The palace halls were made from the purest of white marble, each pillar and tile smoothed to perfection. The only spots of color were the various stands with trophies and the long, red carpet down the center. Each trophy was different from the last, some showing glowing, rune enchanted swords wile others shows heads of various creatures. The most prized trophy was kept right above the throne, showing a red scaled dragon head. It looked practically alive, especially when the eyes followed anyone walking down the carpet to the King’s throne.

  So one was to look upon the King and his throne, so there was wild speculation on what it was made of. Anyone who dared a look had the thought immediately ripped out of their heads and replaced with nothing. Even the King’s looks were like that, though people knew he was a dragon with brilliant ruby scales. His voice only left behind the words he spoke, but not the tone or pitch he spoke them in.

  A messenger walked the carpet to the King, keeping his head down as to not have the unpleasant holes in his memory.

  Speak.

  “Yes, my King,” the messenger replied, bringing papers out from his inventory. “There are several reports of some of the candidates’ hoards-“

  Next.

  “We’re seeing an abnormal increase of Lord Tarcon’s exports of novice potions-“

  Sigh. Anything of importance?

  “There is one… odd report my King,” the messenger said, flipping to the last page with a calm, blank look. “A report of five Draconic classes from Centerville.”

  Go on.

  “Sorcerer, Druid, Wizard, Knight, and Archer.”

  I have not heard of the first two.

  “Neither have our scholars, my King.” The messenger paused at that, looking uncomfortable for a moment as he pulled out another page from his inventory. “If I may be bold my King…”

  You may. The messenger was surprised when he was allowed to remember a chuckle, though the sound escaped his mind.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “Most of the scholars deemed it coincidental, but both the Sorcerer and Druid classes received an aura at the same time. It’s led me to believe that-“

  Both belong to the same person. Quite interesting. Do we have any spies in the area?

  “Only one junior member, tasked to look after the reject,” a voice responded, the messenger jumping as they’d not been aware one of the advisers was present.

  Send One and Thirteen. They should be able to handle the four prospects. A low, purring sound rang out. Four new dragons? How interesting. And right before the Solstice Competition. I’m looking forward to this…

  ~~~

  “What do you mean you can’t find who is making the potions?!” a voice rang out, causing the maid to flinch. She’d been recently hired at Lord Tarcon of Centerville’s Mansion, and she hadn’t gotten used to the spoiled copper dragon. The same dragon who upended the desk in his study, splashing cold tea all over the maid’s dress. Thankfully, the enchantments around the bookshelves activated to keep the fragile tomes dry.

  “I’m sorry my Lord,” she muttered, her fox-like ears pinned to her head. “The messengers stated that the merchants who are selling them aren’t revealing their source.”

  “I swear, if it’s that damn orc woman again I swear to the heavens I’ll…” The rant went on for a while, the maid using the time when the Lord was distracted by burning his desk to slip out of the room.

  “You must calm yourself,” the butler stated, an elven man stepping out of the shadows to give his charge a critical look.

  “Everything in this city is mi-“

  “Your King’s, correct?” the manservant corrected, causing Lord Tarcon to blanch.

  “Of course. Including me,” the Lord muttered, looking down at his desk and sighing. “Thank you Robert. That does make things quite simple for me.” He pulled out a stack of papers and a rather ornate pen at that, sitting down on the plush couch and starting to write at the coffee table.

  “In other news, my Lord,” the butler stated, making the ruined furniture vanish with a touch, “we have finally found the adventurer who caught your eye on their way out of town last week.”

  “Ah! That lion, yes. Such a pretty treasure.” The Lord was momentarily distracted from his writing as he stared off into the distance. Licking his chops, he fully focused on the butler, his Cheshire grin on full display. “Who was he?”

  “Sean Obrien, my Lord. Level five party and registered as a tank. We were about to procure information that stated he has a Knight class-“

  “Oh he is perfect!” the dragon interrupted, giggling as he went back to his paperwork. “Have an invitation be sent out for a ball. Might as well make it during the Christmas feast. I will lure him in then.”

  “Yes my Lord,” the butler murmured, taking some of the papers and leaving the room. He could hear the giggling of the dragon all the way down the hall, his professional look not wavering in the slightest.