As the orange-red sky of sunset was at its most brilliant the blaring of a great horn from the east could be heard far from the palace, likely echoing from some distant watchtower.

  The palace grounds grew still in anticipation.

  As the blaring horn faded to nothing there was quiet for a few minutes before over the silence a thunderous booming could be heard, rising in volume and intensity like an encroaching stampede in the sky.

  Through the cloud cover emerged the first and greatest of Guhran’s dragons.

  First came its head of horns, long, pointed, and curling like those of an infernal ram, each as long as a cavalry spear. From the four of them hung the still rotting remains of men and beasts no one had bothered, or dared, to remove.

  The head beneath the crown of horns was massive and covered in shaggy jet black fur. The dragon’s head was wolf-like in appearance, and its maw of long curling dagger-length fangs ended in an almost canid snout.

  Dark flames licked and sputtered out from between its teeth, its fire too scorching to contain entirely.

  The body coiled in the air, not as a bird in flight but as a viper gliding through still waters. Each beating of its wings created harsh winds uprooted trees and knocked people to the ground when it flew low.

  The dragon was easily sixty feet in length from head to tail, and still growing.

  The dragon, Baksurra, called the Emperor’s Flame by some, let out a roar that shook the earth and caused infants and dogs to cry out for miles.

  At Baksurra’s head stood the king-regent of Guhran, Kaiaan Raich.

  A single hand clutched a length of horn for stability, the other tightly gripping the hilt of his sword. Blue and silver armor gleamed in the fading rays of daylight, the war-crown of the House of Raich made him look like a dragon himself with its curling horns of sharpened iron.

  From the Aerie the shrieks of adolescent dragons rose to meet the oncoming Dragon Flight as further draconic shapes emerged one by one from the clouds, all smaller by half or more than the great beast in front, and yet each decorated in the ceremonial armor of the dragons of Guhran.

  Blue and silver glittering like stars against the dying light of the crimson sky.

  Kairava watched as they approached from the lakeshore, his back to the soft earth again, lost in thought.

  Baksurra approached first.

  His descent to the aerie, even at its great height, shook the trees in the gardens and disturbed the lake’s surface as if a strong wind had blown through the canyon. Snatching loose scrolls and shaking clotheslines.

  The dragon latched onto the exterior of the beehive-like structure, catching into the stone with its talons.

  It began to coil like a snake around the grooves of the exterior of the building in a full circle. Its head coming to a rest near the open top of the Aerie.

  In through this top dropped the remaining dragons of the Dragon Flight.

  Suddenly folding their wings to their bodies from above, each and every dragon dropped through the air like stones through the opening. Their noble riders quickly and routinely pulled themselves tightly to the dragons’ bodies to ensure a snug fit.

  The regent remained standing on Baksurra’s head, gently scratching at a length of the dragon's brow, until each and every one of the hundred dragons in the Flight had dived beneath into the aerie. Many of their riders were already leaving out the stable's bottom floor by the time the last had made landfall, helmets already off and tucked under their arms.

  The regent released his grasp from the dragon's horn and ran, diving from its head to the roof of the Aerie. Sliding down it, he deftly jumped from ring to ring of the building until there was nowhere left to fall but the ground, landing in a perfectly executed roll onto the cliff-top.

  All those who trained for riding learned this particular technique for dismounting in times of urgency.

  The king-regent used it exclusively.

  …

  As was customary, the entire court had assembled in the Regent’s Hall for the king’s return, despite the short notice.

  Many were still out of breath from their hasty arrivals.

  The vast building stretched 50 ft across with high vaulted ceilings.

  It was decorated lavishly in blue and silver, from the silver filigree which covered every wall in a complex array of beautiful patterns, to the blue banners which hung from every pillar, arch, and flag-bearer at regular intervals.

  Above the entryway to the hall the regent hung his many trophies, which after a lifetime of war had become quite the collection.

  Sabres and cutlasses were spread about hanging from small hooks.

  Each weapon bearing a brand on the hilt, a black D marking as belonging to pirates of the Dying Sea.

  The regent had burned dozens of their fleets and smugglers' coves in years past, eventually pushing the violent slavers out of Guhrann waters a half decade ago.

  A feat won the king-regent his reputation as one of the finest and most ruthless military commanders on the continent.

  There were other, lesser, trophies. The weapons and armors of a dozen bandit kings and queens who thought they could challenge the regent’s ironclad rule.

  And finally perhaps the greatest prize of all, The Tranquil Blade.

  The sword Shihkari.

  Shihkari was said to be a blade enchanted by the High Wyrms themselves. A remnant of when gods walked amongst men.

  The blade rested on two hooks hanging from a high portion of the wall, sheathed and innocuous save for its prominent central position. The blade’s black wood hilt seemed to be carved from a length of petrified wood, old and hard as stone.

  The length of steel was utterly hidden within the scabbard. To all eyes it appeared to be nothing other than an ordinary, if ornate, sword.

  People spared it a few curious glances as they entered the hall, but found the neglected sword ultimately uninteresting compared to the rest of the chamber's offerings.

  Great crowds were gathered in the hall now, each person waiting nervously for their lord to speak.

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  One half of the hall were staff, there amongst them local dignitaries from the surrounding counties and villages. The rest of the crowd were palace servants, the rank and file soldiers, cooks, tutors, tailors, and maids.

  Gadhar was amongst these, the brawny boy towering over most of the staff even at his young age.

  As the prince’s personal attendant he was standing close to the throne at the end of the hall with the other heads of staff. Both head cooks, the master of chambers, and the supreme launderer all standing at attention.

  It was a position he had fought long and hard to earn since he first started working in the palace, then only a boy of ten. Now he was standing in his best broad chested approximation of one of the armored soldiers just across the hall, all discipline and pompous gusto.

  He waited for his regent to speak with dogged reverence.

  To the right side of the hall stood the landed nobility and the king’s lancers, still adorned in their bright blue mail, plumed helmets tucked neatly under their arms.

  Each was a lord or lady of a Guhran house, most of them second-borns or younger, and each had chosen a life of strife and war over days of endless banquets and ceaseless court intrigue.

  They stood proudly, but in their eyes the prince could see that war had taken a great toll on all of them.

  They could proudly meet the eyes and hold the gaze of only one another, shirking any attempts by strangers or loved ones to see what lay beneath.

  What the killing had taken from them and what dark gifts it had left behind.

  The lancers seemed out of place amongst the lavishly dressed men and women on their side of the hall, who wore jewels hanging from their lips and eyelids and woven into their hairs, holding great peacock feather boas about their necks.

  The wealthy but dragonless socialites of Guhran, who drank and ate enough in a single feast to feed their entire counties and hamlets many times over.

  They gossiped and played their games of status and scandal. These landed nobodies troubled the lancers to no end, trotting over expectantly and begging for tantalizing stories of death and daring heroics.

  At the end of the great hall was a raised round dais, upon which stood a mighty throne of silver and studded with a great many sapphires.

  The Moonfire Throne.

  Upon the throne sat Kaiaan Raich, his grave countenance giving the resplendent throne a looming presence.

  His crown remained affixed to his head, helmet of iron curling horns closer and crueler than ever.

  His dark, nearly black eyes seemed to glow in the torchlight behind the crown’s eye-slits.

  A second, smaller chair of worked bronze stood beside it, set slightly back from the throne, a purple cushion it's only occupant.

  The prince dared to spare the lesser seat only a momentary look lest his heart begin to ache.

  Hanging on the wall from ceiling to floor on the farthest wall of the Regent’s Hall was a great banner, and emblazoned on the banner for all to see was not the colors of Guhran and the House of Raich.

  For the blue and silver moon stood replaced by a gold and white dragon bearing a crown of pearls.

  The heraldry of the Bloodstone Emperor towering from behind the throne as if to ensure that none would ever forget the true power behind it, for which this man upon this throne merely stood as proxy.

  The regent seemed smaller, but no less imposing against the backdrop.

  Kaiaan began to speak with little warning, and utmost authority, his voice boomed through the chamber and the entire crowd hushed in the span of a single breath..

  “My people. This war has been long, and it has taken much from all of us. We have lost many lives, and time with those who remain, to fight these honorless barbarians in the east.”

  A sad murmur of agreement reverberated through the crowd.

  Kaiaan nodded his own crowned head, gripping the arm of the throne tighter in his gauntleted fist.

  “We have been fighting for three long years in these heathen lands where the light of the High Wyrms does not reach, and it has drained us of much of our strength, but never has it taken our conviction. For we are the Emperor’s chosen few, and our service to the Empire is all. And so we have returned, we the Flight of Dragons, we your lords of war. To rest, and to discuss the terms of a surrender. An absolute end to these hostilities.”

  He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment, like an anvil ready to drop, and appropriately no one dared so much as breathe in that silence.

  “We have won a victory this day my countrymen, and garnered a great boon to be presented in our future negotiations. Slyke, bring her forward.”

  Terror turned slowly to curiosity in the gathered throng as the regent’s headman, the foreign mercenary they called Slyke, pulled a young girl forward from where they had been patiently waiting just beyond the torch light behind the throne.

  The towering, silent figure that clutched the prisoner was adorned in midnight black full-plate armor that barely made a sound as he moved.

  “My people, common and noble alike, I present to you Ygrain MacLeod, princess of the enemy.”

  From amongst the murmuring crowds Kairava’s eyes were alight with wonder.

  The girl was taller and broader than the prince by inches, but from the softness of her face she couldn’t have been much older than him.

  Her skin was bright like Laurent’s, but was flushed permanently red, and deeply freckled.

  Her hair was not just red but could be described as crimson, as scarlet, and it hung in messy curls running down her head and shoulders.

  She had a small button nose, and unnervingly bright yellow eyes.

  Her mouth was drawn into a thin line, displeasure apparent.

  Hands clenched tightly into fists seemed to shake, but she said nothing and did not shy away from Slyke’s grasp.

  The court seemed in awe, as people pressed as close to the circular raised throne as possible. Everyone edging in for a better look at the foreign princess of the Eireni rebels who had brought about so much death and destruction.

  Gadhar seemed intrigued, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

  “She is to be a noble hostage of our House. A bargaining chip to finally put to rest this mad insurgency in the East, as it was righteously put down in the North. And of course, to bring our people home at last. In the Emperor’s glorious name.”

  The crowd erupted into joyous cheers that died away quickly, allowing the regent to continue to speak.

  “The Lady Ygrain is our guest in all respects, and she is to be cared for as is befitting a woman of her rank and status. Consider her honor my own while she is within our care. Anyone here who disobeys this command will know my greatest displeasure.”

  Having finished speaking he gestured with the slightest wave of the hand, and the crowd immediately dispersed.

  There was a palpable charge to the crowd as the reality of it all struck them.

  The war would soon be over.

  Husbands and wives, sons and daughters, all returning home from years of bloodshed abroad.

  Kairava tried his best to slip out with the crowd, which funneled out the large open double doors at the hall's far end but then felt a firm gauntleted hand roughly grab him by the forearm.

  He turned nervously to look back and found himself staring at the helmeted face of Slyke.

  His deeply sunken eyes were boring into him from behind the dark eye-slits of the plate helm which obscured his features entirely.

  Slyke pointed a thumb at the throne and Kairava nodded hastily, eager to be released.

  Ygrain still stood waiting before the dais where Slyke had left her, and the regent waited patiently for all upon his throne.

  When Kairava and Slyke returned he began at once in a fashion much like his previous speech.

  “As prince, you will watch over and care for the young princess in my eventual absence. You will ensure that she is being seen to and that all her needs are met, the servants shall assist of course.”

  Kairava could only bow his head and nod.

  “You will not fail me in this, yes?” The “yes” slipped out from between his father’s teeth with a hiss.

  The prince shook his head, staring further downwards in deference.

  “Look at me,” the regent rose slowly from the throne, and the prince hesitantly raised his eyes to meet his father’s.

  “Your silence is a disgrace to our name. Do not further disgrace me in this. Now go. Show our new ward to the guest chambers, and let her choose any which are unclaimed.”

  With that he turned and walked from the hall, Slyke falling swiftly in step behind.

  His plate metal boots making no noise against the tiled floors.

  ...

  Kairava moved quickly ahead of the princess, who followed silently behind.

  Her eyes were heavy with exhaustion and other, sharper, sorts of weariness.

  The prince cast frequent uncertain peeks back as they walked, but the girl never seemed to notice him as they moved in a dense wordless quiet.

  When they reached the chambers of residence where visiting nobles and dignitaries often stayed, the so-called Guest Wing of the palace, Kairava pointed to a few wooden doorways.

  Each had a different colorful symbol stained into the woods’ surface resembling a jewel or gemstone.

  “The Onyx, Carnelian, and Bloodstone Compartments seem unoccupied, you can have a look around inside if you...” he began in Imperial, their shared noble tongue, but Ygrain pushed past him, knocking against his shoulder hard.

  He drew back with a sharp breath.

  Ygrain turned to look at him, face to face for the first time, and leaned in close.

  Her yellow eyes seemed to burn with an inner raging heat.

  “I want to make one thing perfectly clear, Raich-” she said the name like a terrible curse, “-if you think you can outwit me, manipulate me, lull me into a sense of security, or convince me that I am anything other than a prisoner in this place, then you will be sorely disappointed. I hold no such illusions. We are at war, and you are my captor.”

  Her eyes were sparking with defiance as she left Kairava in the square.

  Pushing through the unlocked Carnelian door, and slamming it shut behind her.

  Kairava stood in the square a moment, staring after her dumbfounded.

  Hardly for the first time entirely unsure as to what exactly he had done wrong.