The Void Leviathan loomed lower, its maw gaping wide, and unleashed a roiling tide of concentrated void mist. This was its favorite trick—the same one that had withered a dozen kingdoms before this one. It could almost taste the fear already: the forest blackening, the trees crumbling to ash, the soft mortal creatures screaming as the mist ate through their flesh.
The black tide rolled over the sun-blessed woodlands. It swallowed the treetops whole. For a heartbeat, the forest vanished beneath the smog.
And then it drank.
Every leaf, every branch, every root drank deep. The mist vanished as if poured into dry sand. When the air cleared, the trees stood taller, their leaves glowing a vivid, luminous blue, thicker and lusher than they had been a moment before. They rustled softly, almost smugly, as if thanking the leviathan for the meal.
The Void Leviathan froze.
This was a Third Rank kingdom. It had checked. A weak, young Third Rank kingdom, with paper-thin barriers.
Its void essence—concentrated, centuries of stored power, toxic to every living thing, anathema to divine power—had just been eaten by trees.
It blinked its great, milky eyes. It blinked again. This was impossible. Nothing absorbed void mist. Nothing fed on it. Not plants, not beasts, not even other void creatures.
A flash of bronze scales streaked through the mist below.
Vorath was having the time of his life. He had been on his way to the human capital, and then a whole buffet had dropped out of the sky. He did not bother with tricks. He did not need breath weapons. He simply barreled into the nearest cluster of void beasts, swatted one aside with a paw, snapped another in two with his jaws, and kept going. One blow, one kill. Clean, efficient, and very, very filling.
The leviathan watched in mounting horror as its army melted away before a single dragon. This was not right. Void-touched creatures should have every advantage in their own mist. They should be strengthened, emboldened, unstoppable. The mortals should be weakened, gasping, dying.
It roared—a deep, rumbling, outraged sound—and dove straight for the bronze dragon, its maw open to swallow him whole.
Vorath looked up. He grinned.
Big one. Enough to feed the whole clutch for a year, easy.
He met the charge head-on. One claw struck out, sharp and clean, and the great Void Leviathan split in two like an overripe fruit. It tumbled from the sky, already being carved up in Vorath's mind.
The leviathan's last, bewildered thought was that it must have been slacking off in its training. How else could it lose so badly to a mere Third Rank subject?
Vorath barked orders to the younger dragons circling below, sending them to drag the carcasses to the drying flats. Good stock, this lot. Tender. No weird aftertaste. Perfect for the new hatchlings.
With that settled, he beat his wings and made for the human capital, still glowing faintly with the quiet satisfaction of a very successful hunt.
In the walled city of Brightspire, King Theron stood on the highest battlements, staring up at the sky with a deep, thoughtful frown.
He was not worried about losing.
He was worried about coal.
There were so many void beasts pouring over the borders. Their smokehouses and curing pits were already running at full tilt. If they could not process the meat fast enough, a quarter of it would spoil before it could be preserved. A quarter. Wasted. Unthinkable.
Maybe he could send an envoy to the demon holds, he thought. Ask to use the volcanic vents for drying. Though knowing Gromm, the volcano mouths were probably already stuffed full of void carcasses over there. This was a problem.
"Your Majesty."
The royal archmage stepped up beside him, bowing low, a faint glow of triumph in his eyes. "The counter-venom tonic is ready. We've tested it. It flushes the weakening taint from the mist right out. Full distribution can start by sundown."
Theron's face lit up.
Well now.
That changed things.
Not only did they have a cure—they had a commodity.
The cogs in his mind turned at once. Dwarves would build the great boiling vats. The demon clan would supply volcanic stone for the drying racks. The dragons would run the heavy transport. The elves would contribute the fire-nettle and spice blends from their forests. The shadow-kin would trade their sun-fruits, the ones that grew sweet and ripe in their deep caves.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
He sighed, glancing up at the clear southern sky. If only they had glacial ice. If only the kingdom had snow-capped mountains. If only the ore veins ran a little deeper. He would have proper cold-storage cellars built by the end of the year. As it was, they would make do with salt and smoke and ingenuity.
A dark shape grew on the horizon, fast and low. Theron smiled faintly. There he was. The old lizard had finally noticed the taint. Showtime.
Vorath touched down in the courtyard with a heavy thud, shaking dust from the battlements. He folded his wings and fixed the king with a sharp amber stare.
"King Theron," he rumbled, skipping pleasantries entirely. "No time for small talk. Every second we waste is meat going bad. You brewed the antidote for the weakening taint. Hand it over."
Theron leaned casually against the stone parapet, calm as you please.
"I did," he said. "What of it?"
Vorath's jaw tightened. He could smell the herbs and purified void-resin on the air. "What's your price?"
"Half the total meat yield from this tide," Theron said smoothly.
Vorath turned and started walking straight back toward the courtyard, already spreading his wings to leave.
"Wait—wait a second!" Theron called after him, exasperated. "Aren't you going to haggle? By the gods, does no one in this kingdom know how to negotiate anymore? The demon lord did the exact same thing last moon. Just turned around and left!"
Vorath glanced over his shoulder, one scaly brow arched. "I don't have time for games. Half a share. Take it or leave it."
"One tenth," Theron countered.
"Goodbye."
"Wait! Fine! Half a share! Half a share, you stubborn lizard!"
Theron sighed, shaking his head. Ever since the humans had driven a hard bargain on iron ore with the dwarves the season before, everyone had gotten it into their heads that humans were conniving tricksters. To be fair, they were. But it made trading so much less fun.
Someone had to run the commerce, though. Dragons ate too much to bother with ledgers. Dwarves and demons lived hand to mouth. Elves were too free-spirited for coin. The shadow-kin rarely saw the sun at all. Most of the clans still lived by simple barter. Only the humans had taken every last scrap of knowledge Laia had ever dropped on them—farming, smithing, weaving, salt-making, magic, warfare, engineering—and turned it into a working kingdom. Only they could sit at the table with every other race and walk away with a better deal.
He walked Vorath through the full plan: the cross-clan curing operation, the supply chain, the tonic distribution routes. Vorath listened, grunting now and then, weighing the numbers in his head. Finally he nodded.
"Deal," he said. "But the first batch of tonic goes to the dragon clan. No arguments."