The decision from Drachenhalm had been simple: send knights to the frontier, calm the peasants, and prove that the so‑called iron dragon was nothing more than a drunken tale.
Sir Edric Varlen, a young but seasoned knight of Drakensport, rode at the head of the patrol. Twenty men followed behind him, their armor polished, their banners fluttering in the wind. They were the king's reassurance to the frightened villages steel‑clad proof that Drakensport protected its own.
When they reached Redham, the peasants gathered in awe.
"The knights have come!" a child shouted, clutching his mother's skirt.
"They'll slay the dragon!" another farmer said, though his voice trembled.
Sir Edric dismounted in the village square. "We are here by the king's order," he announced. "There will be no talk of omens or beasts. Whatever you saw, it was no dragon."
The villagers exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. None dared contradict a knight.
For two uneventful days, the knights patrolled the area, speaking with villagers and inspecting the skies. Edric himself began to believe the nobles had been right—that the peasants had merely seen a strange bird, or perhaps been drunk on cheap ale.
On the third evening, just as the twin moons began to rise, the sound came.
It started as a low hum, growing into a deafening roar that made the ground tremble. Horses reared and whinnied in terror. Villagers screamed and ran for cover.
Edric whipped his head to the sky—and froze.
The beast was real.
It soared above the village, a sleek, winged thing of gleaming black metal. It moved with impossible speed, banking effortlessly as it circled once before streaking away, leaving a thunderous echo in its wake.
Edric's mouth went dry. "By the gods…"
The knights stood rooted in place, too stunned to raise their weapons.
One of them finally whispered, "That… that was no dragon."
Edric could not speak. The tales of the peasants had been true all along, and the thing they had mocked as drunken nonsense was now carved into his memory.
As the roar faded into the night, Edric knew one thing with cold certainty: whatever that creature was, it was not of this world.
And if it was a sign of what lay beyond the frontier, Drakensport was woefully unprepared.
Sir Edric and his men stayed in Redham for nearly three weeks. They had expected boredom and routine—patrolling fields, calming frightened villagers, and drinking ale by the fire at night. But their task became far stranger.
The iron beast returned. Not just once, but again and again. Sometimes it came in the morning, glinting under the sun. Other times at dusk, its black frame cutting across the orange sky like a hunting hawk.
It never attacked. It never landed. It only circled, sometimes far above, sometimes low enough that Edric could see strange lights on its underbelly before it roared away at unimaginable speed.
The villagers lived in constant fear. They prayed louder in the chapel. Mothers told their children not to look at the sky. Chickens scattered and dogs howled each time the beast came.
One night, Edric sat by the campfire with his second‑in‑command, Sir Roderic. The other knights were asleep, their armor stacked neatly beside them.
"It's no dragon," Edric said quietly, staring at the flames.
"No," Roderic agreed, his tone grim. "I've seen dragons once, on the eastern frontiers. They are beasts, wild and hungry. This thing… it moves with purpose. It hunts nothing. It watches."
Edric nodded slowly. "It feels like we are the game, and it is the hunter."
Roderic looked up at the night sky, where the twin moons hung silently. "Do you think it's some new weapon of the barbarians? Some magic of the old world?"
"No," Edric replied. "The barbarians can barely forge steel that doesn't shatter. No sorcerer alive could make something like that. It moves too fast, too clean, too… deliberate."
For a while, neither man spoke. The crackle of the fire and the distant chirp of night insects filled the silence.
Finally, Roderic said, "We can't protect these people from it. If it wanted to burn this village to ash, we'd be nothing but corpses before we could lift a shield."
Edric's jaw tightened. "Which is why we'll stay. Because the villagers believe we can protect them. And if fear is all that beast gives us, we'll give the people something stronger than fear."
The next morning, the iron beast returned again, soaring high above the clouds. Edric watched it silently, his hands gripping the reins of his horse.
"Who are you?" he muttered under his breath as the metal creature vanished beyond the horizon.
When Sir Edric finally rode back to Drachenhalm, three weeks had passed since his arrival in Redham. His patrol bore the signs of exhaustion dust‑stained armor, hollow eyes, and a lingering unease that words could not describe.
They were taken straight to the royal court, where King Aldred IV sat upon his throne, flanked by smug nobles and armored guards. The great hall smelled faintly of incense and wine.
Edric knelt. "Your Majesty, I come with grave news. The beast the villagers spoke of is real. We saw it with our own eyes, not once but many times. It flies faster than any falcon, roars like thunder, and is made not of flesh, but of metal that gleams like polished steel. It never attacks it only watches."
Murmurs rippled through the court.
Lord Brenwick chuckled dismissively. "A dragon of steel? Edric, you've been too long in the frontier. Perhaps you and your men mistook an eastern wyrm for something more."
Another noble leaned back in his chair. "Dragons evolve, do they not? Perhaps it is simply a new breed one the bards will sing of in due time."
Edric's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. "My lords, with respect, this was no wyrm. It bore no wings. It moved with a precision I have never seen in any creature. It turned in the sky as though guided by some unseen hand. And it is not alone the villagers told us it has been sighted on the outskirts of other hamlets as well."
The nobles exchanged amused glances, whispering among themselves.
"More rumors," one scoffed.
"Frontier peasants love their tales."
King Aldred raised a hand for silence. "You are certain of what you saw?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Edric said firmly. "It is not of this world. If it wished, it could kill us all before we could raise a sword."
The king leaned back on his throne, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Very well. We shall increase patrols in the western marches. But I will not waste armies chasing shadows. Until this creature strikes, we will treat it as we would a dragon that prefers to stalk rather than burn."
Some of the nobles nodded in agreement, clearly relieved that no drastic measures would be taken. To them, it was easier to believe this was simply a rare wyrm or some new form of dragon rather than face the truth.
But Edric knew better.
Every village he passed on the way back had the same story the metal beast had been seen circling above their fields, glinting in the sunlight, roaring like no creature of flesh and blood ever could.
And though the nobles laughed, the peasants whispered and prayed louder with each passing day.
Some said the dragon was a sign of war.
Others said it was a messenger of the gods.
But Edric could not shake the feeling that it was neither.
In the grand halls of Castle Ardenthal, seat of House Brenwick, a heated argument erupted. The Brenwicks were among the wealthiest lords of Drakensport, their lands sprawling with fertile farms and lucrative iron mines.
At the long oaken table sat Lord Brenwick, corpulent and flushed with anger, and Lord Halvar Greystead, a lean, hawk‑faced noble whose lands bordered Brenwick's own.
"You have no right to my river crossing!" Halvar spat, slamming his fist on the table. "Your men collect tolls as though my vassals are your serfs!"
Brenwick sneered, his many rings glinting in the firelight. "The bridge lies on my land. If your peasants wish to cross, they will pay for the privilege. That is the order of things."
"The order of things?" Halvar's voice rose. "You fatten yourself while my merchants bleed coin just to move grain! The king will hear of this injustice!"
"Go to the king then!" Brenwick barked, slamming his goblet down hard enough to spill wine across the table. "You forget, Greystead, that Drachenhalm listens to coin, not to whining. My coffers are far heavier than yours."
Halvar's eyes burned with fury, but he restrained himself. "You think your gold shields you from consequence. But even the richest hog can be slaughtered."
Brenwick leaned back, a smug grin tugging at his jowls. "Empty threats, Halvar. The king needs my iron more than your pitiful grain. Remember that before you raise your voice again."
The room filled with the tense silence of barely restrained violence.
Finally, Halvar stood, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "This is not over. You will regret stealing from me."
"You can try, Greystead," Brenwick said, smirking as he raised his goblet once more. "But remember power lies not in anger, but in gold."
After Lord Halvar stormed out of Castle Ardenthal, the corridors buzzed with hushed whispers. Servants avoided his gaze, knowing better than to speak when a noble's temper ran hot.
He mounted his horse without a word, his retainers falling in behind him as they rode toward Greystead Manor. The night air was cold, the twin moons casting pale light over the dirt road.
By the time they arrived, Halvar's fury had not cooled.
Inside his hall, his closest vassals and advisors gathered around the long table, faces tense.
"Lord Brenwick grows too bold," Halvar began, his voice sharp. "He bleeds us dry with his tolls, knowing well the king will side with him. I will not stand for this insult."
One of his older knights, Ser Aldwin, bowed his head. "My lord, Brenwick's coffers are vast. He can bribe half the royal court if it pleases him. Open defiance will only end in ruin."
Halvar slammed his palm on the table. "Then we find another way. He cannot grow rich at my expense while my merchants suffer. If the king will not intervene, then we must weaken him without drawing a sword."
"How, my lord?" asked Lady Myra, Halvar's sister and steward of his household.
Halvar's eyes narrowed. "We cut his wealth at the source. His mines depend on river barges to move iron to the capital. If those barges never arrive, his bribes grow smaller, and so too does his influence."
Lady Myra frowned. "You would risk sabotage? If Brenwick discovers our hand in this—"
"He won't," Halvar interrupted. "A band of discontented peasants can be convinced to 'riot.' The river is treacherous enough that a few lost barges would be seen as misfortune."
Ser Aldwin looked uneasy. "My lord… this path is dangerous. Brenwick may not strike now, but if he learns of our schemes, his wrath will not be easily avoided."
Halvar leaned forward, his voice a low growl. "Better his wrath tomorrow than our ruin today."
---
Meanwhile, in Drachenhalm, Lord Brenwick feasted lavishly in his private hall. Music and laughter filled the air, nobles and merchants drinking to his prosperity.
"Halvar will crawl back soon enough," Brenwick boasted, raising a goblet of wine. "Grain rots, but iron endures. The king will always need me more than him."
A visiting merchant chuckled. "And if he dares cross you?"
Brenwick's smile widened. "Then I'll buy his loyalty like I've bought everyone else's."
The hall erupted in laughter once more, yet none noticed the shadows in the corners envoys and minor lords watching silently, already calculating which side to favor when the tension between the two powerful houses inevitably escalated.
The kingdom of Drakensport was not at war, but the seeds of discord were being sown.
And as the weeks passed, rumors of the iron dragon still drifted through the taverns and markets.
The throne room of Drachenhalm was heavy with tension.
Reports had poured in over the past month—not just of the "iron dragon," but of noble disputes worsening in the western territories. House Greystead had accused House Brenwick of unfair tolls and extortion, while rumors spread that Greystead's peasants had begun harassing Brenwick's barges on the river.
King Aldred IV sat upon his gilded throne, fingers drumming against the armrest as the court debated before him.
"This is nothing but petty squabbling," scoffed Lord Brenwick, who stood at the center of the hall with an air of smugness. "Halvar Greystead cannot accept that his lands are poor, so he spreads lies about me."
From the opposite side, Lord Halvar Greystead stood rigid, his face taut with controlled rage. "Your Majesty, my merchants have been robbed of fair passage. Brenwick's men extort them openly, yet he hides behind royal favor!"
The hall erupted in murmurs as other nobles began to take sides.
Lord Merrow, a thin, fox‑like man, smirked. "Perhaps Greystead should learn that the strong thrive while the weak beg."
Lady Arlenne, one of the few highborn women with influence, snapped back, "Or perhaps the king should remind his lords that greed has limits."
"Enough."
The king's voice silenced the hall instantly.
Aldred rose slowly, his presence commanding despite his aging frame. "I will not have my court turned into a marketplace of insults. Brenwick, Greystead—both of you are lords of Drakensport. You will remember your place."
Halvar bowed stiffly. "Your Majesty, I only seek justice—"
"And you will have none of it today," Aldred interrupted sharply. "There will be no judgments on this matter until I say so. If either of you acts against the other without my word, you will forfeit lands to the crown. Am I understood?"
Both men bowed—reluctantly.
The court was silent, though whispers continued as the two lords glared at one another.
---
When the hall had cleared, Chamberlain Hadrien stepped forward, his voice low.
"Your Majesty," he said cautiously, "the noble disputes grow more frequent. And the peasants still whisper of the iron dragon. Perhaps… these matters are not as small as we wish to believe."
The king frowned. "Let the peasants talk. Tales of dragons will pass as they always have. As for the nobles—petty greed is as old as the crown itself. It will burn itself out."
But as Aldred turned back toward his throne, Hadrien's unease lingered.
For the first time, the kingdom felt like a pot slowly beginning to boil while something far greater circled silently above.
Word for this chapter:
"Pitiful"
*Deserving or arousing pity*