I think part of the reason I built the back half of this story the way I did was almost entirely down to wanting to expand on my personal ideas on how the Duel Monsters' world works. It's one of the few things that I really, really wish the anime had expanded on. The Doma storyline of the anime, "Waking the Dragons," could have given us so much, and one of the main complaints I have about the story in general is that it didn't.

But, I guess that's what fanfiction is for in the first place, isn't it?


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Two men stand in an office, where damnation has been writ upon ruined furniture. Tempestuous anger has found this place, but it leaves as quickly as it arrives, as much a wild storm as an emotion. Such rage, in such close proximity to a Millennium Item, can be felt rippling all throughout the Barrier.

The great guardians are not unaware of the sins committed with their power, and they watch with consternation and quiet fury of their own. Bad enough that they have been created to begin with, that their chaos has been solidified into singular forms; but to be used in such ways? Even the darkest and most devious of monsters are insulted by this trespass.

Each word from these men thunders in them like war drums.

They listen, baring their teeth.

Growling.

"It does no one any good for you to go about throwing things and ranting," says one of the men as he toys with the silver curtain of his hair. "They failed. They all failed. Does that honestly surprise you? Did you think yourself so innately superior that you wouldn't take a single loss in this entire operation? You do know that boy ousted you in his home world."

"Do not presume to know the breadth of my knowledge, boy," hisses the second man; older, broader, taller, harder.

"You look like a child, petulantly demanding that Papa Dearest enforce the rules and let you win. Do remember what your aim is here; remember what you stand to gain, and treat your opponents with the respect they've so clearly earned. Else you're going to be defeated, utterly and without mercy, and I am going to watch."

The second man bristles. "That is dangerously close to an admission of treason."

The first man laughs. "Oh, give me a break, Kaiba. You aren't Crown Sovereign o'er all the lands you survey. If it becomes expedient for me to cut my losses and be done with you, I am going to do it. Don't act like you wouldn't do the same in my position. We both know you're smarter than that."

"You wouldn't be risking my anger with that insufferable smirk unless you had a plan in mind. Go on. Speak. Showcase your genius, why don't you?"

"It's quite simple, honestly. He trusts no one. That much is obvious, and I think it will be all the truer once he wakes from his . . . unfortunate slumber. There are precious few, particularly ones to whom you have access, with the ability to get close to him. Fewer still, vanishingly so, with the temerity to do what you want done."

"You're suggesting subterfuge."

"Naturally. Raw force was unsuccessful. Though, I will admit, you did come close. But now, you must rely on tactical precision. A sharp, swift—small—cut to the right place will do the job just as well. I've been looking over our . . . prospects, if you like, and I fully believe we still have every likelihood of seeing this job done. So come, come. Enough of this little temper tantrum. Let's get to work."

". . . You know, Crawford. You're much more devious than I gave you credit for."

"Oh, come now. Flattery will get you everywhere."

So it comes to pass that a cadre of soldiers, clad in chain and carrying spears, watch the men leave their self-made ruins. They march, onward and upward, stern and grim-faced, to a grand arcade. They move in lockstep, eyes straight ahead, untouched by distraction and bearing barely-restrained insult, and civilians rush to make room for them. They watch in awe, choking on their conversations, as the Outer Guard sweeps past them. Never before have the common folk seen these warriors, these simple and nondescript soldiers, no flattery nor ornament, just the unmatched sharpness of their senses and their blades.

They are the vanguard. They are the lighthouse standing tall in the dark.

They are the first warning.

A tall and somber man, wrapped in dark robes of office and clutching a staff, with long violet hair sweeping out behind him like wings, turns toward the sound of their boots. He waits with mild curiosity as the Guard approaches. When the company captain steps up to him and salutes with a fist to his heart, the magician nods.

"Speak," says he, solemn and austere.

"Unrest on the limits, m'lord," says the captain. "Thought to send a standard report, but the Warden says to us, he says, 'Deliver this directly.'"

The magician looks surprised for a moment, eyebrows arching gracefully over his lightly glowing blue eyes. "What is the nature of this unrest?"

"A threat, m'lord," says the captain, "to the White Wyrm's chosen."

The magician stiffens, his thin face paling. "You speak with certainty?"

"Wouldn' say the words if'n they weren't carved in me memory, m'lord."

"I see now why you were brought to me." The magician's far-off, dreamlike attitude vanishes, leaving behind one of the Barrier's finest generals. "Come. We make for the scrying pool. We haven't fully recovered from the last time she was riled."

"Should we send a messenger to the mountain, m'lord?"

"Only if you've a prisoner you've been meaning to execute," says the magician shortly. "Trust me in this if you ever trust me in anything: you want nothing with a heartbeat and running blood to make for that mountain. Entrust this to me and mine."

One of the others, standing behind the captain's right shoulder, speaks up: "Why do we trust so in the white'un if getting to it is so dangerous? Surely there's better guardians? More available, more trustworthy? What of your good self?"

The magician blinks, then chuckles darkly. "How lucky you are, to be dealing with me. I should venture to think any other member of the Court would tan your hide for speaking so dismissively of a queen." He turns his attention back to the captain. "Do teach your subordinates proper decorum. It does not do for one to question a sovereign's place in her own kingdom."

The captain bows low. "O'course, m'lord."

The other guard looks embarrassed; affronted.

The magician draws in a deep breath, shakes his head, then crosses his arms over his chest. He says: "Very well. I shall explain. The White Wyrm, as many are wont to call her, is one of the most ancient and powerful touchstones of this land we call home. She has been carving out trenches in this endless war since before any of you emerged from the ether. When she sleeps, it is because she has earned her rest. Without her, we would have but a sliver of the foothold we have. She, and her sisters three, are the reason we have any victories to our order at all."

"Sisters three?" the guard repeats, confused.

"The queen of dragons was once one of four. She now reigns alone."

"What happened to the others?"

The magician's eyes glaze over, and his face falls. He takes in another deep breath, but this time it does not prologue more information. Rather, he says: "There will be time enough later, for you to learn your history. For the moment, we have work to do. Come. All of you. Anyone with urgent questions would do well to phrase them . . . carefully."

"My lord!" the soldiers call with one voice.

They fall into step behind the magician, and march in silence.