By dusk, the air at Outpost Sierra‑17 had grown cool and still. The talks had ended without incident. No blood was drawn, no swords clashed, and no shots were fired—yet the gravity of what had transpired weighed heavily on both sides.
The knights and priests gathered quietly near the gate. Sir Edric took one last look at the outpost—the glowing lights, the simple buildings, the calm but ever-watchful soldiers. The memory of the strange rods still lingered in his mind: silent weapons, almost toy-like in appearance, yet handled with the confidence of killers.
Before they departed, Father Alric handed a sealed parchment to the outpost commander through Dr. Helena Voss—another copy of the terms they had loosely agreed upon, translated as best as possible. A formal gesture, even if it held no real legal weight.
Then, the knightly party mounted their horses and rode east, vanishing back into the dense forest on the same crude road they had entered.
But they left something behind.
They had sent a second message ahead of them—a written report carried by another avian courier, bound for Drachenhalm. This letter was far more detailed than the first.
It contained every observation.
The strange men with black rods that made no sound.
The fortress that had no stone but still stood unshaken.
The lights that burned without fire, and the discipline of soldiers who needed no swords to demand respect.
And the barbarians—if they could still be called that—who refused to kneel, not out of rebellion, but because they lived by different gods… or perhaps, none at all.
It spoke of "many faiths," a notion unheard of in Drakensport. Of parchment treaties, of leaders who governed together rather than by divine right.
And most alarmingly to some—it confirmed what had long been whispered:
The steel dragons belonged to them.
They simply chose not to show them again.
By the time the knights and priests reached the capital gates a week later, the royal court was already in turmoil.
The letter had arrived three days prior. King Aldred IV had read it twice in silence. Once in the throne room. Once again, alone in his study.
When Edric, Alric, and the others arrived to report in person, they found the throne hall filled with fire and tension. Nobles lined the chamber, each voicing their theory, their outrage, or their paranoia.
Lord Brenwick was seething. "So they mock us? They dare demand terms for the spreading of our gospel?"
Lady Arlenne shot back, "No—we gave terms to them, and they didn't throw us out. They listened. That's not insult. That's calculation."
Lord Merrow muttered, "If the dragons are truly theirs… if they possess such things… then perhaps our conquests must wait."
King Aldred raised a hand.
The court fell silent.
"Let them speak," he said.
Edric stepped forward. "Your Majesty… the strangers are not what we expected. They are no common tribe. They are not savages. They are something else. Something… organized. Disciplined. Capable."
Alric added, his tone calm but heavy, "They are not godless. But they worship many gods. Or none. And yet… they live in peace. I believe they do not wish for war."
Caldus stepped forward, more bitter than ever. "And if they refuse the faith? What then, Your Majesty? What of those we spared in the past, only to see them raise blades later?"
King Aldred didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stared at the sealed letter resting in his lap—the one from Edric's first contact, now joined by the second.
Two accounts.
Two warnings.
And the question hung in the chamber like smoke:
Was the Kingdom of Drakensport facing the arrival of a powerful ally or a godless empire that would one day reduce their world to ash?
A decision would soon need to be made.
But for now, the storm had only begun to gather.
---
The throne room of Drachenhalm was heavy with tension as Edric, Alric, and the other knights stood before King Aldred IV. The nobles leaned forward, their voices echoing in impatient murmurs until the king raised a hand for silence.
Aldred's sharp gaze fixed on Father Alric. "You wrote in your letter that these strangers—these so‑called barbarians—are the masters of the steel dragons. Tell us, priest, how can you be so certain?"
Alric bowed slightly. "Your Majesty… I speak only what my eyes have seen. One night, when the others slept, I stepped outside the outpost." He hesitated for a moment, the memory still vivid. "As I relieved myself, I looked to the sky… and there it was. The steel dragon."
Gasps rippled through the court.
Alric continued, voice firm. "It flew low—so low I could see its belly of black iron. And then… it descended. Not far from where the strangers make camp. It did not circle aimlessly, nor hunt. It returned—as if to a roost."
Lord Brenwick slammed a fist on the arm of his chair. "So it is theirs!"
Lady Arlenne frowned, her voice cutting through the noise. "And yet, priest, you never saw them ride the beast. Perhaps it was coincidence."
"No," Alric said firmly. "I watched from the shadows. The strangers looked to the skies as it passed, but they did not cower. They did not flee. They behaved as though its presence was ordinary—as though it was theirs."
Lord Merrow's eyes gleamed with ambition. "If they are the masters of such dragons, imagine what our kingdom could achieve should they kneel to our faith."
Halvar shook his head. "Or what ruin they could bring if they chose war instead."
Edric stepped forward. "I saw no fear in their soldiers, Your Majesty. Their power is not only in these dragons. They fight with weapons we do not understand. They move and act with a discipline I have rarely seen even among our finest knights. If we provoke them, we may be crushed before we ever draw steel."
The room erupted into shouts—some nobles calling for conquest, others urging diplomacy.
King Aldred raised his hand again, silencing them all.
"So…" His voice was measured, but cold. "We now have confirmation that the beasts belong to them. Yet they have shown restraint. They have not struck. They have not demanded tribute."
He looked down at Alric. "Priest. If they are masters of these dragons, why would they not show them to us openly?"
Alric bowed again. "Because, Your Majesty… they do not need to. They know their power. They do not flaunt it. That is why they are dangerous."
The court fell silent at his words.
For the first time, even Lord Brenwick, ever hungry for war, did not immediately speak.
Because deep down, every noble in that room understood:
A people who held such power but did not boast about it… were far more dangerous than any enemy they had ever faced.
---
When Father Alric finished describing his late‑night sighting of the steel dragon, King Aldred leaned forward on his throne, fingers steepled.
"And what of their words?" the king asked. "You said they spoke of faith, of gods. Tell me, priest, what else did they say?"
Alric exchanged a look with Edric, then bowed his head slightly. "Your Majesty… we learned that they have many faiths, not just one. They do not follow a single god. Yet they live together as one people."
Gasps and mutters rippled through the court.
"A people divided in faith?" Lord Brenwick spat. "Savages. They cannot stand united for long."
"Or they are more united than we think," Lady Arlenne countered sharply.
Alric continued. "They made it clear—if we wish to spread our gospel among them, it must be through their leaders. They want formal talks, treaties… rules. They will not allow preaching without their permission."
"Permission?" Lord Merrow barked, his lip curling in disdain. "They dare demand that we seek their approval to spread the One True Faith?"
Edric finally stepped forward. His voice was calm, but carried an edge. "Your Majesty, they do not speak from arrogance. I have seen their soldiers. They carry no swords, but they stand unshaken. They are not a tribe to be subdued—they are a nation that commands dragons and magic‑like wonders we cannot yet comprehend."
Halvar rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps their rules are not insult, but warning. They want peace… but on their terms."
King Aldred said nothing at first. He stared down at the parchment resting on his lap—the report Edric had written, now joined by the priest's testimony.
Finally, he looked up, voice firm but even.
"They want talks. Then they will have them. We will meet their leaders, but on our terms as well. We will see for ourselves what kind of people these strangers truly are."
The nobles erupted into argument once more—some demanding war, others urging patience.
But Aldred's expression remained unchanged.
If these foreigners truly held the power of the steel dragons… then one wrong move could decide the fate of Drakensport itself.
As King Aldred's words faded, the court erupted again—this time louder, more chaotic than before.
Lord Brenwick stood first, his booming voice cutting through the hall. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, these foreigners must know their place. You would meet them as equals? They are barbarians! We should show them strength—march soldiers to their borders, let them see the banners of Drakensport flying before we sit at any table!"
Lady Arlenne rose sharply, glaring at him. "And risk war with a people who can command steel dragons? Foolishness! If they hold such power, then we must win them as allies, not drive them to war."
Lord Merrow, ever ambitious, smirked. "Or we conquer them outright. If the dragons are theirs, then they can be ours. We have the divine right to rule this land—why should such power rest in the hands of outsiders?"
Gasps rippled across the room at his words, but some nobles murmured in agreement.
Halvar interjected, voice measured. "We do not yet understand them. We should not assume they are gods nor demons. We should send a delegation—not only priests, but merchants, scholars, knights. Let us learn their customs, their weapons, their strengths. Then decide."
Another noble from the trade guild, Baron Vesric, stepped forward. "And what of commerce? If they command such wonders, then surely they hold goods beyond imagining. Trade with them could enrich us far beyond conquest."
Brenwick spat at the floor. "Trade? You would barter with godless savages?"
Vesric shot back, "Better a wealthy savage than a poor zealot, Brenwick."
The court descended into shouting once more—voices overlapping:
"Show them we are strong!"
"Offer them tribute to win their favor!"
"No—demand they kneel!"
"Trade could make us richer than ever before!"
"Balance, fools! We must learn before we act!"
Through it all, King Aldred sat silently on his throne, eyes scanning the room as the factions within his own court revealed themselves openly—zealots calling for conquest, pragmatists calling for trade, hawks urging "military diplomacy," and moderates seeking cautious peace.
When the arguments finally subsided, Aldred spoke again, his voice calm but commanding.
"We will send a delegation. It will carry our banners and our pride, but not our arrogance. We will see what these people are—and what they intend for our world."
He leaned back slightly, his gaze distant.
"But make no mistake… if these strangers threaten Drakensport, then we will answer with fire and steel. And if they prove our allies… then perhaps their dragons will fly at our side."
The court fell silent, but even in that stillness, nobles whispered to one another, already scheming—debating which doctrine to show, who should lead the delegation, and whether peace or conquest would ultimately serve the kingdom best.
The shouting in the throne room reached its peak—nobles standing from their seats, pointing fingers, spitting insults. The hall had turned into a cacophony of clashing voices: calls for conquest, for trade, for military might.
Then the massive doors of the royal hall slammed open with a thunderous BANG.
A soldier, battered and bloodied, stumbled in. His armor was dented, his tabard torn and soaked in crimson. Gasps silenced the court instantly.
He collapsed to one knee, clutching his side, and shouted with all the breath left in him—
"Your Majesty… the dead… THE DEAD WALK!"
The room erupted in disbelief.
"What madness is this?!"
"Speak sense, man!"
"Impossible—"
The soldier's voice cracked as he continued, tears in his eyes. "The burial fields of Blackmere… they have risen! Corpses—rotting, crawling, armed with rusted blades—they've slaughtered the garrison!"
A horrified silence fell. Even Brenwick, who moments ago had been spitting arrogance, went pale.
"They came back," the messenger whispered hoarsely. "The fallen… they returned. There are hundreds—maybe thousands. They're moving toward the villages. They do not stop, they do not tire. The arrows do nothing—nothing!"
Another soldier ran in behind him, less wounded but equally terrified.
"They tore through the southern patrols like beasts, Your Majesty! Whole families butchered! We couldn't kill them—they just keep getting back up!"
The court descended into chaos—nobles shouting, priests praying loudly, knights rushing to gather arms.
King Aldred rose from his throne, his voice like iron above the panic.
"SUMMON THE HIGH COMMAND!"
The hall fell silent once more.
He looked to Edric and Alric, his expression grim.
"If these strangers are as powerful as you claim… then we may soon have no choice but to ask for their aid."
For the first time, the question of war or peace was no longer about pride, power, or conquest.