Frostmere was a small village located about fifteen miles southeast of the old watchpost. Before a humble Quinzhee—referred to as a Frothden by the Frothlings—lay the body of a Huskil, one of the region's wolf-like, white-furred natives.
Perched atop the lifeless Huskil was Ser Wulfric Denton, gripping the fearsome sword that had made him notorious across the land. He was a towering figure, muscular and rugged, his intense hunter-blue eyes gleaming from beneath a fur-lined hood. Although he was fifty-five, he looked much younger—an aged warrior whose very presence commanded respect.
He faced three Frothlings accused with slaying the beast. Each had evaded the accusation countless times, but Wulfric's patience was running thin.
"I won't spend my entire life riding on this Huskil," Wulfric growled, glaring at them. "Just admit it. Who's responsible?"
"It were demons, my lord," the youngest Frothling stammered, trembling. "Three Huskils have died this week—no cuts, no gashes, but not a drop of blood left in their bodies."
"Nonsense," scoffed the oldest Frothling. "Demons are long gone. My great-grandfather was one of the last to fight them."
"Cut the bickering," Wulfric snapped. "Tell me what really happened. Who did it?"
"My lord," the young one insisted, more assertively this time. "I keep saying it's demons. They're coming down from the mountains north of Kingsgrave. From that cursed fort."
"That fort was sealed and purified by the High Church," Wulfric declared, his furrowed brow showing his disapproval. "No one dares approach the ancient watchtower. We Ice Wardens patrol the Kingsgrave peaks day and night and have seen nothing but Huskils and Tuskras for the last decade."
"What if they've changed their approach, my lord?" the younger Frothling pressed. "Demons were always clever. Always ahead."
Wulfric had been an Ice Warden for over thirty years. Throughout his life, there had never been any real evidence of demons. And yet, the legends persisted. They spoke of a lost fort deep within the Kingsgrave mountains, where black sorcerers used to gather to open the Gates of Hell.
The war that followed had indeed raged for centuries. The demons had been brutal, nearly decimating the continent of Tines. But they had been defeated—barely. Even in their defeat, the demons left their mark. They had taken human women forcefully, resulting in hybrid offspring known as Drakes—beings of both human and demonic lineage. Cursed and feared, the Drakes were relentlessly hunted.
The Frothlings, however, were not demon spawn. They were the original inhabitants of Tines, long before mankind arrived from across the seas. Eventually, however, humans claimed the land as their own, reducing the Frothlings to servitude. Those who survived fled to the continent's northwestern regions.
...
The dragon had been asleep for two days, and as expected, he would soon wake up, so preparations for his feast had begun—goat, bull, human, and Frothling meat were on the menu. Having a dragon in the kingdom was no small feat; they typically slumbered for two days, and upon waking, they desired food immediately. In fact, his forebears had once faced near destruction when they neglected to feed a dragon, a near-catastrophe that only ended when the royal mage finally subdued the creature.
Lord Ogour Roth had been ruling Crownspire for about forty-two years and was well-liked by the people. He was known for his mercy and fairness, with everyone under his reign treated equally, even if the Frothlings were enslaved, they were not mistreated.
The dragon awoke just before sunset. The sound of its heavy breathing filled the stone hall like a distant storm. Servants rushed in with carts of meat—goat, bull, human, and Frothling—carefully dumping it near the iron gate without making eye contact. Everyone knew the consequences of keeping the dragon waiting.
Lord Ogour Roth stood by the railing, observing. His beard was streaked with grey and his crown was heavy, yet plain. He waited until the dragon started tearing into the meat before he addressed the guards.
"Keep the rest ready by nightfall," he instructed. "He'll want more."
The dragon ate quietly, if that could be considered quiet. Ogour lingered until the creature finished, then turned and walked back through the long corridor towards the garden.
The evening air was refreshing. The castle garden smelled of damp leaves and smoke wafting from nearby torches. His wife, Maera, stood by the fountain wearing a simple dark dress, her hair tied up. She didn't turn when she heard him approach.
"Did you feed him?" she asked.
"I did," Ogour replied, joining her. "He was hungrier than usual."
"You always say that," she responded with a half-smile. "Maybe he's just like his keeper."
Ogour chuckled. "I've had worse dinners."
For a moment, silence enveloped them, the water from the fountain creating gentle ripples. Eventually, Maera spoke softly, "Did you meet with the council today?"
"Yes," Ogour confirmed. "They are advocating for Cadren to be named heir."
She sighed. "Of course they are. They favor loud men who drink harder."
Ogour looked at her. "He's the firstborn, Maera. That's always how it's been. He's strong, people respect him. He has the appearance of a king."
"He looks the part," she countered, "but he doesn't act like one. You know where he spends his nights. The brothels, the taverns… drinking until dawn. He doesn't even attend half the council meetings."
"He's young," Ogour replied defensively. "He'll learn."
"He's twenty-five," Maera responded flatly. "If he wanted to change, he'd have started by now. You can't keep pretending it's just youth."
Ogour rubbed his forehead. "What about Jorrel then? He's sharp, sure. But he's still soft. Too contemplative. He overanalyzes every decision."
"He's cautious," Maera said. "That's not a flaw. It's what a kingdom needs. You require someone who listens, not just a loudmouth."
Ogour regarded her quietly for a moment. "The nobles won't follow a boy who prefers reading ledgers over fighting. They want someone who can ride out and ensure their safety."
"And what happens when that man runs the treasury dry?" she asked. "Or starts wars to prove a point? We've seen kings like that before."
Ogour stared at the fountain for what felt like an eternity. "Do you think Cadren can't change?"
Maera shook her head. "Not unless he's pushed to. You might send him south. Give him command of a small guard, let him shoulder some real responsibility. See if he matures. If not, at least we'll have clarity."
Ogour nodded slowly. "And what about Jorrel?"
"Keep him close," she advised. "Let him learn about the court, the merchants, and the mages. He connects well with people when he's not sidelined."
Ogour exhaled, his hands resting on his belt. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not," she murmured. "But it's better than choosing the wrong heir just because of tradition."
For a moment, they stood together, listening to the distant growl of the dragon echoing from its mountain lair. The sound was deep and weary, a haunting reminder of what was at stake.
Finally, Ogour said, "I'll talk to both of them tomorrow. No decisions yet."
Maera nodded. "That's all I'm asking."
...
The sun hung high over Crownspire's marketplace. The streets were bustling—traders yelling, horses trotting, and people jostling shoulder to shoulder. Near a fruit stall, a young girl stood with a small basket, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, her attire simple yet tidy. She looked like she'd been sent by her mother to fetch the evening's dinner.
Cadren and Darek were leaning against a nearby cart, both already tipsy.
"Check her out," Darek said, nodding toward the girl. "Fresh one, right?"
Cadren squinted. "Yeah… she's pretty. Definitely not from here. You can tell."
The girl picked some apples, chatting quietly with the elderly vendor. Cadren chuckled softly. "Bet she's hiding something nice under that shawl."
Darek grinned. "Think she's married?"
"Doesn't matter," Cadren shrugged. "If she is, the poor guy's lucky." He stepped forward a bit, loud enough for her to catch his words. "Hey, sweetheart! Those apples look like a lot for you. Need a strong pair of hands?"
The girl froze for a moment, pretending not to hear.
Cadren grinned. "Come on, don't be shy. We don't bite."
Darek laughed. "He does! Watch out for him."
The girl quickly glanced over her shoulder—just enough to see who they were—then turned away, paying the vendor while clutching her basket tighter.
Cadren whistled. "Oh, come on, at least say thank you, pretty. You're making me look bad."
She made to leave, and Darek called out, "Where are you running off to? We just wanted to chat!"
Ignoring them, she picked up her pace.
Cadren laughed. "Look at her go—back straight like she's better than everyone else."
Darek smirked. "Don't pretend you wouldn't follow if you could."
Cadren shrugged. "If I wanted to, I could. Nobody stops a prince."
He spat on the ground and turned toward the whorehouse down the street. "Anyway, forget her. A waste of time. Let the shy ones be."
Darek lingered, still watching her disappear into the crowd. "You're missing out on the fun," he called.
Cadren turned back for a moment. "You want her? Go after her. I'm heading somewhere the girls don't run."
He chuckled and disappeared down the lane toward the Gilded Mare, the red banners already visible in the distance.