The Grand Plaza throbbed like a beating heart. Thousands of bodies pressed together, a sea of faces turned upward toward the central dais. Banners bearing the Radiant Sun of the Church and the snarling dragon of the Knightly Order snapped in the wind. The air, thick with the smell of incense and roasting meats from festival stalls, vibrated with anticipation.
"BEHOLD!" a Herald's voice, magically amplified, boomed across the square. "On this most holy day of the Ceremony of Sacred Blood, we are blessed! Blessed by the presence of our Living Saint, the Lady Annelise!"
A roar of adoration went up from the crowd. On the highest platform, draped in white and gold, sat the Saint. She was a still, serene figure, her veiled face an icon of purity. Even at this distance, Arthur could see the blinding sun of her aura through his `Gaze of Truth`. It was a magnificent, hypnotic power.
A pathetic beacon, built on a lie, Su Ling's thought cut through the reverence like a shard of glass. They worship a cage, ignorant of the flawed lock at its heart.
"And who better to stand as guardian to the Saint?" the Herald continued, his voice rising in a crescendo. "Who better to embody the might and glory of the righteous? I give you… Sir Leon, the Dragon's Chosen, and his noble steed, Redflame!"
Another roar, this one more primal, shook the plaza. From the great gates at the far end of the square, the bronze dragon emerged. Sunlight glinted off its scales, turning it into a river of molten gold. Atop its back, Sir Leon sat like a god, his silver armor so bright it hurt to look at. He held the reins loosely, a confident smirk playing on his lips as he surveyed the adoring masses. Redflame let out a controlled puff of smoke, a bit of theatricality that sent the crowd into a frenzy.
Arthur stood at the absolute edge of the designated viewing area for servants. He was wedged between a pile of refuse barrels and a rickety supply cart he'd been tasked with moving. He was invisible, a smudge of gray against the vibrant tapestry of the festival. This was his designated spot, a place where he was to remain, head bowed, until the ceremony concluded.
The position is perfect, Su Ling observed. Unseen. Unimportant. The fulcrum of the entire performance.
On the dais, Leon dismounted with practiced grace, dropping to one knee before the Saint. His voice, though not amplified, carried an arrogant weight.
"Lady Annelise. My life and my blade are yours. Redflame and I shall prove a worthy guard."
"The Church is grateful for your strength, Sir Leon," Annelise's voice was a soft melody. "The people must see that faith is protected by might. Begin the display. Let them witness the power you command."
"As you command, My Lady." Leon rose, his face flushed with pride. He swung himself back into the intricate saddle. He was about to perform the 'Dragon's Salute,' a maneuver where the dragon would charge the length of the plaza and unleash a controlled plume of fire straight into the sky—a breathtaking display of power and control.
He trotted Redflame to the far end of the square. The crowd parted, creating a wide, clear path leading directly toward the dais. The path, Arthur noted, ran barely twenty feet from where he stood with his cart.
Leon raised a gauntleted hand. The plaza fell silent.
"FOR THE GLORY OF THE FAITH!" he roared.
He spurred Redflame. The ground trembled as the massive beast began to run. It was a terrifying, beautiful sight. The dragon's powerful legs devoured the cobblestones, its massive head held high. It built speed, a living battering ram of bronze and fire.
The knight is a fool. He believes the beast is an extension of his will, Su Ling's voice was a cool whisper in Arthur's mind. He doesn't understand that will is a fragile thing. A simple nudge is all it takes.
As Redflame thundered past the halfway point, Arthur, following an impulse that was not his own, gave the supply cart a sharp, awkward shove. A single iron pin, which Su Ling had spent the morning subtly weakening with minuscule, targeted pulses from the Ash Hand, sheared off.
With a loud crack, the left wheel of the cart broke free. It wobbled for a second and then rolled directly into the dragon's path. The cart itself tilted violently, spilling a load of firewood and old blankets onto the cobblestones, creating a small, messy obstacle.
A collective gasp went through the crowd.
Redflame, its charge broken, skidded to a halt. The sudden stop was jarring, and the great beast let out an irritated snort. It saw the pathetic little cart and the spilled debris. It was nothing, a minor annoyance, but it was an interruption. An imperfection in a display of perfection.
On its back, Leon was furious. His face was a mask of rage. "Imbecile!" he screamed, not at anyone in particular, but at the universe itself for daring to mar his moment of glory. He yanked hard on the reins. "Get over it, you useless lizard! It's nothing!"
He spurred the dragon again, forcing it forward. Redflame, goaded by its rider's anger and its own frustration, took a stomping, heavy step toward the obstacle.
"Oh, gods, I'm sorry!" Arthur cried out, playing his part. He scrambled forward, feigning panic, and knelt by the broken cart, pretending to try and push the wheel back on. His movements were clumsy, terrified.
The dragon raised its massive, clawed foreleg to step over the mess.
The timing must be precise, Su Ling instructed. The point of contact is the key.
As Arthur fumbled with the wheel, he "slipped" on a stray piece of wood. His right hand, the hand of ash and entropy, flattened against the cold cobblestones to catch his fall. He looked like a frightened boy about to be crushed.
The dragon's foot, plates of scaled armor over muscle and bone, slammed down onto the stone a mere foot away from his hand. The ground shook with the impact.
Contact, Su Ling thought. And then, with a will of forged iron, she commanded.
Deconstruct: Life. Essence. Spark.
The power of the Ash Hand did not erupt. It seeped. It flowed from Arthur's palm, not as an attack, but as a silent, insatiable thirst. It wasn't a weapon; it was a siphon. It latched onto the very concept of the dragon's vitality, the primal, fiery life force that animated the beast, and began to pull.
There was no sound. No flash of light. But through Arthur's `Gaze of Truth`, the world became a screaming torrent. Redflame's brilliant, sun-gold aura, a furnace of raw power, was punctured. A river of that golden energy, pure and potent, was being funneled through the earth, into his hand, and up his arm.
On the dragon's back, Leon felt a lurch, as if the beast had stumbled on air. Redflame suddenly felt… hollow.
For the dragon, the sensation was instantaneous and terrifying. One moment, it was a creature of immense power, brimming with fire and strength. The next, a third of that strength vanished. It was as if a hole had been torn in its soul. The fire in its belly guttered. A wave of profound weakness and agonizing, phantom pain washed over it.
It did not understand. It only felt violation. And terror. And rage.
Redflame's head snapped back. A roar tore from its throat, but it wasn't the proud bellow of a mighty beast. It was a high-pitched, agonized shriek of pain and panic.
It lost control.
The instincts of a cornered, wounded animal took over. It reared up, its massive wings flaring open, beating the air with thunderous, uncoordinated flaps that sent gusts of wind blasting through the crowd. People screamed, stumbling back, tripping over each other in a mad dash to escape.
"Redflame! HEEL!" Leon bellowed, pulling on the reins with all his might. But he was no longer a rider. He was a flea on the back of a hurricane.
The dragon thrashed its head from side to side. The fire it was meant to shoot into the sky now spewed from its jaws in a wild, uncontrolled torrent. A wave of liquid flame erupted, not upward, but sideways.
It washed over the front rows of the VIP section.
Panic exploded. Priests in their ornate robes shrieked and threw themselves to the ground. Nobles in silks and velvets scrambled over one another, their dignity forgotten. Guards raised their shields, the enchanted metal glowing as it absorbed the worst of the heat, but the sheer force of the blast sent them staggering back.
The dais was on fire. The golden banners of the Church blackened and turned to ash.
"CONTROL YOUR BEAST!" a voice screamed from the chaos.
Leon was fighting a losing battle. He was thrown about in the saddle, his polished armor now streaked with soot. He had lost a rein. His face, once a portrait of heroic arrogance, was now a mask of pale, desperate fear. The entire city was watching him fail. The Living Saint was watching him fail.
Redflame, driven mad by the inexplicable emptiness inside it, bucked again, its powerful hind legs kicking out. It shattered a marble statue of a former king, sending chunks of stone flying into the terrified crowd.
Absolute chaos reigned. The plaza had become a whirlwind of screaming, smoke, and terror.
And in the middle of it all, a small, filthy boy knelt by a broken cart, his head bowed as if in prayer. No one saw him. No one cared.
Arthur's body was a furnace. The stolen life force of the dragon, a torrent of pure, primal energy, was flooding his system. It was far more potent than the dregs from the Dragonblood Stone. This was the source itself. It didn't just reinforce his bones and muscles; it rewrote them. It was a raw, creative power that his mortal shell was barely containing.
The vessel is reaching its limit, Su Ling noted, a flicker of satisfaction in her thoughts. This crude infusion will accelerate the refinement process by decades. A most efficient transaction.
Through the screams and the roar of the dragon, Arthur felt his own strength surging, climbing, pushing against a barrier within himself. He was no longer just a boy. The foundation of what he was, was being rebuilt from the ground up.
High on the scorched dais, most of the nobles and priests were either fleeing or cowering behind the heavily armored Royal Guards. But one figure remained standing, untouched by the panic. It was not the Saint.
He was a man in the stark red robes of the Inquisition, his face lean and severe. He had a Cardinal's insignia pinned to his chest. His eyes, sharp and cold as a winter hawk's, were not on the rampaging dragon. They were not on the humiliated Sir Leon.
He ignored the spectacle entirely.
His gaze cut through the smoke and chaos, past the screaming crowds, and settled with unnerving precision on the single point of stillness in the storm.
He stared at the insignificant stable boy, the one who had knelt by the broken cart, the one who had "slipped" at just the right moment. The one who had "caused" it all. The Cardinal's head tilted, a thoughtful, predatory motion. He had seen the wheel break. He had seen the boy fall.
He had seen the perfect, impossible timing.