The Embassy of the Draconian Empire – Sol-Regis Capital. Two Days After the Mine Liberation.
The Draconian Embassy stood as an architectural anomaly in the heart of Sol-Regis. Constructed from blocks of black granite polished to a mirror sheen, the structure radiated a silent, intimidating aura. However, the true terror lay hidden behind its monolithic walls.
Princess Seraphina's private chambers were not designed for human comfort. The temperature was maintained at a constant ten degrees Celsius—the natural habitat of the high Draconian mountains. The black marble floors seemed to leech the warmth from one's body, while heavy velvet drapes blocked out the sunlight, which the Princess considered "unbearably harsh."
Sir Roland Sudrath sat in an ornately carved dragon-bone chair. Despite his thick fur mantle, his teeth chattered rhythmically. Click... click... White vapor billowed from his lips with every exhaled breath.
Opposite him, Princess Seraphina reclined in her small throne with practiced ease, clad only in a thin gown of blood-red silk. Her slender fingers gripped a logistics report that had just arrived from the port. Her beautiful face was as cold as permafrost, but her crimson eyes smoldered with a restrained, volcanic fury.
SLAM!
The report was hurled onto the marble table. The sound echoed sharply within the soundproofed room.
"Explain this to me, Roland Sudrath," Seraphina said. Her voice was low and flat, yet possessed a sharpness that could cut skin. "Our alliance contract stated clearly: the first shipment was to contain five tons of pure Mithril ore. But this morning's warehouse tally shows a pathetic figure. Only two tons."
Seraphina rose slowly. She circled the table soundlessly, her feet seemingly barely touching the floor. She stopped directly beside Roland's chair, causing the ambient temperature around him to plummet another five degrees.
"Where is the other three tons?" Seraphina whispered into Roland's ear. "Did you sell it on the black market to line your own pockets? Or is your family simply incompetent at basic arithmetic?"
Seraphina leaned in, her aura exerting a suffocating pressure. "I spent five hundred thousand gold coins to save your father's face. If you think you can play me for a fool, I will freeze every asset your family owns. And perhaps... I'll freeze the blood in your veins as a lasting reminder."
Roland swallowed hard. Gulp. He knew that a diplomat who showed fear was defeated before the conversation even began. He drew a deep breath, squaring his shoulders despite the shivering.
"We didn't sell it to anyone, Your Highness," Roland replied, forcing himself to look directly into Seraphina's reptilian eyes.
With fingers slightly stiff from the chill, Roland reached into his leather satchel. He didn't pull out gold or gems. Instead, he placed an old wooden box on the table. He opened it slowly.
Inside was a rusted iron chain stamped with the crest of a two-headed eagle—the symbol of the Iron Empire. Beside it, he laid several Magical Photographs captured by Rianor. The monochrome images displayed a visceral horror: backs flayed by whips, the gaunt faces of starving elders, and foreign overseers laughing over their suffering.
"We used the remaining cargo capacity of our wagons to carry these," Roland said, pointing at the photos of the refugees. "Human lives."
Seraphina's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. She picked up one of the photos with her fingertips.
"Morvath didn't just blockade the trade routes," Roland explained, his voice gaining a steady, resonant quality. "He invited the Iron Empire into our lands. The mine you won was converted into a concentration camp. Foreign taskmasters enslaved our people on our own soil."
Roland locked eyes with Seraphina. "We cut the Mithril load by three tons to transport two hundred elderly, women, and sick children who were dying there. Because for House Sudrath, the lives of our people are worth far more than Draconian gold. If that is a breach of contract... then feel free to punish me."
Silence descended, broken only by the low hiss of the magical ventilation. Seraphina stared at the photo of the chains for a long time. Draconia was a harsh, militaristic nation, but they possessed a rigid code of honor. To the descendants of the Dragon, slavery was a revolting concept.
"The Iron Empire..." Seraphina hissed. The red aura surrounding her body vibrated violently. "Those technological rats dare set their filthy paws on this continent?"
"They're building something at Port Valia," Roland added, playing his final ace. "My brother calls it 'The Colossus'. He suspects it's a weapon of mass destruction. Your Highness, if that Colossus is completed... Northreach is only its first target. But its second? Draconia."
Seraphina's eyes narrowed into sharp slits.
"They need fuel, and Draconia holds the largest Mithril reserves. We are merely a stepping stone. You are the main course," Roland said with a faint, knowing smirk. "So, this delay wasn't born of incompetence. We were securing the future of Draconia as well."
Seraphina fell silent. She studied the young man before her. Roland was weak, possessed no mana, yet his courage... was exceptional. Slowly, the killing intent in the room ebbed away. Seraphina sat back down, folding her arms.
"Reason accepted," Seraphina decreed coldly. "Your sentimentality may be a weakness, but your vigilance against the Iron Empire is commendable."
"However, a debt is still a debt," she added sharply. "The remaining three tons must be paid next month. With five percent interest."
"Of course. Business is business," Roland nodded in relief, exhaling a long-held breath.
"And one more thing." Seraphina flicked her fingers. A Draconian servant entered, carrying a tray with a scroll sealed in red wax. "This is no longer a mere trade agreement. This is a matter of Draconian National Security."
Seraphina handed him the scroll. "This is a Cross-Border Permit. Starting tomorrow, I will dispatch a platoon of the Dragon Guard to escort your logistics convoys."
Roland's eyes widened. The Dragon Guard? The elite Wyvern riders? Their presence was the equivalent of planting a massive "Do Not Touch" flag on their shipments.
"You're... lending us your elite forces?"
"Not for you," Seraphina deflected quickly, her chin lifting with haughty pride. "To ensure my investment isn't stolen by those rats." She then pointed at Roland's chest with her bone fan. "And you, Roland Sudrath... as an additional guarantee, there is a ball here tomorrow night. You are required to attend."
"Me?" Roland was bewildered.
"I need a dance partner who can explain the political situation to those stubborn old generals. And you happen to have a rather silver tongue. Consider it additional interest on the debt. Don't be late, and dress appropriately."
Roland offered a thin smirk, inclining his head slightly. I've got you, Ice Queen.
"With pleasure, Your Highness. As long as you promise not to step on my toes with those high heels."
Northreach – Rianor's Workshop. That Same Night.
Inside the workshop, Rianor was wrestling with frustration at his workbench. Before him lay a captured musket, completely stripped down to its base components. Sir Riven and Captain Garrick watched him intently.
"Well, Rianor? Can we replicate it?" Riven asked, gesturing at the pile of iron.
"We could, but the result would be garbage," Rianor snorted, tossing the barrel onto the floor. CLANG! "This is archaic technology. It's loud, the smoke is blinding, and it takes thirty seconds just to load a single round. If it rains, these things are nothing more than useless iron sticks."
Rianor massaged his temples. "We aren't going to copy them. We're going to leapfrog their technology."
He unrolled a new blueprint. The drawing was complex, filled with magnetic coils. "They use fire and explosions. Primitive. We will use magnets and air pressure. I'm going to build a Magitech Gauss Rifle. Semi-automatic, silent, and capable of piercing standard plate armor from a distance."
Rianor's eyes flashed with a wild, scientific fervor. "The problem is..."
"What problem?"
"I need barrel materials that are significantly stronger. Ordinary steel will shatter after a single discharge." Rianor pointed toward the wall map... to the deepest zone of the Mithril Caves, marked with a skull.
"Adamantite," Rianor answered. "The hardest metal in the world. Deposits only exist at the deepest level. Level Three: The Abyss."
Riven swallowed hard. He had only just survived the monster at the cave's entrance, and now his brother was asking him to march into the very heart of hell.
"You mean... we have to go back into that hole?" Riven asked softly.
"Yes," Rianor said, adjusting his spectacles. "And this time, we aren't just fighting the doorman. We're walking into their living room. Ready your men, Riven. We're going on a suicide mission."