The barn had windows, of a sort—long, thin gaps in the redwood, deliberately designed to allow slivers of moonlight to pierce the interior darkness. The main entrance was a set of doors large enough to admit a siege tower, but only a fool would announce his arrival to the enemy. Norvin's eyes scanned the high walls. The small windows were spaced at regular intervals, far too small for a man, let alone whatever colossal creatures lived inside. They were, however, just big enough for a boy. The cold logic of Mat's plan became brutally clear: he was the key that could fit a lock no one else could.
From his sack, Norvin pulled two small, elegant knives. The steel gleamed even in the faint light, the work of a master blacksmith. Simply holding them felt like a privilege, but the task they were meant for was a heavy burden.
He took a deep breath and plunged one knife into the redwood wall, the blade sinking in with a quiet thump. He reached higher and drove the second one into it. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. He dangled by one hand, retrieved the lower knife, and stabbed it into the wood higher up. He repeated the agonizing process, scaling the wall like an insect until he finally reached a window a dozen feet from the ground. With no room for error, he slid through the opening. The knives, forged from such refined metal, made almost no sound as he used them to descend the inner wall.
His feet touched the ground with a soft rustle. The inside of the barn was a vast, eerie cavern of darkness. The roof was completely lost in shadow, and the pale, ghostly fingers of moonlight lancing through the gaps did little to illuminate the oppressive gloom. He stood perfectly still, letting his eyes adjust, his senses straining to pick up any detail.
He took a cautious step forward, then another, peering into the immense blackness. He saw nothing. Then, a sudden gust of warm air washed over him, making his red hair dance. He froze. It was not a natural draft; it was the slow, rhythmic exhalation of something colossal. As he took one more hesitant step, his eyes finally adjusted enough to make out the shape sleeping before him.
Its scales were a breathtaking mosaic of white and crimson, like interlocking shields of pearl and ruby, harder than steel. Its teeth, even in sleep, were visible daggers sharper than any blade. Its wings, folded at its side, were immense, and its sheer size was astonishing. It was a dragon.
A profound sense of wonder, not fear, seeped into Norvin's bones. This was the majestic creature from his mother's stories. He stared, mesmerized by its stark, powerful features. Then, he slowly turned his head. The breath caught in his throat. He was not looking at one dragon. He was standing in a den of them, their massive forms curled up in sleep throughout the cavernous space.
This was the most incredible, memorable moment of his entire life. The creatures that ruled the heavens in his mother's tales were real, and they were right here. For a single, perfect moment, the mission, the war, and all the pain vanished, replaced by a dream made real.
In that single, profound moment, the truth crashed down on Norvin with sickening force. The mysterious liquid given to him by Mat wasn't a catalyst or a trick; it was poison. He was meant to pour it into the fodder of these magnificent creatures, to kill the godly beasts in their sleep so they could not participate in the coming assault. Losing them would be a crippling blow to the Bronze Falchion's forces.
His gaze shifted to the source of the overwhelming stench. Before him was a massive, dark trough, a charnel pit filled with the mangled carcasses of livestock, chopped and thrown in to feed the dragons. The overpowering reek of stale blood and rot had masked his own scent, allowing him to move undetected among the slumbering giants.
As his eyes adjusted, he noticed something else. Each of the sleeping dragons was draped in heavy, custom-fitted leather harnesses. Tooled into the thick hide, right over their powerful shoulders, was the unmistakable emblem of the Bronze Falchion. They weren't just creatures; they were soldiers, branded and bound to a cause.
Norvin's hand trembled, his fingers clenched so tightly around one of the glass containers that he feared it might shatter. 'How... how can I poison them? No…'
The thought was a desperate, silent scream in his mind. This was a coward's act. To kill the very beings he admired, the living embodiments of his mother's tales, and to do it so dishonourably, with poison while they slept. It felt like a profound betrayal.
'What have they done to deserve this?' he thought, his eyes tracing the powerful, sleeping form of the nearest dragon.
'They are just like me... forced to fight in the wars of men.'
Every second he hesitated was a second closer to a guard patrol finding the sewer entrance, a second closer to the Serpents launching their assault. The most immediate and terrifying threat, however, was right in front of him. What if one of the dragons stirred from its slumber? A single sleepy eye opening, a shift of its immense weight on the straw-covered floor, and it would all be over. He would be an insignificant morsel before he could even scream.
He was frozen, paralyzed by a conflict that tore him in two. One part of his mind, the logical part forged by survival, screamed at him to complete the mission—to pour the poison and flee before he was discovered, or worse, before one of the dragons awoke and devoured him. But his heart, his very soul, refused. It was a rebellion of conscience against command. He questioned everything: the mission's cruelty, Mat's cold calculations, and the very nature of a war that would demand such a vile act from a child.
What kind of victory was won through such cowardly, vile means? Was this what it meant to be one of the Serpents? He couldn't reconcile the awe he felt for these creatures with the poison he held in his hand.
Norvin didn't know what to do. He simply took out the container and raised his hand to pour the poison onto the heaps of carcasses, but he halted. He hesitated, even though he had to escape quickly. He just stood there like a statue. Would he abandon his mission for the sake of this beast whom he had idolized his whole life, and who, of course, wouldn't spare a second before devouring him?
Norvin simply began lowering the angle of the bottle, very slowly, as if trying to gain extra seconds to ponder his actions, still refusing his orders.
"Don't do it."
Norvin felt assured listening to this—he didn't want to be the reason of death of the magnificent creatures his mother used to spoke up.
For a second he felt ease, and in the next, he felt fear, because the words spoken were not his own.