They woke to the muted clatter of dishes and the low murmur of voices from the guest house's attached kitchen.
Trin dressed quickly, the familiarity of his gear now a small comfort—mended armor, worn but sturdy clothes, tools in their usual places. When he stepped into the common room, the others were already there.
Garran sat at the table with a plate in front of him, systematically working through eggs, bread, and a thick slice of something smoked. Lysa had one boot up on a bench, tying the laces while chewing on a heel of bread. Naera sat with her new staff leaning against her chair, fingers loosely wrapped around a mug that steamed in the cool morning air.
"Morning," Garran said, nodding once. "Eat. We don't know how long they'll keep us talking."
"Or how bad the food will be while they do," Lysa added. "Might as well start from a position of strength."
The breakfast was solid and simple: eggs, bread, a mild cheese, sliced fruit, and porridge for anyone who wanted more bulk. Trin ate without haste, letting the ordinary flavors ground him.
Naera was quieter than the night before, but not withdrawn. When Lysa made an offhand joke about councilors who couldn't find a dragon even if it sat on their wall, she snorted softly into her mug.
When they finished, Garran pushed his plate away and wiped his hands. "All right," he said. "Let's go be interesting."
They crossed the short distance to the Arcanum's main hall under a sky already brightening into clear blue. The Arcanum compound, seen from the inside this time, was all clean lines and ordered courtyards. The main hall loomed ahead: a tall building with broad steps and a pair of heavy doors carved with intricate sigils and abstract designs.
Inside, cool air and the quiet echo of footsteps replaced the street noise.
A robed attendant with ink-stained fingers and a chain of office met them in the entryway and led them down a long corridor. Their footsteps sounded hollow on the polished stone. Tapestries lined the walls, depicting stylized storms, constellations, and scholars bending over scrolls.
They stopped before a set of double doors banded with metal.
"Wait here," the attendant said. "They are still…preparing."
Garran raised an eyebrow. "We're on time."
"The council," the attendant said with the practiced diplomacy of someone who had repeated this excuse often, "is not always."
They waited.
Minutes stretched.
Trin watched dust motes turn in a shaft of light from a high window. Lysa shifted her weight from foot to foot, rolling an imaginary pebble under her boot. Naera traced a thumb along one of the staff's carved lines, her eyes unfocused, as if following threads only she could see.
Garran glanced at the doors, then at the others. "They're letting us marinate," he said under his breath. "Makes them feel more important."
"Do we get better pay if we're well-marinated?" Lysa murmured back.
"Doubtful," Naera said.
At last, the doors opened inward with a soft creak.
The attendant gestured. "You may enter."
The council chamber was larger than Trin expected. A long oval table dominated the center, with chairs arranged along its length. At one end, beneath a carved relief of Vaelion's stag crest, sat several figures in fine clothes—brocade, tailored coats, light circlets or signet rings that marked secular authority. At the other end, beneath an abstract mural of interlocking circles and lines, sat robed figures with the Arcanum's sigils on their shoulders.
Two councils. One room. A space of polished stone between them like a buffer.
The Freewardens were directed to a smaller cluster of chairs along the side, facing both groups.
Trin noted the arrangement.
On the king's side: a man with graying hair and a trimmed beard who sat at the center, shoulders squared, wearing a plain but well-made coat with the stag sigil at the collar—likely a senior councilor or steward. Beside him, a woman with a sharp gaze and ink on her fingers, perhaps in charge of records. A couple of nobles, identifiable by their jewelry and practiced expressions.
On the Arcanum's side: an older mage with white hair pulled back, rings on three fingers, a chain of office around his neck; a middle-aged woman with a staff resting against her chair, expression keen; two younger magi taking notes already.
"Freewardens of Arlindale," the gray-haired steward said. "Thank you for coming. I am Lord Caldrin, acting in the king's name for matters of defense and external threats."
The white-haired mage inclined his head slightly. "Archmagus Relian of the Arcanum of Loren," he said. "We are here to assess the…arcane nature of your report."
Garran bowed just enough to be respectful. "Garran, Naera, Lysa, and Trin," he said, indicating each in turn. "We saw the lair with our own eyes."
"Good," Caldrin said. "We have read the initial dispatch, but we require detail. Step by step. Leave nothing important out."
Relian's fingers drummed once on the table. "And we require precision," he added. "Impressions. Sensations. Any anomalies in the air, in the ground, in your thoughts. Especially yours, Magus Naera."
Naera dipped her head. "I will answer as clearly as I can."
Trin settled back slightly in his chair.
He had no intention of lying outright—half-truths frayed too easily under repeated questioning—but neither did he intend to volunteer more than necessary. For now, he would watch, listen, and speak only when silence would do more harm.
Garran began the account.
He described their route, the region, the signs of quiet in the forest that had seemed unnatural. Lysa interjected with details about tracks, scorched clearings, absence of usual animal dens. Naera added notes about the pressure in the air as they approached, the way her mage-sense hummed before they saw anything.
When Garran described the basin—the scorched stone, the cavern mouth like a waiting throat—the room shifted subtly. A few councilors leaned in. One noble paled slightly.
"And you did not approach the cave directly?" Caldrin asked.
"No," Garran said. "We stayed at the rim. We saw what we needed to see without getting ourselves killed."
"A pity," one of the younger magi muttered under his breath. Relian shot him a look that shut him up.
Relian steepled his fingers. "Describe the…feel of it," he said to Naera. "Not just what you saw. What did the world feel like in that place?"
Naera frowned in concentration. "Heavy," she said. "The air was thick. Not hard to breathe, exactly, but…dense. As if we were walking through something that didn't want to move."
"Residual magic?" the staff-bearing mage asked.
"Not like the Arcanum's," Naera replied. "Older. Deeper. Less…structured."
Relian nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something.
"And then?" Caldrin prompted. "You mentioned in the dispatch that you believed the creature to be a dragon. On what basis?"
"The cavern mouth was too large for anything else," Garran said. "The scorch marks, the melted stone. And—"
"And the eyes," Lysa cut in. "We saw its eyes, Lord Caldrin. Gold, slit-pupiled, the size of shields. It opened them, looked at us, and decided we weren't worth the effort."
Murmurs ran through the chamber.
"So it saw you," one noble said. "And did nothing?"
"Correct," Garran said.
Relian tapped a finger against the table. "That suggests intelligence and confidence," he said. "It did not feel threatened. It did not feel hungry enough to bother."
"Which is good," Caldrin said firmly. "If it is content to stay in its lair, we should not be the ones to disturb it."
One of the other nobles frowned. "We cannot simply ignore a dragon sleeping within reach of our borders."
"Nor can we afford a war with something that can melt stone," Caldrin replied.
Relian cleared his throat. "There is a question we must address," he said. "The age of the creature. A young dragon is dangerous, but…manageable, with enough preparation. An adult, more so. An ancient…"
He let the word hang.
"A problem," Lysa supplied.
"A catastrophe," the staff-bearing mage corrected.
Caldrin shifted in his seat. "Can you determine its age from what they've said?"
"Not precisely," Relian said. "But there are…signs. Size. The depth of the scorch marks. The breadth of its aura. The way other creatures flee or warp around it."
Naera spoke carefully. "The corruption in the nearby beasts felt…secondary," she said. "As if something else was warping them. The dragon's presence pressed down over it all. Like a mountain over a hillside."
Relian nodded slowly. "That suggests an older being. Perhaps ancient. But we lack one key piece."
"What is that?" Caldrin asked.
"Form," Relian said. "Truly ancient dragons rarely remain in their full draconic shape at all times. They…condense. Take intermediate forms. Human. Humanoid. It is more efficient, less taxing on the world around them. If this one is ancient, it almost certainly has such a form."
Lysa tilted her head. "You're saying if it was old enough, it would look like a person sometimes."
"Yes," Relian said. "Walk among us. Learn. Scheme. Or simply stretch its legs without collapsing the forest."
"And we did not see anything like that," Garran said. "Only the eyes in the dark."
Trin heard the opening before he fully thought it through.
"But it did," he said.
The room went still in that peculiar way where sound hadn't yet stopped, but everyone's attention had shifted so sharply that the old noises no longer mattered.
Caldrin turned his head toward him. "What did you say?"
Trin met his gaze, expression calm.
"You asked if an ancient dragon would have a human form," he said. "It does. Or at least, this one does."
Relian's eyes narrowed. "On what basis do you say that?"
Trin let a breath out slowly. "The night after we first saw the lair," he said, "when we camped on the road back to town, I woke for a time during one of the watches. The fire had burned low. The others were asleep." He did not glance at Naera; he kept his focus on the table. "I saw a man walk through the edge of our camp."
Lysa straightened. Garran's jaw tightened slightly in hindsight.
"A man?" Caldrin repeated. "And you did not mention this before?"
"At the time," Trin said evenly, "I was not certain what I was seeing. Tired eyes. Flickering light. And he did not attack us. He did not even approach closely. He simply…watched. And then left. It was only when I heard the Archmagus speak of ancient dragons and human forms that the pieces aligned."
Relian studied him. "Describe him," he said.
Trin closed his eyes briefly, calling up the memory of Therion's chosen shape, then pared it down to what any observant traveler might have seen in the half-light of a campfire.
"Tall," he said. "But not excessively. Well-built, moved with the sort of ease you see in people who are very sure of their own strength. Dark hair, with a sheen to it—caught the firelight oddly, like polished metal under ash. Eyes…" He paused, as if choosing the least evocative words. "Amber. Unusual, even in dim light. His clothing was…simple in cut, but clearly expensive. Deep green coat, fine stitching, good boots. No visible weapon."
He did not mention the rings shaped like claws, or the faint scent of heated stone. He did not mention the quiet conversation they'd shared, or the way the dragon had spoken of Althera.
"He walked straight through the edge of our camp," Trin continued. "Not sneaking. Not hiding. Just passing. He looked at me once, then continued on. I did not sense immediate danger, so I let him go."
A low murmur rippled through both sides of the table.
"One of you saw this?" a noble said incredulously, looking at Garran. "And did nothing?"
"I did not see it," Garran said flatly. "None of us did. If I had, we'd have had a very different night."
Naera stayed quiet, though her fingers tightened slightly on her staff. Lysa stared at Trin, eyes narrowed, filing this away for a later argument.
Relian's gaze had sharpened.
"The description," he said slowly, "matches records we have. Accounts from centuries past. A dragon who favored such a form when dealing with mortals. Dark hair, amber eyes, fine but unadorned clothing. No crest, no house sigil. He was known under many names, but always with those traits."
"Which dragon?" Caldrin asked.
Relian's expression darkened. "In old texts, he is called the Ashen Crown. In more practical reports, simply 'Therion.' An ancient. Not one of the oldest, but old enough to have participated in the Burning of Velth. Old enough to have razed cities that no longer appear on our maps."
Silence pressed down.
Caldrin's jaw clenched. "And such a creature is sitting within reach of our borders."
"Yes," Relian said. "And, if our witness is accurate, he is aware of us. Aware of our scouts. Aware that we know he is there."
Caldrin looked back at Trin. "This man—this…form—offered no threat? No words?"
"No," Trin said calmly. "He observed. That is all."
"And you are certain now that it was him," Relian said.
"As certain as I can be," Trin replied. "You said an ancient dragon would likely have such a form. I saw such a form walking away from a lair that could only belong to something of his scale. The conclusion is…natural."
One of the younger magi scribbled frantically, quill scratching over parchment.
Caldrin rubbed a hand over his face. "If he is that old, we cannot hope to control him," he said quietly.
"But we may still study him," the staff-bearing mage said, eyes bright despite the gravity. "Observe. Learn. An ancient dragon's patterns, its preferences…"
"You would make a project of a catastrophe," Caldrin snapped.
"We would understand the threat," she shot back. "Ignorance is more dangerous."
Relian raised a hand, and both sides subsided somewhat.
"What matters now," he said, "is that we cannot treat this as a minor regional issue. A dragon of Therion's age and history is…beyond simple solutions."
Caldrin nodded reluctantly. "Then we proceed with caution," he said. "We do not provoke him. We do not send armies to his doorstep. We fortify where we can, discreetly. We prepare evacuation plans for the nearest settlements without causing panic."
"And we," Relian added, "will review all records we have on interactions with him. Patterns of behavior. Known triggers. We may yet find ways to…influence indirectly. Or at least predict."
Talk turned then to logistics—maps brought out, lines traced showing villages, roads, potential fallback positions. The Arcanum asked Naera more precise questions about the feel of the dragon's presence, how far from the basin she'd begun to sense it. Lysa sketched the lay of the land from memory. Garran clarified troop travel times.
Trin answered little else.
He watched the ebb and flow.
The king's councilors leaned toward phrases like "contain," "avoid," "minimize panic." The Arcanum favored "study," "classify," "prepare contingencies." Neither group spoke the word "ally," though Trin knew, from long memory, that such thoughts would occur to some of them in private. They always did.
When the questions finally tapered off, the afternoon had grown long. The light through the high windows had shifted, throwing new shadows across the chamber.
Lord Caldrin sat back, shoulders heavy. "For now," he said, "we have enough to begin. You have done your duty."
Relian nodded. "Agreed. Further speculation without more data would be…counterproductive."
Garran inclined his head. "Then with your leave, we'll return to our lodging."
"Not yet," Caldrin said.
They paused.
"We may have more questions in the coming days," he continued. "As we review records. As we consider options. We ask that you remain in the city for a short time. Three days, perhaps four. You will be housed and fed at the crown's expense."
Relian added, "And if we require more…direct observation, we may call on you. You have seen what many of us have only read about."
Garran glanced at the others.
Lysa shrugged. "Better beds than the barracks," she murmured.
Naera's grip tightened slightly on her staff, but she nodded. "We can stay," she said. "For a few days."
Trin simply said, "We'll be available."
"Good," Caldrin said. "You are dismissed—for now."
They stood, bowed as protocol demanded, and filed out of the chamber.
The doors closed behind them with a soft but final sound.
In the corridor, the air felt lighter, as if the walls themselves had been holding their breath.
Lysa let hers out in a slow whistle. "Well," she said. "That went better than it could have."
"That depends on what they do with what we gave them," Naera said quietly.
Garran rolled his shoulders. "For now, we wait," he said. "And hope no one decides to be clever."
Trin glanced back once at the closed doors, thinking of an ancient dragon in human clothes, a goddess walking paths between worlds, and a kingdom now aware—if not fully understanding—of the scale of what slept at its edge.
"A few days," he said. "We can stay a few days."
They turned toward the guest house, the city's hum reaching them faintly as they walked, carrying the promise of questions yet to come.