"Tell me," Algolon said, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind. "Did you feel something?"
The knight's face was completely obscured by his heavy helm, so Algolon shifted his gaze to the Dragonid, whose reptilian features were usually far less capable of subtle expression.
In response to the question, Gramdar squeezed his eyes shut. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring, and for a brief moment, his forked tongue flicked out to taste the air before retreating.
"It feels... as though I have awoken from a slumber that lasted an eternity," Reinhart answered softly.
"You have found the right words, my friend," the Dragonid rumbled, his massive hands clenching and unclenching as if testing the reality of his own strength. "The past feels like a fog. This moment... this is the first time I have felt truly alive."
Algolon froze, his mind racing.
The fluid movements, the unconscious gestures, the nuance in their voices. The sense of touch, the ability to taste. These were no longer scripted lines or pre-programmed animations.
Are we in a different world? or is this just the delirium of a dying mind?
A strange sense of relief washed over the last of the Wardens. He desperately wanted to believe in this miracle, to laugh out loud and down a tankard of strong ale in celebration.
This was the fantasy he had dreamed of as a teenager. And now, against all logic, it seemed to have come true.
Even if this is a hallucination, let it last forever.
Turning back toward the city, the Guardian swept his gaze over the wide, pristine streets. Everywhere he looked, he found confirmation. He smiled broadly beneath his helmet.
Below, humans, dwarves, and elves were conversing naturally. They gestured with their hands; their faces showed surprise and concern.
The unease of the soldiers on the walls was rippling down to the civilians who noticed their agitation.
"Reinhart," Algolon commanded, his voice steady. "Deploy the wyvern riders. I want a full reconnaissance of the surrounding area.
I need to know exactly where we are. Once that is done, return to me."
"It shall be done, Guardian."
With a sharp, crisp bow, the knight turned and marched swiftly out of the throne room.
"Gramdar," Algolon continued, turning to the massive warrior. "I charge you with gathering the remaining Lesser Guardians here in the throne room."
Algolon reached into the empty air, his hand disappearing into a small, violet rift in reality, his inventory. He pulled out a ring.
"This ring will aid you in completing your task without delay."
Idiot, Algolon chided himself internally. I should have given one to the Seneschal as well.
"This is a great honor. I shall not shame the dignity of the Charred Wardens."
The Dragonid accepted the ring from the outstretched palm and immediately slid it onto his clawed finger.
"Go."
With a short bow, Gramdar vanished in a flash of teleportation magic.
"It feels like the good old days."
Algolon felt a surge of spirit. It was as if the scattered pieces of his life had finally clicked into place.
Back in the day, they used to roleplay inside the guild, too. It helped them relax after work, a way to vent stress and immerse themselves deeper in the world.
He was so used to being the "Lord of the Citadel" that he had unconsciously slipped back into the role.
And it was refreshing. It gave him a framework, a purpose. He had to be worthy of these creations that had suddenly come to life. He had to lead them in this new world.
For the first time in two and a half years, the crushing weight of loneliness lifted.
Taking one last look at the city, Algolon gripped the shaft of Dragonbane tighter and strode back toward the throne.
….
Reinhart re-entered the throne room, once again struck by the overwhelming solemnity of the hall.
Inside, a heavy peace reigned. Silence hung in the air, but it wasn't oppressive; it was an inexplicably cozy warmth that wrapped around the soul.
This place held the memory of the Charred Wardens' greatest deeds.
This was where they had gathered to debate, to exchange wisdom, to make fate-altering decisions, and, of course, to declare the Hunt.
But in recent years, the Wardens had abandoned these walls.
The old knight cherished the memories of every gathering he had been allowed to witness, even if those memories now felt hazy, like a dream half-remembered. That fog did not diminish their value.
He was proud to belong to the Order of Dragon Blood. He was glad to serve a noble cause, to exterminate monsters and malicious dragons, to protect the weak. He followed the Wardens' principles with pleasure: Honor, Dignity, and Valor.
These reflections did not break Reinhart's stride. Even lost in thought, he maintained his discipline.
He could not afford to stumble, nor could he allow his armor to graze one of the many columns supporting the high ceiling.
To do so would be an admission that he was too old. If a knight stumbles on a flat floor, he has no place on the battlefield where a fraction of a second separates life from death.
Stopping a few paces from the throne, the old knight focused his attention on the Lord of the Citadel.
The noblest and most powerful of the Charred Wardens. The one who inspired the others to greatness. The one who always led the vanguard, shielding his comrades from dragon fire and sorcery alike.
The Guardian had removed his helmet.
It was only the second time Reinhart had ever seen his master's face.
The first thing that struck him was the hair, thick, ash-grey strands falling to his shoulders, loose and unstyled, yet perfectly kept.
Then, the pointed ears poking through the silver locks, betraying his elven heritage. The refined, almost unnatural beauty of his features confirmed it.
The old knight racked his brain but could not recall a single ugly elf in all the nine worlds. They were all beautiful, though they often possessed wretched personalities to balance it out.
But the most striking feature was the eyes. Golden irises, split by the vertical, slit pupils of a dragon.
"I have carried out your orders, Guardian. The wyvern riders have scattered to the winds," the old knight said, bowing his head and placing a gauntleted hand over his heart.
"A runner will deliver the news the moment the first scout returns."
"Good. Let us await the others, and then we shall discuss our position."