Ash and Steel 5 - The Lout and the Lush Lizard

 The Southern Marches, Riverrun
 
Duke Gideon, a man whose boisterous laughter often preceded him, was in his element. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across his sprawling estate south of Grimstone Keep. He'd just finished a particularly enthusiastic, if entirely self-appointed, "inspection" of his grapevines, which mostly involved plucking and sampling. A self-proclaimed great outdoorsman, he'd managed to get his boots caked in mud despite the well-maintained paths, a testament to his unique approach to nature.

Suddenly, a shadow the size of a small airship blotted out the last rays of sunlight. A shriek, not entirely unlike a rusty gate being dragged across gravel, tore through the air, followed by the frantic flapping of immense wings. Gideon, ever the lout, merely squinted skyward. "What in blazes...?"

A great, purple shape, undeniably a dragon, careened through the sky. One of its magnificent wings was grotesquely torn, a ragged mess of membrane and bone. It spiraled downward, clearly in distress, before crashing with a thunderous thud into the very center of Gideon's meticulously (by his staff, not him) kept backyard garden. Dust billowed, rose bushes were flattened, and a rather expensive marble birdbath shattered into a dozen pieces.

Gideon stared, his roguish gray eyes wide for once. "Well, I'll be," he muttered, picking a stray grape leaf from his spiky black hair. "That ain't right."

He stomped over, broadsword still sheathed, though he subconsciously tightened his grip on the hilt. Lying amidst the wreckage of his prize-winning hydrangeas was a purple dragon. His usually vibrant scales were dulled with dust and streaks of something that looked suspiciously like roc blood. The tattered wing lay at an unnatural angle, trembling with pain. The dragon let out a low, mournful rumble, his teal eyes clouded with suffering.

Gideon knelt, though not too close. He prodded the ground near the dragon's snout with his boot. "Rough day, eh, big fella? Looks like you tangled with somethin' nasty." He glanced at the torn wing, then back at the dragon's woeful face. "Right, well, we can't have you just layin' here like a lumpy purple rug, can we?"

His mind, a whirlwind of half-baked schemes and questionable logic, began to churn. Healing potions? Poultices? Nah, too much trouble. He remembered something he'd heard about pain and distraction. And he knew just the thing for both.

"Stay right there, you great lizard!" Gideon bellowed, scrambling back towards his manor. Porphyreus, too stunned and injured to move, could only watch as the burly duke disappeared.

Moments later, Gideon reappeared, arms laden. He had a platter piled high with honeycakes, still warm from the kitchen, and a formidable-looking cask tucked under one arm. "Alright, buddy, listen up," he announced, heaving the cask over with surprising ease. "Medicinal purposes, you understand. Best cure for what ails ya."

He popped open the cask, and the rich, malty aroma of his finest ale wafted into the air. Porphyreus, despite his pain, stirred slightly, his nostrils flaring. Gideon chuckled. "Ah, I see that look! You're a connoisseur, ain't ya? Good man."

Gideon began to feed The purple dragon honeycakes, one by one, holding them up to the dragon's snout. The purple dragon, hesitant at first, eventually began to gently take them, his large tongue surprisingly delicate. As the honeycakes disappeared, Gideon started pouring the ale into a large, chipped ceramic basin. "Go on, Lush Lizard," he coaxed, using the nickname he'd recently bestowed upon the dragon. "A good swill'll put the fire back in ya!"

The purple dragon eyed the basin, then Gideon, then the basin again. With a tentative sniff, he dipped his snout into the golden liquid. A long, drawn-out gulping sound followed, and soon, the basin was empty. The purple dragon let out a contented sigh, a plume of smoke curling from his nostrils, and a surprisingly cheerful burp echoed across the garden. His teal eyes, previously glazed with pain, now held a distinct twinkle.

Gideon clapped the dragon's immense shoulder, careful of the torn wing. "That's it! Feelin' better, aren't ya? Knew you would. You and me, Lizard, we're gonna be great pals. New drinkin' buddy!" He leaned in conspiratorially. 

The purple dragon, feeling the warm, fuzzy glow of the ale spreading through his massive form, let out a soft rumble that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. The pain in his wing was still there, but it was distant now, dulled by the Duke's unique brand of hospitality. He had crashed into a backyard, but it seemed he had found a kindred spirit, a true Lush Lizard companion.


Two weeks ambled by at Duke Gideon's estate, a blur of golden sunsets, the distant murmur of staff trying to repair the trampled garden, and the constant clinking of Gideon's finest ale being poured. For The purple dragon, it was a peculiar convalescence. His torn wing, though still a sight to behold, was knitting itself back together with the remarkable speed of dragon physiology, aided no doubt by a steady, calorific diet. And what a diet it was! Honeycakes, by the dozens, arrived fresh from the kitchens, their sweet, sticky goodness a welcome change from whatever a dragon usually hunted. And of course, there was the ale. Gideon, ever the doting host (in his own unique, boisterous way), ensured the ceramic basin was rarely empty, keeping The purple dragon in a perpetual state of comfortable, ale-fueled tranquility. The purple dragon, now affectionately dubbed "Lush Lizard" by Gideon, had grown quite fond of his brawny, blundering host.

Gideon, meanwhile, was convinced he was a natural dragon-healer. "See, Lush Lizard?" he'd declare, patting The purple dragon' immense flank, ignoring the still-visible scars on the mending wing. "Just needed a bit of the good stuff. Never trust those fancy elixirs, I always say. Good brew, good food, and a fine drinking buddy – that's the real cure!"

One blustery afternoon, as The purple dragon was leisurely polishing off his seventh honeycake and contemplating the depth of his latest basin of ale, a familiar, chilling shriek ripped through the air. It was a sound that sent a jolt of primal fear through the dragon, a memory of searing pain and a plummeting fall. His teal eyes, usually twinkling with ale-induced contentment, widened in raw terror.

"What in the blazes was that?" Gideon mumbled, half-dozing in a hammock nearby, a half-eaten honeycake still in his hand. He blinked his roguish gray eyes open just in time to see an enormous, predatory shape descend from the clouds – the very roc that had torn The purple dragon' wing. Its talons, like grappling hooks, were extended, its beady eyes fixed on the purple dragon.

The purple dragon let out a panicked bellow, a sound far more sober than his recent state, and scrambled to his feet. His mended wing, still a bit stiff, instinctively flared.

"Sweet mother of--!" Gideon, no longer dozing, dropped his honeycake and leaped from the hammock as if propelled by a spring. His survival instincts, usually dormant under layers of bluster and bravado, screamed. This wasn't a bandit, or a boar, or even a drunken brawl in the tavern. This was a roc, and it looked mighty displeased.

Without a second thought, driven by sheer, unadulterated panic, Gideon launched himself at the purple dragon. With an agility that belied his burly frame, he scrambled onto the dragon's broad back, clutching at the scales near his neck. "Fly, you overgrown grape! FLY!" he shrieked, thumping The purple dragon' flank.

The purple dragon, equally terrified and perhaps still a touch buzzed, needed no further urging. With a powerful, if somewhat wobbly, beat of his still-recovering wings, he roared skyward. A massive cloud of dust, disturbed rose petals, and the faint, sweet scent of honeycakes mixed with spilled ale erupted from the garden as the purple dragon shot into the air.

The roc, infuriated by its escaping prey, let out another piercing shriek and peeled after them, its massive wings pumping, already gaining on their tail. Gideon, clinging on for dear life, looked back to see the giant bird hot on their posterior, its shadow already menacingly close.

"Faster, Lush Lizard, faster!" he yelled, his voice a mix of terror and exhilaration, as their ale-fueled escape began.



The wind whipped past Gideon's ears, nearly tearing his spiky black hair from his head. Clinging to The purple dragon' back, he felt every frantic beat of the dragon's recovering wings, a rhythmic thudding that was both terrifying and exhilarating. Below them, his estate shrank into a patchwork quilt of greens and browns, rapidly disappearing as The purple dragon, fueled by terror and an impressive quantity of ale, put as much distance as possible between himself and the vengeful roc.

But the roc was fast, a living arrow of feathers and fury. Its piercing shrieks echoed through the air, each one closer than the last. Gideon dared a glance over his shoulder. The monster was gaining, its immense talons glinting in the afternoon sun. He could almost feel the rush of air from its powerful wingbeats.

Just as the roc seemed about to close the gap, The purple dragon let out a magnificent, ale-fueled belch. It wasn't just any burp; it was a fiery expulsion of gassy, fermented fumes.

*URP! FWOOM!*

A visible blast of hot, malty air shot past the roc's beak, barely missing its head but singing a few of its primary flight feathers. A plume of black smoke curled from the singed edge, and the scent of burnt feather and stale ale filled the air.

The roc shrieked again, but this time it wasn't just a cry of pursuit; it was a howl of pure, unadulterated rage. To be outmaneuvered, and gassed, by its prey? This was an insult to its predatory pride. It pumped its wings harder, its pursuit becoming a frenzied, vengeful chase.

"Ha! Take that, feather-brain!" Gideon yelled, momentarily forgetting his terror in a burst of triumph. "Never mess with a Lush Lizard and his drinking buddy!" He ducked as The purple dragon swerved sharply, the roc lunging just behind them.

The chase was on in earnest now, a bizarre aerial ballet above the Rhodos countryside. A burly duke, a tipsy purple dragon, and a seething roc, all bumbling through the sky in a spectacle no one below would believe.

Gideon, clutching the purple dragon' back like a barnacle to a whale, had no idea where they were going. His internal compass, much like his survival skills, was largely theoretical. He just knew north was away from the enraged roc, and The purple dragon, with the singular focus of an ale-fueled escape, seemed to agree. Below them, the familiar fields and forests of his estate gave way to more rugged terrain, the gentle hills beginning to swell into foothills.

"He's gainin' us, Lush Lizard!" Gideon yelled over the wind, looking back at the roc, which, despite the singed feathers, was still gaining. "Keep goin'!"

Meanwhile, high above the burgeoning peaks of the Dragon's Tooth Mountains, a young man was enjoying a leisurely flight. Orin, sixteen years old, sat comfortably astride his mount, Cobalt, the lumpy blue oaf of a dragon with big amethyst eyes. Cobalt, true to his nature, was soaring with unhurried grace, enjoying the crisp mountain air.

Orin's sharp eyes, trained from countless hours in the sky, suddenly narrowed. "Huh," he muttered, spotting two distant specks rapidly approaching. "What's that all about?" As they drew closer, he saw a purple dragon, flying with an almost comical urgency, and something large and white, unmistakably a roc, hot on its tail.

Then, he recognized the rider. The burly figure, the spiky black hair, even the general air of panicked dishevelment. Orin's jaw dropped.

'Is that... Uncle Gideon?!' he thougt, disbelief warring with alarm. 'What in the world is he doing riding a purple dragon, and why is a roc trying to eat them?!'

A moment of stunned silence, then Orin snapped into action. He knew his uncle's talent for inadvertently stumbling into trouble, but this was a new level. He shifted his weight, urging Cobalt mentally.

/C'mon, Cobalt! We have to help them! That roc looks angry!/

Cobalt, ever loyal, let out a low rumble of acknowledgement, his amethyst eyes tracking the aerial chase. With a powerful beat of his wings, the lumpy blue oaf of a dragon changed course, picking up speed. It was Orin and Cobalt to the rescue!


Orin leaned forward, his focus absolute. He knew Cobalt’s strengths, and at sixteen, he had already mastered coordinating his commands with his dragon’s formidable abilities. The lumpy blue dragon surged forward, quickly closing the distance. The roc, distracted by its frantic pursuit of The purple dragon and Gideon, hadn't yet registered the new threat.

/Alright, Cobalt!/ Orin thought, the command clear and sharp in his mind. /Double attack! Now!/

Cobalt responded instantly. A low rumble vibrated through his massive chest, and a surge of heat gathered in his maw. With a precise, powerful exhalation, he unleashed his first fireball. It wasn't the roaring inferno of a great red dragon like Rory, but a concentrated, searing blast of azure flame. The fireball arced through the sky, a brilliant streak of light, and struck the roc's right wing.

The roc shrieked, a sound of pain and outrage, as its pristine white feathers instantly blackened and curled, the burn smelling acrid even from a distance. It faltered for a split second, its pursuit wavering.

But Cobalt wasn't finished. Before the roc could fully react, the lumpy dragon unleashed his second fireball, a mirror image of the first. This one hit the roc's left wing, burning another swathe of feathers.

The roc's powerful wingbeats became erratic, unbalanced. With both wings damaged and trailing smoke, the giant bird let out a final, furious cry of defeat. Its pursuit was no longer possible. It spiraled downward, struggling to maintain control, until it finally disengaged, veering sharply away and flapping clumsily towards the distant horizon, a charred and furious speck.

Gideon, still clinging to the purple dragon, looked back and saw the roc retreating. He squinted, his roguish gray eyes trying to make sense of what had just happened. Then he looked up and saw Cobalt, now hovering steadily, and the young figure on his back.

"Orin?!" Gideon bellowed, his voice hoarse from the wind and terror. "What in blazes are you doing up here?" He seemed to entirely miss the fact that Orin and Cobalt had just saved their hides. The purple dragon, finally free from the immediate threat, let out a shaky, relieved sigh that smelled distinctly of stale ale.

Orin, now alongside Gideon and the purple dragon, couldn't help but grin, though a healthy dose of exasperation laced his tone. "That's MY line to you, Uncle Gideon! Are you OK?!" he asked, his voice cutting through the remaining rush of wind. Cobalt rumbled softly, his large amethyst eyes seeming to echo Orin's concern.

Gideon, still gripping the purple dragon' scales with white knuckles, slowly straightened up. He patted The purple dragon' neck, a mixture of pride and lingering terror on his face. "Me? Of course, I'm fine, lad! Just taking my... ah... my new friend here for a spot of exercise!" He gestured vaguely at the still-smoking patches on the purple dragon' wings, then remembered the roc. "Bloody giant bird, though! Came out of nowhere. Good thing Lush Lizard here knows how to handle himself!"

The purple dragon, now calmer but still a little wobbly, let out a soft burp, the faint scent of ale wafting towards Orin and Cobalt.

Orin raised an eyebrow, glancing from the strangely placid The purple dragon to his uncle. "Exercise? Uncle Gideon, what exactly were you doing with this purple dragon, and why did that roc want to tear him to pieces?" He pointedly ignored the burp, though a flicker of amusement crossed his face. "And since when do you... ride dragons?"

Gideon puffed out his chest, attempting to regain some semblance of dignity despite his disheveled appearance. "Well, you see, Orin, the Lush Lizard here had a bit of an accident. Roc attack, actually. Tore his wing right up. So, being the generous sort, I took him in. Fed him up, gave him a bit of the good stuff to help with the pain..." He winked, completely oblivious to the implication of a "drunken dragon." "...And we were just out for a test flight when that overgrown chicken showed back up."

Orin stared, processing this. "You... you fed him? And then got him... to fly when he was injured and likely full of ale?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Uncle Gideon, dragons need proper healing, not... not honeycakes and your private reserves!"

Gideon waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense, lad! He's right as rain now, see? Didn't I tell you? We're drinking buddies! Best cure in the world."

The purple dragon, as if in agreement, let out another small, contented rumble, casting a sidelong glance at Gideon. He was, indeed, feeling quite alright, if a bit light-headed.

Orin sighed, realizing the full extent of his uncle's peculiar brand of assistance. He looked at the purple dragon' still-healing wings, then back at his oblivious uncle. "Well, at least the roc's gone, thanks to Cobalt." He patted Cobalt's neck, and the blue dragon nudged Orin's hand affectionately.

"Right, right, you did good, lad," Gideon said, finally acknowledging Orin's intervention. "Saved our hides, that you did. Now... where are we? I seem to have lost my bearings." He looked around, completely disoriented.




Gideon squinted, trying to make sense of the familiar silhouette looming in the distance. His eyes widened. "Grimstone Keep? Damn! How in the blazes did we get all the way up here?" He scratched his head, then turned his gaze to the purple dragon, who was indeed looking less like a majestic beast of the sky and more like a very large, purple, disgruntled balloon. The dragon's wingbeats were growing sluggish, his flight path increasingly erratic.

"Urp! FWOOM!" The purple dragon let out another uncontrolled burp, a burst of flame singeing a passing cloud. The effort seemed to drain him further, and he sagged visibly in the air.

"Yeah, Uncle Gideon," Orin interjected, an exasperated sigh in his voice as Cobalt carefully maneuvered alongside the floundering Lush Lizard. "We're at Grimstone. And I don't think your... Lush Lizard's in any more shape to fly." Orin eyed the sagging, struggling dragon, then looked pointedly at his uncle. "I really think you oughta land."

Gideon looked from The purple dragon to the imposing walls of Grimstone Keep, then back to his "new drinking buddy." He saw no immediate reason for concern. They had escaped a giant bird, and now they were home. What could possibly go wrong?

The purple dragon made his approach. His landing was less a graceful descent and more a controlled crash. With a final, sputtering Urp! FWOOM! that sent a gust of warm, ale-scented air wafting across the courtyard, he thudded onto the cobblestones, sliding a good twenty feet before coming to a complete stop. Gideon, tangled in the purple dragon' scales, let out a grunt as he was jolted forward, nearly tumbling off.

Orin and Cobalt landed more deftly nearby, Orin quickly dismounting.


Gideon, untangling himself, slowly stood up, brushing off imaginary dust from his tunic. He looked up, a triumphant grin spreading across his face, ready to regale everyone with his heroic escape. His roguish gray eyes then fell upon the majestic figure standing calmly beside Rory, arms crossed, long red hair blowing gently in the breeze.
Anaya, her features delicate yet hardened, stared him down. "Duke Gideon," she said, her voice quiet, but with an edge that could cut steel. "Perhaps you would care to explain why one of my dragons smells like a tavern and you've decided to bring him back to Grimstone Keep as your... steed?"
Gideon's triumphant grin faltered. His eyes darted to Orin.
Whatever Orin was going to say died in his mouth the moment he saw his mother. Her long red hair seemed to crackle with silent fury, and her sharp, cold hazel green eyes, usually so calculating, were now openly wrathful. Discretion, Orin decided, was the better part of valor. He wisely hid himself behind Cobalt’s massive blue flank, peeking over his mount's back.
Gideon’s gaze snapped back to the Sky Strider. His earlier lack of qualms about landing at Grimstone vanished, replaced by a sudden, cold dread. He plastered a big, cheesy grin on his face—a desperate, profoundly ill-timed bluff. "Oh! Hey, Steelheart! Fancy meetin' you here!"
He gestured expansively, his arm sweeping in an arc that encompassed the battered purple dragon, the singed roc feathers still clinging to the dragon's wing, and his own disheveled person. "Explain... Yeah... Y'see, it all started when I found the Lush Lizard here in my backyard. His wing was all torn up. I couldn't just leave the poor guy lyin' there, so's I gave him lotsa honey cakes 'n ale." He paused, as if this explained everything. "After two weeks, his wing was better, but then this giant hell chicken showed up 'n started chasin' us. Then, Orin came 'n saved us! And... here we are! hic"
As if on cue, The purple dragon let out another ale-soaked burp. "Urp! FWOOM!" a gout of purple-tinged flame sailed harmlessly past the not-a-bit-placated Anaya, leaving only the smell of malt and singed air in its wake.
Anaya's expression remained frozen, a mask of controlled fury. Her eyes flickered from the burping, slightly swaying dragon to the utterly unrepentant Duke Gideon. The air in the courtyard seemed to grow heavy, as even Rory, usually so bold, shifted slightly beside Anaya, sensing the tension.
Anaya's cold hazel green eyes narrowed to slits. For a long, terrifying moment, the only sound in the courtyard was the rustle of Rory's scales and Orin's frantic breathing from behind Cobalt.
Then, Anaya moved. It wasn't a shout or a scream; it was something far more chilling. She took a slow, deliberate step towards Gideon, her every movement radiating pure, incandescent fury.
"You... gave... my... dragon... ale?" Each word was punctuated, sharp as a dagger point, delivered in a low, dangerous growl that sent shivers down Gideon's spine despite himself. His cheesy grin finally, mercifully, vanished. "Your brilliant idea of 'help' was to turn him into a drunkard?! Two weeks?! You kept him in your backyard, plying him with honeycakes and your wretched swill, instead of sending for a proper healer or, dare I say, informing the Crown that one of its Dragon Tide was injured?!"

Her voice, though still quiet, vibrated with an intensity that made the courtyard guards subtly shift their weight, and even Rory lowered his head slightly, as if bracing for impact. Anaya took another step, invading Gideon's personal space.

"You endangered Porphyreus, made him a spectacle, and then you had the audacity to fly him while he was in such a state, drawing the attention of a roc that clearly recognized him! Do you have any idea the chaos you could have caused, the danger you put everyone in, all because of your idiotic, loutish 'kindness'?!"

Gideon, for the first time in perhaps his entire life, was utterly speechless. His usual bluster had evaporated, replaced by a pale, stunned expression. He swallowed hard, trying to form a defense, but no words came.

Anaya's gaze flicked to Porphyreus, who wisely pretended to be very interested in a loose cobblestone. Then her eyes snapped back to Gideon, burning with a fire far more potent than anything Porphyreus could belch.

Anaya's cold gaze, still fixed on the ashen-faced Gideon, didn't waver. "You, Duke Gideon, are going to explain every single detail of this... this debacle. And then, you are going to help clean up the mess you've made. Every single, ale-soaked, honeycake-smeared, roc-singed bit of it."

She took a breath, then continued, her voice gaining an icy resolve. "And by 'help clean up,' I mean you will personally restore Grimstone's gardens to their original state. Every flattened rose bush, every shattered birdbath, every single bit of mess Porphyreus made. You will do it yourself, without the aid of any staff, and it will be done to my satisfaction."

Gideon's jaw dropped. He, Duke Gideon, performing manual labor in the royal gardens? The thought alone was an affront to his very being.

Anaya, seeing his stunned expression, merely raised a delicate eyebrow. "As for Porphyreus," she continued, turning her gaze to the purple dragon, who seemed to shrink under her stare. "He will be taken to the royal stables immediately. Rory, Cobalt, escort him."

Rory and Cobalt nudged Porphyreus, who let out a mournful, slightly pathetic whimper, as if sensing his carefree, ale-fueled days were abruptly over. He lumbered off, escorted by the two other dragons, towards the stables.

"He will be put on a strict regimen," Anaya declared, her voice firm. "No more honeycakes, and most certainly no more ale. We will begin a thorough detoxification process for him."

She turned back to Gideon, who looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. "And you, Duke, will report to me every evening to inform me of your progress on both the royal gardens and Porphyreus's... sobriety."


Orin, still peeking from behind Cobalt's comforting bulk, had taken in every scathing word of his mother's tirade. His own heart, usually so steady even when facing monstrous rocs, was now thundering against his ribs like a war drum. He had seen his mother's moods before – her quiet displeasure, her strategic frustrations, even her rare moments of sadness. But this... this was the first time he had truly seen his mother this wrathful.

The legends he'd heard whispered in the castle halls, the tales of the "Dragon Rage" or the "Queen's steel gaze," had always seemed like distant, exaggerated fables. Now, he understood. She lived up to every fearsome legend, every chilling whisper. Her voice, though not overly loud, had held a cutting edge that could flay flesh. Her presence, usually graceful, now radiated an unyielding, terrifying power that made the very air crackle.

All Orin could do was press himself tighter against Cobalt, silently thanking the lumpy dragon for his broad back. He focused on the rough texture of Cobalt's scales, trying to anchor himself. He honestly felt as if he might just wet himself. This was a force of nature, a controlled storm, and for the first time, Orin truly grasped the full, formidable might of his mother.


Anaya, having delivered her pronouncement, turned her piercing gaze from the retreating Porphyreus and Gideon to her son. Orin, still cowering slightly behind Cobalt, instinctively straightened up under her stare.

"Orin," she commanded, her voice still sharp, though lacking the raw fury she'd just unleashed upon the Duke. "Get the duke on his feet." Her eyes flicked pointedly to Gideon, who was still looking like a bewildered deer caught in a torchlight. "Then, I want you to ensure he's sober enough to understand the gravity of what he's done. And finally, get him to work on the gardens. Immediately."

Orin swallowed hard. This was not the typical post-flight debrief he was used to. He pushed himself away from Cobalt's side, feeling the immense weight of his mother's expectation, and perhaps a touch of pity for his hapless uncle.

Gideon, upon hearing Anaya's final directive, slowly looked up, his roguish gray eyes wide with something akin to genuine fear. "Work... in the gardens?" he mumbled, as if the concept was entirely alien.

Anaya simply raised an eyebrow, a silent, unyielding challenge in her expression. There was no room for argument, no space for his usual charm or bluster. Orin knew it, and Gideon, finally, seemed to be getting the message.

"Y-Yes, Mother," Orin stammered, the words barely escaping his throat. He quickly turned to Gideon, his voice a little shaky but firm. "C'mon, Uncle Gideon! You need water and fast!"

Gideon, still dazed and perhaps a little too comfortable in his ale-induced haze, blinked slowly. "Can't I have s'more ale...?" he mumbled, his voice thick, clearly not quite grasping the monumental trouble he was in. The concept of "trouble" seemed to be something that happened to other people, usually because of his mischief, not to him directly.

Orin gave a weary sigh. "Maybe in a few weeks..." he murmured under his breath, already calculating the immense task ahead of him. He grabbed Gideon by the arm, surprised by the Duke's dead weight. Gideon was a big man, but the combined effects of the roc chase, the lingering fear, and copious amounts of ale had turned him into a rather pliable, though heavy, lump. With a determined grunt, Orin began to drag his tipsy uncle across the courtyard towards the well, the sounds of Anaya's furious strides echoing in his ears as she likely went to check on Porphyreus.


Anaya's gaze softened slightly as she looked down at the forlorn, groaning purple dragon. Her anger, though still present, wasn't directed at him. She was the Sky Strider, the protector of the Dragon Tide, and she knew that a dragon, like any creature, would partake of what was offered, especially if it tasted good. Porphyreus was a victim of Gideon's misguided "kindness." You didn't blame the dog that ate the chocolate; you blamed the human who allowed him to have it.

"It's not your fault, Porphyreus," she murmured, her voice losing its sharp edge. "But this ends now."

She turned to a few stable hands who had cautiously entered the quarters. "Bring the largest water troughs you have. Fill them. And keep them filled." She looked back at Porphyreus. "He needs to flush every drop of that ale from his system. No food for the rest of the day, only water. Starting tomorrow, a very light diet of lean fish and fresh greens. And a lot more water."

Anaya then paced the perimeter of the paddock, thinking. "And exercise," she decided. "Supervised, slow flights at first. Just enough to get his blood moving, but not so much he overexerts himself. Rory, Cobalt," she addressed her dragons, "you will ensure he adheres to this. No more foolishness, understood?" Both dragons nodded their heads in acknowledgment.

Her gaze hardened again, a reminder of the authority she wielded. "He will be watched constantly. Any sign of distress, or... any more belches outside of designated times, and he'll be restricted to the ground until further notice."

It was a stern regimen, but one born of deep concern. Anaya knew dragons. She knew the dangers of such an unnatural diet and the impact it could have on their delicate internal fire. This wasn't just about discipline; it was about ensuring Porphyreus's long-term health.

Orin patiently held the wooden dipper to Gideon's lips. The Duke, looking considerably less boisterous than usual, was slowly, painfully, sipping the cool well water. His usual roguish gray eyes were bloodshot, and his spiky black hair seemed even more disheveled than usual. The vibrant color of his tunic looked particularly garish against his pale face.

"Ugh..." Gideon groaned, pulling away from the dipper. "Did anybody get the number of that Hell chicken...?" His voice was a slurred mumble, but the words carried the distinct ring of a man whose drunken stupor was beginning its agonizing slither away, leaving a nasty, pounding headache in its wake. The memory of the roc, and the dizzying flight, was starting to return in hazy, terrifying flashes.

"Keep drinking, Uncle Gideon," Orin advised, his tone firm but sympathetic. He refilled the dipper. "You'll feel better once you're fully sober. And you're going to need your wits about you." Orin refrained from mentioning the specifics of his mother's decrees just yet. One crisis at a time.


Orin worked diligently, splashing more water on Gideon's face, guiding him to sip, and even forcing a few mouthfuls down the Duke’s reluctant throat. Slowly, painfully, Gideon's eyes began to focus, and his groans shifted from drunken stupor to genuine headache. The worst of the ale's grip seemed to loosen, leaving him merely miserable and confused.

Finally, with a Herculean effort, Orin managed to haul his uncle to his feet and guide him to a small, unassuming chamber near the courtyard, typically reserved for visiting minor dignitaries. Gideon stumbled through the doorway, eyes already half-closed, and collapsed onto the bed with a heavy thud, instantly dead to the world. A faint, lingering scent of ale and desperation wafted from the room.

Orin wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a weary but satisfied sigh escaping him. He had completed the first phase of his mother's daunting command. He emerged back into the sunlit courtyard, just in time to meet his mother, Queen Anaya, returning from the dragon quarters.


Anaya's sharp gaze met Orin's as she approached, a flicker of something unreadable in her hazel green eyes. The raw wrath had subsided, replaced by a steely resolve, but her presence still commanded attention.

"He's... asleep, Mother," Orin reported, a touch of exhaustion in his voice. "Collapsed like a sack of bricks."

Anaya gave a curt nod. "Good. He'll need his rest before he starts on the damage he's caused." Her eyes flicked towards the still-visible scorch marks on the courtyard cobbles. "Porphyreus is in the dragon quarters. He's... not pleased, but he's on the path to recovery. Lots of water, no ale, and a very strict diet." A faint, almost imperceptible wry smile touched her lips. "A twelve-step program for dragons."

She paused, then looked at Orin directly, her expression softening just a fraction. "You handled that well, Orin. Getting him sobered up was no small feat. And... you were quick to act with Cobalt. You saved them from that roc."

Orin felt a blush creep up his neck. "Thank you, Mother. It was... quite a sight." He hesitated, then added, "You were... very impressive, Mother. With Uncle Gideon. I've never seen you quite like that."

Anaya's gaze held his, a complex mix of sternness and something deeper. "Sometimes, Orin," she said, her voice quiet but firm, "strength is not just found on the battlefield. Sometimes, it's needed to correct a fool's errors, especially when those errors endanger what we hold dear." Her hand briefly, almost imperceptibly, rested on his shoulder. "Go rest now. You've had a long day. Tomorrow, we'll see to Duke Gideon's new... project."

"Good night, Mother," Orin murmured, a new sense of quiet respect in his voice. He turned and retreated to his own chambers, the day's bizarre events replaying in his mind.

He closed the door behind him, the silence of his room a stark contrast to the chaos of the courtyard. He kicked off his boots, then sat heavily on the edge of his bed. The image of Gideon, bewildered and reeking of ale, was vivid in his mind, as was the sight of the mighty Porphyreus, reduced to a groaning, belching lump. But most prominent of all was his mother, the Sky Strider.

He'd always known she was formidable, a queen who wielded daggers and commanded dragons. But seeing her contained fury, the quiet steel in her eyes as she utterly dismantled Gideon's bluster, had been a revelation. It wasn't just a queen's authority; it was a woman's unwavering strength, tempered by a fierce protectiveness of her dragons.

He thought of Gideon's casual consumption, the way the Duke had simply offered Porphyreus endless ale without a second thought. And the result: a sick dragon, a royal spectacle, and a furious queen.

Orin shivered slightly, but not from cold. He decided then and there, a firm resolution settling in his young mind: 'If I ever do drink ale, it'll only be a bit. I don't want to disgrace myself like Uncle Gideon.'

 The next morning, Orin, still feeling the weight of his mother's stern gaze from the previous day, approached Gideon's chamber with a newfound sense of purpose. He knocked firmly on the wooden door.

"Uncle Gideon, it's time for you to wake up!" Orin called through the door, trying to project the authority he felt his mother would expect. "You have to start fixing the garden you destroyed yesterday!"

A muffled groan answered him from within. "Ugh... come back later..." Gideon mumbled, clearly hoping to burrow deeper into the land of oblivion.

Orin knew that wouldn't do. Mother wanted work started on the garden today. He imagined Anaya's sharp gaze, her unspoken expectations. He couldn't fail his first real assignment. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open.

Inside, the room was dim, the curtains still drawn. Gideon was a large, unmoving lump under the covers. Orin walked over to the bed, squaring his shoulders.

"Rest time's over, Uncle Gideon. It's work time, NOW!" he declared, injecting every ounce of his mother's no-nonsense tone into his voice.

"Garden? What garden? What're ya babblin' about?" groused Gideon, still rubbing his hip and trying to piece together the fragments of the previous day.

"Look out the window!" Orin answered, his finger pointing decisively towards the large window that overlooked Grimstone's meticulously manicured, now utterly demolished, gardens.

Gideon reluctantly dragged himself to the window. His eyes, though still bloodshot, finally focused on the scene below. Flattened rose bushes, shattered statuettes, churned earth, and the distinct, broad impact crater where Porphyreus had made his grand, ale-fueled entrance. The realization dawned on him, sharp and painful as his headache.

"Oh, shit! Did I do that?!" he yelped, his voice rising in genuine shock.

"No. The garden ruined itself," Orin answered, sarcasm dripping from every word. "What do you think?!"

"Uh... Sorry?" Gideon tried, the word sounding hollow even to his own ears.

"If you're sorry, you need to clean up the mess you made," Orin said, his hand now firmly pointing at the door. There was no room for debate in his voice.

Gideon's stomach rumbled. "Can't I have breakfast first?!" he whined, trying one last desperate plea.

"You can have breakfast after you do at least some work!" Orin retorted, his finger still aimed at the exit. He was determined not to let his uncle off the hook.

"Ugh! You are your mother's son," Gideon glowered, the words a begrudging admission of Orin's unexpected resolve. With a final, dramatic sigh, he stomped past Orin and out of the chamber, heading towards the destruction he had wrought. Orin, a triumphant if exhausted shadow, followed hot on his heels.


The morning sun, usually a cheerful sight, seemed to mock Duke Gideon as he trudged into the ruined royal gardens, Orin a determined shadow at his side. The true extent of the damage was now horribly clear in the harsh light of day. Statues lay toppled, their marble limbs shattered. Rose bushes, once boasting vibrant blooms, were flattened into thorny mats. And in the center, a raw, ugly crater marked Porphyreus's dramatic landing. The faint, sweet smell of rotting honeycakes mingled with the lingering scent of singed roc feathers and stale ale.

"Alright, Uncle Gideon," Orin said, hands on his hips, surveying the devastation. "First things first. All this debris." He gestured vaguely at the scattered stone fragments, splintered wood, and crushed flora. "Every single piece needs to be cleared. Stack it over there by the wall."

Gideon stared at the task before him, his face a mask of utter disbelief. He was a Duke! He gave orders, he didn't take them, especially not from his sixteen-year-old nephew, and certainly not orders that involved manual labor. He bent down, gingerly picking up a small, chipped piece of a birdbath. It was heavier than it looked.

"You want me to move all this?" he whined, holding up the fragment as if it were a rare and offensive insect. "By myself?"

"That's what Mother said," Orin replied, completely unmoved. He even picked up a larger, thorny branch and tossed it onto the designated pile with a grunt, setting an example. "No staff. Just you. Get to it."

Gideon sighed dramatically, a sound that usually brought his servants scurrying. It had no effect on Orin. He reluctantly bent his burly frame, grumbling under his breath. The first few hours were agonizing. His hands, accustomed to holding a broadsword or a tankard of ale, quickly grew sore and blistered. He tried to stack the debris neatly, but his natural clumsiness meant pieces often tumbled, sending him stooping again. He sweated, he swore, and he eyed the distant castle kitchens with a desperate longing for breakfast. Orin, meanwhile, stood by, a silent, unyielding presence, occasionally pointing out a missed fragment or urging him to move faster. By midday, Gideon was filthy, exhausted, and contemplating the true meaning of penance.



After a meager, belated lunch of dry bread and water, supervised by Orin, Gideon's next task loomed: the chasm where Porphyreus had landed. It was a wide, shallow crater, but significant enough to ruin the garden's pristine layout.

"Alright, Uncle," Orin announced, gesturing to a nearby pile of fresh earth and gravel that had been delivered earlier by the castle groundskeepers, under strict orders not to assist Gideon. "Now we fill this in. And make sure it's level. No bumps."

Gideon stared at the mound of dirt, then at the crater, then back at Orin with a look of utter defeat. "You've got to be joking. This will take days!"

"Then you'd best get started," Orin said simply, handing him a shovel.

The Duke quickly discovered that moving earth was far more exhausting than swinging a sword. Every shovel-full was a struggle. His muscles screamed, his back ached, and sweat poured down his face, mingling with the dirt. He tried to pace himself, then tried to rush, but neither method made the task less arduous. Porphyreus's fiery belches now seemed like a distant, romantic memory compared to the grim reality of manual labor.

As the afternoon wore on, a small, stubborn part of Gideon, the part that prided himself on his strength and resilience (even if misplaced), began to chafe under the inefficiency of his own efforts. He found himself trying different ways to scoop the dirt, experimenting with leverage. It was slow, painful progress, but by the time the sun began to dip below the castle turrets, the crater was noticeably shallower.

"Alright, that's enough for today," Orin finally conceded, seeing the utter exhaustion etched on his uncle's face. "Tomorrow, we finish filling, then we start the replanting and replacing."

Gideon simply groaned in response, collapsing onto the nearest undamaged bench. He had never worked so hard in his life. The royal gardens, once a distant, beautiful backdrop to his life, were now a personal battlefield. And he still had replanting and replacing all the broken stuff to look forward to. He looked forward to Anaya's evening report with a new, weary sense of dread.


As dusk settled over Grimstone Keep, casting long shadows across the still-wounded gardens, Gideon dragged himself towards the royal chambers. Every muscle in his body ached, protesting fiercely against the day's unaccustomed labor. His hands, raw and blistered, cradled a new appreciation for the soft leather of his gloves.

He found Queen Anaya in her study, reviewing dispatches. Her posture was regal as ever, and her hazel green eyes, though not overtly wrathful, held a quiet intensity that still made Gideon's stomach clench. Orin stood beside her, looking much less tired but equally composed.

"Your Majesty," Gideon began, his voice hoarse from effort and lack of his usual ale. He bowed, a movement that caused a fresh wave of aches to shoot through his back.

Anaya merely raised an eyebrow. "Duke Gideon. Your report?"

Gideon cleared his throat. "Right. Well. The... the debris is cleared, Your Majesty. All piled by the wall, just as ordered." He avoided looking at Orin, who had meticulously overseen every single splinter. "And I've started on filling in the... the chasm. Made good progress, I reckon. It's... shallower."

Anaya's gaze remained unblinking. "And Porphyreus?"

"Ah, the Lush Lizard," Gideon mumbled, feeling a pang of something akin to pity for his former drinking buddy. "Haven't seen him myself, of course. But Orin says he's... uh... drinking lots of water. And not belching fire anymore. Much." He risked a glance at Orin, who nodded subtly.

Anaya inclined her head, a hint of satisfaction in her eyes. "Good. You will continue with the filling tomorrow, Duke. Ensure it is perfectly level. And then you will begin the replanting. The royal gardeners will provide you with what you need, but they are not to assist you. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, Your Majesty," Gideon croaked, envisioning endless rows of delicate plants. This was going to be worse than moving rocks.


The next morning found Gideon, though still sore, slightly less groggy. Orin was there at the crack of dawn, a sentinel of sobriety and hard labor.

"Alright, Uncle," Orin announced, pointing to the remaining mound of earth. "Let's finish that pit."

Gideon groaned, but surprisingly, he set to work with a bit more resignation. He discovered that once the initial agony of awakening muscles passed, the rhythmic motion of shoveling became almost meditative. He finally managed to level the chasm, wiping sweat from his brow as Orin meticulously checked his work with a measuring stick.

"Alright," Orin said, finally satisfied. "Now for the replanting."

A cart arrived, laden with delicate saplings, bags of rich soil, and trays of vibrant flower seedlings. Gideon looked at the small, fragile plants with trepidation. He was a man of broad strokes, not delicate touches. He fumbled with the first rose bush, nearly snapping a stem.

"Carefully, Uncle!" Orin instructed, demonstrating the proper way to loosen the roots and settle the plant into the soil.

Gideon grumbled, but he tried. He spent hours on his hands and knees, scooping soil, gently tucking in roots, and patting the earth firm. It was painstaking, tedious work, a stark contrast to the rough-and-tumble life he was accustomed to. By afternoon, the area around the filled-in crater was beginning to show signs of life again, a testament to Gideon's reluctant but persistent efforts.

Finally, Orin pointed to a new, daunting task. "Now, for the statues." Nearby lay the crates containing replacement marble figures: a goddess, a lion, and several birdbaths. These weren't the broken fragments Gideon had cleared yesterday; these were whole, new statues meant to replace what was lost.

"Right," Orin continued, "these need to be put back in place." He didn't mention anything about meticulous positioning; simply that they needed to be returned to their spots. "The royal groundskeepers left the proper tools for moving them."

Gideon eyed the heavy marble with a fresh wave of despair. Moving them would require sheer brute strength.

Gideon stared at the crates containing the replacement marble figures: a chipped goddess, a lion missing part of its mane, and several cracked birdbaths. These weren't beautiful, pristine art pieces; they were damaged survivors, meant to fill the voids left by their completely shattered predecessors. They were also undeniably heavy. He sighed, feeling a fresh wave of despair, but Orin's unwavering gaze was a silent command.

"Alright, Uncle," Orin said, pointing to a particularly large, unfortunately intact plinth. "Let's start with that goddess over there."

Gideon eyed the goddess statue, still in its crate, and groaned. Lifting it would be pure brute force. He pulled over a hand cart that the groundskeepers had left, and with immense grunting and straining, managed to lever the first heavy statue onto it. Then, even more laboriously, he dragged it to its designated spot.

Under Orin's watchful eye, Gideon grunted and heaved. He used ropes and leverage as best he could, but mostly, it was raw strength. Each statue was a battle. He maneuvered the chipped goddess onto her plinth, then shoved the cracked lion into its spot. He repositioned the heavy, yet still broken, birdbaths, ensuring they were upright. He didn't care about their precise alignment or aesthetic appeal; his only goal was to get them from the crates to their assigned places, as dictated by Orin's pointing finger.

By the time the last replacement statue was in place, Gideon was covered in marble dust, sweat, and a layer of sheer exhaustion. His muscles screamed in protest, but a strange, grudging satisfaction began to settle in. The garden, while still a far cry from its former glory, was no longer a disaster zone. The debris was gone, the crater filled, and the main structures were back in place.

Orin, observing his uncle's progress, finally gave a nod of approval. "Good work, Uncle Gideon," he said, a rare note of genuine praise in his voice. "That's everything for today."

Gideon merely collapsed onto the nearest bench, too tired to even whine. He might be a duke, but today, he had been a laborer.


The next morning, Gideon woke with a groan, but this time, it was a groan of residual soreness rather than a pounding headache. He stumbled out of his chambers, fully expecting Orin to be waiting with another impossible task. But the courtyard was quiet, save for the early morning chirping of birds. He looked out at the garden. The debris was gone, the crater filled and replanted, and the replacement statues, though still damaged, stood upright in their designated spots. It was a remarkable improvement.

Just then, the great doors to the castle opened, and Queen Anaya emerged. She walked slowly, deliberately, into the garden, her gaze sweeping over the restored grounds. Gideon braced himself for a fresh wave of criticism, for a missed detail or a crooked statue. Instead, a subtle, almost imperceptible softening touched Anaya's features. She ran a hand over a newly planted rose bush, then nodded in satisfaction. The garden was not pristine, but it was restored. The signs of devastation were gone.

"Duke Gideon," she said, her voice clear. Gideon stood straighter, bracing for whatever new torture awaited him. "The gardens are... acceptable. You have completed the task."

Gideon let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he mumbled, genuinely relieved.

Anaya turned fully to him, her hazel green eyes piercing. "However," she continued, "your responsibilities are not yet concluded. Porphyreus is recovering, but he is still in need of diligent care. And frankly, Duke, you were the one who got him into this state."

Gideon's momentary relief evaporated. He had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going.

"Therefore," Anaya stated, her voice firm, "you will be in charge of Porphyreus's detox. You will oversee his water intake, his diet, and his supervised exercise. You will ensure he fully recovers, and you will do so under Orin's watchful eye." She glanced at Orin, who had just emerged from the castle, a knowing look on his face. "Orin will ensure you adhere to the regimen I set forth. Consider it... an extended period of penance."

Gideon's jaw dropped once more. From garden laborer to dragon nursemaid? And with Orin, his stern, surprisingly unyielding nephew, as his constant supervisor? This was going to be a long, long few days.

 Gideon followed Orin into the dragon quarters, a place he usually only visited for quick, boisterous greetings with the dragons, never for actual work. The air here was cleaner, less dusty than the gardens, but carried the distinct, underlying scent of dragon. Porphyreus lay in his paddock, still looking rather pathetic, though mercifully, he wasn't belching fire or groaning from a hangover anymore.

"He's no longer drunk," Orin explained, his voice low as they approached the dragon, "but he's still very ill and dizzy. It'll take time for his system to recover from all that ale."

Porphyreus looked up as they neared, his big teal eyes still a bit unfocused, but a definite glimmer of recognition was there. He let out a weak, raspy cough.

"First, water," Orin instructed, gesturing to a large, newly filled trough. "He needs to drink as much as he can. Dragons usually get most of their hydration from their prey, but right now, clean water is essential to flush his system." Orin demonstrated, dipping a large, sturdy bucket into the trough and offering it to Porphyreus. The dragon slowly, gratefully, lapped at the water, his long tongue making surprisingly delicate motions.

Gideon watched, then took the next bucket, trying to mimic Orin's calm demeanor. Porphyreus drank, steadily and without fuss, for a long while.

"Next, food," Orin continued, leading Gideon to a nearby table laden with what looked like a butcher's display, but also large baskets of dark, leafy greens. "Mother wants him on a diet of lean meat and greens. No honeycakes." Orin picked up a slab of what looked like venison. "Dragons usually prefer their meat... fresher. But for now, cut into manageable pieces." He then picked up a handful of greens. "He needs these for roughage and nutrients. Mix them in."

Gideon eyed the raw meat and the greens with distaste. This was far more involved than simply tossing a honeycake. He swallowed, realizing this wasn't just about manual labor; it was about learning the intricacies of dragon care, something he'd never once considered.


The next day, after a morning spent meticulously measuring out Porphyreus's water and carefully preparing his unappetizing (to Gideon, at least) meals of raw meat and greens, Orin announced the next phase of the "detox" regimen.

"Alright, Uncle," Orin said, leading Gideon out of the dragon quarters and towards the large, open training grounds adjacent to the stables. Porphyreus, looking slightly less wobbly but still far from his usual robust self, lumbered along beside them, escorted by Rory and Cobalt. "Now for the exercise."

Gideon eyed the vast expanse of the training grounds. "Exercise? You mean the Lush Lizard's going to go for a run?" He pictured Porphyreus tearing across the field in an ungainly, ale-fueled sprint.

Orin shook his head. "Not yet. He's still too weak for flight, and running might strain his wing or his system too much. We're starting slow. Just walking." Orin handed Gideon a long, sturdy lead, one end already attached to a harness on Porphyreus's chest. "You'll just walk him around the perimeter. Slowly. Get his blood moving, but keep it gentle."

Gideon stared at the lead, then at the immense dragon, then back at the lead. "You want me to... walk a dragon? Like a dog?"

"Precisely," Orin replied. "And then, we'll do some pivoting exercises. Just turning him in small circles, to work his core muscles and balance." He then turned to his own mount. "Watch this, Uncle." Orin walked to Cobalt and with a powerful but controlled movement, guided the lumpy blue dragon to pivot gracefully on the spot, turning a full circle with ease.

Gideon grumbled, but with Orin's watchful eye on him, he took Porphyreus's lead. Walking Porphyreus was an exercise in patience. The dragon was heavy, and occasionally stumbled. Gideon found himself having to guide him, to encourage him with gentle motions, a stark contrast to his usual forceful manner. They slowly made their way around the perimeter of the training grounds, the incongruous sight of the burly Duke leading the recovering purple dragon drawing a few curious glances from passing stable hands and guards.

Then came the pivoting. "Now, gently, Uncle, get him to turn," Orin instructed. Gideon pushed, pulled, and cajoled. Porphyreus, still a bit dizzy, often swayed or overshot his mark, nearly knocking Gideon over more than once. It was slow, tedious work, but gradually, the dragon's movements became a little more controlled, a little less wobbly. Gideon, surprisingly, found himself talking to Porphyreus, murmuring encouragement, and even a few stern words when the dragon seemed to lose focus. The bond, once forged in shared ale, was now slowly, painstakingly, being reforged in shared effort and sober, if reluctant, care.

As the days turned into a week, Gideon's grueling routine of Porphyreus's recovery continued. The endless buckets of water, the raw meat and greens that made him wrinkle his nose, the tedious walking, and the frustrating pivoting exercises. Orin, a constant, unyielding shadow, ensured no shortcuts were taken.

But through the sweat and the aching muscles, something subtle began to shift within Duke Gideon. He started to notice the way Porphyreus’s scaly hide rippled when he stretched, the surprising delicacy with which he took a piece of fish from Gideon’s hand, the quiet intelligence in his teal eyes. He saw the subtle tremor of fatigue in the dragon’s wings after a short walk, and the slow, deliberate care Rory and Cobalt showed their ailing companion.

Porphyreus was no longer just the "Lush Lizard," a giant, ale-swilling oaf who made for a good drinking buddy. He was a complex, powerful creature with intricate needs, a delicate internal balance, and a surprising vulnerability. Gideon found himself intuitively anticipating Porphyreus's thirst, noticing subtle improvements in his gait, and even feeling a quiet pride when the dragon managed a pivot without stumbling.

The reckless "help" he'd offered before now seemed incredibly foolish, even dangerous. He'd treated Porphyreus like a large, scaly human, when in reality, the dragon was something far more ancient and unique. Gideon began to realize that dragons were special creatures with unique needs, not simply oversized pets or convenient drinking companions. The thought of offering Porphyreus another tankard of ale now filled him with a strange mix of regret and a sudden, fierce protectiveness.

Weeks stretched into a month. Gideon’s muscles, once protesting, had hardened. His hands, though still calloused, moved with a surprising new gentleness when handling Porphyreus. The raw meat and greens were no longer a source of distaste, but a necessary part of the dragon's recovery. Porphyreus, steadily improving, had regained much of his strength and clarity. The dizzy spells were gone, replaced by a clear-eyed alertness, and his gait was steady once more. He no longer looked like a "Lush Lizard," but a magnificent purple dragon, albeit one who eyed honeycakes with a wistful longing.

"Alright, Uncle," Orin announced one crisp morning at the training grounds, a triumphant note in his voice. "His wings are strong, his balance is back. It's time for takeoffs and landings."

Gideon, who had secretly been looking forward to this, felt a flicker of the old excitement mingled with his newfound respect. He remembered the terrifying, ale-fueled launch from his backyard and winced internally. This time, it would be different.

Orin demonstrated first with Cobalt. "A proper takeoff isn't just about flapping hard," he explained, as Cobalt coiled his legs, then pushed off the ground with immense power, his wings beating in a controlled, rhythmic surge that lifted him smoothly into the air. "It's about core strength, wing coordination, and gauging the wind." He guided Cobalt through a flawless, spiraling ascent, then brought him down in a soft, precise landing, his large paws barely disturbing the dust.

"Now, Porphyreus," Orin said, turning to Gideon. "Gentle, controlled power. Guide him with the lead at first, then allow him to feel the lift."

Gideon, surprisingly, approached the task with a newfound sobriety. He stood beside Porphyreus, talking to him quietly, explaining what they were about to do. He remembered the wildness of Porphyreus's first flight, driven by fear and intoxication. Now, he wanted control, precision.

Porphyreus coiled, then pushed off, his powerful legs driving him upwards. Gideon, still on the ground, held the lead, guiding him, feeling the immense pull of the dragon’s ascent. The first few attempts were clumsy. Porphyreus would flap too hard, or not quite get enough lift, resulting in awkward, ground-skimming hops. Gideon would patiently correct him, remembering Orin’s advice, "Control, not just force."

The landings were even trickier. Porphyreus, used to crashing, had to relearn the delicate art of controlled descent. He'd often come in too fast, or misjudge his angle, leading to rough, jarring impacts that made Gideon cringe. But Gideon, no longer the clumsy lout, was surprisingly patient. He'd demonstrate with his hands, talk to Porphyreus, and under Orin's unwavering supervision, they practiced again and again.

Gradually, a rhythm began to emerge. Porphyreus's takeoffs became smoother, less frenzied. His landings, though not yet as graceful as Rory's or Cobalt's, became less like controlled crashes and more like deliberate descents. Gideon felt a surge of pride with each successful maneuver, a pride far deeper than any he'd felt simply for swilling ale. He was teaching a dragon to fly again, properly.


A few days later, Orin stood before Queen Anaya in her study, delivering his daily report on Porphyreus’s progress and, by extension, Duke Gideon’s reluctant but effective training.

"His takeoffs are much smoother, Mother," Orin reported, a hint of pride in his voice. "And his landings are no longer... well, no longer crashes. Uncle Gideon has actually been quite diligent with him."

Anaya, who had been listening intently, a thoughtful expression on her face, finally nodded. "Excellent, Orin. It seems even Duke Gideon can be taught responsibility, however painful the process may be for him." A flicker of a wry smile touched her lips. "And for you, I imagine."

"He's certainly learned a lot about dragons," Orin admitted.

Anaya rose, walking to the large window overlooking the kingdom. "Very well. The confines of Grimstone's training grounds are no longer sufficient. Porphyreus needs open air, proper long-distance flight to fully regain his endurance and confidence." She turned, her gaze settling firmly on Orin.

"You will take Duke Gideon and Porphyreus out to the fields beyond the castle walls for flight training," Anaya commanded. "Focus on sustained flight, varying altitudes, and long-distance maneuvers. Ensure Porphyreus's wings are truly strong again. And Orin," she added, her voice softening slightly, "continue to guide your uncle. This is as much his training as it is Porphyreus's."

Orin's eyes lit up. This was a proper assignment, a real test of his and Porphyreus's recovery, and perhaps, a chance for Gideon to truly bond with the dragon in the way only dragon riders could. "Yes, Mother!"


The crisp morning air carried the scent of dewy grass as Orin, astride Cobalt, led Gideon and Porphyreus out onto the vast, open fields beyond Grimstone's sturdy walls. Porphyreus, now sleek and vibrant after weeks of strict care, looked every inch the magnificent dragon he was meant to be, though a shadow of weariness still lingered in Gideon's eyes. This time, Porphyreus was equipped with a proper dragon saddle, a sturdy leather contraption that, to Gideon's surprise, was far more comfortable than simply clinging to scales.

"Alright, Uncle," Orin called out, his voice ringing with renewed enthusiasm. "You know the takeoffs. Now it's time for real flight. You're going to earn your wings today."

Gideon, settled firmly in the saddle, took a deep breath. The fear that had gripped him during their desperate flight from the roc was gone, replaced by a nervous excitement and a healthy respect for the immense power beneath him. He patted Porphyreus's neck, the coarse scales feeling familiar under his hand.

"Ready, Lush Lizard?" he murmured, using the old nickname, but now with a touch of genuine affection rather than drunken camaraderie.

Porphyreus rumbled, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through Gideon's bones. With a powerful surge, the purple dragon coiled his mighty legs, then launched himself skyward. The ground rushed away beneath them, and Gideon felt the familiar rush of wind, but this time, it was exhilarating, not terrifying.

Orin and Cobalt soared alongside them, guiding the way. "Start with a steady climb, Uncle!" Orin instructed. "Then level out. Feel the air currents!"

Gideon, surprisingly, found himself listening, truly listening. He leaned into Porphyreus’s movements, learning to anticipate the dragon’s shifts, feeling the subtle changes in air pressure. They practiced long, sweeping turns, gentle ascents, and controlled descents. Porphyreus, no longer hampered by ale or injury, flew with growing confidence, his powerful wings beating a steady rhythm. Gideon, once a mere passenger, was becoming a rider, subtly directing, gently guiding, and forming a new, sober partnership with the magnificent creature beneath him. He was truly earning his wings.


Days turned into a routine of early morning flights over the sprawling fields. Gideon and Porphyreus, always accompanied by Orin and Cobalt, soared higher and flew further, pushing the boundaries of Porphyreus's endurance and Gideon's developing riding skills. The bond between the burly duke and the purple dragon solidified with each shared gust of wind and every sweeping turn. Gideon, no longer just a passenger, was learning the nuances of dragon flight, finding an unexpected rhythm with the massive creature beneath him.

"Alright, Uncle," Orin's voice carried on the wind one breezy afternoon, as they circled high above a distant patch of forest. "Time for some maneuvers. We need to work on Porphyreus's agility and response. Cobalt and I will demonstrate."

Orin leaned forward on Cobalt, and the blue dragon executed a tight, banking turn, dropping gracefully into a dive before pulling up sharply, a fluid arc against the sky. He then rolled slightly to one side, showcasing a swift, almost effortless evasive movement.

Gideon watched, impressed. "Fancy!" he called out, a grin spreading across his face.

"Your turn!" Orin shouted back. "Start with a wide bank, then tighten it gradually. Remember, it's about shifting your weight, and communicating with Porphyreus."

Gideon took a deep breath. This was different from just flying straight. He leaned, subtly at first, then more pronouncedly, feeling Porphyreus respond. The dragon, attuned to Gideon's cues, began a wide, sweeping turn. Gideon experimented, pushing a little harder, feeling Porphyreus's powerful body respond, the wind rushing past them as they banked sharper and sharper. It was exhilarating, a dance of immense power and surprising grace.

Next came evasive maneuvers. Orin had them practice sudden drops, sharp ascents, and quick changes in direction. Gideon initially fumbled, his large frame swaying awkwardly in the saddle, but he stubbornly persisted. He found himself thinking about how Porphyreus had reacted to the roc, the sheer terror that had driven his initial, clumsy flight. Now, they were in control. He learned to anticipate the shifts, to feel the pull of gravity and the push of air, guiding Porphyreus through mock evasions.

By the end of the session, Gideon was exhausted but invigorated. He and Porphyreus were no longer just flying; they were moving with intent, performing aerial ballets, albeit clumsy ones compared to Orin and Cobalt. The duke, the lout, the scoundrel, was genuinely becoming a dragon rider.

 The sun beat down on the vast training fields as Gideon, with a newfound sense of confidence, put Porphyreus through a series of aerial maneuvers. They banked, climbed, and dove with a practiced ease that would have been unthinkable just weeks ago. Orin and Cobalt soared nearby, observing and occasionally offering pointers. The air was filled with the rush of powerful wings and the occasional, triumphant bellow from Gideon as he executed a particularly sharp turn.

Suddenly, a shadow, far too large and far too numerous, fell over them. Orin's sharp eyes narrowed. "Uncle Gideon! Look out!"

From the distant mountains, a dark cloud detached itself from the peaks and descended with terrifying speed. It wasn't just the roc from before; it was many rocs, a whole flock of them, their guttural shrieks echoing across the fields. They plummeted towards Gideon and Orin like living projectiles, clearly out for revenge.

"Blazes!" Gideon yelled, all thoughts of graceful maneuvers vanishing. "They brought friends!"

Without hesitation, both Gideon and Porphyreus and Orin and Cobalt took off in a burst of speed, climbing hard to gain altitude. The air was immediately thick with the beating wings and harsh cries of the enraged rocs.

"Cobalt! Double attack!" Orin commanded. Cobalt roared, unleashing two searing fireballs in quick succession. FWOOM! FWOOM! The blasts struck two of the attacking rocs head-on, their feathers igniting as they shrieked and plummeted, trailing smoke.

"There are so many of them!" Gideon shouted, pulling Porphyreus into a sharp corkscrew to avoid a diving roc.

"Fight them, Lush Lizard!" Gideon yelled, reverting to his familiar nickname in the heat of battle. Porphyreus needed no further urging. A deep rumble vibrated through his chest, and then, a massive gout of fire erupted from his maw, a wide, sweeping blast that engulfed three more rocs, sending them flaming to the earth.

The two dragonriders became a formidable team. Orin and Cobalt unleashed volley after volley of precise fireballs, while Gideon and Porphyreus responded with wide, powerful blasts of flame, clearing sections of the sky. But the rocs were relentless, swarming them from all sides, their sheer numbers overwhelming.

Suddenly, a massive roc, its eyes burning with malice, slipped through their defenses. It plummeted towards Porphyreus, its immense beak striking the purple dragon's wing—precisely where the old injury had been. Porphyreus shrieked, a raw sound of pain, as the wound reaggravated, tearing open once more. His powerful wing faltered, losing lift.

"Porpoise!" Gideon cried, his heart lurching as they began to plummet from the sky. The ground rushed up at them with horrifying speed. "No! Fight it, old friend! Overcome it! Fly!"

Gideon pleaded, pushing every ounce of his will into the dragon. The wind roared in his ears, the earth grew larger and larger. Just as they were about to hit the ground, when impact seemed inevitable, a surge of defiant power coursed through Porphyreus. With a guttural roar, he beat his injured wing with an almost impossible strength, pushing against the pain. The fall slowed, then miraculously, stopped. Porphyreus, with Gideon clinging on, soared back up, leaving the earth behind once more.

And then, Gideon heard a voice in his head. It was deep, resonant, and filled with a potent, fiery rage.

//Let's fry those damn chickens once and for all!//

Gideon's eyes widened in disbelief, then a wide, fierce grin spread across his face. He'd never heard a dragon speak in his mind before. /You said it, Porpoise!/ he thought back, forgetting himself in the heat of the moment.

//It's Porphyreus.// the voice corrected, a note of long-suffering dignity in its mental tone.

/Right! Porpoise! Let's do it!/ Gideon roared. With a shared, furious resolve, Gideon and Porphyreus rejoined Orin and Cobalt. Together, the two dragon teams unleashed a devastating firebomb on the remaining rocs, turning the sky into a flaming, avian nightmare.

The sky, once teeming with shrieking rocs, was now eerily quiet, save for the distant squawks of fleeing survivors. Black smoke curled from several plummeting bodies, painting streaks against the blue. Gideon, adrenaline still coursing through him, gazed at the devastation. He and Porphyreus had done it. They had fought, truly fought, and won. And then, he remembered.
The dragons' voice echoed in his head, clearer than any memory.

He looked down at the purple dragon, whose side was heaving, his injured wing still bleeding, but whose teal eyes now held a fierce, intelligent light. Gideon reached down, patting Porphyreus's neck, the act now imbued with a profound new meaning. /You... you spoke,/ he thought, his mind ringing with awe.

Porphyreus let out a soft rumble, a sound that seemed to resonate directly in Gideon's mind as a feeling of deep satisfaction, mixed with a touch of weariness.

Orin and Cobalt landed nearby, concern etched on Orin's face as he rushed towards them. "Uncle Gideon! Porphyreus! Are you alright? That wing!" He immediately noticed the fresh injury, blood staining the purple scales.

"We're fine, lad!" Gideon declared, a triumphant, almost manic grin splitting his face. "More than fine! We sent those feathered fiends packin'!" He looked at Porphyreus again, a silent, knowing look passing between them. He wouldn't tell Orin about the voice. Not yet. This was his and Porphyreus's secret.

Orin, however, was already taking charge. "We need to get you back to Grimstone, Porphyreus. That wing needs immediate attention. Mother will be... concerned." He knew Anaya's concern for her dragons, especially after their "detox" and initial injury.

Gideon nodded, the euphoria of battle beginning to recede, replaced by the more pressing reality of a wounded dragon. "Right. Back to Grimstone." /And then... maybe a small honeycake, eh, Lush Lizard? For medicinal purposes?/

Porphyreus let out a low rumble, which Gideon interpreted as a hopeful, but perhaps cautious, affirmation. He swung his leg around, preparing to dismount.


As Gideon and Porphyreus, accompanied by Orin and Cobalt, began their solemn journey back towards Grimstone Keep, the adrenaline from the battle slowly drained away, leaving behind the aches, the lingering scent of smoke, and the uncomfortable reality of Porphyreus's re-injured wing.

"Uncle Gideon," Orin began, his voice serious as he rode Cobalt alongside the purple dragon. "When we get back... let me tell Mother about the roc attack." He glanced at the bleeding wing. "If she sees Porphyreus injured again, she'll be... well, she'll be very angry. But if I explain we were overwhelmed by a whole flock, and how bravely you both fought, it might lessen the blow."

Gideon, still reeling from the unexpected mental conversation with Porphyreus and the sheer intensity of the fight, readily agreed. "A capital idea, lad!" he said, relief washing over him. The thought of facing Anaya's wrath for another dragon injury, especially after all his hard work in the gardens and with Porphyreus's detox, was more terrifying than a hundred rocs. "You're a clever one, Orin. Much cleverer than your old uncle." He offered a weary, grateful grin. "Just... try not to mention the 'Porpoise' bit, eh?"

Orin just shook his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Don't worry, Uncle. I won't."


In her study, Queen Anaya sat with Acreseus, but her mind was far away. Without warning, a jolt of pain, raw and searing, ripped through her. It was not her own, and it was followed by a surge of terror and a horrifying sense of falling. Her hand flew to her temple, and she gasped, her features twisting in shared pain as the mental image of a broken wing, purple and torn, flashed in her mind. She felt the violent impact and the subsequent scream of a purple dragon through the Dragon Net, her bond with Rory amplifying the emotions of her kin.

Anaya was out of her seat and out of the study before Acreseus could even ask what was wrong. She arrived in the courtyard just as Gideon and Orin, with the limping, miserable Porphyreus, were making their clumsy landing. The sight of the fresh blood on the purple dragon’s scales was a stark confirmation of the pain she’d just felt, and her fury, a cold steel that could cut to the bone, was immediate.

Her gaze, filled with the raw fury of her Dragon Rage, fell upon Gideon. "I felt it," she said, her voice quiet but with an edge that could cut steel. "The moment he was struck. Gideon, I want to hear your version. Now."

Gideon, looking thoroughly chastened, swallowed hard. "Right. Well. We were out flying, doing those maneuvers Orin taught us. Porphyreus was flying like a dream, honest! We were getting good, really good. And then... they just appeared. A whole sky full of 'em. Dozens of them. They dive-bombed us out in the fields. It was overwhelming". He recounted the desperate fight, emphasizing the sheer numbers of the attackers and Porphyreus's surprising resilience, especially when he overcame his pain to soar back up from their fall.

"One of 'em," Gideon continued, a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes. "It got Porphyreus on his old wing. And we fell." He looked down at his hands, then back at Anaya. "I... I told him to fly. To overcome it. And he did. He pulled us up just before we hit the ground." He looked at her, his roguish gray eyes earnest. "It wasn't... it wasn't my fault this time, Your Majesty. It just... happened."

Orin, seeing his mother's unrelenting gaze, stepped forward. "He's right, Mother," he said, his voice cutting through the tension. "It was an ambush. And Uncle Gideon was... brave. He guided Porphyreus, and they unleashed fire. They were a real team".

Anaya listened in silence, her expression thoughtful. When Orin finished, she walked closer to Gideon, her gaze softening just a fraction. "You and Cobalt did well, Orin. Very well." She then turned her full attention to Gideon, her voice gaining an icy resolve. "I believe your account. The threat of an entire roc flock is a serious matter, and I commend your bravery, and Porphyreus's resilience, in the face of such overwhelming odds".

She paused, letting that sink in. "However," Anaya continued, her tone hardening slightly, "this incident directly stemmed from the initial, entirely preventable, state of Porphyreus. Your misguided 'kindness' rendered him vulnerable, and that vulnerability drew the very danger he faced today".

She turned back to Orin. "Have the healers update me immediately on Porphyreus's condition". Then, to Gideon, she commanded, "You will see to him. Every aspect of his care. This is not over."

She walked closer, her hand resting briefly on Gideon's shoulder. "Porphyreus will heal again, but his recovery will now be longer. And your responsibility for it will continue. You will remain in charge of his care, under Orin's supervision, until I deem him fully recovered and ready for unrestricted flight. This includes every aspect of his care, and no more 'medicinal' ale." Her gaze was clear, leaving no room for argument.

"Furthermore," Anaya added, her voice regaining a touch of its royal authority, "I will be sending patrols to scout the Dragon's Tooth Mountains for this roc roost. Such a large concentration of them, and their brazen attack, cannot be ignored. Your unintended 'flight training' has, at least, provided us with valuable intelligence."

She gave a curt nod, signifying the end of the audience. "You are dismissed, Duke. See to Porphyreus. And continue to learn, Gideon. Dragons are not mere beasts of burden or companions for your revelries. They are ancient, powerful, and demand respect and proper care."

Gideon, for perhaps the first time in his life, left Anaya's presence with a complex mix of exhaustion, relief, and a profound, newly forged understanding of his place in the world, and Porphyreus's.


Gideon trudged towards the dragon quarters, his body aching but his mind buzzing. The image of Porphyreus falling, and then, miraculously, soaring again, was seared into his memory. But more vivid than any image was the voice. //Let's fry those damn chickens once and for all!// And his own foolish response, /You said it, Porpoise!/

He pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the dragon quarters, the scent of straw and dragon musk a familiar comfort. Porphyreus lay in a freshly strawed paddock, one wing bandaged and elevated, the royal healers already gone. Orin stood by the dragon's head, gently stroking his snout.

"He's resting comfortably now, Uncle," Orin murmured, turning as Gideon approached. "The healers say it's not as bad as the first time, but it'll still take a while to mend properly."

Gideon nodded, walking past Orin and settling himself on the straw beside Porphyreus's massive head. He looked into the dragon's large, teal eyes. They held no malice, no lingering dizziness, just a deep, intelligent warmth.

//You called me Porpoise,// a voice rumbled in Gideon's mind, clear as a bell, yet utterly silent in the room.

Gideon nearly jumped, glancing around to see if Orin had heard. Orin was oblivious, still stroking Porphyreus's snout. Gideon leaned closer to the dragon. /Uh... yeah,/ he thought back, trying to project his thoughts, unsure if it even worked. /Got a bit carried away. My apologies... Porphyreus./ He focused on the correction, enunciating it carefully in his mind.

//It is fine, Gideon,// Porphyreus's voice resonated, a touch of weary amusement in his mental tone. //You fought well. For a bumbling human.//

A grin spread across Gideon's face, though he stifled a chuckle. /Bumbling, eh? Well, you were no graceful swan yourself when we took off, Lush Lizard./ He hesitated, then pushed further. /I can't believe we can understand each other./

//I understand many things.// Porphyreus replied. //More than most humans imagine. We dragons... we are not merely beasts to be ridden..// There was a distinct pause, a mental sigh. //But the ale, Gideon. The ale was magnificent. My fire feels... clean now, but I miss the warmth of it in my belly. Sky Strider's methods are... severe, but I will abide by them here.// A feeling of deep, cunning warmth radiated from the dragon's thoughts. //But when we are back in the Southern Marches, away from her watchful eye, perhaps you can spare a barrel a day?//

Gideon nearly jumped, glancing around to see if Orin had heard. Orin was oblivious, still stroking Porphyreus's snout. Gideon leaned closer to the dragon. /Uh... yeah,/ he thought back, trying to project his thoughts. /Once you're all better. A barrel a day. Just between us. When we're home./

//Indeed,// Porphyreus responded, and Gideon sensed a deep, comfortable warmth emanating from the dragon. //We have much to teach each other, Duke Gideon. Perhaps you will learn how to properly care for a dragon. And perhaps... I will learn to appreciate a human who plies me with an occasional ale and honeycake.//

Gideon let out a full, hearty laugh this time, completely forgetting Orin was there. The young prince looked over, startled, wondering what on earth had set his uncle off.

/Honeycakes, Porpoise,/ Gideon thought back, a promise in his mental voice. /Once we're home, and only then./ He reached out, gently scratching Porphyreus' head, feeling the rough scales against his hand. This was a new beginning for their bond, one forged not in drunken revelry, but in shared peril, quiet understanding, and the unspoken promise of a truly unique friendship.


The Southern Marches were a world away from the stony peaks of Grimstone Keep. Here, the hills were rolling and green, the air warm and sweet with the scent of late summer. Gideon’s sprawling estate was a picture of verdant tranquility, a far cry from the trampled gardens and royal decrees of his recent past. The sun, a fat, orange orb, was just beginning its descent, painting the sky in glorious shades of fire and gold.

"Ah, home sweet home," Gideon sighed, leaning against the sturdy trunk of a towering oak tree.

Porphyreus, magnificent and fully healed, lay sprawled in the grass, his purple scales shimmering in the golden light. He was no longer the "Lush Lizard," but a respected friend and partner. The last month had been a rigorous regimen of diet, exercise, and sobriety under Orin's unyielding eye. Now, however, they were in their own territory, and Anaya's wrath was a hundred miles away.

Gideon reached into a basket beside him and pulled out a fresh honey cake, thick and golden. He then produced a large wooden barrel, and filled it from a small, inconspicuous keg. He set the barrel before Porphyreus, who leaned forward, his teal eyes gleaming with anticipation as he took the treats.

Just as the dragon dipped his snout to the frothy ale, a voice, cold as a winter wind, echoed in both their minds. It was not a physical sound; it was a pure thought, sharp as a dagger, coming from a hundred miles away.

/Hello, boys!/
Lout and lizard froze instantly. Gideon's tankard, half-raised in a toast, stopped in mid-air. His roguish gray eyes, so recently filled with a contented sparkle, widened in naked terror. Porphyreus, in turn, pulled back from the barrel with a sharp, sputtering gasp, his teal eyes growing wide. They looked at each other, their shared moment of triumph instantly replaced by a feeling of profound and mutual dread. They were caught.
/Did you two really think I wouldn't notice just because you're 100 miles away?/

Gideon and Porphyreus felt their stomachs drop as they shared a frightened gaze.

/Don't worry. I haven't the time or the patience to chase the two of you all over Rhodos. Just promise me one thing, Gideon. Keep his drinking to a bare minimum!/

/Understood, Steelheart. Just one barrel a day!/ Gideon promised, his mind racing.

/That's a promise I'm holding you to! Enjoy your drink./ Anaya concluded, and the communication ended.

Gideon and Porphyreus looked at each other, stunned into silence.

/God! She's scary!/ they both thought as they clinked their tankards together in a toast and took a draft of ale.


Fin