Maeve arrived by airplane, lining up to land on the field reserved for Knights. The craft rocked and jostled in the turbulent winds, and in spite of Shane's instruction, Maeve still had not quite figured out how to use the rudder. She was trapped inside a tiny canoe made from metal and wood, sealed under a clear glass canopy. In her mind, the space ahead was a frustum. The goal was to keep the runway within the center of that frustum, and at an angle so that the craft would lose altitude while keeping the same airspeed.

When she clambered out of her craft after landing, the male Knights were astonished, however they did not question her capacity to fly nor her capacity to use their draconic sorcery. The men on the dusty field began a heated argument with each other, though they did not address her directly. She left the field and made her way down the grassy hill to the entrance to the spire.

When she reached the second floor promenade, she heard the whirring sound of the next aircraft approaching the airfield. Instead of heading to her theater box, she took a sharp turn at the top of the stairs and stepped out onto an empty balcony overlooking the landing field. The men on the runway were still arguing with each other. In fact, a quick scan of the area revealed that nobody within sight was watching the incoming aircraft. It was a beautiful approach, Maeve realized. A perfect turn, with just the right amount of rudder. The dusky red light created the illusion that the streams of flames were crimson instead of azure. It was striking.

For a moment she sensed a completely different type of draconic sorcery, a different combination. Are there other combinations that work? she wondered.

After the aircraft came to a stop, the pilot tossed the canopy aside and climbed out. He was completely shrouded in a long black hooded cloak, which flapped like a flag in the wind. Casually, and without haste, the pilot reached into the cabin and pulled out a greatsword, which he strapped to his back.

Maeve watched in silence. The hooded man stalked past the Knights. They did not notice him. A Knight from far away, perhaps. Are they familiar with him?

Maeve realized that she could spend all evening watching the airplanes land. She made her way back through the threshold and across the blue crystal promenade to her assigned theater box. Shane's spy, the mane named Elaborate Spear, stood in one corner. Her husband Torrance was already seated on the bleachers by the railing. Maeve took a seat next to him.

From the vantage of the theater box, Maeve had a clear view of the lower floor of the spire. On the very outer rim, villagers from various clans were seated on prayer rugs. The surviving Knights of the four clans were arrayed around a circular dais. Fifteen Wise Women were seated in high-backed chairs, facing inward. One chair was empty. Finally, the four Clan Chiefs sat on ornate cushions in the very center, facing each other.

The intense smell of body odor was only slightly masked by the incense burning at every corner of the theater box. It was difficult to hear over the murmur that permeated the conical space. Perhaps the spires were impressive at a distance, but they were under no circumstances designed with acoustics in mind. The shrill sound of the Wise Women chanting brought almost immediate silence. The last of the whispers gave way to the muffled sound of shuffling feet. Maeve could hear the gusts of wind strike the apex of the spire.

Four men in blue cloaks stood up from the edge of the Knights and approached the dais. Maeve felt the familiar sensation of a connection to the Realm of Wind. The four wind mages began to amplify the voice of the Clan Chiefs. Maeve did not recognize the voices, and in fact she had not bothered to memorize any of their names.

"The Knights have begun to fly once again," one man said. "What other evidence do you need?"

"What evidence do you have that the man even exists?"

"It is known to all of us gathered here that a man named Shane, born in a city north of the border, was to lead the undead armies of the Blue Dragon," the first man replied. "He came to us. He claimed to be the Chosen One and demanded that we name him Chief of Chiefs."

"And conveniently, he has gone missing!" the second man said. "A hotel room, completely empty, without anyone entering or leaving the building, in broad daylight, with at least two intelligence agents watching."

"The Wise Women say that it may have been possible that he traveled to the other side. We should consult with them."

"No woman will be permitted to speak until all four of us have afforded it. Your story does not include instances where the man named Shane demonstrated the ability to travel to the other side."

"We should ask the Elementals."

Soft gasps spread like a wave through the villagers seated on the ground floor. The lone figure in the hooded black cloak strode through the doorway, in spite of the efforts of the guards, who, after a too-brief encounter with the man's fist, quickly found themselves unconscious on the floor. The figure was almost completely shrouded by that billowing cloak. He cast a shadow that reached from the doorway to the dais.

"Where is the last Wise Woman?" another Chief asked. "Women, you are permitted to answer."

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

"Her village sent warriors to attack a purple spire," an old woman replied. "It is said that she was killed by purple flames, the vengeance of a purple drake."

"See?" the first Chief said. "This corroborates my story. The man named Shane admitted that he was serving a Purple Dragon."

"And why would we trust such a man?"

The man in the black cloak approached the dais. He brushed past a nearby wind mage, knocking the man flat on the dusty floor.

"Who approaches?" one of the Chiefs bellowed. "Women, take care of him."

"I Wish that you would die," one of the Wise Women said in a harsh, elderly voice.

A flash of golden light. An Elemental appeared.

The Wise Women started screaming.

Maeve knew that Wise Women possessed Dream Elementals. Maeve had seen one before. She had even been to the Realms, where she saw an Elemental of four types: Fire, Water, Air, and Lightning. The Elemental that appeared beside the hooded man was unlike anything Maeve had ever seen. Pale gold, clad in heavy burgundy and gold armor, a winged helmet, a sword and a shield. The Elemental bathed the dais in pale light splashed with rainbows.

"Translate my words," the hooded man said. His voice was young but deep.

I will translate your words, a crystalline voice said in Maeve's mind.

"Dream Elementals! I forgive your bonds!" the man said. Fifteen Dream Elementals appeared around the dais, and the screaming Wise Women dropped onto the floor, tearing their clothes, ripping the flesh on their faces with their long fingernails.

"What the hell are those?" Torrance snapped as he pointed to the Chiefs.

Eight wolves appeared, reflecting the light of that strange Elemental. Four pairs of two wolves, each pair sitting on either side of a Chief. In each pair, one wolf was white and the other was black. The colors of the mouths and eyes were inverted, white on black and black on white.

"I don't know, husband," Maeve admitted.

"Those Elementals are dangerous," the hooded man said. "Daughters of Ashe! I forgive your bonds!"

The eight wolves sitting on their haunches stood and began to roam around the dais.

"Knights!" one of the Chiefs screamed. "Knights! Save us! Quickly!"

One of the Knights sitting on the front row bravely rushed forward with a longsword and took a swing at the man. The blade deflected harmlessly off a barrier of pale golden light. The hooded man seemed to notice the Knight for the first time after this attack. He calmly reached onto his back and drew the greatsword from its scabbard. With inhuman speed, like an industrial saw blade, he hacked away at the shocked Knight, leaving a long, conical smear of blue blood on the dusty floor, like an insect striking the windshield of an airplane.

Maeve reeled back in her seat. Panic filled the room. The hooded man stepped over one of the Wise Women, casually crushing her skull under his boot. He unclasped his black cloak, and tossed it aside. Dark red hair, a Quarian military uniform, pale skin slashed with dull gold on one side.

"There is nobody on this continent who can challenge me!" the man proclaimed.

His voice, amplified by his own sorcery, was so forceful that it knocked the wind mages to the ground, flattening the Chiefs as they tried to stand.

"I am Felix of Quaria, Flameraker of the North! The Dragons are dead! Now begins the Golden Age of Flight!"

More Knights charged the man. A broad sweep of the greatsword hacked clean through three Knights at once, dismembering two of them and decapitating a third. A bout of azure flame lanced out, but Felix of Quaria deflected it effortlessly with his own sorcery, responding in kind with a crimson plume, incinerating the caster.

"YOUR NATION IS DOOMED!"

"Help!" one of the Chiefs pleaded. "Somebody please help!"

Madness.

The blue crystal wall above the doorway imploded. Fragments of blue crystals smashed out into the conical space, like shards of a broken window, plummeting even as they broke apart. Azure flames enveloped the opening as a blue drake crashed through the wall. It landed in the center aisle, trampling a few unfortunate people on either side, crushing them in a smear of blue blood. The drake reeled back its long neck and breathed draconic flames onto the dais.

Felix held out his hand, deflecting the flames to either side. Screams. Three Wise Women were instantly incinerated.

The blue drake swiped with one of its great claws. The man named Felix deftly blocked the slash with his greatsword, and took a few swipes at the drake's arm. The drake rapidly sembled into his human form with a wave of steam and blue embers. Felix held his ground against the great enveloping mist. Shane floated, using storm sorcery, a few feet off the ground, facing Felix of Quaria.

"I am Shane, Chosen of the Blue Dragon, Doomsayer of the North! Felix of Quaria, I stand against you! I challenge your power!"

"Shane! Save us!" the first Chief screamed.

"You cannot defeat me!" Felix bellowed.

"And you lack the strength to subdue me!" Shane retorted. He reached one hand out, pointing straight at Felix. "The Knights will fly with me! I challenge you to a battle in the skies!"

"It's a performance," Maeve whispered.

"Your Knights cannot stand against the Draconic Paladins! Every man, woman, and child in your nation will burn! I accept your challenge!"

A magenta ring appeared beside Felix of Quaria, surrounding a dark emptiness. Felix reached out and touched the portal, and then vanished in a flash of magenta light. The portal flickered and then vanished. Shane floated, alone, above the center aisle, surrounded on all sides by blue blood, dismembered bodies, and smoking shards of blue crystal. Several of the Wise Women were dead, but all four of the Chiefs appeared to be alive.

"It was all a performance," Maeve repeated, louder.

Her husband heard her the second time. "What do you mean?"

"Shane, Felix, they practiced this before. It was all scripted."

He gave her a skeptical look. "What makes you think that?"

"Look!" She pointed at the Elementals. The Dream Elementals still floated around the fallen Wise Women, and the eight wolves still stalked around the dais. "Felix could have easily stolen those Elementals, but he just left them sitting there."

"Your assessment is correct," the spy named Elaborate Spear announced from his corner of the theater box. "Shane likely planned this to demonstrate the threat to the Chiefs."

"Chiefs of the Four Clans!" Shane said. "I am the Chosen One! Name me Chief of Chiefs. Do this NOW!"

In turn, each of the Clan Chiefs named him as such. Then, they prostrated themselves before him as he landed on the center of the dais.

"I think," the spy said, "that they are both puppets for the Purple Dragon."

"But why?" Torrance asked.

"Does it matter?" the spy asked.

Maeve shook her head. "I don't think it matters at all."

The eight wolves circled Shane then. They were panting, tongues lolling out, like happy dogs.