It was surprisingly easy to leave Vereton. The defenders were beginning to push the bandit forces out, but chaos still reigned. Buildings burned and humans mourned their fallen. If the previous attack had been a disaster, this one was a cataclysm. Even with the City’s practitioners working full time it would take months for things to return to anything approaching normal.

Samazzar trudged onward, the three books in a burlap sack that he clutched to his chest like a talisman to ward off the soot, screams, and fear that consumed the night air. Some people looked at their group, three draconians, the largest carrying an injured kobold as the trudged through the streets, but no one stopped them. Instead, the humans of Vereton turned aside, unsure whether they were friend or foe but unwilling to engage with the foreboding troupe.

Once they actually left Vereton, the four of them began the familiar trek back toward the magma vents with Takkla securing them food as they traveled. Twice they ran into bands of humans, but both times they were left alone. It was impossible to tell whether they were refugees or stragglers from the attack, but regardless of their origins, as soon as each group sighted the other both sides changed their courses in order to avoid any contact whatsoever.

Even the magma vents were fairly peaceful. It took a bit for Tazzaera to get used to the muzzles that they needed to wear, and the saurian sized masses of cloth were comically large on a kobold, but the four of them made sure to skirt the barren edges of the dark wastes. Every night was tense, the dull orange glow and bass gurgle of bubbles popping in the lava giving the entire landscape a surreal, almost nightmare quality, but they never even found any of the stone forests full of strange life.

Three days of travel later, as the food that Takkla had gathered on the great prairie began to run low, they finally found another pass in the ring of mountains that surrounded the vents. Their group exited into the fresh and familiar air of the mountain range that had birthed them, and Vereton seemed like a distant dream. One full of wonder and riches, but also meaningless infighting and self-destruction.

Within a couple of hours they found a landmark and began the hike back toward the kobold caverns that had once been their home. It was true that the kobolds had their own problems. Listless and hopeless, they were content simply to exist at the bottom of the food chain, counting every second of existence in a hostile world a victory.

But not anymore. Samazzar’s hands tightened into fists as he looked up at a stormcrow flying overhead. The mountains were dangerous, there was a reason why they were more or less safe from ‘civilized’ intervention, but he was dangerous too. There wasn’t any reason why the forgotten ‘barbarian’ races that hid in holes from the primordial beasts that prowled the night couldn’t rise up and work together to build something. Maybe it wouldn’t be as grand as Vereton, and it certainly wouldn’t be built in the same way.

No, he had seen the humans’ mistakes alongside their splendor. The various tribes of the mountains deserved better than violence and squalor, but he wouldn’t let them fall into the petty corruption of the plains. It wouldn’t be an easy journey, but with enough work they could build something worthy of pride, even if they had to start from the ground up.

A couple of days later found him alone, deeper the mountains trudging through waist high snow. Tazzaera and his siblings were back in the kobold caves where they had reasserted their dominance, deposing the chief that had risen up in their absence. High above him, the sun shone through clear skies, barely providing any warmth in the arctic landscape.

His breath was the only sound audible without magic, the deep white absorbing everything else as the little puffs of fog trailed after him, dissipating in the bright light as Samazzar’s body heat left them. He checked his satchel, hands trembling with a mixture of excitement and nervousness as he made sure everything was in its right spot.

Finally, he shook himself, clearing the dusting of snow that had accumulated on his back and shoulders during the hike, and began the final leg of his journey. The cave was warm, unsurprising given its occupant but a welcome relief after days in the blinding sun and icy wind of the mountain trails.

He only made it a hundred or so paces before a wave of blistering heat sent a torrent of air rushing over him. Samazaar’s eyes began to water instantly, even though he created a barrier to redirect the warmth and dry air around himself barely a moment later.

“Who dares enter my domain uninvited!”

The bellowing but unmistakably feminine voice brought a tight smile to Samazzar’s face.

“Great and beautiful Fel’Annthor, during our days apart I spend every morning aghast that I must wake up without seeing your scales. I-”

“Oh,” the word cut Samazzar off. It was still loud, how could it be quiet after all, but there wasn’t any of the boastful pride from her previous statement. “It’s you. I had just assumed that you had died terribly.”

“I am back,” he agreed, “and I come bearing gifts from afar. They are hardly worthy of your beauty, but it would be wrong of me to not bring a being of your grace something to apologize for my time away.”

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For a second, there wasn’t any response. Through the wind, Samazzar could see Fel’Annthor shifting in her treasure room a couple of chambers over. He couldn’t be sure, the mysteries were inexact about these sorts of things, but he thought he felt the scales of her face relax into a grin.

“Then enter,” she replied, resting her head on her talons. “I haven’t decided whether or not I will eat you, but there’s no reason for you to dither in the outer caverns.

Samazzar reached into his bag pulling out the project that he had secretly spent hours on in Etanne’s forge. It glittered with a light and a life all its own as he cleared the last couple of tunnels, ignoring the false turns and side caves en route to stepping into the dragon’s main chamber.

She was just as majestic as he remembered, graceful and supine as she stretched across the mass of gold and precious gems that served as her bed. Claw marks, carefully scored into the cavern’s walls served as alcoves for her more prized possessions, and Samazzar couldn’t help but let joy fill him as he spotted a chunk of smokey quartz amongst them.

“You’re bigger,” Fel’Annthor remarked, surprise in her voice. “And I could have sworn that you didn’t have wings last time. It has been a while since I’ve found a saurian other than you that was foolish enough to approach me, but I don’t seem to recall your species undergoing growth spurts of this nature.”

Samazzar spread his wings, his muscles stretching the brownish red membrane taut so it caught the light coming from the handful of braziers that were burning without any fuel around the treasure chamber.

“Do you like them?” He asked. “It took quite a bit to evolve and grow them, but they’re an important step forward. After all, I could hardly hope to ever become worthy of you without wings.”

The dragon lifted her head, cocking it to the side slightly as she contemplated him. Finally, a low chuckle filled the treasure room as she smiled down on him.

“You were actually serious about that weren’t you? I thought it was all the over eager imagination of a dreamer, but you genuinely intend to become a dragon, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Samazzar replied, puffing out his chest. “Spending my life with you would be a dream, but I could never lie to you about my intentions. It may take some time, but if you wait for me, I assure you that I will become a dragon worthy of you.”

“Honestly,” Fel’Annthor mused, smile still on her serpentine face, “that’s the best pickup line anyone has used on me in centuries.”

“Now show me the gift you brought. After all, I haven’t made up my mind whether or not I’m going to eat you for the arrogance of disturbing my slumber,” she teased.

“Here,” he said proudly, lifting up his prize for the dragoness’ approval.

It was a dirk, somewhere between a shortsword and a dagger. The hilt was fairly simple, crafted from a shiny silverish alloy to prevent tarnishing and wrapped in leather made from the durable wing membrane of the cliff drake. Its pommel was set with a large flame garnet, glowing with its own ruby inner light.

If that had been all, the weapon would have been special, but nothing extraordinary. What made it truly valuable was the blade, hardened ivory made from one of the fangs of the flame wyrm. Fel’Annthor leaned in, her sinnous neck bringing her head close to Samazzar so that she could inspect the sword.

He smiled, touching the weapon with his will and it ignited. The flame garnet dimmed slightly, powering the enchantments inscribed under the leather in the hilt and fine blue flames began to dance up and down its length.

“A fine weapon made from finer materials,” she observed, eyes twinkling with a hint of avarice. “Tell me little one, where did you find it?”

Samazzar snuffed out the flames, letting the magic of the garnet begin to recharge as he flipped the sword over and set on the ground in front of the dragon. He stepped back, only to beam up at her.

“I made it,” he said proudly. “I killed the drake and the wyrm and collected the garnet myself. Then I spend months living among the humans learning to work a forge so that I could set the blade. I had my master’s help but-”

His breath caught in his throat, and Samazzar couldn’t finish the sentence. For the first time in his reunion with Fel’Annthor he felt truly at a loss as the words all fled him. Pothas’ face flashed in his mind’s eye. The old man tossing him a wink after an experiment succeeded, walking him through a lesson, or just gossiping with him about Vereton politics. He hadn’t known the man long, but he had been a force in Samazzar’s life, trying his hardest to understand him where many others were quick to resort to bigotry and ignorance.

Pothas had looked at Samazzar and seen a person with potential. Neither of them were perfect, but it was always clear that even though Samazzar was far beneath the old magus, he had always mattered to the human.

“What is it?” The dragon asked, cocking her head to the side as she shifted her gaze from the sword to Samazzar. “Is something wrong?”

He nodded, unable to put the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach to words.

“Is it something with the sword, or-” She trailed off, head lowering until it was practically on the stone floor of the cavern, level with Samazzar.

“My master when I lived among the humans,” Sam began, his voice catching. “He was a good man but-”

Metal clinked on stone as her tale emerged from the pile of gold curling around the room until it rested at about waist level, just behind Samazzar.

“Come little one,” Fel’Annthor commanded. “Sit for a bit. We can talk all about it.”