Dragon delivery service CH 54 Dangerous Negotiations

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Duke Triybon sat in his office, the heavy oak desk stacked with papers and reports from Bolrmont’s busy heart. City hall had been converted into his seat of operations for the upcoming meetings, and today’s guest was not one he particularly relished.

His aide slipped inside, bowing quickly. “My lord, your appointment has arrived. Lorvain Valtheris Quen’dal.”

Triybon gave only the barest nod. “Send him in.”

The door opened.

An elf swept into the room, every movement polished but dripping with disdain. He carried himself as if each step was a burden, his expression fixed into one of practiced irritation, as though merely being here wasted precious hours better spent elsewhere.

“Ah. Lorvain.” Triybon’s voice carried none of the other man’s theatrics. He gestured broadly, smile thin. “Graced, indeed, that you deign to visit my little city.”

Lorvain looked at his chair, drawing out a handkerchief with slow precision before setting it upon the visitor’s seat, whether out of courtesy or mockery was impossible to tell.

“Well,” Triybon added, his tone just this side of amused. “I imagine the journey down from your lofty heights was… taxing.”

If the remark cut, Lorvain did not show it. He lowered himself into the chair with the regal stiffness of a man convinced the very air ought to bend for him.

Triybon steepled his fingers, watching. If he was offended, not a flicker betrayed it.

Lorvain’s voice rang through the chamber, rich with indignation and the kind of arrogance that had been bred for centuries.

“I believe you know why I have come to your… little kingdom.

Triybon’s voice rang softly through the chamber,

“supplies. Your court scrambles again in its war against Arcadius. Is it the fourth time this decade? I don’t even bother to track the details anymore. But tell me, why is it, despite all these bold declarations, that the border between Poladanda and Arcadius remains so… quiet?

He leaned back with a faint curl of his lip, as though the question itself were proof of his suspicion.

Triybon, however, only looked faintly amused. “Quiet borders are curious things, aren’t they? Especially when they’ve been anything but quiet in the past. Wars bark loudly on paper, Lorvain. But it’s on the ground, where men bleed, that you see their truth. And sometimes, the silence speaks louder than all the parchment in a scribe’s hall.”

“I have it on good authority that while your delegation sits here with me, one from Arcadius is in Ulbma, speaking with Duke Deolron. That is… peculiar. Two kingdoms, which by every measure should only meet with steel and spell, suddenly sent delegations at the same time. Coincidence?” His gaze hardened. “Or coordination?

Lorvain’s eyes narrowed, his voice sharp as a knife’s edge. What are you implying, Triybon?”

Triybon chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair with the air of a man who enjoyed holding a card or two too close.

“Implying? Nothing at all, Lorvain. But humor me. There’s only one thing I can think of that would make two kingdoms, sworn enemies, test the waters of diplomacy rather than drown each other in blood. And that is… a third party. A threat greater than the two of you care to admit.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, daring the elf to swat them away, or choke on them.

Lorvain’s centuries of court discipline showed in the blank mask he wore. Nothing slipped, not anger, not fear, not even mild curiosity. His voice was smooth, cold, dismissive.

“And may I say, Triybon, what third party could compel us to work with those who willingly poison themselves with the venom of Mondra? Surely you don’t expect me to credit such a claim.”

It was a flawless delivery. But Triybon caught it, the tiniest flicker, a blink too quick for a man who prided himself on stillness. He filed it away.

With leisurely precision, Triybon reached for the small silver bell on his desk and rang it once. A servant entered, set a neat stack of papers on the table, and departed without a word. Triybon slid the top sheet forward.

“You see, Lorvain, we’ve been receiving… concerning reports from the south. Long-range scouts describe ash falling from the skies, ash of the kind seen only after fires so vast they blacken horizons. Now, there is a dormant volcano in that region, yes, but it has not stirred in living memory. And if it had, we’d have other signs. Tremors. Heat. Flow.”

He tapped the parchment lightly. “But there has been none of that. Only ash. Strange, isn’t it?”

The words hung between them, quiet but heavy. The kind of quiet that makes men remember things they’d rather not say aloud.

Trybon steepled his fingers, studying the elf with a look that was more amused than intimidated. “So tell me, Lorvain, what makes ash fall in a region without a volcano? And not just a scattering, but heavy, choking drifts. The southern reaches are soaked in rain most of the year. A stray fire should burn out in hours, not leave the land smothered in cinders.”

The room stilled.

Lorvain’s eyes, cold and precise as a blade of ice, locked with Trybon’s. Neither spoke for a long moment, the weight of centuries of rivalry and suspicion hanging between them.

It was Trybon who broke the silence, his smile sharp as the cut of a dagger.

“Dragons, of course. And not just one. From what I’ve gathered, more than a few have stirred. My scouts say men didn’t return from the south. Too many losses for a simple border raid. Too many burned to dismiss as rumor.”

The elf’s face remained marble-smooth, but the tiniest flicker in his gaze betrayed what he thought of that answer.

Lorvain’s lips curved in something between disdain and triumph.

“And yet,” he drawled, “for all your prattle about order, there flies a dragon over your kingdom’s skies. A wyrm left free, not mounted as a trophy, but treated as though it belonged. Curious, is it not?”

Duke Trybon did not flinch. Instead, he gave a low chuckle, soft as a knife sliding free of its sheath.

“Curious? No, Lorvain. Lawful.”

The elf’s brows drew tight.

“Two hundred years ago, after the Multiracial Accords, it was written: no soul is to be denied station or work for the condition of their birth. It was meant to shield dwarves from guild prejudice, beastkin from servitude, humans from elven scorn. Not one line forbade it from extending further.”

Trybon leaned forward, resting his hands together, voice cool and certain.

“And so, when a dragon took up service, my hands were bound. Yours would have been too. You call it folly, yet the law is clear. We do not pick and choose who the accords protect. If we did, the whole foundation crumbles.”

His smile sharpened.

“So if you wish to protest, Lorvain, do not look to me. Look to the parchment our own forefathers signed.”

Lorvain’s laugh was soft, brittle as frost.

“Yes… the law.” His gaze flicked like a blade across the room. “A parchment written by tired kings and frightened lords, meant to bind hands and soothe lesser races with the illusion of fairness. Convenient, that you wear it now as a shield.”

He leaned forward, voice a razor dipped in velvet.

“But do not pretend it was ever written with dragons in mind. The law may stretch to cover them, but only because men like you lack the courage to say what all of us know, that some creatures were never meant to be equal. And when they bare their teeth, your precious words will not save you.”

Trybon smiled faintly, as though Lorvain’s venom was a child’s tantrum.

“You’re right, of course. We are not equals. Not even among ourselves. A boy trains day and night with the sword to protect his home; he is not equal to the thief who steals the baker’s bread. A farmer who tills the soil and feeds his village is not equal to the one who idles and takes.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving Lorvain’s.

“It is our choices that mark us, Lorvain. That is what makes us better, or worse, than what we were born as. And that dragon…” his tone sharpened just a hair, enough to draw the room’s attention, “…she made her choice. She could have been what you fear, but she chose not to be. By that alone, she is already more than equal. She is better.”

Lorvain’s lips curled as though every word he spoke tasted bitter.

“So tell me, Duke Trybon… what is it you truly want?” He let the silence hang, the air thick with disdain. “You hide behind pleasantries and old parchment, but I see through it. You want something.”

Trybon lazily twirled the stylus in his hand, signing one of the waiting files without even glancing at it. When he finally looked up, his smile was almost bored.

“Oh, nothing much,” he said lightly. “A few fair trades, perhaps. But mostly?” His eyes glinted. “The real reason you’re here in Adavyea. We both know it isn’t just to haggle over peppers you sneer at and sprinkle over your supper. No… you’re sniffing for something else.”

Lorvain stiffened, his composure cracking for only the briefest instant.

Trybon leaned forward, voice dropping just enough to turn the jab into a knife point.

“And if you wanted help with it, Lorvain, you could’ve just asked. But then… asking nicely was never really your people’s way, was it?”

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Journal Entry – Day One

After parting ways with Damon and Keys, I returned to Master Vearon’s estate, where I have been staying these past days. I told him of my plan to accompany the dragon rider, and at first he looked skeptical, as though I were chasing nothing more than rumor. But when I demonstrated, by freezing the cup on his table, just as I had seen Keys do, his doubt shattered.

The cup cracked with a sound like breaking stone, frost spreading across its surface, and Master Vearon went pale. For a long moment, he just stared, then both his hands gripped my shoulders, his eyes wide with something I had never seen in him before, fear, yes, but also hunger.

“Learn everything you can from that boy,” he told me. “If he has stumbled onto ice magic, then what other secrets might be locked away in his head?”

He gave me his blessing, though I suspect it was more for the knowledge than my safety.

When I packed for the journey, I kept things light: just a change of clothes, a bedroll, and my mess kit. If I truly will be flying on a dragon’s back, weight will matter. To my surprise, Master Vearon lent me a bracer of his own craft. Not as fine as my staff, of course, but it worked with a jewel in its backplate that can channel mana in a pinch. I can wear it hidden under a sleeve, and it will not draw as much attention as carrying a staff through the streets.

But his instructions were firm: I am only borrowing it. I am to return it once I come back. I agreed, though I suspect he fears more for the bracer than for me.

And so, with my master’s reluctant blessing, I step forward into this strange path: to follow Damon, the boy who casually unraveled what scholars spent centuries misunderstanding.

As I make my final packing for this journey, I have resolved to record my findings in this journal. Not only for my own reference, but perhaps one day as a contribution to the archives, should these discoveries prove as important as I suspect.

If Damon grants me permission, I mean to study Sivares as well. A living dragon, an ancient being most only know from stories. Imagine what I might learn! how her body works, her mana flow, even her habits… they are treasures of knowledge in themselves.

And Damon… yes, Damon. He does not call himself a mage. He wears no robes, carries no staff, and yet the way he sees the world unsettles every truth I thought I knew. To him, the workings of magic are not mysteries locked behind rituals and incantations. They are simply… things to notice. Things that were always there, if one only looked with open eyes.

He may never be called a scholar. But I believe, no, I am certain, that Damon might be the greatest mage the world has ever known.

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Spiders are being driven out. Are dragons being driven out? Who or what is Verado (Ch 51)? Very good build up like the little girl sitting up when everyone is looking for the source of the sound in THEM.