Rain sluiced through the thatch of the tavern roof, pooling in the cracks of Ferant's rusted pauldrons. He didn't look up when the envoy entered - didn't need to. The man's polished boots squeaked like a guilty conscience. Silver thread on the cloak, Ferant noted, sipping sour ale. Aeric's lapdog.

"Oathbreaker," the envoy said, lingering on the title like a curse. "They say you'll do anything for coin."

Ferant's scarred thumb traced the rim of his tankard. "They say you'll lick your prince's boots even after he shits in them. Yet here we are."

The envoy's jaw tightened. "A job. A rescue. The Black Tower holds... someone of value. The prince wants her retrieved."

Her. Ferant's left eye - the dead one, milky as a grave-moon - fixed on the man's throat. "Why not send your knights? Or does your Crimson Order still piss itself at the word dragon?"

A pause. The envoy slid a purse across the table. Gold spilled out, glinting like teeth. "The Order serves the crown. You... serve nothing."

Ferant's laugh was a blade dragged over stone. He pocketed the coin. Loyalty, crowns, oaths - all rot. But gold? Gold bought silence. And silence kept the ghosts at bay.

The Black Tower rose from the earth like a broken rib, its spires clawing at a starless sky. Ferant crouched in the shadow of the pass, watching sulfurous fumes curl from the lake of lava below. Fool's errand, he thought, tightening the straps of his axe. But then, aren't they all?

The dragon coiled atop the tower's peak, wings folded like storm clouds. He'd fought their kind before - decades ago, when the Crimson Order still sang his name. When Kael's banner fluttered in his dreams.

He moved. Not the reckless charge of youth, but the grim efficiency of a man who'd outlived his legends. The beast roared, fire searing the air, but Ferant knew the dance: sidestep the flames, feint left, let the creature's hunger make it clumsy. His axe bit deep into scaled flesh, black blood hissing as it met magma.

When the dragon fell, its death-rattle shook the mountains. Ferant slumped against the tower wall, ribs screaming, the old crown-brand on his neck pulsing like a second heart. Still alive, he thought, spitting blood. Aren't you, brother?

The chamber stank of smoke and lavender. Ferant's boots crunched over shattered chains, his gaze sweeping the room - a prison draped in tapestries, a bed strewn with ledgers, a cold hearth choked with ash.

Then he saw her.

Back turned, silhouette framed by the narrow window. No tears, no tremors. Just stillness, as if she'd been waiting. As if he were the one late to some unspoken pact.

"Princess," he rasped, the word ash in his throat.

She didn't turn.

"Do you know what they call this place?" His voice was low, frayed at the edges - not with fear, but something sharper. "The Gilded Cage. A tomb for birds who sing the wrong songs."

Ferant's hand tightened on his axe. Wrong, he thought. No bird. No cowering noble. This woman...

"Your prince sent me," he added, stepping closer. "Time to go."

At last, she turned.