After Vorondil finished scolding Drazuul, he had me help him butcher the hound.

  He set aside the intact plates—the ones that weren’t shattered or burned.

  Drazuul sighed heavily, his head resting against the ground.

  In a low growl, he muttered,

  "Sorry for putting you in danger."

  "I'll try to be more considerate."

  Then, with a grunt, he pulled himself back up into his normal stance—and immediately glared at Vorondil.

  Vorondil didn’t react.

  Didn’t even notice.

  He just kept pulling meat from the hound, focused entirely on his task.

  I scratched the back of my neck, trying to think of something to say.

  "It was pretty fun," I admitted with a grin.

  "Definitely more exciting than blowing up those small fries."

  Drazuul nodded, grinning back—

  Then his expression shifted.

  Confusion flickered across his face.

  "What is a… fries?"

  He spoke the word slowly, testing it.

  I paused.

  Blinking, I searched my mind for an answer.

  "Huh…" I frowned. "I don’t know."

  I shrugged.

  Drazuul opened his mouth like he was going to ask something else—then closed it.

  Shaking his head, he settled back onto the ground.

  "You're a mystery, human."

  I chuckled.

  Vorondil tapped my shoulder.

  I turned.

  He stood there, arms full of meat, nodding toward another pile on the ground.

  I scooped up the meat and followed him back to his house.

  Together, we prepared the meat and set it in the fireplace.

  But he didn’t light the fire.

  Instead, he motioned for me to follow him outside.

  He pointed at the plates on the ground, then gestured toward the city.

  I nodded.

  I guess we’re selling these.

  I picked up the plates and turned back to Vorondil.

  He gave a single nod—then began walking.

  Drazuul sighed as he stood, stretching his massive frame.

  "Another trip so soon?" he grumbled.

  "Walking this far grows tiresome."

  Despite his complaints, he followed behind us.

  I glanced back at him as we left the ruins.

  He just shook his head.

  Guess he’s not in the mood to talk.

  We walked in silence all the way to Limbo.

  The familiar haze of fog pressed against the thin, unseen barrier surrounding the city, but inside the streets remained clear.

  As we arrived, Drazuul plopped down in his usual spot.

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  I started to take a seat beside him when—

  A firm hand landed on my shoulder.

  I turned.

  Vorondil motioned for me to follow.

  I hesitated, glancing at Drazuul.

  His eyes were closed, his tail swaying lazily behind him.

  Vorondil nodded toward the market.

  I nodded back.

  Then, without a word, we walked deeper into the city.

  ----

  Drazuul opened his eyes, watching as Vorondil and Narmo disappeared into the marketplace.

  He sighed heavily and examined his claws.

  Normally, he wouldn't let someone speak to him the way Vorondil had.

  Yet, for some reason, it didn’t bother him.

  More than that—he had even lowered himself to apologize to the boy.

  Him. Apologizing. To a human.

  He scoffed, shaking his head.

  It should anger him.

  But it didn’t.

  Was he growing soft?

  He wasn’t sure if he liked the way things had developed.

  And yet...

  He did like the boy.

  Sometimes, he even saw him as a hatchling—fumbling around with oversized wings.

  A low chuckle rumbled from Drazuul’s chest as the imagery danced through his mind.

  He wished he had spent more time in the hatchery.

  Before—

  Footsteps scampered up to him.

  His nostrils flared.

  A goblin.

  He turned his head, eyes flicking downward.

  The small creature rubbed its hands together, a scheming smile curling across its face.

  "Oh mighty dragon! I see you’re without the human," the goblin spoke, its tone sly.

  Drazuul had taken it upon himself to learn many languages during his time as the Emperor’s Inquisitor.

  He shook the thought off.

  He had no more ties to the Empire.

  "Why do you approach me?" he rumbled.

  The goblin flinched at the weight of his voice but quickly steadied itself.

  "I was hoping to make a deal," it said, standing a little straighter.

  Its grin widened.

  It waited.

  Drazuul stared.

  Silence stretched.

  "Well? Speak."

  His command rumbled through the air, thick as molten stone.

  The goblin’s grin sharpened.

  It stepped forward, pulling a heavy coin purse from its belt.

  "What is the price of the boy?"

  It tilted its head, eyes gleaming.

  "A human is quite rare."

  Drazuul didn’t hesitate.

  His claws shot forward, gripping the goblin with ease.

  Its smug expression crumbled into wide-eyed horror.

  With one swift motion, he tossed it into his mouth.

  A sickening crunch.

  Once.

  Twice.

  He swallowed.

  No.

  He wasn’t growing soft.

  Drazuul glanced around, scanning the ground for any dropped valuables.

  To his satisfaction, the goblin’s coin pouch lay discarded in the dust.

  Plucking it up, he loosened the drawstrings and peered inside.

  Gold glittered faintly in the dim light. He ran a claw through the coins, savoring their satisfying clink.

  The weight of the pouch stirred something deep in his mind.

  He had once possessed a hoard worthy of legends.

  A collection hidden away, untouched, unclaimed.

  Had it survived?

  It was well hidden.

  No fool would have dared to take from it.

  Yet, he had been gone for so long...

  The goblin had been well-prepared. Nearly five hundred coins filled the pouch—an impressive sum.

  Enough for a lavish feast if he cared for such things.

  But food in Limbo had no distinction, no pleasure.

  His gaze flicked toward the dust where the goblin had been.

  A moment of regret.

  It had been flavorful.

  Perhaps he should have chewed longer.

  With a heavy sigh, Drazuul set the pouch down.

  He could find something useful for Narmo.

  Perhaps even an enchantment for the boy’s mace.

  That, however, could wait.

  For now, his eyes slid shut.

  The city hummed around him, distant and unimportant.

  A deep breath.

  Then silence.

  First—

  A nap.

  ----

  Vorondil led me through the bustling market.

  It was the first time I had gotten this close.

  The stalls overflowed with strange and exotic wares.

  Weapons, armor, shimmering trinkets—some pulsing faintly with magic.

  A stand nearby displayed grotesque, pulsating fruit, their surfaces shifting as though something inside was trying to escape.

  The people were just as fascinating.

  Every face weathered by battle.

  Scarred, hardened, but... at ease.

  A casual intensity, as if violence was expected but unfeared.

  Yet, despite their indifference, some took notice of me.

  Strange looks. Calculating. Curious.

  Unconsciously, I stepped closer to Vorondil, my grip tightening on the chitinous plates in my arms.

  I considered asking him about the odd fruit, but the thought died in my throat.

  Vorondil wouldn’t understand me anyway.

  He stopped abruptly.

  I nearly bumped into him.

  He pointed toward a wooden door and then to the plates I carried.

  I handed them over without question.

  He nodded once toward the building and stepped inside.

  The interior was dimly lit, the scent of heated metal and oil thick in the air.

  Behind the counter sat a hulking, one-eyed figure.

  A scar split his face, running from his forehead to his chest, cutting through an empty socket.

  He was missing an arm.

  And yet, he regarded us with utter boredom.

  Until he saw the plates.

  His good eye gleamed.

  A slow, toothy grin crept across his face.

  He said something in Elvish—his voice a gravelly rumble.

  I didn’t bother trying to understand.

  Instead, I scanned the walls lined with sketches of armor.

  Some looked practical. Others... ceremonial?

  Shelves displayed an assortment of metalwork—chest pieces, gauntlets, greaves.

  Weapons, too.

  My gaze landed on a three-horned helmet.

  Sturdy. Well-crafted.

  A touch of rust crept along one of the horns.

  I reached for it—

  A sharp cough cut through the shop.

  I turned.

  The smith motioned me forward.

  I hesitated before stepping closer.

  He moved around the counter, looming over me.

  Taller than Vorondil.

  Massive.

  Then, without a word, he knelt beside me.

  And measured my height with a single outstretched hand.

  His hand was enormous.

  I glanced at Vorondil for reassurance.

  Arms crossed, he simply gave me a slight nod.

  ----

  Narmo’s rapid progression had been an unexpected surprise.

  Vorondil had never taken an apprentice before—never considered it.

  Yet, despite Narmo not being a swordsman, he found himself glad to be teaching him.

  There was something... fulfilling about it.

  His thoughts drifted to the beast Drazuul had dragged in.

  That could have gone horribly.

  Narmo wasn’t ready for that level of combat yet.

  Vorondil exhaled silently, a controlled breath.

  And yet… the boy had handled himself better than expected.

  If he kept him too protected, Narmo would become complacent.

  The dragon wasn't entirely wrong.

  He shook his head.

  Narmo was still too weak to clear the dungeon.

  But perhaps…

  It was time to push him into real combat.