Author's Note: Yeah, another fic on the Dragon Campaign. I did this because
although it's been done many times, every writer's view of the Dragon
Campaign is different, because we don't know that much about it. It's been
told from Damia's, Shirley's (neither of which I've had time to read yet,
but I'll get to them eventually), and Rose's POV, the latter several times.
But what surprises me is, no Zieg fics. He's usually just portrayed as
Rose's love interest and nothing else, like he doesn't have his own
character. He was the leader, why shouldn't he have his say? Well, I
decided to change that.
The game never really says much about Zieg. It's basically, oh yeah, he had a thing with Rose, got turned to stone, woke up a really long time later, had a kid with Haschel's runaway daughter, then got possessed by Melbu Frahma and did bad things. There are some people (Aerena, for instance, who I'm hoping won't take offense and come after me with a stapler) whose opinion of Zieg could be summarized as thus; 'He spawned the retarded pile of slime known as DART, so he must be a horrible, horrible character and I should hate him for no real reason'. Well, I'm afraid I can't see eye to eye with that, and I decided to do something about it, as I did with Crimson Wings. Remember, it takes serious guts to be a leader. At least, that's what I think.
Chapter 1
"You there, Blondie! Move your ass!"
I snarled angrily, but the overseer raised his club in a threatening matter and I returned sullenly to my work. I was twenty-three, and a slave for an odious Wingly known as Lord Halmon on his grand estate in the outskirts of Aglis. I had been in this accursed hellhole for nearly two years now, after being handed off from owner to owner, none of which seeming to know what to do with me. Halmon did, but he was a typical cold-hearted slave driver. If they can work, then beat them into submission. If they can't, sell them off. Pathetic human lives meant nothing to him.
My life hadn't always been like this. I used to be one of the more fortunate of the Human race. My mother died in childbirth, but my father served in the Wingly military. When he died, I was bought by one of his comrades who wished to spare me from the horrors of the slave system, a fine Wingly who proved that friendships between the two races were far from impossible. He retired from the army soon thereafter, and I grew up and worked on the blacksmith's shop he opened. He owned a fair amount of slaves, but he treated us well, so well, in fact, that some Winglies muttered that he practically considered children instead of beasts of burden. That was all we amounted to as far as most of the so-called higher species were concerned, barbaric animals. It made me sick, with them justifying keeping us in chains by saying that they were saving us from our own ignorance, exposing us to the wonders of a superior society, but they always conveniently forgot to mention that it was being built on our sweat and blood!
Still, I was happy there, not really a slave except in title. However, several of the more wealthy upperclassmen decided that my owner's views were a bit more radical for his own good, and more importantly, for theirs. When I was nineteen, he died under suspicious circumstances, but the doctor wrote it off as natural causes. That was a blatant lie and I knew it, for I recognized the symptoms of poisoning when I saw them. It was foul play, pure and simple, and the doctor was in on the scheme, probably receiving a nice fat sack of gold for his troubles. Bribery was also the reason the case was never investigated, that much was obvious.
He had originally intended to leave a portion of his inheritance to each of his slaves, just enough to buy us our freedom. However, because of the unexpected time of his death, he had not yet written a will. Therefore, all of his belongings were divided among his own offspring, as Wingly law dictated. He had seven children, and was far from a rich man, so they decided it would be too costly to let us go, and released us into the system to fend for ourselves. I had become just another slave, alone among the countless others of my kind trapped in a tortured existence from which we would never escape.
I had been bought up shortly afterwards, able-bodied young males being in high demand. However, my new owners were apparently unused to defiance, and I switched hands quickly. I was bought and sold no less than a dozen times in the two years between my first owner's death and my purchase at the hands of Lord Halmon. However, my current owner appeared accustomed to insubordination, and his cure for it, like everything else, was a strong whipping. I had lost count of the times I had been beaten over the months.
As I loaded the last of the freshly cut lumber into the cart, Lord Halmon strode by haughtily, surrounded by a pair of his personal guard. He must have been going into the city for a purchase of some kind. However, he seemed sullen and preoccupied. I could not resist a wisecrack, even though it was almost suicide to speak to one's owner out of place. "Someone looks a little upset today. What's wrong, did a mule kick you in the testicles again?"
The Wingly's pale face flushed with anger and embarrassment; apparently the memory was still painfully fresh on his mind. I had instigated the whole incident, of course. A discreet blow with the herding stick to the beast's flank had done the trick. It was quite amusing, and besides, I had taught him a valuable lesson. The rich Winglies were too dignified to experience something so degrading, so I decided that I was doing him a favor by giving him a taste of what it was like out here. Apparently, he enjoyed it even less than we did.
He had known I had done it the whole time, or at least suspected, but he couldn't do anything about it. There were a steadily growing number of judges on the benches of Zenebatos that sympathized with our plight, if such a thing was truly possible, and Halmon couldn't have a slave 'exterminated' unless he had concrete proof I was a detriment to superior Wingly society. He had none, so I was off the hook. Of course, he could have me unceremoniously hanged or something of that sort, but there were quite a few other nobles who would be very gleeful to find such juicy gossip, regardless of how they treated their own humans. Halmon had a reputation to keep up. A slave could get away with just about anything if he wasn't stupid enough to leave a trail; I was merely the only one brave enough to try. Some wrote it off as stupidity, but I preferred to call it taking advantage of my situation. I was stuck here anyway, why not get a little fun out of it?
As Halmon turned to me, two overseers strode up to stand behind me on both sides, heavy clubs in hand to beat me into a lifeless bloody pulp if the lord so much as raised a finger. The blood-red gaze narrowed murderously, but I merely sneered up at him, undaunted. When I spoke, my voice was low, so that only he and the four nearby flunkies could hear. "Go on, do it. Make a martyr out of me. What do I care?"
I knew he wouldn't kill me. Winglies were so predictable; you always knew how they would act. Therefore, they were easily manipulated. However, I was treading on risky ground here. If this didn't play out as I had planned, I would wind up dead. The crimson irises widened briefly, then hardened again. "Give him a good whipping."
So, the situation with the slaves was as bad as the rumors said, possibly even worse. The number of revolts were climbing, they could easily snowball into a full-scale revolution. Decisions that the Winglies normally would have made in the blink of an eye now took serious consideration, for one misstep could cost them their way of life. I just had to exploit that uncertainty and I could get out of nearly anything. Beatings were trivial matters, I marveled at the fact the lash still penetrated my back for all the times it had been done.
One of the overseers unfurled a heavy leather whip and lifted it high above his head. The first stroke came whistling down, flaying a stripe of skin from my back and sending white-hot spasms of pain shooting through my body. I forced the pain to the back of my mind and ignored the bile that welled up in my throat. I took my attention away from the familiar agony by twisting my face into a mocking smirk as I stared up unblinkingly at my owner. He didn't own me. I was my own person, and all the beatings in the world couldn't convince me otherwise.
The expression on my face clearly angered Lord Halmon, and he let the beating go on for longer than usual as a result. When it became clear I was not going to break, he motioned the overseer down, and turned on his heel, heading down the road toward the commercial area of the city, his bodyguards trailing behind him like a pair of loyal dogs. I looked up to make sure Halmon was well out of sight, and glanced back to make sure the overseers had gone off to brutalize someone else. Then the façade crumbled. I dropped to my hands and knees, gagging and retching, trying to free myself of the phlegm that had built up in my throat.
I finally stood up, gasping for breath as my blood and various other bodily fluids formed a nauseating pool at my feet. The lashes on my back still stung, but I knew the pain would fade eventually. It always did. I knew I had only made things worse on myself by continuing to goad Halmon, but I didn't care. I would let the whipping go on forever before I gave that pigfaced jackass the satisfaction of seeing me cringe in pain, begging forgiveness. But this time it was my point. Sorry, Master, but I win this round.
I trudged back to the huts to patch up my wounds, then went back to work.
A few hours later, a young Wingly approached me as I was smelting a new set of horseshoes, one of the things that I alone was assigned to do, for I had the skills necessary that most of the other slaves didn't possess. "You there. The boss wants you."
So Halmon had returned from his little trip. I wondered what he wanted now. Probably another beating and a private threat. I sighed, releasing the tongs' grip on the last horseshoe, which dropped into a nearby bucket of water, which made its protest known through a hissing cloud of steam. I laid the tongs down and followed the courier to the grand mansion.
I was led into Halmon's private chambers. The room was lavishly decorated, obviously meant to put a victim in awe of his power. However, it disgusted me, for in my eyes it was nothing more than a tawdry squander of wealth, which had been gained off the labor of a repressed people, who were viewed as little more than parasites. Halmon got up from his chair and walked around a highly polished ebony desk, and turned to face me. His words were cold and soulless, as if they were being spoken through the mouth of one of their mechanical creations.
"You're being sold."
Surprise flickered on and off my face. It was hardly what I had expected. After all, for all my defiance, the work I did was adequate, and slaves trained in artisan skills were hard to come by. He looked as if he were waiting for me to respond, but I remained silent. What could I say? It wasn't as if I had any decision in the matter.
"To the arena. You leave immediately."
Ah, the arena. So he had finally become truly scared of my influence. The arena was where owners sent slaves who had either killed a Wingly or slaves who were believed to be on the edge of doing so. It was a perfectly legal and profitable way of getting rid of someone who might entice your mild- mannered workers into a raging mob. I supposed I should have been flattered he considered me such a danger.
"They paid bottom price for you, though. Apparently they had heard about your reputation as a troublemaker."
I finally broke my silence, my voice dripping with acidic sarcasm. "Oh, boo hoo. There's a real blow to my self-esteem." I knew my worth; I didn't need anyone else to tell it to me.
The Wingly's face contorted in anger and indignation, for nobody else dared to speak to him that way. He raised his hand as if to strike me, but he hesitated when my eyes glittered dangerously. When I spoke again, my voice was arrogant, purposely egging him on. "Go ahead. But I warn you that if you so much as touch me, I'll have you on the ground in a chokehold so fast you won't be able to utter a single syllable of that flashy magic of yours.
Now that was risky. It was an open death threat, he could have killed me then and there and nobody in Zenebatos would have given him so much as a fine. But his hand dropped. He either didn't wish to get into anything messy or he was actually concerned about his ability to overpower me. I didn't blame him, for years of easy living made the upperclassmen soft. With nobody to help him, I could kill him without much difficulty, and the result would probably be me getting sent to the arena anyway.
I was herded out of the manor and onto a crude wooden cart. As the wagon started on its bumpy path, I contemplated my current situation. I was going to become a gladiator. The more I thought about it, the more I considered it a step up from my previous station. The arena at least had decent food, sanitation, and medicine, for sick or malnourished warriors were not profitable ones. Plus, the only pain I would suffer in the coliseum would be inflicted by other humans, which didn't bother me as much, although I wasn't exactly certain why.
I saw Halmon's elegant carriage pull along side us, drawn by a pair of fine steeds. He was coming to watch the ceremony, then. Every day, the arena introduced the new arrivals to the crowds before they fought their first match the next day. Either Halmon was interested in what my introduction would be like, or he simply felt like going that day. It didn't really matter to me.
When we arrived in the arena square, I was ushered onto a large wooden platform along with a dozen or so others. Usually the new gladiators were pitted against each other in pairs in a brief test of their skills. Sure enough, after a few others had engaged in short matches, I was shoved to the front, and someone clapped a short sword in my hand. I tested the weapon, and looked for Lord Halmon in the crowd. I spotted him quickly, for he was in the prominent front rows, watching the proceedings with a superior smirk.
Would it work? The sword I held in my hand was not large or heavy, in fact, it weighed only slightly more than the large work knives I used often in the fields. Soa knows I'd practiced this stunt enough with those. Besides, the crowd was packed, and one Wingly was as good as another as far as I was concerned. My mind made up; I raised the blade in a sort of salute to my opponent. He looked at me uneasily, as if unsure if my strange motion was a kind of weird ritual or if I was just inventing a creative way to ram my weapon through his gut.
He had nothing to worry about, however. In a flash, I whirled and released the blade, hurling it into the crowd. Hundreds of faces simultaneously turned to where the sword lay embedded deep in the chest of Lord Halmon. There were several shouts for a medic, but I knew it was far too late to help him. That shot was directly on target, he would be dead almost instantly.
There were also several shouts that were slightly more vocal than the others to kill me on the spot, but I knew that wouldn't happen. Most of the fighters had gotten here in the first place because they had killed Winglies, and one less noble did not concern the arena masters. They were in this business solely for personal profit, and this incident had proven my worth far better than any sparring match would have. They loved stunts, the flashier and more reckless the better. I was already showing promise in their view; I would not be killed.
It was ironic in a bitter way, when I looked back upon it. Halmon had sent me to the arena hoping it would be my death sentence. But I had not only decreed his death sentence, but also confirmed and carried it out as well, all in less than a second.
Always one up on you, Master. I always have been, and now I always will be.
Author's Note: Not exactly a sunshine and daisies fic. But I enjoyed writing that chapter. Anyway, if any of this is wrong, which it shouldn't be, because I haven't even gotten close to the actual Dragon Campaign yet, then make sure to let me know and I'll edit.
The game never really says much about Zieg. It's basically, oh yeah, he had a thing with Rose, got turned to stone, woke up a really long time later, had a kid with Haschel's runaway daughter, then got possessed by Melbu Frahma and did bad things. There are some people (Aerena, for instance, who I'm hoping won't take offense and come after me with a stapler) whose opinion of Zieg could be summarized as thus; 'He spawned the retarded pile of slime known as DART, so he must be a horrible, horrible character and I should hate him for no real reason'. Well, I'm afraid I can't see eye to eye with that, and I decided to do something about it, as I did with Crimson Wings. Remember, it takes serious guts to be a leader. At least, that's what I think.
Chapter 1
"You there, Blondie! Move your ass!"
I snarled angrily, but the overseer raised his club in a threatening matter and I returned sullenly to my work. I was twenty-three, and a slave for an odious Wingly known as Lord Halmon on his grand estate in the outskirts of Aglis. I had been in this accursed hellhole for nearly two years now, after being handed off from owner to owner, none of which seeming to know what to do with me. Halmon did, but he was a typical cold-hearted slave driver. If they can work, then beat them into submission. If they can't, sell them off. Pathetic human lives meant nothing to him.
My life hadn't always been like this. I used to be one of the more fortunate of the Human race. My mother died in childbirth, but my father served in the Wingly military. When he died, I was bought by one of his comrades who wished to spare me from the horrors of the slave system, a fine Wingly who proved that friendships between the two races were far from impossible. He retired from the army soon thereafter, and I grew up and worked on the blacksmith's shop he opened. He owned a fair amount of slaves, but he treated us well, so well, in fact, that some Winglies muttered that he practically considered children instead of beasts of burden. That was all we amounted to as far as most of the so-called higher species were concerned, barbaric animals. It made me sick, with them justifying keeping us in chains by saying that they were saving us from our own ignorance, exposing us to the wonders of a superior society, but they always conveniently forgot to mention that it was being built on our sweat and blood!
Still, I was happy there, not really a slave except in title. However, several of the more wealthy upperclassmen decided that my owner's views were a bit more radical for his own good, and more importantly, for theirs. When I was nineteen, he died under suspicious circumstances, but the doctor wrote it off as natural causes. That was a blatant lie and I knew it, for I recognized the symptoms of poisoning when I saw them. It was foul play, pure and simple, and the doctor was in on the scheme, probably receiving a nice fat sack of gold for his troubles. Bribery was also the reason the case was never investigated, that much was obvious.
He had originally intended to leave a portion of his inheritance to each of his slaves, just enough to buy us our freedom. However, because of the unexpected time of his death, he had not yet written a will. Therefore, all of his belongings were divided among his own offspring, as Wingly law dictated. He had seven children, and was far from a rich man, so they decided it would be too costly to let us go, and released us into the system to fend for ourselves. I had become just another slave, alone among the countless others of my kind trapped in a tortured existence from which we would never escape.
I had been bought up shortly afterwards, able-bodied young males being in high demand. However, my new owners were apparently unused to defiance, and I switched hands quickly. I was bought and sold no less than a dozen times in the two years between my first owner's death and my purchase at the hands of Lord Halmon. However, my current owner appeared accustomed to insubordination, and his cure for it, like everything else, was a strong whipping. I had lost count of the times I had been beaten over the months.
As I loaded the last of the freshly cut lumber into the cart, Lord Halmon strode by haughtily, surrounded by a pair of his personal guard. He must have been going into the city for a purchase of some kind. However, he seemed sullen and preoccupied. I could not resist a wisecrack, even though it was almost suicide to speak to one's owner out of place. "Someone looks a little upset today. What's wrong, did a mule kick you in the testicles again?"
The Wingly's pale face flushed with anger and embarrassment; apparently the memory was still painfully fresh on his mind. I had instigated the whole incident, of course. A discreet blow with the herding stick to the beast's flank had done the trick. It was quite amusing, and besides, I had taught him a valuable lesson. The rich Winglies were too dignified to experience something so degrading, so I decided that I was doing him a favor by giving him a taste of what it was like out here. Apparently, he enjoyed it even less than we did.
He had known I had done it the whole time, or at least suspected, but he couldn't do anything about it. There were a steadily growing number of judges on the benches of Zenebatos that sympathized with our plight, if such a thing was truly possible, and Halmon couldn't have a slave 'exterminated' unless he had concrete proof I was a detriment to superior Wingly society. He had none, so I was off the hook. Of course, he could have me unceremoniously hanged or something of that sort, but there were quite a few other nobles who would be very gleeful to find such juicy gossip, regardless of how they treated their own humans. Halmon had a reputation to keep up. A slave could get away with just about anything if he wasn't stupid enough to leave a trail; I was merely the only one brave enough to try. Some wrote it off as stupidity, but I preferred to call it taking advantage of my situation. I was stuck here anyway, why not get a little fun out of it?
As Halmon turned to me, two overseers strode up to stand behind me on both sides, heavy clubs in hand to beat me into a lifeless bloody pulp if the lord so much as raised a finger. The blood-red gaze narrowed murderously, but I merely sneered up at him, undaunted. When I spoke, my voice was low, so that only he and the four nearby flunkies could hear. "Go on, do it. Make a martyr out of me. What do I care?"
I knew he wouldn't kill me. Winglies were so predictable; you always knew how they would act. Therefore, they were easily manipulated. However, I was treading on risky ground here. If this didn't play out as I had planned, I would wind up dead. The crimson irises widened briefly, then hardened again. "Give him a good whipping."
So, the situation with the slaves was as bad as the rumors said, possibly even worse. The number of revolts were climbing, they could easily snowball into a full-scale revolution. Decisions that the Winglies normally would have made in the blink of an eye now took serious consideration, for one misstep could cost them their way of life. I just had to exploit that uncertainty and I could get out of nearly anything. Beatings were trivial matters, I marveled at the fact the lash still penetrated my back for all the times it had been done.
One of the overseers unfurled a heavy leather whip and lifted it high above his head. The first stroke came whistling down, flaying a stripe of skin from my back and sending white-hot spasms of pain shooting through my body. I forced the pain to the back of my mind and ignored the bile that welled up in my throat. I took my attention away from the familiar agony by twisting my face into a mocking smirk as I stared up unblinkingly at my owner. He didn't own me. I was my own person, and all the beatings in the world couldn't convince me otherwise.
The expression on my face clearly angered Lord Halmon, and he let the beating go on for longer than usual as a result. When it became clear I was not going to break, he motioned the overseer down, and turned on his heel, heading down the road toward the commercial area of the city, his bodyguards trailing behind him like a pair of loyal dogs. I looked up to make sure Halmon was well out of sight, and glanced back to make sure the overseers had gone off to brutalize someone else. Then the façade crumbled. I dropped to my hands and knees, gagging and retching, trying to free myself of the phlegm that had built up in my throat.
I finally stood up, gasping for breath as my blood and various other bodily fluids formed a nauseating pool at my feet. The lashes on my back still stung, but I knew the pain would fade eventually. It always did. I knew I had only made things worse on myself by continuing to goad Halmon, but I didn't care. I would let the whipping go on forever before I gave that pigfaced jackass the satisfaction of seeing me cringe in pain, begging forgiveness. But this time it was my point. Sorry, Master, but I win this round.
I trudged back to the huts to patch up my wounds, then went back to work.
A few hours later, a young Wingly approached me as I was smelting a new set of horseshoes, one of the things that I alone was assigned to do, for I had the skills necessary that most of the other slaves didn't possess. "You there. The boss wants you."
So Halmon had returned from his little trip. I wondered what he wanted now. Probably another beating and a private threat. I sighed, releasing the tongs' grip on the last horseshoe, which dropped into a nearby bucket of water, which made its protest known through a hissing cloud of steam. I laid the tongs down and followed the courier to the grand mansion.
I was led into Halmon's private chambers. The room was lavishly decorated, obviously meant to put a victim in awe of his power. However, it disgusted me, for in my eyes it was nothing more than a tawdry squander of wealth, which had been gained off the labor of a repressed people, who were viewed as little more than parasites. Halmon got up from his chair and walked around a highly polished ebony desk, and turned to face me. His words were cold and soulless, as if they were being spoken through the mouth of one of their mechanical creations.
"You're being sold."
Surprise flickered on and off my face. It was hardly what I had expected. After all, for all my defiance, the work I did was adequate, and slaves trained in artisan skills were hard to come by. He looked as if he were waiting for me to respond, but I remained silent. What could I say? It wasn't as if I had any decision in the matter.
"To the arena. You leave immediately."
Ah, the arena. So he had finally become truly scared of my influence. The arena was where owners sent slaves who had either killed a Wingly or slaves who were believed to be on the edge of doing so. It was a perfectly legal and profitable way of getting rid of someone who might entice your mild- mannered workers into a raging mob. I supposed I should have been flattered he considered me such a danger.
"They paid bottom price for you, though. Apparently they had heard about your reputation as a troublemaker."
I finally broke my silence, my voice dripping with acidic sarcasm. "Oh, boo hoo. There's a real blow to my self-esteem." I knew my worth; I didn't need anyone else to tell it to me.
The Wingly's face contorted in anger and indignation, for nobody else dared to speak to him that way. He raised his hand as if to strike me, but he hesitated when my eyes glittered dangerously. When I spoke again, my voice was arrogant, purposely egging him on. "Go ahead. But I warn you that if you so much as touch me, I'll have you on the ground in a chokehold so fast you won't be able to utter a single syllable of that flashy magic of yours.
Now that was risky. It was an open death threat, he could have killed me then and there and nobody in Zenebatos would have given him so much as a fine. But his hand dropped. He either didn't wish to get into anything messy or he was actually concerned about his ability to overpower me. I didn't blame him, for years of easy living made the upperclassmen soft. With nobody to help him, I could kill him without much difficulty, and the result would probably be me getting sent to the arena anyway.
I was herded out of the manor and onto a crude wooden cart. As the wagon started on its bumpy path, I contemplated my current situation. I was going to become a gladiator. The more I thought about it, the more I considered it a step up from my previous station. The arena at least had decent food, sanitation, and medicine, for sick or malnourished warriors were not profitable ones. Plus, the only pain I would suffer in the coliseum would be inflicted by other humans, which didn't bother me as much, although I wasn't exactly certain why.
I saw Halmon's elegant carriage pull along side us, drawn by a pair of fine steeds. He was coming to watch the ceremony, then. Every day, the arena introduced the new arrivals to the crowds before they fought their first match the next day. Either Halmon was interested in what my introduction would be like, or he simply felt like going that day. It didn't really matter to me.
When we arrived in the arena square, I was ushered onto a large wooden platform along with a dozen or so others. Usually the new gladiators were pitted against each other in pairs in a brief test of their skills. Sure enough, after a few others had engaged in short matches, I was shoved to the front, and someone clapped a short sword in my hand. I tested the weapon, and looked for Lord Halmon in the crowd. I spotted him quickly, for he was in the prominent front rows, watching the proceedings with a superior smirk.
Would it work? The sword I held in my hand was not large or heavy, in fact, it weighed only slightly more than the large work knives I used often in the fields. Soa knows I'd practiced this stunt enough with those. Besides, the crowd was packed, and one Wingly was as good as another as far as I was concerned. My mind made up; I raised the blade in a sort of salute to my opponent. He looked at me uneasily, as if unsure if my strange motion was a kind of weird ritual or if I was just inventing a creative way to ram my weapon through his gut.
He had nothing to worry about, however. In a flash, I whirled and released the blade, hurling it into the crowd. Hundreds of faces simultaneously turned to where the sword lay embedded deep in the chest of Lord Halmon. There were several shouts for a medic, but I knew it was far too late to help him. That shot was directly on target, he would be dead almost instantly.
There were also several shouts that were slightly more vocal than the others to kill me on the spot, but I knew that wouldn't happen. Most of the fighters had gotten here in the first place because they had killed Winglies, and one less noble did not concern the arena masters. They were in this business solely for personal profit, and this incident had proven my worth far better than any sparring match would have. They loved stunts, the flashier and more reckless the better. I was already showing promise in their view; I would not be killed.
It was ironic in a bitter way, when I looked back upon it. Halmon had sent me to the arena hoping it would be my death sentence. But I had not only decreed his death sentence, but also confirmed and carried it out as well, all in less than a second.
Always one up on you, Master. I always have been, and now I always will be.
Author's Note: Not exactly a sunshine and daisies fic. But I enjoyed writing that chapter. Anyway, if any of this is wrong, which it shouldn't be, because I haven't even gotten close to the actual Dragon Campaign yet, then make sure to let me know and I'll edit.