Clean, warm, safe and home. The best way to be, Mavan decided.

  Staring out from his balcony, his chest swelled with pride. Diminished as Krie was, the fortress-city’s stern visage still gave him much satisfaction to look upon, for centuries ago every stone of this place was laid by Krie-loyal hands. The sun blanketed those stone-paved slopes, and its mighty walls studded with lean towers cast long shadows in the morning light.

  He was quartered in the high apartments of the central keep, the original fortress within the sprawling mass of fortifications the rest of the city had become, rising high above the mountainside and penetrating deep into the rock. The sun shone perfectly on his little balcony in these small hours of the morning, warming his body as the sights of his home soothed his heart, preparing him for the day.

  He turned, a smile on his face as he ambled to his bedside, slipping into the black shirt and a doublet of subdued green and silver he had picked out the night before. His ever-present praetorians stood motionless at their posts by the door.

  Though they stood face-forward, he knew their eyes were following his every move as he went about his little morning routine. “You two really should spend a little more time in the sun,” he said.

  He chuckled when they didn’t reply. “The heat would do you some good! You’ve both been a little grim since we returned.” He pulled on his riding boots. They hadn’t been worn in some time, not since his last mount died upon the Augon dunes, but he had a good feeling he would be needing them soon enough. Best to break them back in.

  He pushed his feet against the floor, easing his clawed digits into place. “Things are going to get better,” he said thoughtfully. “I know you two don’t trust her, you don’t expect her to pull through with nearly enough money to fulfil her word. But I do. Her letter said it will be today. House Krie’s fortunes are on the rise!”

  Impassive and silent, but sensing their master’s desire to be off, they turned and opened the two heavy doors that protected his quarters. Mavan marched with purpose from his chambers, his stomach churning with a mixture of nerves and excitement. The twins moved gracefully to flank him, cloaks billowing and fluttering as though every movement were a dance, all the while opening and closing each of the fortress’ many doors in sequence; allowing him to maintain his rapid pace as he descended flight by flight to the audience chamber.

  The Justiciars’ chambers formed the single largest indoor space in Amexal at the heart of the fortress. It was a vaulted, circular hall with tiered seating; all excessively cushioned and etched in priceless marble. The rows focussed upon the central dais at the base of the chamber.

  The seating was more than sufficient to accommodate each of the city’s knight-houses in their entirety, from lowliest aspirant to highest Seneschal. They all answered to the Justiciar, the lord of house Krie.

  The room was not so full today, only filling a quarter of that impressive capacity.

  Scanning his eyes across tier upon tier of empty seats at the lowest levels, Mavan noted that nobody of any seniority or worth had deemed this day one of particular import to attend. Why should they have? he thought. Little of import had been decided here of late. Even the treaty sealing what had appeared to be the final humiliation of House Krie had been decided elsewhere, and simply announced here as a formality. Only the higher seats of the middling knights and their squires were even sparsely filled, their eyes all drawn to his entrance.

  With or without the other houses, today will be different.

  He took his seat, one of three at the half-moon table upon the dais. His praetorians took station at each point of the half moon, standing to attention with a simultaneous tap of blades on stone. Mavan could not hide a smirk as the few nobles up above leaned over the rails and stared, their murmurs bubbling through the air and giving the space some semblance of life.

  Mavan leaned forward in his seat, putting his hands together on the table as he waited for his master to arrive. It wouldn’t be long.

  The sun had reached its zenith when the doors swung wide with a boom, and the Justiciar of House Krie marched into the chamber.

  Ishmael had chosen this day to dress in his predecessor’s old cavalry armour, the Pratean Aegis. An ancient suit made by hands greater than those that existed today, cast in a metal that appeared somewhere between burnished gold and bronze in. It was crafted in long, flowing lines with clear artistry and talent. The armour had long been a marvel of metallurgy, and only now in their most desperate hour had House Krie allowed it to be studied by Amexallian smiths at their own expense. A handful of seasons ago it had been broken down to its constituent plates, examined and re-forged to fit the lord responsible.

  It still did not fit perfectly over his smaller frame after its reshaping, making the heavy plates clank and snap with every movement, while his single-edged blades tapped against his thighs with each step. He was grinning from ear to ear of his regal, byzantine blue face, the coiled serpents of his crimson caste-marks peeking out from the neck seal of the heavy armour, and the green cloak of House Krie flowing out behind him.

  Young, proud and just a touch na?ve, Mavan thought. Ishmael’s youth and promise had seen him chosen over Mavan two years ago. He was old guard and general opinion had decided he wouldn’t last long enough to turn Krie’s fortunes around. He didn’t resent Ishmael, but he was determined to prove them wrong, even without the mantle of Justiciar around his neck. Syla’s vision would make them all see what he was made of.

  Ishmael smiled at him; his face filled with such optimism it was infectious. So infectious in fact it was distracting, as he did not notice Aunla, the red-scaled treasurer, until she emerged from Ishmael’s shadow and shot him a thin smile; she had been the only one who believed him at face value.

  “This is to be a good day. I feel it in my scales,” Ishmael chirped in his silvery, pleasant voice. Combined with his smile it was an outright winning combination. “Send the first one in!”

  The brightly-robed announcer snapped his rod of office against the flagstone floor. “Karrelian Tra’vasa, master and representative of ‘The Uncrowned’ mercenary company!” he shouted, his voice echoing up to the highest tiers of the chamber.

  The man who entered was thin and wiry, with rugged beige scales and beady brown eyes sunken deep into his skull. There was an intelligence in those eyes however, and he was dressed in fine silks and cloth of muted white, grey and black. The same could not be said for his companions.

  A series of wily, mis-matched figures followed along behind him. They were clad in tight-fitting leathers, identity hiding cloaks and copious belts, pouches and pockets stitched into every spare piece of cloth and leather. However, that was not what any of the gawping nobility above were paying attention to.

  Their eyes were drawn to the four overflowing chests of gold, silver and bronze coinage the group were lugging between them, each fit to burst with suns, crowns and swords. Only Karrelian and an unnaturally tall and lanky woman had their hands free as they moved to the front of the gathered wealth.

  Ishmael was rising from his seat, eyes wide as even Mavan stared at the chests as if they couldn’t be real. This was a lot more than even he expected.

  Karrelian spread his arms wide with a genial smile. “My lords and ladies!” he began, with the strong, accentless voice of a trained orator that carried its way perfectly throughout the chamber, ushering in complete silence. “House Krie has fallen upon hard times of late. Hard times indeed. I come to your fair city representing an interested party that believes this to be the most unfair of insults. An interested party that has gone to much personal expense and effort to amass this collection of coinage for you, Justiciar, as a charitable donation for which nothing is expected but your friendship.”

  Ishmael took a long, graceful moment to compose himself, letting his gaze cast across the room, those before him, and the immense wealth simply…waiting for him with no strings attached. “This is a most gracious and kind gift. To whom and why do we owe our friendship for such a thing?”

  Karrelian bowed politely and stepped forward. “My mistress Syla has the utmost respect for you, and a frank lack of it for those who have targeted you so vehemently in recent years. Her many industries and investments have left her with a boon enough to restore your rightful strength.” The man took several strides towards Ishmael’s raised seat, prompting the twins to draw their blades as he reached into a small pocket. Every set of shoulders present relaxed when all he produced was a wax-sealed letter. “Yet on a more personal level, my mistress offers this to you. She expresses her deepest desire to meet and discuss the future with you.” He spoke softly, conspiratorially, as he placed the letter on the table, and quietly stepped away.

  ***

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “I think you’ll find we have some of the best stock in the city, perfect for one such as yourself,” Xeriva said, the master of the stables hefting a heavy, leather-bound tome on the desk with a dull thump. He dragged it open as he lowered himself to sit, smoothing the pages with weathered hands. He looked every bit his age; his eyes were deep-set blue beads peering out from a sea of wizened grey, the lines between his scales more subtly defined than ever.

  The tome engulfed most of the desk dominating the small, stone-lined office built directly into the mountainside, and Mavan had to lean forward to take in the book’s contents.

  “As you can see, we take meticulous records of all our stock,” the stable master said, his finger tapping against each statistic. “We measure egg size, hatch weight, growth rate and size progression, scale density, tooth and claw growth, size, loss and replacement, along with keeping steady track of weight and general estimations of fitness from their regular exercise. We of course also take various measurements once they’re fully grown, as you can see.”

  “Yes, I see. Very impressive, this one in particular in fact…” Mavan said, his eyes scanning across the page which even had a detailed sketch of the head, claws and teeth of the creature. “…Velodai.”

  “Yes, she’s one of our most impressive creatures. Matriarch of our largest brood in fact! Twenty adults, eight juveniles, three hatchlings and she recently laid a new clutch so more on the way. Old, proud and strong bloodline in her I can assure you.”

  “A new clutch? Still breeding her?”

  “Ah yes of course, but she doesn’t do much of the raising anymore!” he chuckled at his own jest. “It shan’t keep her away from any campaigning or duties, no worries to be had there. You just stable her here and we’ll make sure you’re looking at a long-term investment.”

  Mavan pinched his chin between two fingers. “Show me the patriarch of this brood if you’d be so kind.”

  Xervia stopped and started, raising his hand to his face as he muddled through his words. “Well ah…erm…y’see sir her old mate passed some time ago and…the breeding stud we’ve been using lately is uh…not suitable for your needs, not at all. He’s...wild caught.”

  “Wild caught?” Mavan gawped. “And an old enough beast that a matriarch hasn’t clawed him to pieces?”

  “Oh yes sir, he’s an old, magnificent beast but…he’s ornery, rough, and entirely unsuitable for ridin’.”

  “An adult? What madman captured a wild adult Drakkar? Did he survive?”

  “Alright, alright, one question at a time sir,” Xeriva said with a chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. “‘S a bit of a long story and most of this is all second hand, but I’ll do my best.” He opened a series of drawers, finding a sheaf of papers and turning his ledger to one of its latter pages. A recent addition, then.

  “The beast doesn’t have a name as his old uh, colloquial title isn’t fittin’ at all. ‘spose I’ll start at the beginning… “ Xervia’s fingers tapped nervously on the page as he cleared his throat.

  “You would know ‘im as the beast of Nifrit pass. It’s been tearing up traders, hunters and all other manner of beasts for near enough three decades, though of that, I’m sure you’ve been aware. Beast has had a bounty on it for years, but…so many hunters didn’t come back, people stopped goin’. That was, ‘till about a season past, trader’s caravan coming from Dhasha is late, people chalk it up to another attack, ‘s always been a couple each season for years now. But then…this mercenary, hunter or some such thing comes riding in on one of the caravan’s old wagons, sides broken off, wheels wonky…with the beast tied down with at least a dozen ropes. Started an auction for the damn thing right then and there at the city gates!” the old stablemaster exclaimed, spreading his arms wide.

  It was an incredible feat, to be sure, Mavan thought. Though he would not put it past the priesthood or one of the many more sorcerous orders to orchestrate such things. They had requested such things in the past.

  “I am of course a smart man and a wise investor, it’s obvious what something with that pedigree could do for me and well, I bid away until I had the thing carted up here to the stables and put in the most secure enclosure money can buy.”

  “I’m familiar with the beast. They considered dropping the bounty because having it in the valley was better than bandits,” Mavan said thoughtfully. “I’d like to see him.”

  Xervia’s face screwed up, a deep frown furrowing his brow. “Well now sir, I can’t recommend that. He’ll be a huge risk to yourself or Ishmael, and the others won’t answer to him like they would Velodai!”

  “Velodai will do just fine for Ishmael. But if I am to reform the Kataphraktos I will desire the most brutal and savage beast you have. One that can make even a proud matriarch submit.”

  The idea made him giddy; the great cavalry of old returned to life in their fullest glory. It would be that might that would see House Krie restored, answer the humiliations laid upon their name, and secure their future.

  “You…what?” the stablemaster stumbled, blinking as he stared at him. “I…I don’t have the stock for anything of that size sir, nowhere near enough.”

  “You are not my first visit of the day, and you shall not be the last.” Mavan paused as he slowly leaned further forward, pushing his splayed fingers together. “Show me the beast.”

  ***

  The pens were large, singular units buried deep into the rock and sealed with heavy wooden doors, each with a central panel carved with the pseudo-draconic head of a Drakkar. Representations of age, Mavan supposed, as he marched down the central corridor connecting the pens, deeper and deeper into the rock.

  He was following behind Xervia, flanked on either side by the twins, and a pair of stable hands so young they could have been his children. They were draped in little more than single coats of lamellar for protection and carrying long spears. They made a constant dry creaking as the leather stretched and flexed, a sound that sat poorly on Mavan’s ears at the best of times.

  This was not the best of times. Although he moved with a slight swagger, he was, in truth, nervous. The measurements of this beast had been staggering. He had his ways with the proud and noble creatures but…that never made it any less nerve-wracking to stare down death.

  At the end of the stables was a singular cast iron door, twice the size of the others with a panel of its own, depicting a huge, Drakkar face, aggression etched in its every detail.

  Xervia cleared his throat as he swooped into place beside the door. “We had to reinforce the door when we realised the creature was fully capable of breaking out whenever it desired. We believe it had been…visiting the females,” he said, clearing his throat and rubbing his hands together as he cast glances toward the heavy metal door. “I do hope you know what you’re doing, my lord.”

  “I do. Now open the door,” Mavan commanded with more confidence than he felt. Perhaps it would be enough to get out of this alive.

  The stable master nodded, nodding at the two stable hands as he flicked through a ring of keys to open the latch.

  The two young men groaned and heaved as they pulled the heavy bar covering the door free. The lock clicked thrice as it disengaged. Then, as a trio, they hefted the iron door open, poorly oiled hinges squealing as it was pulled open inch by inch.

  Within was a cave. The darkness extended at least beyond Mavan’s meagre vision as he strode forward. He breathed slowly, nostrils flaring as he peered into the gloom and allowed the scent of the place to fill his head. It had the strong, cloying smell associated with a caged animal, a singularly pungent odour that lurked at the back of his throat and left an aftertaste on his tongue.

  Far more importantly however, he listened. Only the steady drip of water off to the left, pattering off rock before rolling down into a small pool disturbed the quiet.

  He continued standing there until he detected something deeper, under the water dripping. Breathing. Slow, deep, methodical, emanating from the back of the cave. Watching them. Then came tramping footsteps, as the two farm hands, shaking and muttering, began their own search of the cave, waving their spears around as though they could poke the beast from hiding. He sighed. In stark contrast the twins had taken up vigil beside him, as calm as if they were standing in the safety of Mavan’s chambers.

  He watched the two fools as they bumbled forward in the dark. “Swing back around to me. The last thing you want is to be alone in the dark with the thing…you don’t need to lure it out for me,” he said, taking a step forward toward the breathing.

  The stable hands seemed immensely relieved, immediately backing up towards the door albeit far more warily than they entered. At least they know something, Mavan mused as he watched their retreat.

  For every step they took back, the beast took one forward. Looming out of the darkness it came, claws deliberately scraping along the stone floor as a low growl issued from its throat

  Its head came first, lean, proud and noble yet indisputably lethal. A pair of iron-hard horns protruded from its heavy skull and razor-sharp spines ran along its neck and spine, no doubt all the way to its tail. Heavy blue scales armoured it, and its eyes were sunken beads of green. Its maw was large enough to swallow him whole and lined with rows of massive, sword-point teeth.

  Then came its front limbs. Massive trunks of muscle and scale terminating in five claws, scraping at the rocks with every step. It paused there, in the dancing torchlight, snorting and growling as the stable hands continued backing away from it. Its eyes focussed on the nearest of the two, with what Mavan hoped was either disgust or pity, rather than hunger.

  One might have expected a wild beast to burst forth in a berserk rage when cornered, but this beast was far more intelligent than its counterparts. Mavan smiled. There was a look in its eyes, something deeper than primal need as it scanned the figures in its den, assessing them one by one.

  Did it understand its captivity? Did it understand them?

  Mavan took a step forward, snapping his heel on the stone floor and spreading his arms wide. The creature was every bit as terrifying as he had hoped; every moment was an exercise in overcoming the natural desire to run. It was exactly what he wanted, what he needed. The beasts’ head snapped to him, a growl rumbling from its throat as it slowly moved towards him.

  The sound reverberated through Mavan’s body, and their gazes remained locked as he took another step. The beast followed his move, baring its teeth as the growl lowered into a snarl.

  There were so many ways Mavan could die in this moment, and they both knew it. Drakkar were temperamental beasts, especially wild ones. If he showed weakness, it would eviscerate him. If he turned his back, it would disembowel him. If he advanced too quickly, it would rend him in two. If he did not advance at all, it would likely eat him.

  Confidence, authority and a hunter’s patience were the only qualities a Drakkar respected.

  But he knew the hardest work had been done when the beast was broken and captured. All he had to do was make the beast his.

  He stepped forward with slow, flowing motions, tilting his head back further and further to keep his eyes locked on the beasts’. Its snarl became deeper and guttural, but the creature stood its ground. Mavan’s heart thundered in his chest and his fingers twitched, as he put his life in the hands of a feral monster.

  He reached up, grabbing the rough edge of its lower jaw in one hand and holding firm. If the creature snapped now, he would lose a hand if he was lucky. He stared into its eyes as its gore-scented breath washed over him as he guided it’s head down level with his own. He took hold with both hands now, leaning in even as it snarled. “Oberon,” Mavan said, flashing a savage grin of his own as its name came to mind. “You shall be my Oberon.”

  With the utterance of its name, scales pulled back and teeth were bared as Oberon returned its new master's grin.