"What do you need when you already have everything?"
Lindsey von Altstadt lay on the silken expanse of a velvet couch, absorbing the silence of his obscenely rich chambers.
"Money?" He was the head of the "Silver Caravan" – the largest merchant guild in the Empire. Gold flowed like a river in such quantities that it dwarfed the treasuries of kings.
"Women?" There was no shortage: from noble ladies thirsting for glitter to courtesans dreaming of his purse's generosity.
"Fame?" Tales of his phenomenal intuition, of deals that redrew the maps of trade routes, spread across continents. His name was synonymous with success and prosperity, almost a legend.
"So what else could I possibly desire?" – The thought hung in the stifling air, devoid of an answer. A depressive heaviness shackled his body. He lifted a heavy crystal goblet of elven nectar, worth a soldier's annual pay.
The wine, usually sparkling and exhilarating, today tasted like sour water. He drained it in one gulp and hurled it across the room. The goblet shattered against the wall into a thousand glittering shards.
"Boredom." – The word escaped in a hoarse whisper as he buried his face in a pillow embroidered with real gold thread. It pricked his skin. Ironic.
Business was booming. Without him. Years of titanic effort, subtle calculation, and ruthless decisions had forged a system – a perfect mechanism running like clockwork.
He was merely a very expensive decoration at the grandest deals. A function and a symbol, nothing more. The prospect of drowning in this sea of gold, wine, and empty pleasures for the rest of his days… was unbearable. It choked him tighter than the most constricting neckcloth.
Ching! A bell of pure silver had barely sounded before a servant materialized at the foot of the couch. Silent, eyes downcast, waiting.
"Prepare the men. We go hunting," Lindsey threw out, not lifting his head from the pillow. His voice sounded muffled, devoid of its usual energy.
"Yes, master. For… for what?" The servant dared to clarify, knowing his master's mercurial temper.
Good question. Bear? Boring. Lindwurm? Done that. White Direwolf? Scarce as hen's teeth, and not the right scale. Thoughts flowed sluggishly, like thick honey.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling fresco depicting the triumph of the gods. "Perhaps you could suggest something worthwhile?" he asked suddenly, a dangerous playfulness entering his voice. "Something I've never hunted. Something that… invigorates."
The servant froze. The task was non-trivial. Master von Altstadt was an avid and ruthless hunter who had tried everything that moved and had fangs or claws.
Images of rare beasts from distant lands flickered through his mind… and suddenly – Eureka! He recalled the morning herald's report he'd listened to mechanically over breakfast. Another failure, torn apart in the mountains…
"A dragon, master," the servant blurted out, scarcely daring to believe his own audacity.
Lindsey froze. Then slowly propped himself up on his elbow. His eyes, previously dull with boredom and wine, suddenly ignited with a cold, predatory fire.
"Hmm…" He scratched his smoothly shaven chin. "A dragon… Would be good. But where to find one? They say they've long since holed up in their mountains and don't show their snouts."
"There is one place…" the servant paused. "The Submontane Monster? The very one that badly mangled the Imperial knights' wings half a year ago?"
"Hmm…" Lindsey drew out the sound, pondering.
'An idea… not half bad. And…' As he considered the prospects, the hunt itself, the thrill of the chase and the kill, began to recede into the background like small change.
A far more grandiose, dazzling picture formed in his mind. The Imperial Throne. And beside it – the Empress, the Solar Maiden of the Empire, whose beauty and power were legendary.
Not just a trophy… but a key. To limitless power. To the opportunity to unleash his true talents – the talents of a ruler, a lawmaker – to their fullest. Without regard for idiotic laws written by cowardly aristocrats. He would write them himself! And the glory… Oh, what glory! Not the glory of a lucky upstart trader, as those envious slugs in silk called him behind his back. But the glory of a Conqueror. A Dragon-Slayer. The Arbiter. The one who laid the monster's head at the feet of the Most Beautiful and received an Empire as dowry.
Long-forgotten excitement surged through his veins like adrenaline before a risky deal. But a thousand times stronger. Boredom evaporated, consumed in the flame of a new, incredible goal.
"The hunt… is postponed," he announced, his voice suddenly ringing and authoritative. He rose from the couch with a movement full of new energy. "Prepare paper. The finest. And ink with gold dust. I need to write… to an old acquaintance." The corners of his lips twitched in a cold, calculating smile. An acquaintance who had access to the darkest corridors of power and knew the price of any information. The hunt had only just begun. But the quarry was not the dragon. The quarry was the throne.
…
The throne room of the Fire Peak was dazzling, as always. Sunlight, streaming through stained glass, painted intricate patterns of light on the polished black marble floor.
Columns soaring towards the vaults seemed carved from monolithic blocks of night. But today, this splendor seemed… like an empty shell. Without the central figure who breathed semi-divine status into the cold stone, who made hearts tremble not with fear, but with reverence.
Katarina, the Fire Phoenix of the Empire, sat upon a throne of obsidian and gold. She rested her chin on interlaced fingers – a mundane gesture, but in her execution, full of ineffable grace and absolute power.
Every detail was flawless: from the short, flame-red hair, forged as if from sunset, to the elegant feet in sandals adorned with rubies.
Her figure – the tempting curve of hips and slender waist – teased men but remained an unassailable fortress. Her face, with soft, almost girlish features, bore the stamp of indomitable will in the corners of her lips and her gaze.
A flawless, smiling white mask hid her true thoughts. She looked no more than twenty-five. But in her case, age was merely a convention, dust on the diamond of eternity.
Slightly apart, like a shadow of the throne, stood Markus. Captain of the Imperial Guard. Silver now liberally streaked his once coal-black temples, wrinkles – a map of countless campaigns – etched deeper into his face.
But his posture was straight as a sword, and the muscles beneath his magnificent plate armor, chased with dragons, still held steely strength. His scarred hand rested on the hilt of a longsword. The Silent Guardian. A weapon that had claimed hundreds of lives slept peacefully in its sheath, ready to awaken in an instant.
The Empress scanned the morning scroll of reports with overt boredom. Suddenly, her perfect eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Another failure!" she stated without a trace of regret, tossing the parchment aside. It skittered across the marble with a dry rustle.
"And who this time, Your Majesty?" Markus asked without turning his head. His voice was gravelly, like the grind of stone.
"Baron Ke… Con… Conribian. Here." She pronounced the name as if spitting out a pit.
Markus sighed heavily, the sound echoing under the vaults. "Yet he was the victor of the Spring Tournament among the young nobles…"
"Irrelevant!" Katarina cut in, her voice ringing like ice. "Then he was still weakling, and that's where he belongs."
"My Empress…" Markus took a step forward, breaching the protocol of distance. "May I speak?"
"Yes?" She reluctantly tore her gaze from the window.
"Why all this?" The old warrior poured all his accumulated anxiety into the question. "You are free to take any man in the Empire. Or beyond its borders. Whomever you wish. By heart or… by decree."
Katarina laughed softly. The sound resembled the chime of crystal bells, but held no mirth. "Heh-heh… If only it were so simple, my faithful wolf. What about love?"
"Love?" Markus frowned as if he'd heard something obscene. "What does that have to do with it?"
"Everything," the Empress straightened, her eyes flashing with cold crimson fire. "Love, true love – is first and foremost respect. And how can I respect someone who, with all his desire, cannot even… scratch me? Let alone protect me?" Her gaze slid over Markus's mighty shoulders. "Understood?"
"Understood," the Captain grumbled. 'But if this foolish venture continues, we'll have no nobles of strong blood left in the country at all. This is the fifth this month, and it's only just begun!' A bitterness rare for him sounded in his voice. "Perhaps you might… reconsider? Or alter the conditions?"
"Or perhaps you'll go slay him yourself?" Katarina tilted her head playfully, but there was no play in her eyes. "If ordered, of course…"
Markus turned away sharply, clenching his fists on the sword's hilt. No, he was no coward. His strength could still best nine out of ten champions in the Empire.
But that creature… The Submontane Monster… Cassir… A wounded dragon was only half the problem. It was monstrously huge, holed up in a cave so tight it could engulf the entire space with one breath of flame.
And, by rumor, fiendishly clever. And wielded magic no worse than an archmage. Who could guarantee that, sensing a threat, it wouldn't bring the roof down right on the intruder's head, burying both itself and the hunter in a stone sarcophagus? This wasn't a battle – it was a lethal lottery.
Katarina was no longer listening. Her gaze had once more fixed on the huge stained-glass window, where clouds drifted, tinted by the dawn in delicate shades of pink and peach. They conjured thoughts not of dead barons, but of… romance.
'Where are you?' – ran through her head, while her lips preserved their flawless line. 'Where are you, my true one? I have waited so long…'
She watched the clouds as if expecting to see in their whimsical shapes the silhouette of a hero capable not only of winning the throne but also of conquering her impregnable heart. A heart that craved not merely a husband, but an equal. Or perhaps, even a stronger one. One before whom she would feel not an Empress, but simply a woman. For now, the clouds drifted in serene silence, and the throne room remained a majestic, yet empty cage.