A knock woke me.

  It respected the idea of politeness, but not its execution. Too loud, too urgent, too determined to be innocent.

  I sat up, corrected my collar out of habit, and crossed the room. If history had taught me anything, it was that doors rarely improved situations, but ignoring them tended to escalate them.

  When I opened it, the guard stood there.

  Beside him waited a man I had not seen before, dressed in the restrained precision of someone who carried authority for a living and preferred not to be blamed for it.

  “Am I addressing the man known as Max Mustermann?” He asked.

  “That is the prevailing theory,” I replied.

  He nodded once. Efficient. Already tired.

  “I carry a message from His Majesty the King.”

  “Of course you do,” I said. “It is early.”

  “His Majesty has reviewed the documents you submitted.”

  I glanced toward the window. “Now?”

  “He did so during the night.”

  I considered this.

  “That suggests either dedication,” I said, “or panic. Possibly both.”

  The envoy chose not to comment on that.

  “The pressure from the nobles and the great landholders is growing,” he said. “They have accepted the introduction of these tolerance margins. Yet they will not accept further delay in the matter of the dragon.”

  Understandable.

  “They fear loss of authority,” I said.

  “Their concern lies chiefly with their lands and holdings,” he corrected.

  Fair.

  “His Majesty intends to support the structural measures you proposed,” the envoy continued, “and he will see that they are carried out. Yet in return, he expects visible progress regarding the creature that breathes fire.”

  There it was. Exchange rate established.

  “The safety of the people remains important to His Majesty,” the envoy said carefully, “yet if the matter of the dragon remains unresolved, the king’s own standing may soon be placed in jeopardy.”

  I nodded.

  “Yes,” I said. “Predators prefer symbols.”

  The envoy studied me for a moment, perhaps checking whether I was mocking him. I was not.

  “His Majesty therefore expects immediate action.”

  I adjusted the cuffs of my coat.

  “He shall receive it,” I replied.

  The envoy inclined his head, visibly relieved to have reached the end of the speech he had memorized, and withdrew down the corridor with the speed of a man who wished to survive both sides of history.

  The door closed and silence returned.

  The guard remained.“Well?” he asked looking at me.

  “Well,” I repeated.

  He waited.

  “You heard him,” he said. “Immediate action.”

  “Yes.”

  He hesitated.

  “How are you going to do that?”

  I considered the question with appropriate seriousness.

  “Badly,” I said.

  He blinked. “No one has ever attempted to confront a dragon with evacuation diagrams and supply logistics.”

  “Then we will contribute innovation,” I replied.

  “That is not reassuring.”

  “It rarely is,” I said.

  I picked up my notebook, weighed it in my hand, then placed it back on the table.

  For what we were about to do, documentation would occur afterward.

  If possible.

  The guard watched me carefully. “So,” he asked, “what now?”

  I moved toward the door.

  “Now,” I said, “we go where the variable originates.”

  He stared at me.

  I opened the door.

  “We are going to the lair.”

  We waited at the edge of the village.

  Morning had not yet committed to being useful. Mist hung low between the half-rebuilt houses, and somewhere behind us someone was already sawing timber with the enthusiasm of a man who preferred work to fear.

  The guard shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Well?” he asked at last. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He exhaled in relief. “Good,” he muttered. “What is it?”

  I watched the road to the north, where the land slowly rose toward smoke that never quite disappeared.

  “In my world,” I said, “we are frequently overwhelmed by situations we claim to understand.”

  He waited.

  “The recommended first step,” I continued, “is conversation.”

  Silence.

  The guard turned his head toward me very slowly.

  “Conversation,” he repeated.

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  “Yes.”

  “With the dragon.”

  “Yes.”

  He blinked twice, perhaps hoping I would transform into someone else.

  “That is a damn dragon,” he said carefully. “How exactly do you intend to talk to it?”

  “I will use language,” I replied.

  His mouth opened.

  Closed.

  Opened again.

  “Are you stupid?” he asked.

  “Occasionally,” I said. “But rarely without documentation.”

  He stared at me for several long seconds, then rubbed his face with both hands.

  “This is hopeless,” he muttered.

  “On the contrary,” I said. “It is the only scalable approach.”

  Before he could decide whether to argue or pray, movement appeared on the road.

  A man approached.

  No—equipment approached, with a person somewhere inside it.

  The armor was extensive, ambitious, and only loosely coordinated with anatomy. Plates overlapped in ways that suggested optimism rather than engineering. A helmet sat on his head that would have fit a more impressive skull. From his belt hung a sword of heroic proportions and deeply questionable balance.

  Across his back was a travel pack large enough to contain regret, supplies for several weeks, and possibly a second, smaller hero.

  I watched him come closer.

  The guard straightened a little.

  “That must be him,” he said.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Probability of subtlety has decreased to zero.”

  The man stopped in front of us, metal settling around him with the noise of a collapsing kitchen.

  He looked at me.

  Looked at the guard.

  Looked at me again.

  “You’re the one,” he said.

  “That depends,” I answered. “What is the job description?”

  “I was told to guide you to the lair.”

  I examined the sword again. The edge had seen enthusiasm. Maintenance less so.

  “Are you,” I asked, “the individual assigned to bring us there alive?”

  He frowned, unsure whether that had been criticism.

  “I know the path,” he said.

  Good enough.

  I nodded.

  “Excellent,” I replied. “Then you are exactly who we need.”

  The guard leaned toward me.

  “You trust him?” he whispered.

  “No,” I said quietly. “But he is geographically useful.”

  I looked back at the walking armory and then opened my emergency notebook. I do not rely on singular documentation systems.

  Primary notebook status: deliberately left behind.

  Guide assigned.

  Armor excessive.

  Weapon maintenance doubtful.

  Logistical awareness: to be determined.

  I paused, then added one more line.

  Survival probability transferred to optimism.

  I closed the notebook.

  “Lead the way,” I said.

  We left the village shortly after.

  The heavily armored man walked in front of us with the determination of someone who had prepared heroically for a problem but not logistically for a journey. Metal clinked with every step. Something in his backpack squeaked in protest. His sword bumped against his leg at irregular intervals, as if it, too, doubted the mission.

  The guard walked beside me.

  I watched the environment.

  It watched back.

  We passed the first animal enclosure not far from the outer fields. Wooden stakes, rope, uneven height, optimistic geometry. A goat leaned against the structure with the casual confidence of someone aware that physics was optional here.

  I slowed. “That will fail,” I said.

  The guard followed my gaze. “It’s been standing for years.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “So have many problems. Duration is not a certificate.”

  Ahead of us, one of the horizontal beams had already begun to split. The rope had been retied three times in three different philosophies.

  Preventive collapse pending.

  The guide looked over his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

  “Only the future,” I said.

  We continued.

  Further along, the road narrowed where carts had cut deep tracks into the soil. Recent rain had dried into hardened waves. Efficient for breaking ankles, inefficient for transport.

  I adjusted my steps.

  “No maintenance concept,” I murmured.

  The guard gave me a sideways look. “It’s a road.”

  “It is a suggestion of a road,” I corrected.

  A farmer tried to pull a wagon free while two others shouted advice with the passion of men who would soon be elsewhere. One wheel spun uselessly.

  Predictable.

  “If that dragon ever develops patience,” I said, “he could conquer the kingdom simply by waiting near infrastructure.”

  The guard huffed a reluctant laugh.

  “You really see battlefields everywhere.”

  “I see consequences,” I said.

  We passed fields next.

  Grain, recently replanted. Good density. Acceptable spacing. But the irrigation ditch ended abruptly halfway down the line, as though water had lost interest in agriculture.

  I stopped again.

  “Why does it end there?”

  The guard shaded his eyes. “Because that’s where the ground dips.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And gravity traditionally continues after that.”

  He looked at me.

  I pointed at the dry half of the field.

  “Either they ran out of tools, or optimism.”

  The guide called back, slightly defensive, “They’ll extend it later.”

  “Later,” I repeated. “Agriculture’s most expensive season.”

  The guard muttered, “You are exhausting.”

  “That is a common transitional phase before improvement,” I said.

  A little further, we encountered a storage shed.

  Door open.

  Ladder unsecured.

  Oil lamp hanging from a nail with ambitions.

  I did not even slow down this time.

  “Fire load,” I said.

  The guard rubbed his face. “Please don’t.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” I replied. “Reality is.”

  The guide had stopped now, openly staring at me.

  “Do you always… evaluate things like this?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because eventually they will require explanation, and I prefer to be early.”

  He considered that with visible discomfort.

  We walked on.

  I tried, briefly, to do what other people did when traveling: admire the landscape. Forest line in the distance. Wind across the grain. Birds.

  It lasted approximately six seconds before I noticed that several trees near the road leaned at angles that strongly suggested future participation in gravity.

  I made a note.

  The guard saw it.

  “You’re writing again?”

  “Yes.”

  “What now?”

  “Potential spontaneous road closure,” I said.

  He looked at the trees, then at me.

  “They’ve been like that forever.”

  I nodded.

  “That is exactly how ‘spontaneous’ works.”

  By the time the village had disappeared behind us, both the guard and the guide were quieter.

  Not because there was less to say.

  But because they were beginning to suspect there might be no end to it.

  They were correct.

  Ahead, the land rose toward darker stone, toward heat distortions in the distance, toward the place where legend preferred drama over preparation.

  I closed my notebook.

  “For the record,” I said, mostly to myself, “none of this will improve the dragon’s mood.”

  The guard sighed.

  “And yours?”

  I considered.

  “Unclear,” I said.

  “Proceed,” called the armored man from ahead.

  So we did.

  After some time the fields gave way to rock.

  The road thinned until it was no longer a road but a memory of one. Grass forced itself through old wagon scars, and the wind carried less of village life and more of something metallic, warm, expectant.

  Even I stopped writing.

  Not because there was nothing wrong.

  But because everything was.

  The armored guide slowed his pace. The rhythm of clanking iron faded into hesitant steps, until he finally raised a hand and halted.

  “This is as far as I go,” he said.

  I blinked at him.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, assuming a misunderstanding, “as far as you go where?”

  He pointed ahead.

  The land rose into a dark ridge. At its highest point, I could see the broken mouth of a cave. Black stone, scorched edges, heat shimmer around the entrance.

  “Dragon territory,” he said. “Up there. That hill. The cave.”

  I looked at it.

  Then at him.

  Then back at the hill.

  I waited for the rest of the explanation.

  None came.

  “I don’t understand,” I said at last. “If this is a known lethal zone, why is it not secured?”

  He stared at me.

  “Secured?”

  “Yes,” I said, gesturing around us. “Barrier. Markings. Warnings. Controlled access. Something that communicates ‘probable death’ to uninformed pedestrians.”

  The guard beside me made a small sound that might have been surrender.

  The guide looked at the landscape as if expecting it to justify itself.

  “It’s the dragon,” he said finally. “People know.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “They just… know.”

  I nodded slowly.

  “Ah,” I said. “Oral tradition as infrastructure.”

  He shifted his weight.

  “If a wanderer comes this far,” he said, “he is already lost.”

  I considered that.

  “That is a remarkably inefficient definition of responsibility,” I replied.

  The wind moved through the grass. Somewhere higher on the slope, stones cracked softly as they cooled from old fire.

  No sign.

  No perimeter.

  No attempt at discouragement.

  I made a note.

  Unmarked existential hazard.

  The guide watched me write it down as if the act itself might summon something worse than the dragon.

  He cleared his throat.

  “We should make camp,” he said. “It will be dark soon. We go up in the morning, when strength is with us. No one enters his ground tired.”

  I followed the sun with my eyes. He was correct. Light retreated. Shadows lengthened. Even the cave seemed closer in the evening.

  Risk assessment approved.

  “That is reasonable,” I said.

  Both men looked mildly relieved that I had not attempted to reorganize the mountain.

  The guide began unloading his equipment with the speed of someone eager to still be alive in an hour. Bedroll, stakes, waterskin. His movements were efficient now, automatic, practiced.

  He would not climb further.

  Not today.

  When the small camp began to take shape, he tightened the straps on his armor again, though he was no longer going anywhere.

  “I wait here,” he said. “If you return, I guide you back.”

  If.

  Interesting word.

  I nodded.

  “Acceptable,” I said.

  He seemed unsure whether that was gratitude.

  After a moment, he gave a stiff bow toward the hill, toward fate, toward poor planning, then stepped away from us to do a last prayer.

  The guard exhaled.

  “Well,” he muttered, “that’s it then.”

  I looked toward the cave and wrote

  Distance measurable.

  Threat theoretical.

  Consequences historic.

  “Yes,” I said. “That is it.”

  Feel free to share any ideas for scenarios you would like to see him thrown into — especially situations where the German controller is pushed to his limits, or moments where he might despise this barbaric world and try to turn it into something different.