the torchlit dark. He descended once more into the underbelly of the barracks, down the narrow spiral staircase, past the echoing damp stone, until he reached the corridor leading to his room.
That’s when it hit him.
A searing pain erupted in his chest, as if something ancient and violent was clawing its way out. He doubled over, clutching the wall with one hand as his body convulsed. The taste of copper flooded his mouth—bitter and metallic—followed by the thick, nauseating flavor of dragon’s blood. He gagged, barely restraining the urge to vomit, but then another wave of agony surged through his body, strong enough to nearly drop him to his knees.
The hallway was dark. Silent. He stood there, alone in the void of stone and shadow, the blood of the divine dragon boiling in his veins.
And something inside of him had begun to stir.
In the darkness, Cyrex let out a low chuckle as the pain began to subside. “Sheeno said he was fighting for his life after drinking the beast’s blood,” he muttered to himself, his voice laced with dry amusement. “Didn’t think he meant it literally.”
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He wiped the thick drool from the corners of his mouth, coughing hoarsely as he stood upright again. Though he hadn’t vomited, the nauseating weight still clung to the pit of his stomach like a coiled serpent. He made his way to his door and fumbled with the key, pushing it open with a tired grunt. Once inside, he shut it behind him with a solid thud and locked it with a heavy click.
Within the soft torchlight of the room, he caught sight of Lilian curled beneath his bunk’s blankets and comforter. The faint flicker of the flame caught the glint of her eyes as she stirred at the sound of the door.
Rolling over lazily, she peered out from beneath the covers and smirked. “Well, that was fast,” she said, her voice honeyed with sarcasm. “Still got your head and fingers, I see. Or… did they chop the little guy off instead?”
Cyrex snorted and began unstrapping his ceremonial armor, one piece at a time. “Honestly?” he replied, dropping the chestplate with a heavy clatter, “I don’t even know how to explain what just happened. One minute I thought I was about to be executed, the next—Sheeno’s pinning a badge to my cloak, naming me party leader, and handing me a goblet of Divine Dragon blood to drink.”
Lilian sprang from beneath the covers in a single fluid motion, rising to stand atop Cyrex’s bed—completely nude. Her bare skin caught the flicker of torchlight, and her golden tail wagged with excitement behind her as she beamed with manic glee. “No way! They actually promoted you? Is Roberto dead? Wasn’t the dragon’s blood delicious? Gods, when they promoted me, I asked for seconds! I couldn’t believe it was still warm after a thousand years!”
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Cyrex blinked, caught off guard by her naked enthusiasm. “I’m not sure delicious is quite the word I’d use…”
Still standing tall, hands planted firmly on her hips, her wolfish ears perked with pride, Lilian grinned wickedly and replied, “Well lucky for you, I picked up a whole lot of words back at the mage’s academy on my home continent. I’m sure we can come up with a few... more fitting.”
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