Sorcerer's Shadow

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

"I was just reflecting."

"Isn't that a solitary activity?"

"Wait, is there someone else here?"

"You're quite the comedian, Viktor."

"Regardless," I said, resurrecting the abandoned conversation, "it's a lucrative venture."

Thorne emitted an indescribable sound. I could tell Opal was suppressing several comments. Apparently, I have a knack for attracting people who consider me a fool, which probably reveals something profound about my character.

"So," I posed, "who do we assign to this?"

"I'm uncertain. We should likely go over there ourselves to evaluate the situation."

"I feared you might suggest that."

He cast me a brief, bewildered look. There are areas where Imperions and humans will forever fail to comprehend each other, and it seems soul-destroying weaponry is one of those areas. I mean, they despise them as much as, or even more than, we do; but Imperions generally lack the intense fear these weapons inspire in humans. I'm not sure why.

"How will we reach there?"

"I'll arrange for a carriage."

Verill resided in a cuboid, grey stone edifice on the periphery of Avandryl, nestled in the western hills. He likely referred to it as a castle. I could call my tunic a throne if I wished. It was a three-story structure with a grand front door, a few service entrances, several glass windows, and a steeply pitched roof. His estate seemed too stony, with soil too sandy, for much utility. There was some peasant activity, but not much. Two guards, wearing the uniform of the House of the Dragon, stood before the main door. As Thorne and I neared, I noticed one bore the same insignia as Drevolan's men; the other sported a badge unfamiliar to me.

I mentally prepared for the conversation I was about to engage in with them. I won't reveal it here because the actual dialogue upended my plans.

"Baronet Dravos?" the one with Drevolan's insignia queried.

I acknowledged with a nod.

"Come in."

Honestly, I'd had an entirely different conversation in mind that would have been more entertaining to recount. However, a small twist occurred. The guard suddenly said,

"Hang on, who's he?" noticing Thorne for the first time.

"He's with me," I replied, suppressing a grin.

"Alright then," he responded.

I shot a glance at the other guard, who maintained a stoic demeanor. I pondered about his affiliations.

Thorne and I moved ahead.

Stepping through that door was like walking into an entirely different realm. It felt like I had transitioned from Imperia to a place as alien as my Terran roots. What surprised me initially was that beyond the stone entrance lay a lobby adorned with delicate glass sculptures - vases, chandeliers, and ornate decanters were elegantly displayed on dark wood stands or inside cabinets. The walls bore a hue teetering between white and yellow, creating a lively ambiance that contrasted every Dragonlord I'd ever encountered, especially the Verill I met in the Paths of the Dead.

My daydream was cut short when Thorne remarked, "Um... Boss? Which way now?"

"Good point." Typically, mages prefer basements for their heavy instruments or towers to minimize damage risks. But with Verill, it could be any room picked out of convenience.

Opal shifted restlessly on my shoulder. We exited the lobby into what appeared to be a lounge, filled with more glass artifacts and full decanters. On my left was a sizable portrait of Verill exuding authority. At the end was a door that likely led to the kitchen and hallways extending to our right and left. We ventured right, only to find a broad, shiny stone staircase. Retracing our steps, the left hallway seemed a better option.

"Boss," Opal murmured.

"Yes, Opal?"

"I sense something odd. It feels like—"

"We're under observation, Viktor," Thorne interrupted.

"That's expected," I replied.

"I sensed it first."

"Be quiet."

"Just keep moving," I advised Thorne. "It wouldn't be strange if there were spying spells here. How about that door?"

"You mean the sturdy one with the rune, guarded by two Dragonlords with interlocked spears? Why would it be that?"

"You have quite the humor, Thorne. Enough now."

The guard, poised and unwavering with her spear, inquired, "Who might you be and what's your intent?"

"You're aware of both," I retorted.

She gave a slight smirk, which endeared her to me. "True, but I need to hear it. So, your response? Or you could depart. Alternatively, I could eliminate you."

"Sir Dravos from the House of Vorgan, here on behalf of Lord Drevolan. And for a moment, I thought we could be friends."

"Such a loss," she quipped. Her spear rested to her side, and her comrade's did likewise. The path ahead was unobstructed. "Just so you know, there's a teleportation block around this house, especially around that specific room."

"Is this your subtle way of saying, 'don't take anything'?"

"I wasn't trying to be subtle," she retorted.

"Forward we go," I declared.

"After you," Thorne added. Both guards gave Thorne a once-over as if they had just spotted him. However, they quickly masked their initial surprise, prioritizing their dignity over all else.

Without much of a choice, I unlatched the bolt and opened the door.

There's a tale about Bitsky, the mind behind the fire-ram. Legend has it he crafted it out of desperation when eight brigs and two grand ships had cornered his tiny fleet of six cutters during a skirmish with Elde. Once armed with his new weapon, he managed to sink seven of the ten ships, and with a spark of genius, his crew stormed the Palace, forcing a surrender that abruptly ended the war. As he emerged with the surrender document, someone supposedly inquired about his state of mind.

"Good," he replied.

I mention this tale because had someone asked me about my feelings upon entering a room brimming with more Norsanti weapons than I believed possible, my reply would've mirrored Bitsky's: "Not great."

"Boss..."

"I see, Opal."

Weapons were everywhere. The room resembled a nest of yellowsnakes. I felt the Dragonlords' presence looming behind me, and my pride couldn't spur me to move despite the embarrassment.

"This is grim, Viktor."

"You don't say, Thorne."