The County of Champagne stretched beneath a boundless azure sky, its name drawn from the local tongue meaning “land of the plains.”
Unmarred by troublesome mountains, it posed no challenge to farmers tilling its fertile expanses.
Nestled between the North Sea coastlands and the sun-warmed Mediterranean south, Champagne stood as a natural crossroads of trade, its roads thrumming with the lifeblood of commerce.
Many whispered that the Countess of Champagne was wealthier than her liege lord himself.
Invisible riches, like a restless wind, swept across the golden waves of ripened wheat, swirling toward the countess’s grand palace and spilling through its open terraces.
The breeze tugged at her frost-silver hair and the trailing hem of her floor-length robe, setting them dancing.
She was the kingdom’s richest young noble, bearing the ancient hallmarks of her lineage—golden eyes and dragon horns.
Those unreadable golden eyes gazed into the distance, cold and serene.
She loved this terrace, where the view of her domain unfolded unobstructed.
From here, she could clearly see the nearby Hangman’s Hill, where a row of gallows bore their grim fruit.
The sight of those dangling bodies always brought a spark of joy to Frostsilver’s heart.
They were the foundation of her authority, the silent proof of her power.
There were always those who doubted her, comparing her unfavorably to the previous Count of Champagne.
Let them become the foundation, then.
A faint smile curved Frostsilver’s lips as she mused, the wind chiming through the intricate device behind her with a soft tinkle-tinkle.
“My lady,” a messenger called, his boots clicking across the polished mosaic marble floor.
He was nearly dazed by the palace’s opulence—statues, gold, and silver gleaming at every turn.
“An urgent letter from the merchant guild, and the Master of Wards awaits your audience.”
Without turning, Frostsilver raised a hand pale as fresh snow.
The letter flew from the messenger’s grasp into her own.
“Go.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The messenger departed, still half-lost in a haze of awe.
Frostsilver glanced at the letter and gave a scornful huff.
“Utterly foolish. He’d have been better off plundering the knight-lord’s lands or blackmailing the rest with evidence. Even assassination for spite would’ve been wiser.”
“A public trial and execution? Is he preaching that church law trumps secular might? Typical of that fool. No wonder he’s destitute now.”
Before she’d even finished reading, schemes were already forming in her mind.
Could she fan the flames from the shadows?
A war between the knights and the Hand of Tyr’s order, or perhaps a hunt for the dragon-slaying hero Richard—that would be amusing.
The murkier the waters, the easier it was for those with capital to profit.
If she could buy the loyalty of that brainless oaf Richard with her gold, all the better.
But first, he’d need to forsake his service to Tyr, the god of justice.
“My lady,” came the butler’s voice from behind, “the Master has arrived.”
Frostsilver set the letter aside, not deigning to turn.
With a lazy wave of her hand, she said, “Come.”
Her tone was cold, imperious, as if summoning a dog.
The Master of Wards approached, his footsteps growing louder, though Frostsilver kept her gaze fixed ahead.
“My lady, you called for me?”
The Master’s voice carried a faint edge of irritation.
As one of the kingdom’s foremost mages, he was unaccustomed to such casual treatment.
“Or are you addressing a hound?”
“A hound couldn’t enchant a cage with runes to trap its prisoner,” Frostsilver replied, still not turning.
“The arcane arts you’ve labored to master are valuable to me.”
“I know the innate magic that flows through your ancient bloodline,” the Master said, his tone sharp.
“But compared to us arcanists, who seek the laws of magic through intellect, your power is limited.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing here today.”
A sudden surge of raw, invisible magic erupted from Frostsilver, enveloping the Master like a blizzard’s wrath.
He shrank back, shielding his eyes with a trembling hand.
Her tall, unyielding silhouette loomed like a snow-capped peak in a storm, capable of burying him with the flick of a finger.
The enchanted necklace at his throat quivered, its runes flaring briefly before it cracked and shattered, scattering across the gleaming marble floor.
“Ancient bloodline?”
Frostsilver’s voice was ice.
“Do you even know my family’s name?”
The Master, cowed, stammered, “Remifasolasiastlandistarianos.”
The magical tempest stilled.
The young noblewoman, her single horn glinting, turned to face him.
Her porcelain skin was almost unearthly, like a figure from an oil painting brought to life—yet too pale, too perfect, almost unsettling.
Her golden eyes, devoid of warmth, reflected the Master’s trembling form.
“Well done. It seems the rumors of arcanists’ sharp minds hold true.
Your spectacles and book-dust haven’t been wasted.”
The Master felt the sting of injustice.
His brilliance, honed through years of grueling study under a renowned mentor, tempered by countless battles, was nothing compared to this girl.
A dragon-blooded sorceress, she wielded raw power effortlessly, her bloodline’s magic outstripping his hard-earned spells.
In a direct confrontation, she could crush him with sheer force, no matter how many incantations he mastered.
Frostsilver read the bitterness on his weathered face and relished it.
Yes, that expression—the look of a man who’d toiled in libraries, strained his eyes into nearsightedness, and ruined his neck over tomes, only to realize he’d never match a sorceress born to power.
Her lips curled into a smile.
“Do you remember why you’re here?”
“To offer my humble services,” the Master said, his head bowed, his voice heavy with defeat.
“Well said.”
Frostsilver’s tone was almost mocking.
“Even with peerless blood in my veins, as the saying goes, a lord needs their servants.
See that cage behind me?”
The grand hall gleamed with ostentatious wealth—carved marble, gilded pillars, velvet drapes, and gemstones that dazzled the eye.
At its center, half-buried in fine sand, sat nine dragon eggs, each encased in a massive cage of adamantine bars, sturdy as a tree trunk.
The cage was vast enough to hold a dragon egg the size of a small girl, yet delicate enough for one as tiny as a quail’s egg.
“Is that… adamantine?” the Master asked, awestruck.
“Indeed,” Frostsilver replied.
“Pure adamantine.”
The Master’s voice rose in disbelief.
“That could outfit an entire army in adamantine armor! Even the Mountain Kingdom couldn’t produce that much in a decade!”
“Correct,” Frostsilver said, her voice tinged with amusement.
“Your knowledge is impressive. I’m pleased.”
The Master noted a faint rustic lilt in her speech but held his tongue.
“What more do you need from me, then? To prevent theft? No thief could steal this.”
“Enchant it with wards.”
“This cage could hold an ancient dragon,” the Master said, eyeing the nine eggs.
“Even if they all hatch, you could keep them locked away for centuries.”
Frostsilver’s laugh was cold.
“Ignorant fool. You have no idea what this cage is meant to contain. Imagine it holds the Terror Dragon itself.”
“But isn’t he dead?”
“Curiosity kills the cat,” Frostsilver said, her voice sharp.
“One of my family’s ancient tenets.”
“I understand,” the Master replied, chastened.
“I’ll do my utmost.”
He stepped forward, a faint unease prickling at him, as if something heavy loomed overhead.
Glancing up, he sensed an invisible presence above the cage.
Driven by curiosity, he cast a spell to pierce invisibility and glimpsed a massive dragon skull suspended above, radiating an aura of dread from its former life.
He nearly faltered but forced himself to look away.
It had to be the Terror Dragon, king of all dragons.
But hadn’t it burned its own body to ash?
Why was its skull here, hanging over the eggs?
The Master resolved to feign ignorance, clinging to the family tenet about curiosity.
Frostsilver returned to her letter, her faint smile fading as she read.
Her joy fluttered away like a startled butterfly.
“Eats at least one sheep a day… two weeks old and already the size of two bulls… insatiable greed… bare feet unstained… dragon breath that melts weapons…”
The letter in her slender, pale fingers burst into flames.
A true dragon!
“It must be Orbus’s heir,” Frostsilver muttered.
“Born of Orbus and some other true dragon.”
She considered the possibilities but quickly abandoned the thought—there were too many.
Even among true dragon offspring, this young red dragon named Aurina was exceptional, a born king among dragons, just like her father.
But how could an ostrich egg hatch such a prodigy?
Furious, Frostsilver scattered the letter’s ashes.
She paced around the adamantine cage, her mind racing.
Lifting her horned head, she gazed at the invisible skull of the Terror Dragon hanging at the cage’s center.
“Brother,” she murmured, “always so lucky, always slipping through my grasp.
The reincarnation egg isn’t here, and your mind defies logic.
You’re a fool, blessed only by fate’s favor, doted on like a lover.
“It’s unfair. I’ve planned for so long.”
Then a smile crept across her face.
“But this is where it ends. Now that I know, I’ll use your own daughter—the one who inherited your strength—to lure you back into this cage. This time, dear brother, you won’t win.”
The glittering hall had been crafted for the king of all true dragons.
“Achoo! Achoo!”
On a rattling covered wagon, Aurina sneezed repeatedly, tiny sparks of flame puffing from her small nose.
Richard, sitting beside her, asked, “Caught a cold?”
“As if!”
Aurina scoffed, clutching a pen and rubbing her nose with a grin.
“The mightiest dragons don’t get sick. It’s just the other dragons, jealous of me behind my back. It’s only natural—I’m born strong, the king of kings! Those weakling dragons can only skulk behind rocks, cursing me in secret. Hah! Pathetic!”
“You’ve never even met another dragon. How do you know they’re jealous?”
“It’s obvious,” Aurina insisted.
“What else could make me sneeze like that?”
Richard sighed.
“Frostsilver warned me dragons are prideful. Now I see it for myself.”
“Done! The blasted math is done!”
Aurina crowed, holding up a signed scrap of paper.
“It’s finished!”
“You burned it?”
“Not on purpose!”
Aurina protested.
“I sneezed, and it just… happened.”
“Wait, I meant finish the math, not burn it.”
“It’s done, isn’t it? Not my fault it caught fire.”
Aurina waved a hand dismissively.
“Besides, with my brilliance, I don’t need to bother with these silly bug-letters mashed together.”
Richard sighed again, feeling older by the minute since traveling with Aurina.
“What’s ten plus ten?” he asked.
Aurina spread her fingers, then glanced at her toes, wiggling them one by one.
“Twenty! Now give me the food you promised!”
“And twenty plus twenty?”
Richard watched as Aurina’s toes frantically curled and uncurled.
After a full minute, she declared, “Twenty?”
“No.”
“Nineteen!”
“Wrong.”
“Then eighteen, definitely!”
Richard’s face tightened.
“Seventeen!”
Aurina counted down to one.
“Wrong. Try the method I showed you.”
Aurina blurted, “It’s twenty! You think you can trick me, you clever little bug, with your pitiful wisdom?”
Richard couldn’t help but laugh, exasperated.