Morning in Harrowgate arrived with the persistent clanging of commerce—blacksmiths already at their forges, market vendors arranging wares, and the constant rumble of cart wheels on cobblestone streets. Tom woke with the first rays of sunlight, a habit ingrained through decades of military discipline that even his younger body couldn't shake.
Your kind begins activity remarkably early, Skaravosk observed, his mental voice still carrying traces of the shared dream-flight they'd experienced during the night. In my era, dragons typically hunted at dusk and dawn, resting during midday.
"Efficient use of daylight," Tom replied, splashing water from the basin onto his face. "Can't all have night vision like you."
After a quick breakfast in the inn's common room, Tom made his way toward the city's administrative district. The information gathered the previous night had revealed an important detail about the mining contract—it was officially sanctioned by the city, which meant it required proper credentials to accept.
"An adventurer's license," Tom muttered as he navigated the increasingly crowded streets. "Bureaucracy finds a way, even in wartime."
Your dislike of administrative procedures seems personal, Skaravosk noted with amusement.
"Twenty-three years in the king's army taught me that the real battle is often against paperwork, not enemies," Tom replied dryly. "I once waited three weeks for new boots because a requisition form was filed under 'footwear' instead of 'infantry equipment.'"
The Guild Hall of Harrowgate dominated the central plaza of the administrative district—a three-story structure of gray stone and dark timber, its facade adorned with the emblems of the various guilds that regulated the city's commerce and services. Tom joined the queue of people waiting to enter, noting the diverse mix of professions represented—merchants seeking trade permits, craftsmen registering new apprentices, and a handful of armed individuals who, like him, appeared to be seeking adventurer credentials.
The line moved with surprising efficiency, and within half an hour, Tom found himself directed to a desk in the west wing where a harried-looking older woman with spectacles and ink-stained fingers managed the Adventurer's Guild registry.
"Name?" she asked without looking up from her ledger when Tom approached.
"Tom Reed," he replied, deciding that his shortened name better matched his youthful appearance.
"Experience?" The clerk dipped her quill, still not bothering to examine him.
Tom hesitated. His twenty-three years of military service as Tomas Reed couldn't be easily verified without raising questions about his apparent age. Yet claiming no experience seemed equally suspicious given his bearing and obvious comfort with the sword at his hip.
"Five years," he settled on. "Independent contractor for merchant caravans. Escort and protection services along the northern trade routes."
This seemed to finally merit the clerk's attention. She looked up, scanning him with a professional eye that missed little. "Northern routes? Those have been dangerous since before the Demon King's resurrection. Bandit territory."
Tom nodded. "Why the work paid well."
A believable fabrication, Skaravosk approved. Close enough to your actual experience to maintain consistency in your behaviors and knowledge.
The clerk made several notations in her ledger. "Specialization? Combat style?"
"Swordsmanship primarily. Some experience with wilderness survival and tactical assessment."
More notations. "Any magical abilities or affiliations with known magical institutions?"
Again, Tom hesitated. Claiming no magical ability would make the license easier to obtain, but might create complications later if he needed to use Skaravosk's powers openly.
"Some inherent abilities," he admitted carefully. "Nothing formally trained."
The clerk's eyebrow rose slightly. "Nature of these abilities?"
Tell her enhanced physical capabilities, Skaravosk suggested. Common enough to be believable, vague enough to cover many of our basic advantages.
"Enhanced physical attributes," Tom said, following the dragon's advice. "Strength, speed, endurance. Nothing flashy."
The clerk looked skeptical. "Claims of enhanced abilities require verification for proper classification. Follow me."
She rose from her desk with surprising agility for her age and led Tom through a side door into a small courtyard. Several wooden practice dummies stood at one end, and a series of weighted objects—stones of increasing size—were arranged along one wall. Another clerk, a broad-shouldered man with a ledger, stood waiting.
"Hendrick handles physical verification," the woman explained. "I'll return to my desk. Once verified, bring the assessment form back to complete your registration."
As she departed, Hendrick looked Tom over with a professional eye. "Physical enhancement, is it? Let's see what you've got."
Restrain yourself moderately, Skaravosk cautioned. Demonstrate above-average human capacity without revealing our true extent.
Hendrick pointed to the line of stones. "Start with the fifty-pound weight. Lift it overhead with one hand."
Tom complied easily, the stone feeling like a small pebble in his enhanced grip. Hendrick made a notation and pointed to progressively larger stones. Tom continued lifting them one-handed—one hundred pounds, two hundred, three hundred—trying to show appropriate effort as the weights increased.
At the five-hundred-pound stone, Hendrick's eyebrows rose. "Impressive. Most enhancement specialists struggle with that one."
Tom carefully set the stone down, deliberately letting his arm shake slightly as if at his limit.
"Speed test," Hendrick announced, pointing to a marked course around the courtyard. "Three laps, timed."
Tom ran at what he judged to be exceptional but not supernatural speed, completing the course in a time that had Hendrick nodding appreciatively.
"Final test—reflexes and durability."
Without warning, Hendrick grabbed a training sword from a nearby rack and swung it at Tom's midsection. Moving on pure instinct, Tom sidestepped the blow with fluid grace.
"Good," Hendrick grunted, immediately launching a series of follow-up strikes that Tom evaded or blocked with his forearm. The wooden blade struck his arm with a solid thwack, but Tom barely felt it through his enhanced durability.
After a dozen such strikes, Hendrick stopped, breathing slightly hard while Tom remained completely relaxed.
"Definite physical enhancement," Hendrick confirmed, making final notations on his form. "Strength, speed, reflexes, and durability all well above human norm. I'd classify you as high Class C, bordering on Class B for raw physical capability."
He handed Tom the assessment form. "Though I note you carry yourself like someone with significant combat experience. The physical gifts are impressive, but it's the training that makes them truly effective."
Tom accepted the form with a neutral nod. "Experience helps."
When he returned to the first clerk, she reviewed Hendrick's assessment and stamped it officially. "Well, your abilities check out. We'll mark you as Class C with physical enhancement specialization."
She reached beneath her desk and produced a flat wooden box, from which she extracted a small crystal set in a metal housing similar to a pendant. After consulting her ledger once more, she pressed the crystal against a larger stone embedded in her desk. The smaller crystal glowed briefly, symbols appearing within it before fading to a steady amber color.
"Standard identification crystal," she explained, handing it to Tom along with a folded parchment. "Marks you as a registered adventurer with the Harrowgate Guild. The crystal stores your registration information, experience level, and allows you to formally accept contracts posted through official channels. Any Adventurer's Guild in the kingdom will recognize it—we maintain an enchanted ledger system that updates across all major cities."
Tom examined the crystal pendant, noting the intricate metalwork that housed it. "Fee?"
"Twenty silver for initial registration, plus five for the identification crystal," the clerk replied. "Renewable annually for fifteen silver. Official contracts pay through the Guild, which takes a ten percent administration fee."
Tom counted out the coins from his dwindling funds, making a mental note that the mining contract would need to be his priority now.
"The parchment contains Guild regulations, your rights and responsibilities, and a list of approved establishments that offer discounts to registered adventurers," the clerk continued, returning to her efficient monotone. "Violations of Guild rules can result in suspension or revocation of your license. Questions?"
"What exactly does Class C designation mean?" Tom asked, slipping the crystal pendant around his neck.
"Three-tier classification system," the clerk explained. "Class C—basic qualification, suitable for standard contracts involving known threats, limited danger. Class B—demonstrated exceptional ability or successful completion of at least five Class C contracts. Class A—reserved for those with proven capacity to handle the most dangerous situations, typically involving magical threats or dungeon incursions."
Their system seems designed to weed out the incompetent before they reach truly dangerous assignments, Skaravosk observed. Practical, if somewhat limiting for our purposes.
"That mining contract posted yesterday—Westridge Mine," Tom said. "What classification would that fall under?"
The clerk frowned slightly. "Technically Class B due to the dungeon corruption aspect. However, given the urgency and the Mining Guild's insistence, they've received dispensation to accept Class C adventurers for that specific contract, provided they sign additional liability waivers."
She fixed Tom with a suddenly penetrating stare. "I wouldn't recommend it as your first assignment, regardless. Dungeon corruption is unpredictable. We lost two Class B teams last month to similar situations."
Tom met her gaze steadily. "Appreciated, but I have some experience with dungeon phenomena."
Not entirely a lie, Skaravosk noted dryly.
The clerk shrugged. "Your funeral. The Mining Guild representative is Foreman Durnek. Office in the east wing, third door on the right." She returned her attention to her ledger, clearly considering their business concluded.
Tom pocketed the license parchment and made his way through the Guild Hall's bustling corridors toward the east wing. The Guild's efficiency was impressive—in less than an hour, he had obtained official credentials that would allow him to operate legally within the city and surrounding territories.
Your human systems of verification are simultaneously needlessly complex and remarkably easy to circumvent, Skaravosk commented as they navigated the crowded hallway.
Says the dragon who got tricked and imprisoned by his allies, Tom countered silently.
A momentary lapse in judgment after centuries of successful conquests, the dragon sniffed. And need I remind you that my "allies" were literal demon lords whose entire existence revolves around deception?
Tom suppressed a smile as he located the Mining Guild's office. A weathered wooden sign bearing the guild's emblem—crossed pickaxes over a stylized mountain—hung beside the door.
The office beyond was cramped but well-organized, dominated by a large table covered with maps and diagrams that appeared to be mining surveys. A stocky, bearded man with the muscled arms of someone who had spent decades swinging a pickaxe looked up as Tom entered.
"Foreman Durnek?" Tom inquired.
The man nodded, his shrewd eyes taking in Tom's appearance with professional assessment. "Here about the Westridge contract?"
"Yes." Tom displayed his newly acquired adventurer's crystal.
Durnek gestured to a chair across from his desk. "Just registered, by the look of that crystal. What makes you think you can handle Westridge when two experienced teams have already failed?"
He tests your confidence, Skaravosk noted. A reasonable precaution given the stakes.
Tom met the foreman's gaze directly. "Because I've dealt with dungeon corruption before. Recently. And lived."
This was true enough—his last mission as Tomas Reed had been to the Howling Crag dungeon breach. Of course, he had technically died there, but the foreman didn't need that particular detail.
Durnek studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Most who make that claim are lying. You aren't. Your eyes have seen the purple mist, haven't they?"
Tom nodded, somewhat surprised by the foreman's perception.
"My brother was stationed at Fort Cairnwall," Durnek explained. "Wrote to me about the corruption they encountered at the northern border. Said you can always tell someone who's seen it—they get a certain look when it's mentioned. Like they're remembering something that doesn't quite fit in the normal world."
The foreman pulled a rolled parchment from a stack beside his desk and spread it across the table. It was a detailed survey map of the Westridge Mine, showing multiple levels, tunnel systems, and geological features.
"Here's our situation," Durnek began, pointing to a section of the map marked with red ink. "Three weeks ago, miners broke through to a new chamber on the fourth level. Found some kind of crystalline growth unlike anything we've seen before. Within days, purple mist started seeping from the breach. Strange sounds at night. Then miners began disappearing."
Tom studied the map, mentally calculating distances and possible choke points. "How many lost?"
"Seven confirmed missing. Three more dead—found them changed. Warped." Durnek's voice remained professional, but pain flashed across his features. "I've lost men to cave-ins, to flooding, to bad air. Those are risks we accept. But this..." He shook his head. "This isn't natural."
"Dungeon corruption never is," Tom agreed. "You've sealed the mine?"
Durnek nodded. "Barricaded the main entrance and the two ventilation shafts. But the corruption is spreading. We can see the purple glow at night through the cracks in the barricade. If it's not contained soon, it could threaten the surrounding countryside, maybe even Harrowgate eventually."
A genuine concern, Skaravosk confirmed. Unchecked dungeon corruption can spread exponentially once it reaches a certain threshold. The breach may be small now, but without intervention, it will grow.
"What exactly do you need done?" Tom asked, though he suspected the answer.
"Find the source of the corruption—that crystal formation the miners discovered. Destroy it or seal it somehow. Clear out any... creatures... that have manifested. Make the mine workable again." Durnek's expression was grim but determined. "Five hundred gold pieces upon successful completion. Half paid through the Guild, half direct."
"The Guild takes ten percent of their half," Tom noted.
A hint of a smile cracked through Durnek's serious demeanor. "Which is why the direct payment. The Guild provides legitimacy and verification, but I've found most adventurers appreciate... flexibility... in their compensation arrangements."
I begin to appreciate the intricacies of your human economic systems, Skaravosk commented with amusement.
"I'll need supplies," Tom said, returning to the practical aspects of the contract. "Torches, rope, basic provisions."
"The Guild maintains a supply depot for contracted adventurers," Durnek explained. "Present your crystal and contract assignment, and they'll provide standard equipment. Anything specialized comes out of your fee."
Tom nodded, then asked, "Anyone else taken this contract?"
"You're the first," Durnek admitted. "Word about the previous teams has spread. Most adventurers in Harrowgate are avoiding anything with 'dungeon' attached to it."
"Their loss," Tom replied with a slight smile.
The foreman produced another parchment—the formal contract—and pointed out the relevant sections: payment terms, objectives, the special waiver required for Class C adventurers accepting higher-level missions, and a clause specifically absolving the Mining Guild of responsibility for "transformative effects of dungeon exposure."
Tom signed without hesitation. The potential dangers of dungeon corruption held little fear for someone who had already died and been reconstructed with draconic essence.
"When do you want me to start?" he asked as Durnek applied the Guild's seal to the contract.
"Yesterday," the foreman replied grimly. "But tomorrow at dawn will do. I can provide transportation to the mine—it's about three hours west of the city. My assistant will meet you at the western gate at first light."
With the contract formalized and details arranged, Tom took his leave of the Mining Guild office and made his way to the supply depot. The Guild's efficiency extended to this operation as well—within an hour, he had obtained a standard adventurer's kit: torches, lamp oil, rope, basic tools, preserved rations, and a small medical kit containing bandages and healing salves.
Inadequate for serious injuries, Skaravosk observed as Tom examined the medical supplies. Though I suppose with our regenerative capabilities, external healing items are largely unnecessary.
"Appearances," Tom reminded the dragon silently. "A normal adventurer would need these things."
By midday, Tom had completed his preparations and found himself with unexpected free time before tomorrow's departure. He considered returning to the inn to rest, but Skaravosk had other ideas.
We should test my transformative abilities before facing dungeon corruption, the dragon suggested. Find somewhere isolated to practice.
Tom agreed with the practical suggestion. "The city's western gate leads directly to farmland and eventually forest," he murmured. "We can find privacy there."
After a quick meal at a tavern near the Guild Hall, Tom left Harrowgate through the western gate, following a trail that gradually moved away from cultivated fields toward a thickly wooded area. He hiked for nearly an hour before finding a suitable location—a small clearing surrounded by dense trees, far enough from any roads or settlements to ensure privacy.
"This should work," he said aloud, setting down his pack and surveying the area one last time to confirm they were alone.
Begin with the half-dragon transformation, Skaravosk instructed. It requires the least energy and will provide a baseline for the more complex forms. Focus on your connection to my essence, visualize the changes spreading through your body, and—as with the weapon summoning—will it to happen rather than merely imagining it.
Tom closed his eyes, centering himself as he had during combat meditation exercises. He sensed the draconic power flowing through his veins, no longer foreign but integrated with his own life force. Rather than fighting or constraining it, he deliberately channeled it, directing it to manifest physically.
The transformation began subtly—a warming sensation beneath his skin, a pleasant stretching feeling across his back and spine. Then came the more dramatic changes. His skin hardened along his forearms, crimson scales emerging in elegant patterns that caught the sunlight filtering through the trees. Similar scales appeared along his neck and jawline, providing natural armor while maintaining flexibility.
A strange pressure built at the base of his spine, then released as a tail emerged, perfectly balanced and instinctively responsive to his thoughts. Longer than his leg, tapering to a point, it moved like an extension of his body rather than a foreign appendage.
The most dramatic change came as his shoulder blades seemed to liquefy and reform, extending outward into membranous wings. Not the vast appendages of Skaravosk's true form, but proportional to Tom's human size—perhaps twelve feet from tip to tip when fully extended.
His fingers elongated slightly, the nails hardening into claws capable of rending metal. His teeth sharpened, canines extending into subtle fangs that didn't impede speech but provided formidable natural weapons if needed.
The entire transformation took less than a minute, and when it completed, Tom opened his eyes—now glowing with a subtle crimson light—and examined his altered form with fascination.
"Remarkable," he said aloud, surprised to find his voice unchanged despite the alterations to his throat and jaw. He flexed his clawed hands, feeling the perfect responsiveness, then experimentally lashed his tail, marveling at how naturally it integrated with his balance and movement.
The wings require practice, Skaravosk advised. Try extending them fully.
Tom complied, mentally directing the wings to unfurl to their maximum span. The sensation was unlike anything he had experienced—new muscle groups responding to his will, catching air currents he had never before been conscious of.
Now, a basic hovering. Powerful downbeat, angled to provide lift rather than forward momentum.
Following the dragon's instructions, Tom beat his wings downward sharply. The force lifted him several feet off the ground before he instinctively panicked and stopped, dropping back to earth with a graceless thud.
Not terrible for a first attempt, Skaravosk commented, his mental voice carrying a hint of amusement. Your instincts fought the maneuver. You must overcome the human belief that you cannot fly.
Tom tried again, and again, gradually extending the duration of his hovering until he could maintain position about ten feet above the clearing for nearly a minute before fatigue set in.
"Harder than it looks," he admitted, breathing heavily as he landed more gracefully than his first attempts.
Flight is both art and science, the dragon replied. It took me years as a hatchling to master true aerial combat. Your progress is actually impressive for a being born without wings.
They spent another hour practicing with the half-dragon form—testing strength by uprooting small trees, speed by sprinting between measured points, and dexterity by manipulating small objects with clawed hands. Tom discovered that while the form was powerful, it retained most of his human precision and control, making it surprisingly versatile.
Enough for today, Skaravosk finally suggested. The armor form and full transformation should wait until we have more space and time. The mine will likely provide both.
Tom nodded, then focused on reverting to his fully human appearance. The transformation reversed more quickly than it had manifested, scales receding, wings and tail absorbing back into his body. Within moments, he appeared entirely human again, though with a lingering warmth throughout his body.
"That was..." He searched for the right word. "Liberating."
An interesting choice of description, Skaravosk noted. Most humans find physical transformation disturbing or frightening.
"I died and was reconstructed by an ancient dragon," Tom pointed out dryly. "My definition of 'disturbing' has been significantly recalibrated."
As they made their way back toward Harrowgate in the late afternoon light, Tom found himself reflecting on how quickly his existence had changed. Less than a month ago, he had been Tomas Reed, an unremarkable soldier with nothing exceptional about him save his stubborn determination to survive. Now he walked with the essence of a dragon king flowing through his veins, able to transform into a winged, scaled hybrid being at will.
You adapt remarkably well to change, Skaravosk observed, following Tom's thoughts.
"Adaptation is survival," Tom replied simply. "Always has been."
Perhaps that is why our merger succeeded where others might have failed, the dragon mused. In my long imprisonment, I observed many humans who encountered dungeon phenomena. Most broke under the strain of transformation. Their minds rejected the changes to their reality, even as their bodies were forcibly altered.
"And you think I'm different?"
I know you are, Skaravosk affirmed. Your core identity—your sense of self—is not attached to your physical form or even your specific memories. It is bound to something more fundamental: your will to endure, to continue, to adapt.
Tom considered this as they approached the city gates. "Maybe that's why I was so effective as a soldier despite being unremarkable. I wasn't fighting to be a hero or to prove something. I was just... persisting."
And now? the dragon inquired.
Tom smiled slightly as they passed through the gates, rejoining the flow of humanity within Harrowgate's walls. "Now I'm persisting with significantly better resources."
That evening, Tom prepared methodically for the next day's mission—cleaning his borrowed armor, sharpening the sword he'd likely not need given his ability to summon Bloodthorn, organizing his pack for efficiency. Old habits that had kept Tomas Reed alive through twenty-three years of warfare remained useful, even with draconic power at his disposal.
As he worked, he reflected on the adventurer's license now hanging around his neck. The small crystal pendant represented a new identity, a fresh start. No longer Tomas Reed, the unremarkable veteran soldier presumed dead in a dungeon. Now he was Tom Reed, Class C adventurer with "some inherent abilities"—perhaps the understatement of the century.
Tomorrow will be our first true test, Skaravosk noted as Tom finally settled onto his inn room bed. Dungeon corruption against draconic power. An interesting contest.
"Just another day of survival," Tom replied with a yawn. "With better company than usual."
The dragon's mental chuckle followed him into sleep, where once again, they soared on crimson wings above a world that had no idea what had awakened in its midst.