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Stravaholme was hacked from the flinty rock of the Dragonspine foothills by some forgotten would-be conqueror with a fixation on death and madness. Carvings of bestial skulls, twisted creatures of darkness, and other horrors littered the ancient grounds in various stages of decay and disrepair. High above, a waterfall gushed from the jagged mouth of a massive stone dragon.
Valdemar rather liked that.
Although considered a ruin, the stronghold contained many surprising advantages. The fresh water was a major benefit, and the hollow in which it was constructed protected from the harsh winds and cold that had assaulted the men on their journey. They had come far, forging themselves into a single working unit that quickly responded to orders and blooded themselves on Parthavan cities in their path. They had endured cold, weariness, surprise attacks from desperate rebels, and grueling training that pushed them to the limits of human endurance.
The unfit had died along the way.
The grounds of Stravaholme were filled with those that remained—triumphant warriors, skilled craftsmen, resilient workers, and dutiful servants. They followed Valdemar's lead, overcoming superstitious fears to completely inhabit a stronghold supposedly cursed by the darkest of forces. They claimed Stravaholme for their own and braved the winter there, confident their lord had more glory in store for them.
They couldn't possibly fathom the extent of the glories he envisioned.
Valdemar had just returned from meeting with his generals when one of his Dragonists jogged up with a salute. "My lord, you wished to be told when you had a visitor. A high lady arrived a short while ago, demanding to speak with you—"
"Where?"
"At your tent, milord."
Valdemar spurred his stallion forward, scattering soldiers as he galloped to his tent. He ignored the guards' salutes as he dismounted and strode through the flaps. Masiki stood in the great room with her arms folded in what he knew from experience was a stance of anger. He approached warily but met her furious stare without flinching.
"What madness has taken you?" Her eyes blazed. "My orders were to keep your men near the border, yet I return to find you in a full-scale campaign against Parthava, a nation already under your thumb. I didn't permit you to waste men needlessly in some unnecessary crusade. Your soldiers are to die in Leodia, not this useless countryside."
Valdemar spoke carefully, knowing the fragile ground he tread upon. "This is hardly a crusade, High Lady. It's an extermination. The Parthavans had grown bolder in their resistance, so it's better to crush them now. My men had been sitting still for months, and it does them good to see some action. Their minds and bodies must be prepared when I lead them over the Dragonspine."
Her face may as well have been carved from ice. "This will end, Valdemar. Now."
He took a deep breath. "I mean no offense, Mistress. But it is too late to withdraw. I didn't unite all of Bruallia just to leave enemies behind to supplant us when we cross over. They must be crushed now. When that is finished, I will be able to focus on nothing but what you command."
For a long moment, she looked at him with considering eyes. He tried not to sweat while his judgment danced in her reptilian gaze.
He didn't succeed.
"Very well, Valdemar. You have two weeks to finish this. But mark my words—should you ever think to disobey again, I will make sure someone less stiff-necked wears the crown of Bruallia."
Valdemar bowed low. "It shall be as you command, Mistress."
When he raised himself, she had vanished. But something else shuffled in the shadows. The stench of rotted leather stung his nostrils as the darkness formed into the silhouette of his monstrous father.
"It is a dangerous game you play, my son." Darroth's voice rattled in his throat. His glowing eyes bore into Valdemar's own. "Must I again teach you the folly of your ways? Is another lesson required so soon?"
Valdemar's hand unconsciously rose to his throat, where the memory of being throttled to near-unconsciousness still lingered like a ghost of pain. His fury mounted when he met Darroth's pale gaze.
"Another lesson is required. But not for me, daemon."
At his signal, the faux walls of the room dropped, and armored shadows sprang forward, thrusting lances and spears. The blue-tinted tips punctured Darroth's sinewy flesh, pinning him to the floor. He snarled, writhing like a serpent as he tried to free himself. Despite his emaciated form, he was inhumanly strong. It took all six Dragonist's full strength to keep him held down. Valdemar caught a trident spear tossed from Ganbatar and jabbed, stabbing it into Darroth's wiry chest.
"Cease struggling, fiend. These weapons keep you from using your unearthly powers, and I would rather keep you alive. Don't make me destroy you."
He saw the shock and hatred that burned from Darroth's bestial face. His glowing eyes flickered over the men pinning him down, noting the blue-speckled spearheads that punctured his body. The black blood dripping on the floor didn't appear to bother him nearly as much as the shame of being captured.
"The Dragonists. Once mine, now sworn to you. And weapons of Banestone from the cursed grounds of Myrkalf itself. Good, Valdemar. Very good. You have at last surpassed your mentor, it appears."
The Dragonists shifted uneasily. Valdemar knew it was only his presence that kept them steady when other men would recoil in disgust or flee outright. Darroth was something twisted and unnatural, a night terror come to life in front of their eyes.
Ganbatar turned to Valdemar, eyes tight with unease behind his faceguard. "What manner of daemon is this that speaks as if it knows you, Lord Commander?"
"A spy and creature of darkness who serves our enemies, much like the one that prevented us from capturing Marcellus Admorran. Bind him in fetters and lock him in a cage as our first trophy of war. Should he try to speak any twisted lies, remove his tongue."
"And should his masters come to retrieve their property?"
Valdemar's lips curled in a twisted smile. "Then we kill them. We are dragons, not cowering lambs. Trust me, brother. Destiny is ours for the taking. This is just the beginning of our victories."
Ganbatar glanced warily at Darroth, who watched the interchange as if feeding on every word. "As you command, Lord Commander."
He gave orders to the Dragonists, who obeyed without hesitation. As they worked to bind Darroth, Valdemar strode out the doorway and motioned to the nearby general. "I will dine in Suldan within the week, or your life is forfeit. See to it!"
The general had seen every sort of death in his lifetime, yet he looked into Valdemar's eyes and stammered his reply. He turned and ran, shouting instructions to his men.
Valdemar looked at the endless lines of tents, horses, soldiers, and servants. It wasn't an army that lay scattered about the hills, and it was a living city. And very soon, it would cross the Dragonspine and move upon the unsuspecting kingdoms of Leodia.
The dragon fears no one. The dragon is fear. Destiny is mine for the taking.