Somewhere in the great city below, a bell struck the hour. Midnight. It was officially the new day, and while normally Moeldywn preferred to be long asleep the moment the date changed, she found herself to be a bit of a night owl of late. Paperwork was never ending, even for the retired.

  Somebody lied to her.

  Wasn’t that the whole point of having an heir? Having somebody else to pass the work onto?

  Besides the tiny fact that they were also family. Moeldywn was in a bit of a mood, and thinking about her grandson’s court politics wasn’t helping.

  So it was that The White Witch was burning the midnight oil when a knock sounded at her door. She wasn’t surprised.

  Not that she was expecting anybody, but if she had to be awake, then somebody else had to be as well. Surely she wasn’t the only unfortunate soul in the kingdom.

  “Enter,” she said, her voice laced with exhaustion but her monstrous stats keeping her awake long after she should have passed out. Some days she cursed being able to stay up for seemingly days at a time, because she really did enjoy sleeping, but she had a sense of responsibility which was probably a bit too strict and she couldn’t bear to see her people languish.

  Which was a fate that should have been visited upon the citizens of Lakeridge, but a bizarre series of events turned it into a moot point.

  “Still slaving away I see, your Majesty.”

  “It’s ‘your Highness’,” corrected Moeldywn with a sigh, glancing up to see the wrinkle lined face of an old friend. “King Philip the IV, long may he live, holds the throne now.”

  “I stand by what I said,” the old man smirked and remained standing, waiting for the politeness of courtesy to be offered before taking a seat, even at this late hour.

  Moeldywn pushed away from her desk and turned to face her visitor fully.

  “Chancellor Vornworth,” she said in greeting, waving her hand at a plush chair across from her. The old man appeared to be in his late 60s, but he was the chancellor serving her father when he was king, making this man even older than she was. But he was only in his 600s, level-wise, so while he probably had a good few decades left in him, he was getting old. Humans under level 1000 just didn’t often live past 200. Two centuries was ancient for the shortest lived race.

  A maid materialized out of thin air, having been [Stealthed] in the corner the whole time, and it was a testament to the man’s resilience and familiarity with the once-reigning Queen that he didn’t react beyond a small smile and a quiet “thank you” when she placed a small saucer of tea in front of him.

  …either that or he was simply too old to care.

  Several moments of peaceful silence passed between them as the sounds of night trilled gently through the window. The temperature was much cooler in her tower, just as much from being on the coast as any amount of enchantments she had installed over the years, but it was still nice to leave the windows open to coax in a breeze.

  “I assume you didn’t come here just to drink my tea,” Moeldywn asked at length. Her small smile told him that even if he did, the chancellor was welcome to do so. The infuriating old man took an extra long sip, quirking his eyebrows just high enough to see that his monarch knew he was playing with her.

  “Ah, but such fine tea it is!” He said grandly, setting the cup into the saucer with a barely audible clink. “And to be served by the legendary ‘collectors of intriguing tales’ themselves…would you believe me if I said I came with a story of my own tonight?”

  The Queen Dowager raised an eyebrow in appreciation. The chancellor sighed and looked slightly sad.

  “I don’t,” he said quickly. As fond of games as he was, he didn’t want to get her hopes up. Even that small amount of teasing had her crashing down a little, visibly deflated. Contrary to popular belief, she did not have countless sources of entertainment. Hers were limited. The chancellor shook his head, pausing mid shake thoughtfully.

  “Or maybe I do? Though I don’t suppose you’d care too much for letters written between old men. It seems Baron Greymantle-“

  Whatever the Baron did or saw or was, both Moeldywn and Archibald paused. Another knock at the door, and a silent conversation passed between the two.

  One of yours? Moeldywn conveyed with a look.

  I came alone, the chancellor replied with a small head shake.

  “Enter,” Moeldywn called regally, wondering how many unexpected guests she was going to play host to tonight. How much of a queen would she need to be?

  The door opened and a tired looking man trudged in. By looks alone, he was a middle aged Royal [Courier], dressed in travel stained leather with a blue and gold mantle wrapped around his shoulders.

  And that was the truth, on days when he wasn’t needed for the Witch’s games.

  So, Spymaster it was tonight, then.

  “My lady,” he eventually said, standing straight and proud. “I’ve returned from the Ashlands. The earlier report about the potential stampede was correct, monsters were gathering. They have since been placated and have returned to their normal patterns.”

  Moeldywn held out her hand and accepted a scroll. She found more precise details inside, such as average levels, which seemed rather high even for the mid tier zone, but as always, the first debrief was succinct and to the point. She asked for brevity and she was given it: her people were well trained.

  Alda, the [Courier] in question, was a high level scout, in the low 700s. He gave a slight nod to the chancellor, who nodded back. He was one of the few members of the court, even the higher ranked members, who was aware of what the ex-queen got up to in her spare time. That he was privy to her secrets and was allowed to stay spoke volumes for his loyalty.

  “You were saying something about Baron Greymantle?” The Spymaster asked without looking up. “Has something happened in Hammerfall?”

  “Not exactly,” the chancellor mused, finding mirth between the Spymaster’s looks and her many responsibilities. “He always was one to be prepared, act instead of react. Some called him hot headed, but it got him through the War. It seems he was worried about a dragon-“

  Again there was another knock, and Moeldywn let out a heavy sigh. Archibald looked vastly amused, while Alda scooted over toward where the maid was [Stealthed], subtly elbowing her over and melding into the shadows himself.

  Once again it looked like only two people were chatting alone, late at night.

  “Enter,” Moeldywn repeated yet again.

  The door opened, but nobody entered.

  Once the door closed, another maid materialized out of thin air. She gave a nod to the two shadows over in the corner, making the air around them quaver slightly as they shifted, and nodded briefly to the chancellor. She did not speak at first, preferring to hand off her report. As soon as the Spymaster was several lines into it, she summarized.

  “There isn’t any trace of what let out that roar several days ago,” she said tiredly. The “collectors” were all running ragged at the moment, doing their lady’s bidding. They wouldn’t have it any other way though, they lived to be useful to her. “Some people are claiming it was a hoax or hallucination, but it’s just as likely that whatever it was vanished back to where it came from before it woke up.”

  “That fits,” Moeldywn agreed, adding the scroll to a growing pile of them on her desk. This was the fourth report she’d received, she nearly had the full picture. And her unexpected visit from the chancellor might shed the final light on it, if his letter from the Baron, as Moeldywn predicted, had something to do with slaying a dragon.

  “Please, continue,” she urged him.

  “As I was saying,” the chancellor began, and paused. Both he and Moeldywn glanced at the door, expecting to be interrupted. When no knock came, they both chuffed out a laugh. “As I was saying, the Baron caused quite a stir the other day, putting forth a Call to Arms. Seems he wasn’t about to let his precious homeland get razed by some monsters.”

  “I had heard,” Moeldywn agreed, “But not the results. I take it we should be hearing soon.”

  Again Archibald raised an eyebrow, impressed at the Spymaster’s network, urging her to continue.

  “This,” Moeldywn pointed to the first scroll of the night, delivered by Alda, “Reports that the stampede is all but quelled. There’s no risk to Lakeridge, or Abbeyton, or Hammerfall, or, by extension, Horizon and the rest of the kingdom.”

  She pointed to some of the other letters on her desk.

  Urgent pleas for assistance from the magistrate of Lakeridge, also regarding the potential threat of monsters, but unlike Baron Greymantle, Darcy Stoutfist was not a veteran of many wars nor did she have as many adventurers at her beck and call.

  A cautious and delicately crafted query into the truth of the roar from Morrigan Lightbane, governor of the province just south of Hammerfall and Lakeshire, StoneCairne. The cerulean mines there were incredibly valuable for magical technology, so if a dragon was potentially looking to add to its hoard or move to a new home, the Count would need to know sooner rather than later.

  A third letter, little more than a memo, had come from King Ironsledge himself.

  Well, probably not the old dwarven king, who like Moeldywn herself had far too much on his plate, but from one of his many aides.

  You all right over there lass? Bit of a wee grumble from a beastie in the mountain.

  Then again, maybe it was from the king himself.

  What this told Moeldywn was that the deafening roar was heard across multiple zones. Not just her lands, but the dwarven kingdom too.

  Whatever it was, wasn’t just loud. It was powerful.

  And now, apparently, gone? Vanished, without a trace. Not what it was or where it went. There were very few creatures that could make a sound like that in the first place, and right at the top of that list was, of course: dragon.

  “It seems like our old friend the Baron overreacted,” the chancellor mused. “My own letter was a rare apology from the old badger. It seems he pulled away some of the highest levels he could from the surrounding areas at such a short time, and in the end, they ended up killing the dragon the moment it showed up.”

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  “So it was a dragon?” Moeldywn asked calmly, though her insides were rapidly souring. Once again she had gotten her hopes up. It was “dragon season” for those close to her, where they knew her obsession with a particular large and terrifying dragon reared its head. She would go on a quest to find her for weeks and, when nothing inevitably came up, she would get depressed and moody, and then she’d need cheering up.

  If the dragon that got slain was the one who made the cry, then that was that, and she’d need to shelve her curiosity for another few years.

  “Yes,” the chancellor nodded, apparently unaware of her inner turmoil. “A black dragon.”

  Moeldywn twitched.

  “Over level 1000, I’m told.”

  Another twitch.

  “Quite terrifying, I’d wager. I don’t know how anybody could stand up against such a thing.”

  Even Moeldywn herself wouldn’t want to face off against a dragon of that level alone, despite being higher than it. It would be risky business, even for her.

  “How many casualties?” she asked, thinking of how the raid would need to be formed, even with her in the ranks. And they were most likely being led by Hammerfall’s own guildmaster, a respectable rank 7 on his own, and a formidable leader. Surely they would have minimized the risk, had plenty of healers-

  “None,” Archibald said slowly, sitting up straight and staring intently at Moeldywn. He watched her freeze, then slowly turn to face him.

  “Not one,” he repeated slowly, making sure to be clear.

  “Not one,” Moeldywn threw right back at him, and he nodded.

  “The details were…suspiciously vague, but a traveling, high level adventurer, that may or may not have been a [Bard], that’s the confusing part, whatever they were, destroyed the dragon. Apparently in one blow. Just obliterated it.”

  “…eh?” Moeldywn felt herself slump against the back of her chair, suddenly confused on how she was supposed to feel. Dragons, even monster dragons, spawned by mana and Chaos herself, were terrifying, powerful foes, not to be trifled with. They were certainly never “one shot”, as the ancient adventurers used to love to say.

  “…obliterated, you say?”

  “To pieces,” Archibald grimaced tightly. “I’m expecting a plea for funding for the church to reach the king’s court in several days, just to pay for trauma services, not medical. I don’t think he’ll take it seriously.”

  “…to pieces…you say….”

  “And it doesn’t sound like you are either,” Archibald frowned.

  “Ah!” Moeldywn shook herself from her thoughts. A strangely vivid picture of a smiling, fanged, draconic grin filled her vision before suddenly disappearing again. “I’m sorry. If it comes to it, let me know, I can apply pressure where needed. Dragons are traumatic, and no trauma should be ignored. Thank you for your…wait.” Moeldywn tilted her head. “That wasn’t what you came here for, was it? You had something else before all this.”

  The chancellor looked confused for half a moment before he brightened.

  “Oh! I did! Renewed interest in your pet project had reached my ears,” he smirked. “And I thought I’d add some fuel to your obsession.”

  “Obsession?” Moeldywn scoffed, leaning back. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your obsession with dragons is legendary, my liege,” Archibald smiled, but there was truth to his words. “There’s a reason that during your reign, ambassadors from the World’s End flocked to the kingdom. At the beginning, more counselors than I were afraid you would empty the kingdom’s coffers in your zeal.”

  “It was not obsession,” Moeldywn growled, crossing her arms in a huff. Archibald stared at her patiently until she wilted. “Okay fine, maybe it was. But can you blame me?”

  “I cannot, but others can,” the chancellor said. “I saw the dragon, once. I do believe I required an entirely new wardrobe after that.”

  “Did you even talk to her?” Moeldywn asked.

  “Be reasonable,” Archibald scoffed. “I said I saw her, once. From afar. You alone are insane enough to talk to that monster.”

  “She’s no monster,” Moeldywn instantly denied. “She is as sane and sentient as you or I.”

  “Phrasing, phrasing,” Archibald waved a hand. “You know what I mean. Monster. Beast. Tyrant. Calamity. Cataclysm. Raging disaster. With or without brains, choose your poison carefully, it will still consume you.”

  “…noted, chancellor. I will take it under advisement. Now, as you were saying?”

  Archibald wisely picked up the threatening tones lacing the Queen Dowager’s words as she used his title, and he abstained from any impulsive teasing.

  “I received notice of something about to be introduced to the black market,” he said plainly.

  The black market, as the name suggested, was a place for illicit goods. But not just illegal goods, goods that were rare, hard to find, or otherwise…questionably sourced. Some preferred to call it a grey market, as if coloring it in a different shade erased its dubious legality when, at any given auction, a noble might find a painting that had, only hours before, been hanging on their own walls.

  It was a place to buy and sell anything, with the sole exception of people, as slavery was strictly abolished, both quickly and at a high price. Sellers could search out independent buyers, but as a whole, the market was an auction. One visited by the wealthiest and most status seeking of patrons. Things could be found on the black market that could never be seen in stores, sometimes precisely because the markup in price was so extreme. An item at the auction would go for 10 times the amount it would in a shop, and that was the starting, asking price. If it was interesting or coveted, the price would soar.

  Of course, it had to be worth something in the first place in order to be sold. Not even the most ostentatious, power hungry, or self bloated noble would ever buy literal garbage.

  …perhaps.

  There had been very strange fads in the past, it would be a stretch, but Moeldwyn could potentially see it.

  “What is it?” she asked tiredly, decided that she really should have gone to bed hours ago. None of this couldn’t have waited until the morning. It’s not like her immediate attention-

  “A dragon scale.”

  -was, of course, instantly required. Without thinking, she stood up, as if she was prepared to stroll right out the doors and visit the black market in person.

  Several people in the room chuckled but she very graciously ignored them and sat back down.

  “A black dragon scale,” Archibald leaned forward and added softly. Moeldywn stiffened, her heart rate quickened.

  “My sources tell me it’s the largest they’ve ever seen.”

  “Come off it man and tell me already!” Moeldywn slammed her palms down onto the table as she shot to her feet. The sudden movement startled the maids in the corner, who were trained to remain invisible regardless of their circumstances.

  “That’s it,” he held his hands up in the air. “That’s all I know. If you ask me, the timing is a little too coincidental to be anything but what it seems. A raid of adventurers went out to kill a dragon. They succeeded. The dragon was destroyed, but somebody had to have picked up some sort of loot. Perhaps it was system generated? There was enough of a recognizable body remaining that somebody with a harvesting skill received an unblemished scale? And let us consider this: this is the black market we’re talking about. Every article that passes through its doors starts with a kernel of truth and gets blown hugely out of proportion by the time it reaches the main stage, if it even gets that far. For some, that’s half the charm, bidding on the mystique and the thrill of the unknown.”

  “Yes, yes,” Moeldywn sighed. “I suppose to anybody else, the scale from a level 1000 black dragon would seem like a legendary artifact. Something approaching divine, even: an insurmountable foe so tremendous that only a full raid of the finest heroes in the land could bring it down! I can hear the tales being sung already.”

  “I wish I could have seen it in person to give you better news, but alas, this was only the first rumor. Something like that won’t make it to the stage for weeks. They have to let excitement and tension build.”

  “I suppose it’s a good thing I didn’t demand you take me there immediately,” Moeldywn smirked. “Well, now I’m riled up. I’m going for a walk. Chancellor Vornworth, would you care to join me?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “I was thinking about visiting the menagerie.”

  “An excellent decision.”

  The two got up and exited the tower, followed by several maids, both visible and [Stealthed]. Moeldywn had long since grown accustomed to never really being alone, and she was high enough level to protect herself against any assailant, so she saw her shadows as company rather than followers. Perhaps it was the wrong attitude to take with bodyguards, but she hadn’t been the one to initially install them and she consoled herself that if they were attacked, she could protect the bodyguards, too.

  As for the “menagerie”, it was something between a stables, zoo, and wildlife preserve. It was open to the public and took up several acres of premium land inside the palace walls, something that often vexed members of her family who had less brains than levels, neither of which were very high.

  The palace, for all that it was the ruling seat of the kingdom, was still her home. She had not relinquished it when she gave over the crown. Her descendants could inhabit some of her lower floors that she didn’t use or move out. She was comfortable and she’d lived there a very long time.

  Could they not wait until she was dead before squabbling about her things?

  No, she supposed, they could not. She would likely outlive this generation too.

  But it wasn’t like any of them had a better use for that land: they already lived in a literal palace. What else did they need, a secondary mansion? And there were enough private gardens for each and every one of her grandchildren, perhaps even her great grandchildren.

  “I must say, I’ve always been impressed by your collection.”

  “Mmm,” Moeldywn replied, noncommittally. “Technically it isn’t mine. That’s part of why I opened it up to the public. These creatures…came to me, I suppose.”

  Which was true. Very few people would believe the truth if they knew it, so she didn’t often tell it. She let the belief that she was an avid collector of fine beasts spread and she embraced it. Indeed, after the first several years, she truly did begin to seek out new additions of her own. But not the first, the most exotic, strongest, and strangest animals. But she was the one currently housing and paying for their upkeep, so she was going to benefit from them as well.

  Because they were, each and every one of them, incredibly valuable.

  They were a gift, Moeldywn considered it, from her old friend Meliastraza. Why a dragon needed hundreds of mounts was beyond her at the time, and it baffled her even now, but she grew used to it. She chalked it up to yet another of the gnome’s quirks. Collecting beautiful steeds.

  The first one that came to her, starving and pitiful, had been that blasted Nightsaber. It slunk its way into her private chambers, evading all her guards, and scared her half to death, mewling at her to be fed as she got changed for bed one night. She fed it, half terrified because its level was just as high as hers, and like the giant cat it was, after eating, it curled up into a ball and ignored her.

  The pattern never changed.

  Over the next few weeks, after Moeldywn came to realize something had happened to their owner, she began curating a space for them. And thus, the menagerie was born.

  Home to nearly a hundred and eighty of the most exotic, beautiful mounts she had ever seen. The warhorses that arrived on her doorstep were greater than any in her armies, but they refused to be ridden. Several of those giant ostriches, favored in the south, had rare and vibrant plumage. She had a Nightsaber lounging in her trees.

  With the sole exception that no mount would let anybody ride them past the palace walls, they were remarkably well behaved. They were patient and showed great skill in dealing with small children or apprentices learning how to groom the animals, and not a small number of them were more than willing to stud themselves out to establish breeding lines.

  Some of the original mounts had died since then, but their progeny was quite prolific.

  Moeldywn took extreme pride in the fact that here, in her city and nowhere else in the world outside of the Everbloom, could one find a Nightsaber cub to foster.

  The lazy cat was, of course, nowhere to be seen, though her presence could be felt in parts of the curated forest. As if she was always lurking, always watching, always ready to pounce.

  Something that terrified many of the handlers.

  Moeldywn sighed, recalling how she lost more than a few good hands who could not take the pressure of becoming a giant cat’s plaything.

  She visited the rams, the giant salamanders, and even the singular mountainous turtle that the silly gnome somehow managed to make into a mount.

  …what was the point of that one? It barely moved faster than her leisurely walk.

  Most of the animals were asleep, but a few of the more exotic species, and of course the nocturnal ones, greeted her affectionately when she greeted them. A part of Moeldywn wondered when they would ever consider her their master. It had been over a century. Surely that meant they’d lived with her far longer than with the gnome.

  Eventually, the peace and tranquility of the gardens calmed her spirit, and she felt herself tire. Moeldywn made her way back to the main castle, where her path diverged from Archibald’s. They said their goodbyes, but at the last second, Moeldywn’s curiosity got the better of her.

  “By the way,” she asked, turning as she put her foot upon the steps leading to her tower. “Your people. Did they say…exactly how big the scale was?”

  “Of course,” Archibald chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. “Like I said, they were clearly exaggerating. Even for a dragon, there has to be a limit, yes? Who ever heard of a scale 8 feet long.”

  Moeldywn missed the step entirely, crashing down and sliding back down into the hallway.

  No less than 4 servants materialized from thin air, rushing to her aid. She waved them all off and stared at her now shaking hands.

  “She’s back. She’s actually back.”