Richard Waterson knows there are rules when it comes to working with Valosterla Roshanikov in their secret lair, away from the prying eyes of the world. His current assignment is in an ancient kimberlite mine that she’d inherited–or probably murdered her way towards, without all the sticky red tape. A mine that so happens to be full of trillions of dollars of mana crystal and various rare magical ores that make this dragoness the richest person in the world–in theory. But she’s never cared about mineral wealth, as he’s found out on the job.

The most important rule he learned on his first day on this job of guarding her private apartment: Do not talk to Val, unless spoken to. There is no exception to this rule.

Jimmy had gotten eaten for breaking that rule. Jimmy is still currently a pile of bones somewhere. He’s not the only pile of bones, either.

Richard had learned very quickly to leave them where they lay, thanks to his guardmate, William Gadwall. Bill, as he’s called, is a grizzled veteran of all things guarding, and a man who has survived her temper, wrath, ire, and fey moods with calm, collectiveness, and being useful at all times.

The second rule is: What Val wants, Val gets, no matter what the request is, no matter how inane, or however dangerous it might be, meeting that request is a requirement of continued gainful employment, and not earning a death wish with the deadliest Siberian Hellkite in the world. Richard sighs and wishes his standard-issue boots and armor aren’t so uncomfortable. He rubs at his short brown hair, peeking just past the rim of his helmet. He’s in his mid-twenties, and he’s doing this for his career. Even though he’s in decent shape, standing around in these uncomfortable boots is driving an aching sensation in his feet.

He should have stuck to academia, in retrospect. It paid less, but the risk was also way less. No one got killed for having a degree in arcanist philosophy, at least, he didn’t think–

“Rick, stand straighter,” Billy growls where he’s adjacent to him in the spruced-up hallway that is adorned with polished marble and little blue-white wisp lights. They’re standing at attention at the massive steel doors to Val’s private quarters where she runs business meetings remotely, holds private meetings, and more. The rough-hewn cavern only adds to the eeriness of the place, and Bill is glaring at him with those hazel eyes that have all the deadliness of a bird of prey.

Maybe he’s part fey? Rick has never asked. It’s not a question he feels comfortable asking, since he’s just a straight-plain human. Bill is also decked in similar black armor–it’s lighter than the field variants of the Talons–

“Rick! Pay attention!” Bill hisses and taps him on the shoulder. Rick straightens stiff as a board, and looks forward, away from the door. Luckily he doesn’t have to keep his bolt pistol at the ready all day–that would be uncomfortable. Bill leans in closer, short black hair receding a bit from the push to middle age, and cracked with white hair here and there. He’s a veteran of a rare kind, to be alive in this kind of field for this long. Rick knows it's best not to ask questions. “Val’s scheduled for some kind of big event.”

“They’re pushing the assault today. You didn’t hear that from me.” Rick knows better than most that knowledge around here is dangerous. People have been flambéed for less than that, and not even by Val. “Which means…we get to guard a door, with far less risk of death by incineration.”

Bill lets out a gruff laugh. “You’re so young, Rick. You need to be just useful enough to be noticed, but not so useful that they need you for something important.” He adjusts the bolt pistol on his holster for the twentieth time in an hour–he’s always on alert. Maybe that’s how he’s stayed alive so long? He doesn’t know what Bill did before this job. “That’s the key. It’s how I just might live to retirement age.”

“How’s that retirement account going?” Rick asks with a chuckle. He’s met with a stony face.

“It isn’t.”

“Aren’t we paid for the risk of, you know, working for a magical criminal organization?” Rick asks. A few months into this job, it certainly feels like decent pay, considering the hazards involved. Bill laughs uncomfortably loud at this, and Rick feels like staring at the floor awkwardly for a few seconds. His guardmate finishes his laugh, but he’s at least in a better mood. Bill could be so dour at times.

“You’d think Val would pay more, you know?” Bill says with a smile. “She’s good at what she does. But, her temper sometimes…yeah, if that lets go at the wrong moment, bodies don’t hit the floor in one piece. Or any pieces, if she’s in a mood.”

“So…” Rick is unsure how to bring up the topic again, considering the task they’ve picked up. “What do you make of the lyrics?”

Those lyrics. The verses she seemingly says in her chamber in the evening. When Bill had told him to pay them no mind, he’d listened and…

…Utterly regretted it. She’s either insane, or something is going on with her that isn’t exactly normal, even from the dancing, singing, murder-happy CEO who keeps trophies of her kills in her private chambers.

It’s a ghoulish affair when she wants to add to the collection, and Richard had been busy trying not to panic when the head of a Hinterland Green had been shipped in on dry ice. That guy must have pissed her off something special for her to bring a mage in to preserve the remains, and mount it on her mantle next to the rest of them. On a weekend.

He feels the stares of dead dragons on the back of his neck like little icy pinpricks. It’s spooky how no one bats an eye to the fact that she’s also talking in verse at night, and seems oblivious to it in the morning.

Now King wants to know what she’s saying, and he’s got his kid’s notebook covered in dragon stickers sitting in a vest pocket with all his efforts to decrypt the meaning. Mari wanted him to have it to impress his boss. The wife doesn’t know he works for a megalomaniac who could eat him at any given moment–probably best to not mention that one, and keep to the line of ‘private security consultant’ for his work.

Bill finally answers him with a grunt. “She’s insane.”

“She’s the future CEO of Magitech Industries,” Rick corrects him. “What do I know, Bill? There is something in that headspace of hers that isn’t her.” Bill turns to stare at him.

“Say that again, Rick? No really, if you want to be eaten, go ahead, say it out loud. Your kid's sticker-covered notebook isn’t going to save you from that fate.”

“But she thinks my boss is a cool dragon!” he protests. “I mean Val can be fun to be around…especially Friday nights when the guys are listening to the show–”

“Look, there’s no mystery here, Rick. She’s crazy. She wants power. She will get it, even if she makes a mountain of corpses along the way. My plan is, I keep my head down long enough to avoid the mess, get my paycheck, and retire in some third-world island nation where the cost of living is pennies on the dollar. The Conclave sucks, anyway.” Bill looks forward like he’s said his piece on the matter. Rick lets it slide for now.

What she’s said–are they insane ramblings? Or is there someone else trapped in her head?

That makes no sense. She’s not a drakensoul. Not as far as anyone else can figure out, who is currently alive and breathing. Which is why he’s worried about why King is interested in this. Isn’t King supposed to know just about everything around here? Maybe it’s more worrying that he doesn’t–there’s a mystery here worth investigating on why she is the way she is. She’s constantly seeking attention, and murdering her way up the corporate ladder in a series of ‘unfortunate accidents' and ‘he worked himself to death’ incidents. She’s a trillionaire on paper. What more could she need? What could drive her to burn the Conclave to ashes when she could settle for this?

“Rick, stop stewing. I see that look,” Bill rebukes lightly. Rick stops fiddling with the notebook and puts it away. It’s a mystery for more important people. “Do your job, collect your pay, tuck your kid into bed at night, and hold your wife close, and just maybe, there’s a good ending for you on this.”

Rick stands stiffly at attention. Footfalls are approaching, and Val’s coming out in a minute. She had mentioned something about getting dressed for a party.

More like getting dressed to go on a murder spree. He’s taken Bill at his word, and he hears that giant bolt and complicated locking mechanism unwind, and Valosterla is there, in all her terror. Red hair, ruby eyes, and dressed with–oh he shouldn’t even see her like this, she’s barely wearing anything. And it’s not the first time he’s seen those deadly curves that would make the wife jealous.

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“Richard, I need an assist on an armor set. I require your expertise.” It’s not a request, it’s a requirement, and he doesn’t even so much as nod. He follows her in and she’s adjusting a breastplate and pauldron set of ebony black armor onto her body. She snaps her fingers, and he’s at attention. “You may speak. I heard you conversing outside. Help me adjust this, I need the mana feed system on the armor optimized for shielding.”

He’s seen this apartment very rarely. Dead dragon heads still staring at him with glassy eyes, check. One particularly fierce wargen looking like a plushie head, check. Opulence and decadence throughout the well-furnished apartment with warm colors and a slight Eastern European appeal? Check. There’s a conference room with plush seats and hardwood tables of Findian oak sitting there, and a cozy furniture set of the softest materials he dares to set a hand on. And the lighting in the rough-hewn stone walls is warm and bright.

He dares not look in the direction of the bed chambers. That’s for…a certain clientele, and he doubts if he walks in there that he’d walk back out alive. Or without a crushed pelvis. Which would likely only be seconded by his wife crushing the rest of his body.

Back to the task at hand–helping the nearly-nude dragoness into her armor set. She could use phasic armor, but there were limits to its effectiveness. Less protection for more mobility and a compact, efficient outer shell. She’s decidedly old-fashioned.

“I have been told that…knowing things is dangerous.” He takes the tools laid out on the bench with precision and begins tightening the armor together. He averts his gaze wherever it is possible. This armor set of customized Talons plate costs more to make than he’ll ever see in his life, and is almost on par with Valkyrian steel. Or so he’s heard. And it wraps cozily around her figure.

She glances over her shoulder and smiles faintly. Ruby red lips, and pale white skin, she’s as deadly as she is beautiful. Her dragon form, even more so. Or at least, that’s what he’s heard from one or two of the older Talons operatives who are also dragons themselves. They’d also been summoned for some ‘extra assignments’ that involved things he dared not put in his little notepad. “Richard, there’s no secrets here. I’m a goddess of this world, and I’m getting back what has been stolen from me. Those who help me achieve that goal will share in the benefit.”

I’m so dead. He wracks his brain for an answer or a response that will not instantly get him killed, and his mouth is parched. He narrows his gaze on the job–getting this armor together for her, at least this is something he knows like the back of his hand. Discomfort and dread are part of the daily routine. “There are some who believe,” he answers, even as he adjusts a mana flow regulator, before bolting up the plating to keep it secure. This power armor will adjust to her draconic form with this setup, and offer on-par protection that her scales will not. And likely, enhance her already insane strength.

It’s troubling when she can slice up training dummies wholesale with that crimson sword of hers–that sword sitting on a bench, and he can feel that aura of awfulness crawling up his skin. Like little spiders crawling on his soul, except it’s a constant dreaded feeling. He’s heard of what happens in the old field sorties, from some of the older veterans of the Talons. She’s a menace and a butcher on the battlefield. Few could stand against her.

One person had, and almost killed her, is the story he heard. An entire company of her soldiers was wiped out in minutes, several years ago. She had been the only one to come back alive from that battle, and he didn’t know more than that. Whoever that brave soul is, certainly isn't alive now, if Val is standing here.

He reaches up for the latch on the forward portion of the breastplate to bring it into position and sees a light scar over where her heart is, between her breasts. He does not linger and brings the clasp down and locks the plating in place. The armor flexes and she lightly twists her torso, and she motions with the tool. “Not sold on the plating. It flexes too much. Could work an autobow bolt through, but Garrick does a good job.” He doesn’t bother mentioning that dragons have freakish regeneration, she likely could pull a bolt wound out and it would heal in minutes to hours–at least to be functional again.

It’s awful that his degree is utterly worthless, and he’s become a de-facto armorer for a maniacal villainess. That offer to pay off his student loans had been such an utter trap–

His thought is interrupted when she lifts his chin, and she’s peering at him with curiosity in her ruby-red eyes. “But do you believe it, Richard?”

Welp. Guess my will is getting read out this week. He clears his throat before answering. “I believe that you’re going to bring change to this world, Miss Roshanikov, and we’re along for the ride.” She chuckles at this, and those sharp teeth get edged out more than a little when she does.

“Is that so? What about the writings you’ve done?” He doesn’t react when she takes the small kid notebook from his vest pocket, and she smiles warmly at the cover. “These stickers don’t look like me–but I’ll give your child a pass. She’s spirited.” He silently curses as she reads through his possibly maddening scribbles and deductions of some of the speech, and she frowns. King told him to never speak a word of this to her, and yet she knew about the book? He and Bill had been so careful to not even mention it.

She closes the notebook and just as gently puts it back into his vest pocket. He doesn’t think he’s breathed in that thirty seconds. “Here’s a secret, Richard. I’m just looking to get back what’s mine, and this…other thing that comes out, it’s an old memory. It’s an old me that I don’t want back. A few hundred years of trauma at my mother’s hands tends to do that. That old version of me is dead and buried. Understood?”

“It’s dead and buried. Yes.” he finishes adjusting the armor, and he sees her smiling politely as she gets the rest of the armor engaged and flexes her gauntlet. Little clicks and creaks of metal and padding are audible, and he doesn't doubt her power. She looks at him and lets out a soft huff.

“It does sound insane, doesn't it? I'll let you in on a little secret. The person who took all this from me? She's still out there. And I’m going to bury her once we’re done with our little gentle-ladies agreement. You needn’t worry who. Just know that this world? There’s going to be changes.” Richard nods and tries not to sweat bullets in this uncomfortable armor, but that’s like trying to tell water to stop being wet. She bites her lip, then smiles. “You are so adorable, being a good lackey. I don’t eat people that don’t piss me off, you should know. William also knows his place. He’s talented, which is why I keep him around, even if he does his best to not be notable.”

That lump in his throat is back. Does she hear and know everything? Then again, she’s a dragon with enhanced senses. Distance isn’t nearly enough of a deterrent, or just gut instinct. “Miss Roshanikov–”

“Call me Val,” she says with that toothy grin. “I’m about to go pick up the keys for my ascension, so to speak, so keep the place tidy for me? When I get back, there will be merrymaking, song, and dance. So relax. You look tense. Everything is going according to plan.”

“Val, come in quickly.” Richard knows that a bell is tolling for someone with those four words, and she reaches for the arcanlink on her armor set and frowns. She’s deadly grace and charm and terror, all rolled into one, and he glances around at the door. He doubts he’d make it past the doorframe alive if he tried to bolt. This is bad news, he knows it by instinct.

“King, my favorite piece, Why do you call me so? We’ve got parties to see, and godly places to go,” she purrs. She’s doing that talking in verse. This could be deadly, and he begins setting the tools back in place. Her black enamel armor is all set, with the mana runes glowing with a dim red light. She reaches for other equipment belts it on and reaches for that deadly great sword of crimson metal. The itching spiders on his soul come back, and it feels like they’re gnawing on him from within, leaving him uncomfortable in his skin.

King is not happy. That man is as emotional as a glacier, but even Richard knows he’s irritated now. “Do you recall how I warned you to let me handle the incursion into Asqualia? Recall how I said I had a plan. Was your plan to trample on my plan utterly? You sent a suicide teleportal by detonating another teleportal platform, and risked your men’s lives by banking on the emergency redirect to pull through.”

“Did it work?” she says with a smile.

“No. Asqualia still stands, and your first wave was outmatched.” That twitch of irritation is on her brow, and Richard tries to look like the least present issue in the room by continuing to put away tooling and equipment.

“And why is that?” she demands. That creak of metal plating sounds like a vice on the arcanlink in her grasp. Will that be the last sound he hears before she crushes him in her grasp?

“Three dragons held the line to buy time for an organized withdrawal. I warned you about this, Val. I warned you not to do this.” Valosterla belts the greatsword on her back–a hundred ninety centimeters of menace and charm, all rolled into one, and she ties back her bright red hair and puts on a protective circlet—the mage barrier will keep her protected, and it hinders visibility far less-so. She should be furious. Richard dares a glance and sees her smiling with a poisonously sweet smile. Oh, this is worse.

“Good. I like a challenge,” she grins as she stalks out of the room, the clank of metal boots on the polished marble, and she throws the door open with barely a squeak of the hinges. She turns to address him. “Keep the place tidy for me? I’ll be back when I kill some troublesome dragon brats. Hmm…”

That dread grows darker in the room, even though she’s silent for a second, and her eyes almost are alight in delight. Then she sings her song of glee. The one that brings her pleasure as she kills, and he’s heard her talk like this once. When Jimmy had cashed in his chips on this mortal coil.

“I’ll clutch them in my claws,

I’ll tear them to small threads.

I am now on the prowl,

Making dragon brats dead.”

She breezes by Bill without a word, and a gathering of men similarly armored to her meet her at the adjoining doorway, nodding stiffly before disappearing behind a steel-clad door that echoes with a metal clang in the cavernous expanse.

Richard lets out an exhale like he's been on a deep dive underwater, and his heart rate refuses to come down. He slumps to the floor, and Bill gives him a curious look. “Oh, she likes you, huh? I was worried I was gonna have to press ‘F’ to pay respects to your future corpse for a second.”

“Bill,” he gasps while trying to wipe away a rather disconcerting brow sweat, “I may still expire from terror.” Bill hauls him to his feet after a few seconds, and gives him a respectable nod.

“Welcome to the Talons, kid. You’re a man now.”