Weeks later, the first search party arrived at Ruby.

  They came guided by travelers’ mouths—merchants, hunters, and guards who had spoken too freely of a man who solved problems and left nothing behind. Rumors had shortened distances. What should have taken months had taken weeks.

  By noon, the group reached the Explorer Guild.

  They did not enter quietly.

  Commissioned by heroes, bearing the crest of the newly formed alliance, they sat themselves in the guild hall as if it already belonged to them. One of them called out loudly.

  “Guild Head Ragnar!”

  Conversations stopped.

  Several explorers frowned. Others bristled—but no one acted. The alliance crest carried weight, and most assumed these men were officials sent for recruitment or inspection.

  They were wrong.

  The next sound was impact.

  Ragnar crossed the hall in three steps, seized the nearest man by the collar, and slammed him bodily through the entrance. Wood cracked. Stone scraped. The man skidded across the street outside.

  Ragnar stood in the doorway, expression cold.

  “If you wish to meet me,” he said evenly, “you do it properly.”

  His gaze swept over the rest of them.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I bow to kings and necessity,” he continued. “You are neither. So either speak with respect—or get lost.”

  The hall was silent.

  Anger flickered across several faces, but restraint followed. One of them leaned in close to the others and muttered under his breath.

  “If we finish the task Lord Blaze gave us,” he said, “we can chain that bastard and drag him to the capital. What do you say?”

  Grins spread.

  Agreement came easily.

  After a moment, only two of them re-entered the building, this time with measured steps.

  Inside the guild office, Ragnar sat behind his desk, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the document in his hand.

  It bore official seals.

  Orders.

  Directive:

  — Locate Roy Val Drake

  — Promote and transfer subject to the capital

  — Assign personal supervision under the heroes

  — Deliver one hundred gold as tribute to the crown

  Ragnar read it once.

  Then again.

  He did not react outwardly.

  The first two orders were outside his control.

  The third reeked of ownership.

  The fourth was tribute disguised as protocol.

  Have they lost their minds? Ragnar thought. Mutated beasts everywhere—and this is what they focus on?

  A dragon without lineage, without rampage, without incident—and they wanted to leash him.

  He looked up at the two men standing across from him.

  “You should know,” Ragnar said calmly, folding the document, “Roy left the village some time ago.”

  Their eyes sharpened.

  “He did not state his destination,” Ragnar continued. “Before leaving, he cleared the surrounding forest of threats. Bandits included.”

  He leaned back slightly.

  “So I suggest Lord Blaze and the others reconsider making the trip here,” he added. “Their attention is needed elsewhere.”

  The men exchanged glances.

  Ragnar’s tone remained casual—but the implication was deliberate.

  If they came, they would find nothing.

  No Roy.

  No lingering aura.

  No proof worth escalating.

  After a pause, one of them nodded stiffly.

  “We’ll report this,” he said.

  Ragnar inclined his head once.

  As they left, Ragnar exhaled slowly.

  He stared at the closed door, fingers tapping once against the desk.

  “Slaves,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s what they’re making.”

  And somewhere far beneath stone and fire, something that did not belong to any system slept—unaware that the world had begun to tug at the space it once occupied.