Goblin Days (Pt. 6) - Of Dragons

72%.

Rags opened her eyes and knew.

[Risk Calculation: Attack on Goblinhome]. She always checked. Sometimes, it triggered for a monster attack, but today, she knew. She only checked for serious attacks.

[Risk Calculation] was an odd Skill. It returned percentages about everything if Rags asked it, but it could be vague; it could be in two seconds. It could be in months, maybe. In that sense, it was a balanced Skill. Rags was sure if she were Level 60, it would be infinitely more precise. But at her lower level, it told her what she needed to know.

It was well-crafted for a [Strategist] and [Great Chieftain] of her level by a…process that made no mistakes. It knew everything, and it understood all.

It never made mistakes.

Rags knew. She didn’t know what, but she had nightmares about the many, many groups it could be. She woke tired and stood in front of a mirror, seeing a short Hobgoblin staring with bleary, red eyes back at her, a toothbrush in her mouth.

Rags spat. Gargled some water. And wished she were the prodigy they had always thought she was. A real one, the kind who could win any battle and not count bodies by the thousand, win or lose.

Today, she leaned on the washbasin and spoke.

“So that’s what it feels like, Erin.”

She looked for that smiling figure over her shoulder, like she’d imagined had been there when Erin was in her frozen slumber. Now, of course, Rags knew that Erin had never been there. She missed the illusion.

Gently, absently, Rags began to comb her hair, brushing up from the half-shaved side of her head across her ear. A Goblin making sure she looked her best before the adventurers broke down the door to her tribe’s cave. A gesture that had no meaning—except for the other Goblins.

The Goblin in the mirror said:

“Smile.”

——

“Walter.”

“No.”

“Frostylord.”

“No.”

“Bigfoot?”

“No.”

“Bigclaw Icepooper?”

“We are not keeping him.”

“…Wyvlordie?”

Rags ignored the Goblins. She dragged one foot, then kicked a Goblin clinging to her leg off her.

“Poisonbite, get something loud. Chase the Wyvern Lord away.”

“Me? Why me?”

The other Hobgoblin complained loudly—and nervously—as Rags surveyed the unwelcome house guest on the roof of Goblinhome. It was the largest Frost Wyvern by far; the other tamed Frost Wyverns were eying him warily, and even the Goblins, despite their begging, treated the unconscious Wyvern Lord with caution.

If not respect; he was passed out on his back, pawing at the air occasionally. Drinking barrels of Firebreath Whiskey did that even to a Wyvern Lord

“We can’t feed him. And he’s not tamable.”

Every single [Wyvern Rider] and [Beast Master] in the tribe had taken a shot at the Wyvern Lord; their [Charm Beast] and [Tame Monster] Skills had a 0% chance of success in Rags’ opinion, but Goblins hated being told things were impossible.

“But the names so good. And if he fight for us—”

“No. Poisonbite, wake him and get him out of here. Then begin sweeping the High Passes. Where’s Prixall?”

“Here?”

“Tell Anazurhe I want to know if someone’s spying on me magically. I’ll pay her price. Taganchiel, double-check every store we have. Make sure ammunition is stored with every Thunderbow and that we have our fallback points supplied. I’ve called Fightipilota and Redscar back.”

Of all the times for her top fighters to be gone…Rags looked around. No attack yet.

She assumed there was time. She kept giving orders as Poisonbite reluctantly crept up to the Wyvern Lord and then smashed two metal cymbals together as loudly as she could by his head. They were instruments Kevin had donated to Goblinhome.

Kevin, again. Rags ignored the roar of fury and pain as the Wyvern Lord woke up, then the screaming and shouting. She only turned her head when a huge face interposed itself between her and the rest of the world.

A betrayed, bloodshot eye stared at Rags.

Didn’t we have something yesterday? Didn’t we bond over spaghetti and stuff?

Rags pushed the snout out of her face.

“Go away. We’re going to go to war soon.”

No kidding? The slitted eye opened wider, and the pupil dilated slightly. The Wyvern Lord made an inquisitive rumble. Rags pushed the head away again.

“Leave.”

In response, the Wyvern Lord shuffled over and lay along the roof on his side. He stuck his tongue out, clearly dehydrated, and gave Rags a challenging look.

What if I don’t want to?

Rags was guessing at what he was saying. She had considered the strategic value of a Wyvern Lord in battle, offset by his uncontrollability, of course. But she just peered up.

Frost Wyverns were flying overhead, well out of range of Goblinhome’s weapons. She focused on the small ones, screeching as the adults shrieked what were probably questions or insults at their leader.

“You have a people. Get out of here.”

She shoved the Wyvern Lord’s head. It watched her, and she met the huge gaze once—the Wyvern Lord hesitated, then sobered. Slowly, it began to beat its wings, nearly blowing the smaller Goblins away as it took off. Rags didn’t wave at it or acknowledge the shriek. She just spun on her heel.

“Keep the [Memo] Skill on reserve. The moment anyone sees anything, alert me.”

Her officers nodded; Goblinhome had been prepared for this day since it was founded. There was a look in some of their eyes of hope. Perhaps it was just monsters.

Rags knew better. Her instincts, not the faulty components like hope, had created a silence she was walking through and occupying. It could be a week later. It could be a month.

I have to know which group it is. Naumel? Can’t be. Too far. The denizens above? Humans? Xitegen? Drakes?

She kept walking, signaling one of the [Wyvern Riders] to get ready. Poisonbite called after her.

“What are you going to do, Chieftain?”

Visit an inn and pretend I’m small again? She shook her head.

“I’m going to get information.”

——

Sadness filled Goblinhome. The quiet determination of people who knew what was coming. Not bravado, the kind you found in young men dreaming of glory. Even the youngest Goblins knew what was coming.

So sadness, glory, determination, and grief. All the emotions you could expect; not that anyone could see the emotions themselves, except for Prixall, who raised her hat from her head with eyes that glistened wetly.

She was new to a tribe with actual danger. In her sheltered life, the [Witch] had seldom been in mortal danger like regular Goblins.

Not that the Flooded Waters tribe was normal. Rags, waiting for a Wyvern to be saddled, watched a group of Redfangs take over part of the banquet hall.

They stood on the tables and sang, some voices off-key, some with the skill of trained professionals. They were teaching the watching Goblins their song, swaying as they held mugs of water as if they were drunk.

They were off-duty. The hallways of Goblinhome were filled with teams lugging sheaves of arrows into place, going around with lists and boxes.

——

A Goblin placed down a crate with a sigh next to a Hobgoblin with a curious mask on her face; it looked like a flat piece of bark with a huge ‘bulb’ over the mouth and lower chin.

A Wailer Frog’s throat, which inflated and deflated until she yanked the mask up with a grunt; it was uncomfortable. Only one eye glinted, a faint yellow, as the mask went back on, and she nudged the crate with her foot. It held six bottles, each one marked in the Goblin tongue. Healing potion. Stamina potion. Two coating vials. Acid jar. Tripvine Bag pre-attached to a bolt.

The yellow lens of the mask was made of topaz; it came from the Molten Stone tribe. The Hobgoblin swung her Thunderbow up, checking the signs, and called out.

“Is test ready? One hundred meters.”

“Test ready.”

“Firing.”

She pulled the trigger, and Goblins outside poked their heads out as the Hob aimed at a target they’d set up. They called out adjustments, and she fiddled with a piece of metal with markings on it, calibrating her aim. She was at the outer layer of walls; when the enemy came, night or day, with poison cloud spells or invisible—she and her mask would be ready.

When the Hob looked up, she saw Goblins double-checking a comically-oversized hammer that was funny until you imagined it hitting you. It was being raised; when someone triggered the trap, the battering ram would swing down and hit anything coming down the corridor.

That might save her life when the walls came down. Or not; she nodded to a Goblin with a wrench, re-tightening a bolt, and the Goblin gave her a grin. He lifted something in his hands. A blue medallion; a piece of blue stone with a yellow stripe down the center.

She had the same one around her neck. She nodded to him; if the order was given, they’d run and follow the markers for that to their escape route.

“See you there, Trueshot?”

“Maybe. Good home. Best home. Last home.”

The Goblin [Mechanic] lost his grin. He looked around, thoughtful, and shrugged.

“Tremborag’s mountain was nice. Sometimes home goes away.”

“Little Goblins need a home.”

“Yah. So, see you in the next one.”

She didn’t reply. Trueshot checked her Thunderbow.

“Is test ready?”

“Test ready.”

“Firing…”

——

The thump of Thunderbows firing mixed with regular talk as Goblins hauled food and valuables—spare blankets, flints, and knives—down the tunnels. Goblin children sat as a Redfang with one arm showed them the basics. Again. How to skin a kill, make a basic hunting trap out of thread—how to make thread from grass—just in case.

Goblins were working in groups, chatting away as if they had just met after a long separation. Old rivals shook hands and settled scores or walked outside to punch each other until they had run out of grievances. Friends hugged, and more than one Goblin got onto their knees and offered another Goblin a ring. Of course, half the Goblins being proposed to thought that you should also get on your knees, so you ended up with two kneeling Goblins.

No one doubted Rags. No one judged her; they just looked at her and called out greetings or asked about this or that. The fallback spots. Whether Rags wanted another rockfall trap here or there—the Chieftain took longer to respond, giving fuller answers than her usual grunts.

The emotions here…if they were a flame, Rags was certain they could have scorched the Wyvern Lord with their emotions and intensity. But there was no Knight of Solstice among Goblins. At least—none on Izril.

It wasn’t something that upset Rags. She got why they hadn’t been included in the Order; Rabbiteater was technically one of the first. But she thought of now.

The Goblins deserved to see one of those stupid [Knights] walking past them all, a helmet under one arm, bearing a flame and promising them implicitly that all would be well. Nevermind if Redscar was better at fighting and they were a liar.

Goblins had no sweet lies to cling to; they were too hollow.

She couldn’t stay here. Rags turned away. Time to visit someone else. There were few avenues of aid for her tribe. The Kraken Eaters had been a disaster; the Molten Stone Goblins wouldn’t fight.

The Wandering Inn deserved peace.

So that left him.

——

The girl woke in a dingy cave filled with gold, like a fairy tale. She turned onto her side, and gold cascaded down in a river, flowing to a line of boots.

Just…boots. Leather of every kind, metal plating, Adamantium, so stiff and unyielding that it hurt her feet when she tried them on, even with padding, and boots made of magic; water boots and the boots of kings.

That was what you didn’t expect in the stories of the Dragon’s hoard. The gold was more like window dressing; it was just gold, he claimed, pure since he had standards, but mere gold. It eroded when he lay on it, and so the real valuable resources he kept in a separate storage spell.

Those were neat bars of Truegold and Adamantium blocks; marked with weights and purity, categorized so obsessively in rows that they would have been worrying; a mark of true obsession, save for the fact that the entire room had been covered in dust and filled with magical spiders.

He’d been embarrassed about that. And the boots. When the girl had asked, he had said that taking boots off the dead was a time-honored tradition that he didn’t partake in. When she asked how many of the boots had been acquired, he’d confessed to hiring other people to claim said boots.

Everyone needed boots except him. They could have the powers of flight, the ability to stomp and cause tidal waves—as someone who occasionally walked on two feet, the younger Dragon got it. But it was one thing to wake in this cavern of legends, a Dragon’s hoard, and another to realize he had an entire space dedicated to boots.

…They weren’t even organized. It was just a literal pile of boots with a spell to prevent all the overlapping magics from turning into a magical snarl or singularity. Some days, as she woke, she tried to see if she could find a pair in the pile. As for the shoelaces…he had a gigantic ball of magical shoelaces somewhere. It was just one part of his hoard, but as ever, her eyes strayed to the owner of this place himself.

He was much changed, even if his home wasn’t.

When she woke up, she saw he was doing push-ups. A Brass Dragon grunting as he lowered his entire body to the ground and then raised himself upwards. He was arching his back, rounding it and then reversing the motion.

Stretching. His breathing was controlled; he lowered himself again until his metallic mane was brushing the ground, then exhaled as he pushed himself up.

It was a bit silly, in truth. The sight of a Dragon doing push-ups was not something Rafaema had thought she’d ever see, except in a mirror. Cire was far too lazy for it.

A year ago, if you’d told her she’d meet another Dragon exercising, not Cirediel, she would have been over the moon. It would have been the happiest moment in her life, and it had been—after he’d come back to life.

Her most devastating moment, then the greatest joy to find another member of her species at long last.

Now? Today?

The second-most depressed being in the High Passes flexed her own back as she got up from the pile of gold she’d been sleeping on. Her back hurt, and she felt like the coins had gotten wedged between her scales.

She didn’t get it. The sleeping on gold. It had to be a Brass Dragon thing, no matter what he claimed. As ever, as Rafaema stretched, she flexed her wings, then turned her head.

She saw one faintly-purple membrane stretching from her azure wing, the scales glinting in the light. And on the other side…pale-red flesh and a stump where the wing should have been.

The Lighting Dragon of Manus, Rafaema, always looked at that stump and flapped her wings slightly, as if hoping the real wing, the one she could still swear she felt, would appear. But then she padded forwards and silently began to copy Teriarch.

When he noticed, Teriarch stopped exercising and gently put a wing around her. She pulled back. In his mixed, multicolored gaze, she saw such profound regrets and timid kindness that she looked away.

——

When the two Dragons padded out of their cave, a Gnoll with unkempt fur almost fell out of his hammock. He’d been sleeping in the rain that had covered the High Passes; if Rafaema glanced up, she could still see it besieging the Floodplains of Liscor without mercy.

But she’d never be able to go up and feel the rain on her scales. If she wanted to go anywhere, she’d have to walk. She was crippled forever, no matter what Teriarch said.

Deserved, of course. She’d been a fool, and Wall Lord Aldonss was dead. Rafaema ignored Lulv, and Teriarch didn’t teleport him away for once. The Gnoll followed, and Rafaema wondered how long the other soldiers had been camping at the foot of the High Passes. She was grateful for the [Spearmaster]’s help.

She couldn’t go back to Luciva, not now. She didn’t know what came next, but she was tired.

Just tired. Rafaema looked at the Dragonlord of Flames, one of the most legendary Dragons to ever exist in the history of the world, and if he seemed uncertain and didn’t know what to do—

What hope was there for everyone else?

——

He did his best with Magnolia Reinhart every day, even if he didn’t remember her. He was guilty, because he knew the simulacrum spell that had separated ‘Teriarch’ and ‘Eldavin’ wasn’t perfect.

Sometimes he did recognize the way she quirked her eyebrows, or had a flash of recollection. But it was fragments; he’d stopped mentioning them because they only hurt her and him more. She was a stranger. But he believed he had liked her. Even loved her, in ways he knew only too well.

He wished he could be that Dragon she knew.

The [Lady] was entertaining a bunch of [Knights]. They stood up and tried not to stare too openly at the two visitors who joined the crowd.

Demsleth, wrinkly, old, but distinguished, and Wall Lady Rafaema, one-winged, sitting blankly just outside the magical mansion in the High Passes. Razorbeaks and other monsters flew high overhead as a [Butler] poured a cup of coffee for Rafaema—no sugar, no milk.

Both Teriarch and Magnolia eyed Rafaema as she drank; they were having tea, if you could call what was in Magnolia’s cup that. After a while, the Brass Dragon began to speak.

“—Excellent work on clearing this much of the High Passes, you know, Magnolia. I’ve seen armies fail to do so. Give it another few months and the monsters will begin shifting their habitats upwards. You can begin laying the foundations on those walls while they’re doing that. It’s safe enough for a bunch of [Knights] to go charging through the High Passes and not end up as canned lunch.”

His voice was a bit too loud; Ser Normen looked up, and the [Necromancer] began to choke on a breakfast crumpet. Magnolia Reinhart just kept reading a report at her table.

“Mm.”

“Splendid work, I’d go as far to say. Your servants? Likewise, very adept. Kept up with me against all three slimes, and I think they’d pass muster for any Silver—er, Gold-rank adventurers. Even back in the day, most warriors weren’t that elegant with their swordplay. And if I can add, the style of this entire mansion placed in the High Passes. Did you choose this particular cliff by chance, or was it deliberate to the entire feng shui of the terrain?”

He was being—chatty. Even if Rafaema hadn’t guessed something was off from how still Magnolia Reinhart’s face was, she would have known from Teriarch’s gregariousness. Magnolia Reinhart tossed her files down. Then she steepled her fingers and gave Teriarch a smile sharp as a broken glass bottle.

“I have lost Invrisil. Woe is me. You needn’t humor me, Teriarch. I shall cede the City of Adventurers to my cousins and drown my sorrows while resting on my mountains of gold. The placement of my mansion? Please; I would ask a Drowned Woman before you on the locations of my homes. Don’t you have a drunk Unicorn to pay the debts of? Or would you care to practice breathing—elsewhere?”

Her voice was sarcastically polite, and Teriarch swallowed a bite of sausage and coughed.

“I only meant—well, it’s good of you to take the long view of things. Cities come and go. What are they beyond feathers in the cap, really?”

“Indeed. You taught me how to take the longest of views. If you aren’t going to give me advice on running what holdings I have left, might I suggest you finish your breakfast? Or are the eggs not cooked to satisfaction?”

Teriarch stopped moving his eggs around his plate and gave Magnolia a weak smile.

“If you wanted to discuss the—”

“I quite remember your advice the last time you gave it. Before your death. Thank you.”

She was up and gone, walking towards the [Knights], who watched her warily, but Magnolia had a genuine smile for them and the Antinium she had invited to dine with her.

It was surreal to see a [Lady] holding court in the High Passes, but Rafaema had crossed the line of surreal long ago when she’d first run into The Wandering Inn. Besides, she had context for this.

Magnolia Reinhart was in exile. Pursuing the only ambitions she had left as her family seized her properties. Rather than contest them with her servants, she had abandoned the north and set up here.

It had to be a blow; Invrisil fully leaving her control was the final straw. But you had to add to that the fact that House Reinhart was ‘unbound’ to begin with. Throw in any other disasters you wanted and Teriarch…not being who she remembered, and the [Lady] was allowed to be tetchy.

The Brass Dragon certainly didn’t seem like he held a grudge. He sat there chewing on his eggs as Rafaema dumped too much salt on hers. She stared at them, then ate, crunching away.

“Those Reinharts are going crazy. How much of the north did she hold together by keeping them suppressed? With all her holdings? She was losing multiple properties every day for over a month.”

It seemed the Brass Dragon, polite as he was to Magnolia, had gotten his feelings hurt, because the Human body he wore glared at Rafaema. His tone was pettish.

“I have known her for less than half a year and I can see how deeply she was entrenched in Izril’s north, both as peacekeeper and adjudicator. Without her, rivalries are flaring up and the nobility are infighting. How is it that you were blind to her role for your entire life? You watched her rise to power!”

Rafaema was a hundred and twenty years old; she squirmed before his gaze and felt small again, like a hatchling. She mumbled as she played with her eggs.

“Politics always felt like it changed too fast. Humans, Drakes—I could barely keep track of who was ruling each Walled City sometimes. Whenever she was brought up in the Security Council meetings, she was a foe. Like all the Humans. Besides, she—she never showed what she was doing. She never even hinted how much it cost her to keep conflicts from sparking.”

Teriarch glanced at Magnolia, his gaze softening.

“That is not her personality. She has lost…so many assets. She is not defeated; far from it. Her allies and her accomplishments may be buried, but from that seed, opportunity can be regrown. But she needs to rebase her strength and recover and to find an opening to reclaim her family. She did it once, you know.”

“I know. I was there.”

“The Antinium Wars were her opening. Her parents were in control and hostile. That’s what I gather from the—the historical accounts I’ve read. Including by that objectionable writer, Krsysl Wordsmith.”

“He’s not great. I’ve met him. He’s really…impressed…by authority.”

Teriarch didn’t pay attention entirely. He was staring at Magnolia’s back with such a sense of loss and sadness that Rafaema wanted to shout at him to look at her like that.

But he and the Human had known each other for all Magnolia’s life, almost. A Human’s life, but apparently he had taught her, talked with her, and been her closest ally—before the accident.

Before Eldavin. Now, they were strangers again, and from Magnolia’s charming smile, her laughter, the way she spoke and never once looked at Teriarch—

Only after he had been scraping his plate a minute did Teriarch remember Rafaema. Then he gave her another version of that guilty smile. This one filled with…

If his smile for Magnolia was regret and pain and nostalgia and longing running over a cup like the most saccharine of teas, then the glance he gave Rafaema was plain and simple.

Sadness. A bit of happiness and some affection. But mostly—wariness.

A young Dragon had finally found one of her kin. But the old Dragon had a job to do, a great task. He treated her kindly.

She wanted a mentor, a friend, a guide, a teacher, or anything and everything closer—but he held her at wing’s length.

He didn’t even blame her for her wing.

But nor did he tell her how it could come back.

——

Teriarch trained when not helping clear the High Passes or interacting with the two beings he gave a toss about: Magnolia Reinhart and Taletevirion.

He trained his fake body with the [Boxer], Alber, while his real body practiced breathing, did stretches, flapped laps around a mountain, and even practiced incantations.

No actual fighting, like biting or snapping at targets or shooting Dragonbreath. That was what Rafaema had practiced in Manus. Given she could no longer practice flying, she swung her sword in her Drake form, leaping from rock to rock. Bitterly, she realized she was far more mobile now as a Drake since she could still leap long distances with her Dragon strength.

Eventually, she came over as the Brass Dragon stopped breathing on a distant tree, making the leaves vibrate or whatever he was doing. He glanced over and smiled, his surprisingly white teeth glinting in a Dragon’s grin.

She awkwardly copied the gesture, and the far smaller, blue Lightning Dragon sidled over to the resting Brass Dragon, like a sailboat coming to rest next to a galleon.

His wings were folded; after a second, she tried to scootch over and rest under one of them. In response, Teriarch edged away until there was a slight gap. She tried to move over again, and his wing folded down, blocking her.

Neither one acknowledged what was going on. After a moment, Teriarch coughed.

“Is that Wyvern fellow still hanging about? He’s gotten beyond obstreperous; there’s a clear breach of manners if he shows up after yesterday. I’ll have a word with him if he comes back.”

Last night, Rafaema had gotten tired of him and blasted him full in the face with lightning, which was as straightforward a rejection as you got. She’d gotten sick of him bringing dead Eater Goats and shiny trinkets and trying to hang out.

He wasn’t a Dragon. He couldn’t even speak. He seemed to think they had a connection. If fighting in the High Passes counted, sure, they did.

“I’ll sort him out if he comes back.”

Rafaema growled. Teriarch eyed her and hesitated.

“I think I’d best be the intermediary. Not that I’m sure you couldn’t make your point clear! But he’s rather…straightforwards. He thinks he can court you.”

“Great.”

“He is a Wyvern, Rafaema. A particularly stubborn one, too; he’d have gotten the hint by now if he were anyone else. But he’s also a rather stellar member of his species, if only in form. I wouldn’t want him to pursue you from the High Passes and the conflict get you or anyone hurt.”

Rafaema’s head drooped.

“…Because I can’t beat him now that I can’t fly?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You implied it.”

“Implication is often in the eyes of the beholder.”

“Oh, so I can best him in a fight?”

“I never said that either. He is a Wyvern Lord. Dead gods, Rafaema. They were known to best cocky adult Dragons when I was a lad. I can’t count how many times I’ve seen some uppity Wind Dragon flexing his or her wings and a suit of armor only for a wild Wyvern Lord to drop them out of the skies.”

Teriarch grinned, and Rafaema felt her heart lurch as it always did when he brought up the past. A pure longing from her—then tempered by sour anger. She looked up; they were both resting on a plateau above his cave, enjoying the sun.

A raincloud was coming their way, courtesy of Liscor. A dull roar from ahead; Rafaema muttered darkly.

“Then why don’t you tell me how to get my wing back?”

The Brass Dragon turned; his eyes, purple heliotrope and blue cerulean, flashed at her as the rain poured down. Rafaema got wet, sparks flickering from her mouth.

To her annoyance, Teriarch’s brass scales shone even more vividly in the rain and then, as the brief shower passed over, began to steam. He was dry in seconds. Rafaema glared at him, mane sopping with water.

“I told you. Healing a wing is not as easy as popping a Potion of Regeneration. You aren’t a mortal. It won’t work. I could heal any of Magnolia’s servants or the [Lady] herself far more easily than you or Taletevirion. We are magical beings; you saw me pulling those damned bullets out of her, cursed or not!”

He had been so worried when Magnolia was wounded. More worried than for her? Rafaema vaguely remembered the long recovery after the Solstice. She lowered her voice.

“I don’t see that [Butler] of hers walking around with new legs.”

“I offered them to him last month! But his legs make him more capable—Rafaema, I don’t have a healing artifact that can just repair your wing.”

“But you know how to heal it.”

He avoided her gaze.

“It’s not easy. Some scars don’t heal. Believe me, all the other Dragons I knew bore many to their graves. And most methods, Rafaema, are not—clean.”

“Tell me, and I’ll judge whether or not I’m willing to do it.”

Her voice rose, and Teriarch narrowed his eyes.

“No. You want your wing back. I understand that. But I am not going to suggest a range of options that include…sacrifice…and see you, or those lunatics in Manus, choose the most expedient option!”

What kind of sacrifice? That drew Rafaema up; she could imagine what that meant. And she wondered what Luciva would do if Rafaema said it only took ten thousand souls to repair her wing.

She felt sick imagining what might be done. Then angry.

“It should be my choice! At least tell me a cleaner option! There has to be one!”

“There are, and if I had a scroll of [Almighty Regeneration], I would use it on you in a second, Rafaema, but I used the last one I had during the Creler Wars! Regular [Regeneration] would barely cure bleeding gums on you! I am not going to direct you to one of the remaining places one might be and see you hunted down by a kingdom for trying to raid their treasury!”

“So it’s in a kingdom.”

“Aha! I didn’t specify which one, and kingdom is a catchall term for a nation, which is precisely how I meant it here!”

He lifted a claw like a pedant—which she had realized he was long ago—and the Lightning Dragon narrowed her eyes and surprised him.

“So it’s not in a kingdom, which implies one of the old empires or ruins. One that can kill me.”

Teriarch compressed his mouth silently, and Rafaema wished that actually gave her more to go on; the list of such nations was annoyingly long. Silently, he tapped one claw on the ground, and she felt something heat her scales; the water dried off her as she steamed as well.

This was the kind of circular conversation and argument they had. Her asking for things he would not give. She put her head down and closed her eyes.

“If you want me to learn my lesson, I’ll learn it. I got Aldonss killed. I know. I just—I want to fly again.”

Her voice broke, and she felt like a hatchling crying as the Security Council of Manus and the old Dragonspeakers would try to calm her, telling her to ‘be strong’ and how brave and powerful she’d be.

She felt tears come to her eyes, charged liquid—but for once, she didn’t tremble alone in her rooms or fly screaming at the skies and hoping someone would fly down and answer her.

Softly, Teriarch put one wing over her and squeezed, then, with a dexterity she hadn’t known Dragons possessed, rubbing the edge of his wing on her head, patting her on the head.

“I know, child. I know. I am sorry. I should have kept you far from her. It wasn’t your fault. They taught you every day to die for their city, those fools. Just…it will be alright. I’ve seen Dragons with far worse wounds than you. You need to process your wound. It’s the first you’ve ever taken.”

She leaned against him, and after a moment of hesitation, she felt the furnace of his inner core as he stopped moving away. She closed her eyes so she couldn’t see the pained regret and reserve in his face as he froze there.

Part of her wished he had been far younger, some wild Dragon, and they could have fallen in love and not known anything except they were here. She wished he had fallen in love with her, for all Lulv kept hinting he’d challenge Teriarch if he saw even a hint of impropriety.

Anything to get closer rather than the wall of his reserve that came up every second. Rafaema was trying to lean over when she heard said chaperone raise his voice.

“Rafaema.”

“Lulv, I will blast you.”

Her head snaked around, and he took cover behind a rock as a lightning bolt coalesced around Rafaema’s mouth. Teriarch moved away, and Lulv called out warily.

“Above. Wyvern—I swear I saw it drop something.”

“Hm?”

Both Teriarch and Rafaema looked up. They saw a Frost Wyvern winging away; neither Teriarch nor Rafaema was afraid of it or even the Frost Wyvern Weyr.

They were Dragons. There were foes in the High Passes that Rafaema had learned to respect. The Void Eater Goat, the Greater Mimic, the Elemental Lords of Ice and Rock…even lesser monsters in groups could be deadly to her.

But not with Teriarch. He could eye down any threat and have it leave, be it Passmaw packs or even the Elemental Lords. One peek to confirm it wasn’t the Wyvern Lord and Rafaema shook her head. Teriarch just frowned.

“There’s a Goblin on the back of that Wyvern. It must be them.”

“Damn Goblins.”

Lulv spat, which earned him a reproving glare from Teriarch.

“In my presence, Spearmaster of Manus, you will respect all denizens of the High Passes. Except Eater Goats and Crelers. Leave the Goblins be. And I warn you, if the City of War has plans on me or the Goblins—”

Lulv raised his paws, growling as he glared at Teriarch. He still had the replacement spear he’d received from Erin instead of his old one…but Rafaema thought he liked his new spear even better. He’d be caught dead before admitting that, though.

“No one’s moving on the High Passes, again, Dragonlord. Though I will say Rafaema needs to go back soon. Luciva is not happy. Rafaema, she’s worried sick about you. She thinks of you like her daughter.”

And she lost her daughter last year around this time too. At the hands of Tyrion Veltras’ forces, very close to Liscor. Rafaema closed her eyes.

“I don’t want her to worry, but I have to stay here. She knows why—”

She glanced at Teriarch. The Dragon stared up at something floating down, then peered at Rafaema as Lulv replied.

“Then if she could have an audience?”

“No. No Walled Cities.”

“She just wants to meet you, Lord Teriarch—”

The Brass Dragon harrumphed.

“That’s how it starts. First, you lot greet me. Then you say, ‘we’ll never bother you, Dragonlord, except for the ends of the world!’ Then you say, ‘well, there is this one minor matter. Can we have lunch’? The next thing I know, you’re demanding to know why I haven’t shown up for my 7-o’clock check in!”

His bellow of ire made Rafaema and Lulv look at each other. This was the kind of thing that Rafaema had to assume was true. It sounded trueish…and stupid.

“We promise, one meeting—”

“I’ve heard that over a thousand times.”

“Swear on a truth spell?”

“Please. You can’t even cast [Empowered Detect Truth].”

“We’re the City of War. We defend Izril! You can’t spare five minutes to meet with the Dragonspeaker, you overgrown brass fitting!?”

Rafaema gasped. Lulv had a hair-trigger sometimes, and a month of this kind of back-and-forth meant his respect was running dry for Teriarch, which, it had to be said, hadn’t been exactly a well to begin with.

Calmly and deliberately, Teriarch raised a claw, and Lulv went running, using the rocks as cover. The Dragon let him run, then spoke.

“[Labyrinthine Seeker]—[Ray of Teleportation].”

He combined the two spells into a bright viridian beam that went zipping after Lulv, so fast and able to track him that he couldn’t dodge. Lulv twisted, slashed—and vanished with a howl.

Rafaema turned her head and tried to sense the magic like Teriarch had taught her. It took too long, so he coughed and gestured; embarrassed, she looked up and saw the trace of magic over one of the mountains.

“I swear, he’s cutting the magic this time. I suppose he is worthy of his title of Spearmaster. The spear part of it, at any rate. The trick there is you provide a stream of mana while the spell’s active, not a one-off charge. Bets on how long it takes him to get back?”

Rafaema wasn’t a betting person like Teriarch. He was…well, he had different qualities from her. She just sighed.

“Will I ever learn magic like that?”

“Give it time. Centuries. You don’t have shortcuts in Skills. Do you think I learned magic like this when I was your age? When I was your age, hah, I could barely read!”

He seemed embarrassed and nostalgic about that. Then he flicked his gaze up and glowered.

“And it seems like we’re full of intruders and busybodies today. Shoo. Shoo!”

He waved a claw at what Rafaema had also missed; a little speck had floated down from the Wyvern overhead and landed on a rock a good two hundred paces above. A Goblin with a [Featherfall] spell.

Rafaema blinked at Rags. The Goblin stopped tugging her boot out of a nook she’d wedged it in and hopped off her perch. She floated down further and landed there. Then she searched around, found a rock, and pulled out a pillow. And a drink.

Both Dragons stared at Rags, who sucked on the milkshake and stared back at them. Teriarch muttered to Rafaema.

“You see? Give them an inch and they think you’re the entertainment. Okay…Goblin. I’m going to teleport you above your home, so don’t blame me if I get the coordinates off. You can [Featherfall].”

He began to speak, and Rags frowned.

“So you don’t remember me.”

Teriarch froze mid-incantation, and Rafaema sat upright. His memory, lost during his death…the Dragon coughed.

“Did we know each other? If so, I am sure it was a passing acquaintance. Rest assured, neither I, nor this Dragon here, will eat your tribe.”

“I am Rags, Chieftain of the Flooded Waters tribe.”

“Yes, yes. Charmed. We shan’t meet again…well, we might, but please, privacy? I know you Goblins know the word.”

Teriarch tried to shoo her off with a wing. Rags’ hair went flying, and she wiped at dirt that had blasted into her face. Doggedly, she replied.

“I’m a friend of Erin. I was at the inn, remember?”

“So, apparently, was everyone.”

Teriarch was getting tetchy in a defensive way that Rafaema recognized. He glowered at her.

“No favors! No solicitations! No advice! Go find a [Monk] sitting on a mountain somewhere! But be sure they’re not training in another realm or in their head when you poke them. Sometimes, they forget where their body is.”

That. That was the kind of thing Rafaema wanted to be able to do. She knew it was silly, but she wanted to be the Dragon who could throw that kind of informative non-sequitur into conversations just to remind people she was old. Rags just folded her arms though.

She had been at the Solstice; Rafaema vaguely recalled her from the beach and the inn. Goblins…she eyed Teriarch.

What was up with them? He gave her a patient ‘can you believe this?’ look, then a sharper glance.

“Do you know about Goblins?”

“That they become Goblin Kings? The island? The Goblin Lords still alive, like Greydath?”

He sucked on his teeth.

“Something else I should have…we’ll have a conversation later. You there, begone. I sincerely doubt we had a good relationship—”

“You invited me into your Dragonthrone.”

A stray bolt of lightning crackled out of Rafaema’s opened mouth; lesser jolts of electricity crawled out of her lips and played across her teeth like charged spiders. Teriarch’s eyes bulged, but he merely exhaled a huge plume of smoke from his nostrils as he barked at Rags.

“I did not. That is a gross lie! Why would I invite you into there?”

“Respect.”

The Brass Dragon half rose to his feet. He fiddled with something in the air, muttering a spell.

“Open the…I did not. This, Miss Goblin, is an actionable untruth. You could be prosecuted in other eras for that kind of statement. You’re lucky I don’t hit you with an old Contractum Judicacium spell. I swear I have a few of those around…aha! Here’s my Dragonthrone. Pristine. Unclaimed by certain individuals who would greatly benefit from one and whose personal pride is keeping them from claiming this treasure of treasures!”

Another peeve of his; he smacked the ground with a claw, and Rags gave Rafaema a puzzled look and mouthed ‘who’? Rafaema gave Rags a glower that said the Goblin was a mortal speck and she, Rafaema, was above her.

Rags sipped on her milkshake. Teriarch triumphantly pulled a scroll out of a glowing orb that caught Rafaema’s eye. She blinked at the bright, brilliant sky, pink and orange, otherworldly, and what seemed like some grand, circular platform in…

“Aha! Guest log. Taletevirion. Taletevirion. Magnolia, Ressa…Taletevirion. Talet—I need to filter by original entries…Khetieve, Mauri herself…Rags…hah?”

He blinked at something. Produced a pair of spectacles, which popped onto his snout. Read down his ledger. Frowned at Rags. She gave him a smug expression.

“We were best friends. And you owed me ten thousand gold. And a new set of armor.”

The Dragonlord of Flames blinked at Rags, and a gigantic ‘x’ appeared over Rags’ head. The Goblin Chieftain sighed, and Teriarch canceled the truth spell.

“Ha-ha. Very funny. Well…”

He sat there, flummoxed a moment, as a very angry Gnoll climbed over a ridge several thousand feet away and howled something down at them. Several Gargoyles began flying his way.

Rags folded her arms. She seemed tired, despondent, but slightly hopeful.

“I need help. My tribe is in danger.”

The Dragonlord of Flames lay there, suddenly outstripping both women for his personal weariness, which was etched in every line of his body and his retort, automatic, before he caught himself.

“…I cannot take a side in so many mortal affairs, Chieftain Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe. No—perhaps I should. Perhaps this is the call, and perhaps I am ready. But once I fly…so many die.”

He paused, and his face contorted with that personal agony that Rafaema did not understand. If only he would do something, rule Manus, order the Walled Cities around—but he had refused her every suggestion.

Rags, though, seemed to have met Teriarch before, for she folded her arms.

“That’s what you said last time. No sides. You flew for Erin. You’re helping Lady Magnolia. And your stupid friend keeps rejecting that Wyvern Lord. So he flies to my fortress to poop in front of it and cause trouble.”

Rafaema and Teriarch listened to Rags in utter silence. They gazed at each other, and then, after a long moment, Teriarch got to his feet.

“Alright, that I can handle. Where is that brat? The old firebreath twister should send him packing, unless he calls in the Weyr. No, wait. Maybe a ray will be better…”

Rags lifted a hand as he began to stretch.

“He’s fine. Probably. I told him to get lost. I had questions for you. Will you answer them? You let me into the Dragonthrone.”

The Dragon exhaled a plume of smoke out of one nostril, and his voice rumbled with a chuckle.

“I have let rabbits into the Dragonthrone, girl. Mortal rabbits. I don’t doubt you and I shared words, but I am busy. And I do not know you. I have lost my memories. Forgive me if I remain aloof.”

He was doing his best, but the Goblin had come prepared. She frowned at Rafaema, then showed Teriarch something, angling her body. The Brass Dragon snapped open one eye.

“What is that?”

“Something you recognized. You don’t know it?”

Her voice was casual, and Rafaema walked sideways to see…whatever it was, Rags had tucked it back in her bag of holding. What could be that small? An amulet?

A key?

Teriarch narrowed his eyes.

“I made that. I wouldn’t have seen it was enchanted unless—”

The little Goblin’s attention, already focused, became electric, and Teriarch realized he’d said too much. He snapped his jaw closed, but then exhaled. He glanced up towards the mountains above. At Rags…and seemed to put two and two together.

“Damn that Eldavin. Does he…no, I see now. So I was involved in that?”

“More than you told me. You owe me.”

Reluctantly, he bowed his head to her, resting his brow against the ground a second.

“You have some claim. Funny how I keep incurring debts into the future. But you are one Goblin. That object may pass hands—nay, it has passed hands countless times. I cannot give the same explanation to every single one who brandishes it at me.”

He tilted his body away, voice aloof once more, and she snapped at him. Her eyes blazed, and for a moment, Rafaema thought that the Goblin, Rags, was taller. Voice commanding. Rafaema blinked—rubbed her eyes.

Just a trick of the aura. Yet it had worked. Teriarch paused as Rags snapped.

“Tell only me. I am the Goblin who will find the answers.”

“I have heard that a thousand times.”

“How many Goblins do you remember who hold a key and stand in front of you? How many Goblins will you ever meet like this? Answer me. I am here. If you didn’t want to be involved, you never should have made it. You never should have talked to him, or me, the first time.”

She was trembling with emotion, and Teriarch was too ashamed to whisper a word and send her away. More than that—the Dragon looked at her. His eyes searched Rags, tried to extrapolate from her outfit, her scars, her face, something about her character and past. He didn’t even give Rafaema that appraisal all the time.

Teriarch paused in genuine surprise…and that worrying admiration he sometimes had for Magnolia and Erin and Ryoka—Rafaema bristled and snapped before he could reply. She glared at Rags, flaring her wing up and snarling.

“I am learning from the Dragonlord of Flames. Begone, mortal. Or he will smite you with the Dragonthrone, not let you gaze upon it!”

She made sparks appear as she bared her teeth and was dismayed by how not impressed Rags seemed. The Goblin frowned instead and scratched her head. Then Rafaema saw Teriarch glance down slowly. He had a dismayed expression on his face, and she realized she’d made a mistake.

“Rafaema. You have no idea what a Dragonthrone is, do you?”

Rags nodded as the Lightning Dragon hesitated. She glanced at the small orb.

“It’s…a symbol of great power, isn’t it? That Dragons carry around?”

Sort of like a crown or something. Or a personal scrying orb? The ‘throne’ part had confused her…Rags smirked as Rafaema’s heart sank. And Teriarch closed his eyes for one of those expressions that held a world of regret—for he was a damned galaxy of it—before brightening up.

Mostly because he got to show it off.

——

A floor so smooth it eclipsed any mirror, made out of something beyond glass.

An entire contained dimension, blazing pink-and-red skies streaked with a comet of fire that slowly passed across the horizon as Rafaema’s jaw opened wide enough to encompass the artificial sun.

Thrones of the Dragonlords, each one permanently embodying an element; an archway of fire rising high above the seat of the Dragonlord of Flames, heat so searing that a volcano was a frozen ice cube compared to it.

DRAGONTHRONE.

It was the second time Rags had seen it, and it still probably left her speechless, but Rafaema stood in the only place that had ever made her in her Dragon form feel tiny and searched around. She ran from spot to spot, almost flying until she forgot her wing, then saw a throne where lightning itself seemed to have been frozen in time. She ran towards it.

“It—but it’s so—how many of them are there?”

“Three or two. Definitely at least two fully in fact…four if you want to count Fissival. Calanfer’s Eternal Throne is, in fact, the Dragonthrone; the entire city is built upon it. Fittingly. You know, it was one of the largest made, but, if I dare say so, overdone. The central chamber is a bit fitting; it’s based after the Dragonking of Dawn, back in the day. Very spectacular, but as you can see, this was far more regal.”

Teriarch preened as Rafaema eyed the Dragonlord of Lightning’s throne that would have made her look like a child if she climbed on it, even had she dared ascend the crackling staircase. Rags kept well clear of the throne; only the magic in this place let them speak, so far removed were they.

“I came for answers, Dragonlord of Flame. Will you hear my request, as you did once, with Dragon, Wyvern, and Wyrm?”

His head snaked down, and Teriarch’s exhalation made his throne flare like a sunburst. A great sigh ran around the room, and flames rolled over the impossibly flat ground. They licked around Rafaema and Rags, multi-colored plumes of purple, green, and golden fire glittering with stars, and rose upwards.

Very impressive. Even Rags nodded, impressed, but all Teriarch said was—

“The old me, who you indeed seem to have met, was too talkative by far. Once, this was a place of supplication where we Dragonlords styled ourselves as great judges to mortals. Now it is I, the last of the last. I have no right to hear your request, Chieftain Rags. I have duties that I am preparing for, even now. What assails your tribe?”

“I don’t know. Only that it’s coming. It could be Humans. Or Drakes. Or other Goblins. Even monsters.”

Teriarch harrumphed again to less spectacular effect.

“Strategist Skills? Predictable. I have no desire to burn an army to ash, even if I were assured yours was the more moral of the grounds to stand upon. If it were an army…interceding in a guise might do. Yes. But you will have to be more specific.”

That was more than Rafaema had ever heard him agree to. She gave him an astonished look, then shouted.

“BUT TERIARCH—”

Her voice was so loud it made everyone wince. Rafaema modulated her tone, realizing she just had to speak normally.

“But she’s a Goblin! A monster! Despite what that inn said, and the fact that some Goblins are intelligent—you’d side with Goblins over a Drake army?”

Rags rolled her eyes and folded her arms. Teriarch just gave another long-suffering sigh.

“I can see there is much Manus didn’t teach you, if they even remember. Not just Dragonthrones. Chieftain Rags is a Goblin, Rafaema. Just as Magnolia is a Human, her species defines parts of her, informs her past and her upbringing, and yes, aspects of her nature. Not the whole. She is a Goblin. She may level; she is only a monster in the way she is declared such by other species. Yes, Goblins are peculiar in the one regard, their Goblin Kings. But the truth—the whole truth, Rafaema—is not one that should engender you to hostility. Pity and admiration, if anything.”

Rafaema was so astonished that she was breathless. Then she snapped.

“I don’t know what that means! It’s another one of your cryptic remarks! Like you make about Manus or Gnolls or everything! Explain it.”

“Yeah. I want to know too.”

Rags interjected. In reply, Teriarch fixed her with a sharp look and slapped his tail.

The Dragonthrone…zoomed in for a second, until it was right in front of Rafaema. She stumbled, and then she and Rags were standing before Teriarch’s throne, as if they’d run across the thousands of feet in a moment. He bared his teeth.

“A small trick of this place. Useful for audiences. Or fools lured into this place in a battle. Another handy trick for that fool if he had even let me read out the feature list. The truth of Goblins? I may tell you what I can, Rafaema, but I heard it repeated to me by my mother, who heard it from her father—and I am the closest being to a first-hand account there is living…or dead.”

His face twisted up with grief, another thing he refused to share. But Rafaema was breathless. Truth? There was a greater truth than the Goblin Kings? No, their origin and the lore around them would be unheard of! But Teriarch was shaking his mighty head.

“Not to mention…the truth is dangerous.”

“How? To me? How could it hurt to tell me the truth?”

Rags jabbed a thumb at her chest.

“Yeah. Or me?”

Teriarch frowned at the two of them and slapped his tail. More flames shot up from his throne, and he rose to glare down at them like an ancient king of flames and scale.

“How? Beyond the fact that someone could grab the information from your mind, Rafaema, do you think I like holding secrets?”

“Yes.”

Rafaema, Rags, and the spirits of Taletevirion, Magnolia, Ryoka, and every other person Teriarch had ever known chorused. Teriarch paused.

“…I do not enjoy this. The danger of this is not only that it might empower certain foes…though, I grant you, that is a lesser concern than it used to be. The concern is that the knowledge, the telling of itself—might create a new Goblin King before our eyes. And believe me, young as she is, lower level she might be—you and I would not enjoy encountering a Goblin King, even here.”

Rafaema’s eyes swung to Rags, and the Goblin Chieftain’s eyes widened in astonishment. The truth could create a Goblin King?

“That—couldn’t happen, could it? That’s an exaggeration.”

“It has happened twice. Once, I was in the same room.”

Teriarch shuddered and passed a claw over his eyes in a very Human-like expression.

“It is a curse. I know…part of why it exists. I will not risk it. I will tell you as much as I can, just as I told Magnolia, Rafaema. Privately. As for you, Chieftain Rags—you have my support if you know the foe that assails your tribe. If it is a foe from high above, I may face it. If it is an army, I may parlay. I am the Dragonlord of Flames, and I no longer slumber. That is my oath to you, here, upon the throne of my people.”

He bared his teeth, and Rafaema’s heart leapt in her chest as Rags stared up at him. Her eyes were wide, as if she were seeing a well and true stranger. This was no slumbering Dragon. This was…

Rafaema realized Rags was shaking her head and Teriarch was trying to suck in his lips like he had become a Void Eater Goat. There was a growling, thrumming sound in the air. It was like a cat’s purring, but a thousand times louder. She realized it was coming from her, stopped it, and saw Teriarch’s mortified expression.

Though she had no idea what that was and had never made that sound before in her life, Rafaema blushed deep red and instantly stopped. There was a long silence as Rags inspected Teriarch. She folded her arms and tapped one foot slowly. The Dragonlord raised a claw.

“She is a young Dragon who has just met me. I am an old, retired Dragon with no entanglements whatsoever in this time or in the future.”

Rags narrowed her eyes silently. Teriarch stood up.

“[Truth of the Heavens] works even on Dragons. I have a spell scroll in my cave. Let me get that.”

——

They were arguing as they left the Dragonthrone. Rags, Rafaema, and Teriarch.

“I want to know more about my people. Give me some help. You know we’re suffering and dying.”

“You owe me answers, Teriarch! Real answers! You’re the only teacher of my entire people left!”

He snapped at both of them.

“You are wounded and in shock, Rafaema, and, if I may be blunt, too interested in my personage, for reasons I find highly sympathetic, if not appropriate! And you are a Goblin Chieftain, Miss Rags, who may one day turn into a threat I would hesitate to strive against!”

Rags and Rafaema looked at him. Rafaema bit Teriarch’s tail as he tried to get into his cave, and Rags shot a fireball past his face.

“We deserve answers!”

They shouted, and the Dragon turned. He was angry, wary, embarrassed, and ashamed—and all these things Magnolia had known of him. Heck, Ryoka had known of him.

For a moment, he became that wall of brass, unwilling to speak, retired, isolated, content to sleep millenia until time ended. Then his eyes flickered. Teriarch turned to the cave where he had died, and stood there, like a sentinel at his own grave. His eyes flicked to Rags, and Teriarch closed them.

“…Yes. You do. But I cannot explain a lifetime so fast. I can only do as I have done with you for this last month, Rafaema: tell you stories.”

He turned his kindly eyes upon Rafaema, and she ducked her head. That is what he had been doing. She just wanted…more. She wanted to go back in time. She wanted to wake up in a world where she was not alone and for him to just hug her and tell her it was all alright.

More than anything. She looked up as a shadow passed overhead, a giant Wyvern screaming a lonely mating call. Both she and Rags ignored the Wyvern Lord, who might have had problems with distinguishing friendship from carnal affection.

It was a common failing among flying, winged quadrupeds, bipeds, and many other species. And genders. Teriarch exhaled. He took a deep breath as Rags and Rafaema realized they were, at least, on the same side. Rags held out a hand. Rafaema jerked her head back, snorted—then hesitated.

She closed her eyes, glanced up as another shriek filled the air and stared at the sky. Then she howled.

“Cirediel! No!”

Cirediel Anvi’dualln Olicuemerdn, the smaller Earth Dragon of Oteslia, hurtled out of the skies in a dive as a flock of Pegasus Riders led by Mivifa Selifscale dodged around several Wyverns. The younger Dragon was screaming.

“Get away from Rafaema, you old—whuh—”

He was on a collision course with Teriarch, who raised his head, inhaled—then choked as he beheld the young Dragon. Cire’s claws were out, and he was trying to breathe acid, but before he managed to strike Teriarch—a giant Dragon three times his size, made of metal—or breathe acid, he twisted and saw a Wyvern Lord screaming as he dove to defend his love(s).

Huh. So that’s what being drop kicked out of the air looks like.

Rafaema and Rags watched with horror and awe, Teriarch with nostalgia. All three winced as a brown-scaled Dragon hit the ground with a whumph that made the ground shake.

“Haugh!”

Cire made the sound a moment before the Wyvern Lord dove at both him and Teriarch, screaming. The Brass Dragon watched the Wyvern Lord literally picking up and dropping Cire, like a [Wrestler] doing aerial body slams while shrieking bloody murder. The Earth Dragon was screaming as well, if less bravely.

“Mivifa! Help! Heeeeeelp!”

Teriarch’s head swung from Rafaema, to Rags, to the Frost Wyverns, the Pegasi Riders, and Lulv, who had finally gotten back and was howling insults up at them.

“You were supposed to keep in cover, you treehugging, stupid city of—”

Teriarch turned around and walked back into his cave. Then he put up a forcefield.

Author’s Note:

This was the first chapter where I felt myself waning. In the revision process, today, I noticed a lot of errors that I associate with tired writing.

It doesn’t mean I can’t write a good chapter; Part 7 is already done, and I think there’s something there that I hinted at in the blog post. But when you’re tired, the average trend is a decrease in writing quality, and I want to avoid that.

Yes, I am writing hard. Yes, I am running when I could…not, especially with my schedule. Rest assured, I will take a break when I want to.

But for this weird analogy, I always run or sprint when I can. The reason is because if you don’t know your legs are hurting and your lungs are burning—are you trying hard?

I’m a poor exerciser in real life. I do what I like. But for writing, I always want to push. That’s all. This is a shorter chapter, but I am still in favor of this cycle, even if I need breaks. It feels like momentum, even more than other chapters. Hope you like it and see you tomorrow.

Tattoo by Mazwolf123!