The stronghold was little more than a war camp wrapped in delusions of grandeur. A wooden palisade ringed the perimeter, patched in places with canvas and shield scraps. Inside, the buildings were mostly tents—large ones, dyed in garish heraldry, their seams straining under layers of mud, smoke, and ambition.
There was a half-built watchtower leaning like it had doubts. A training ground full of shouting men and clashing sticks. The only structure that deserved the word 'permanent' was a long hall built from mismatched timber, crowned with a crude carving of a boar impaling a lion.
They marched me straight into it.
Lord Velgarth sat in the center like a warthog made flesh—bearded, broad, and dangerously enthusiastic. His throne was made of hacked-up weapons and poor impulse control. He looked at me like he'd just won a sacred relic in a tavern brawl.
"You," he said, pointing a thick jeweled finger. "You are the prophetess."
"I'm a prophetess," I tried.
"Nonsense! You foretold the fires. The livestock thefts. The cursed hay. It's all in the reports."
I smiled thinly. "I'm just very good at vague doom."
He laughed. "Modest, too! Excellent! Come, sit here. You're going to guide me to glory."
I was shoved onto a velvet cushion next to his not-quite-throne.
"First, I take Baron Eldric's lands. Then Almon's Vale. Then Lerida. And then?" He stood, arms wide. "Then I conquer Londgalnd. Sabrabena. Toemacha! Even Seebulba will kneel!"
His eyes gleamed with feverish triumph.
"And you, my little oracle, will light the path."
I closed my eyes.
Oh shit. Oh shit.
He thought I was the real deal.
Velgarth unrolled a war map across the long table, knocking over a goblet as he did. A dozen ivory figurines were already in place—little knights, spiked boars, towers, something that might have been a three-headed goat or just really bad carving.
"I have studied every route," he declared, sweeping his arm dramatically. "Every mountain pass, every river bend. But with you, my prophetess… ah, we shall strike where the stars themselves demand it."
He tapped one of the figurines. "First Eldric. Then Almon. Then…"
He paused for effect.
"Lerida."
I squinted. I wasn't sure which piece was Lerida, but one of them had a tiny crown and another was on fire. I was reasonably confident at least one was Seebulba.
Lerida. Oh gods. Lerida had city walls. Lerida had a ten tumen standing army of mercenaries who bathed in blood. Lerida had siege engines, war-trained elephants, and a cohort of Amazons on retainer.
This guy had two tents, a mule, and a boner for conquest.
He turned to me, his eyes shining with ambition.
"With you guiding me," he said, "my victory is all but guaranteed."
Then he leaned in. Close.
The menace in his voice dropped like a blade.
"But be warned. The last three seers I employed… turned out to be frauds."
He picked up a goblet. Polished. Ornate.
Carved from a human skull.
"I drank from their heads."
His grin widened.
"But you, you're the real thing. Right?"
I nodded slowly.
"Obviously."
Inside, I was already drafting a prayer to any god who handled idiot-based emergencies.
Oh fuck.
Velgarth tapped a stubby finger on the map again, tracing a greasy line from one carved village to another like he was smearing destiny across the wood.
"But all this"—he gestured wide—"these skirmishes, these little border scraps, they're just smoke before the blaze."
I said nothing. Mostly because my throat had gone dry and my survival instincts were holding a staff meeting.
He leaned in, voice dropping, conspiratorial. "The dragon, prophetess. That's the key."
Here we go.
"You didn't think I wouldn't notice, did you?" His grin was all teeth and lunacy. "Reports from the highlands—haystacks burning, cattle vanishing, peasants wailing about fire from the sky. And every time?" He jabbed a jeweled finger in my direction. "You."
I opened my mouth. He raised a hand to stop me.
"No. Don't insult us both. You summoned it. I don't care how—chants, blood rites, your own godsdamned female charms. Doesn't matter. It came."
He stood and paced around the map table like a wolf circling a roast. "I've studied dragon-lore since I was ten. My wetnurse told me tales of people like you, the dragon tamers, flame-wives. The people who can bend these monsters to their will. Everyone laughed. Said they were myths. But you—" he pointed again, "you proved them wrong."
I tried to interject. "Look, I think you might be misunder—"
"Shhh," he hissed, one finger to his lips. "You're protecting your secrets. Good. Wise. But I'm not your enemy."
Oh gods.
"All I need is the truth. You can call it again, can't you?" His eyes gleamed with that specific blend of faith and fanaticism that makes cult leaders and suicide bombers so charming at parties. "You can bring it. Not just once. Not just for show."
He leaned forward, and I caught a whiff of sweat, iron, and fermented ego.
"You can command it."
I froze.
He nodded, mistaking panic for confirmation. "Yes. I knew it. The way it moved… it didn't strike like a wild beast. It struck like a weapon. Precise. Disciplined. You aimed it."
Aimed it? It torched a haystack and grabbed a cow. Hardly divine artillery.
He was still going.
"And if you can summon one… you can summon more, can't you? Others? Lesser wyrms? Fire drakes? Hellspawn? Imagine it—an aerial host at my back. No walls too high, no army too bold. They'll scatter like piss in a rainstorm."
I swallowed. "That's… a bold strategy."
Velgarth grinned like a man who'd just married his own reflection. "This is what I needed. Not maps. Not roads. Not logistics. You. You are my sky hammer. My oracle of annihilation."
I tried again. "About the dragon—"
"Don't," he snapped, suddenly stern. "I know what I know. You're blessed. Or cursed. Either way, you're mine now. And when the time comes…"
He turned back to the map, palm flattening over Lerida.
"…you'll unleash your monster, and this world will remember my name."
He didn't say it like a threat.
He said it like a prayer.
And all I could think was—
He had no idea how close he was to being right.
Or how catastrophically wrong it could still go.