Far to the north, in the frozen heart of the Valerium Empire, stood a spire of black glass that clawed at the perpetually grey sky. Within its highest chamber, the only sounds were the soft, rhythmic hiss of an alchemical life-support apparatus and the thousand-fold ticking of clocks. Grandfather clocks of polished ebony, delicate table clocks of gold and silver, and colossal, intricate hourglasses filled with shimmering diamond dust lined the walls. It was a room obsessed with the measurement of time, for its master had precious little of it left.
Lord Volkov sat upon a throne not of gold, but of cold, unadorned iron. He was a withered, ancient man, his skin as thin and translucent as old parchment, his frame frail beneath opulent, sable-lined robes. Crystalline tubes filled with a glowing, viscous green fluid snaked from the throne's base, connecting to needles on his arms, the apparatus that kept his failing heart beating. For all his immense wealth and power, he was a prisoner in a cage of his own decaying flesh.
His eyes, pale and cloudy with age, were fixed on a large scrying orb that rested on a pedestal before him. He was waiting. Captain Graves of the Wyvern Hunters' Guild was three days late with his report. Volkov did not tolerate delays. His entire life was now a race against the final grain of sand in his personal hourglass, and every wasted moment was an agony.
At last, the crystal orb flared to life, its surface swirling with a deep crimson light. The calm, professional voice of Captain Graves echoed in the silent chamber, devoid of any emotion.
"To Lord Volkov. Contract regarding the Azure Dragon Lord: Unfulfilled."
Volkov's skeletal fingers tightened on the armrest of his throne. Unfulfilled. The word was an insult, a stone dropped into the placid, controlled pool of his existence.
The report continued, concise and brutal in its honesty. "Primary target and all associated life-signs have vacated their known dimensional anchor point. Method of transit is presumed to be a form of controlled spatial relocation of unprecedented scale and sophistication. Current whereabouts: Unknown."
Volkov's pale eyes narrowed. Spatial relocation. Not a simple teleportation spell, but moving an entire building? The audacity was… intriguing.
"The Inn, the structure housing the target," Graves's voice continued, "is a null-field of unknown origin. It does not block magic; it unmakes it. It enforces rules as if they were fundamental laws of reality. It repelled a siege by turning divine weapons into bread and deconstructing material assets to compensate for hostile intent."
A flicker of something other than anger sparked in Volkov's gaze. A predatory curiosity. A fortress whose defense was not a wall, but a contract. A landlord who fought not with spells, but with liability clauses.
"The fault for this failure is mine," Graves concluded, his voice like ice. "I underestimated the nature of the target's sanctuary. I am shifting the operation from tactical siege to global intelligence. I request access to the All-Seeing Eye network to begin a worldwide search. The hunt continues. Graves out."
The orb went dark. The silence in the throne room returned, thicker and colder than before.
Lord Volkov did not rage. He did not scream or break things as a lesser man might. His fury was a cold, precise thing, a glacier moving through his ancient mind. He had paid a fortune, the price of a small kingdom, for the world's most efficient hunters, and they had been defeated by… whimsy. By a trickster.
But beneath the cold fury, a new, far more powerful emotion was taking root: obsession.
He had sought the Dragon Lord's heart for his ritual. It was the final, perfect catalyst he needed to fuel his ascension, to break the chains of his dying body and achieve true immortality. The Dragon was the prize, the Inn merely an inconvenient obstacle.
Now, he saw his own shortsightedness.
An impenetrable fortress. A sanctuary that could appear anywhere in the world. A place whose master could rewrite the very laws of reality within its walls. He had been trying to acquire a key, when all this time, a perfect, unbreachable treasure chest had been sitting right in front of him.
Why settle for the ingredient to eternal life, when he could possess a home where death itself was not allowed entry?
A slow, chilling smile spread across his thin, colourless lips. The goal of the operation had not changed. It had expanded. He no longer wanted just the Dragon. He wanted her cage as well.
He pressed a small, runic button on the arm of his throne. A section of the wall slid open with a silent hiss, revealing a dark, shadowy chamber beyond. A figure emerged, a woman wrapped in grey robes, her face completely obscured by shadows. She was the Mistress of Whispers, Volkov's spymaster.
"My Lord," she said, her voice a rustle of dry leaves.
"The Wyvern Hunters have failed," Volkov stated. "They are good at hunting beasts, but they are ill-equipped to hunt a ghost." He looked at the spymaster, his pale eyes gleaming with a new, possessive light. "Mobilize our assets. All of them."
His commands were quiet, but they carried the weight of an empire.
"Triple the bounty on any information pertaining to the Azure Dragon Lord or her mysterious 'landlord.' I no longer care about the cost. I want every mercenary, thief, and information broker on the continent looking for them."
"Divert the Imperial Astrologers from their celestial charts. Their new priority is to scan for dimensional anomalies, no matter how small or fleeting. If a door opens where it shouldn't, I want to know."
"Activate our agents within the Mage's Council and the spies of the Crimson Empire. I want their intelligence. Everything they know or suspect about this 'Threshold Inn' is to be delivered directly to me."
He paused, leaning forward in his throne, the green fluid in his life-support tubes pulsing a little faster.
"And find me a specialist. Not a hunter. Not a soldier. Find me someone who understands acquisitions. Someone who knows how to deal with… properties that don't wish to be sold. A legal expert in hostile, metaphysical takeovers."
The Mistress of Whispers bowed deeply and melted back into the shadows.
Lord Volkov was left alone with the ticking of his clocks. He looked at a grand, celestial map of the world that was etched into the floor of his chamber. He had spent his life conquering its lands, bending its people to his will. Now, a new, unacceptable variable had appeared on the board.
A perfect, unbreachable cage for his perfect, immortal prize.
"You cannot hide from time, little landlord," he whispered to the empty room. "And I… I am running out of it."