The White Hart Inn occupied prime real estate in Harrowgate's merchant district, its three stories of whitewashed stone and dark timber standing in contrast to the more modest establishments that surrounded it. A far cry from the humble lodging Tom had chosen upon first arriving in the city, the inn catered to successful merchants, minor nobility, and the occasional wealthy adventurer flush with dungeon spoils.
Tonight, Tom was among the latter category, though his newfound wealth came from cleansing a dungeon breach rather than plundering its depths. The five hundred gold pieces from the Westridge Mine contract—even after the Guild's percentage—represented more currency than Tomas Reed had possessed at any point in his twenty-three years of military service.
Your species places remarkable value on these metal discs, Skaravosk observed as Tom counted out payment for his upgraded accommodations—a private suite on the inn's top floor, complete with separate sitting room and bathing chamber.
"It's the utility they represent, not the metal itself," Tom replied silently, thanking the innkeeper and accepting the heavy iron key to his rooms. "Five hundred gold means freedom of movement, quality equipment, access to information, influence with the right people."
I understand the concept of resources, the dragon responded with mild indignation. Dragons were notorious hoarders of wealth, after all. I merely find it interesting how small an amount you consider significant. Five hundred gold pieces would have been a trivial decoration in my hoard. I had an entire cove filled with gold coins that I would sleep upon when I was alive—enough that a human kingdom could fund a war for decades with just a fraction of it.
"And can we get to some of that?" Tom asked with sudden interest. "Might be useful for our endeavors."
He felt Skaravosk's immediate shock ripple through their shared consciousness, followed by what could only be described as draconic offense.
You don't ask a dragon about accessing their hoard, Skaravosk replied stiffly. That's... incredibly inappropriate. It would be like asking a noble human lady her true age, or inquiring about the specific details of her undergarments. Some questions violate fundamental social boundaries.
"Just practical thinking," Tom replied with a slight smile, secretly amused by the dragon's flustered response. "Five hundred gold is nice, but war-funding levels of treasure would open up more options."
We will speak no more of this, Skaravosk declared with dignified finality. Let us focus on more appropriate topics.
Tom suppressed a chuckle as he climbed the polished wooden stairs, nodding politely to a well-dressed merchant he passed on the landing. "Well, it's enough to significantly improve our situation, so I'm not complaining."
The suite exceeded his expectations—spacious rooms furnished with quality pieces, a fireplace already lit against the evening chill, large windows overlooking the city's main thoroughfare, and most appealing of all, a copper bathtub large enough for a proper soak. After days of travel and combat, the prospect of hot water and soap felt almost decadent.
Your satisfaction with such simple comforts continues to fascinate me, Skaravosk commented as Tom immediately set about ordering hot water from a servant. Though I admit there is wisdom in appreciating small pleasures.
An hour later, freshly bathed and dressed in new clothing purchased on their return journey, Tom sat at a private table in the inn's dining room. The White Hart's reputation for exceptional cuisine had factored heavily in his choice of accommodation, particularly given Skaravosk's continuing enthusiasm for experiencing human foods.
As the first course arrived—a rich onion soup topped with melted cheese—Tom felt the dragon's anticipation ripple through their shared consciousness.
This smells considerably more promising than military rations, Skaravosk noted, his mental voice carrying genuine eagerness.
The soup exceeded even those expectations, drawing an unprecedented mental purr of satisfaction from the ancient dragon king. Each subsequent course—roasted pheasant with wild mushrooms, fresh bread with herb butter, seasonal vegetables in wine sauce—elicited similar appreciation.
But it was dessert that truly captured Skaravosk's attention. The apple pie arrived still warm from the oven, its golden crust glistening with caramelized sugar, accompanied by a small pot of fresh cream.
This, the dragon declared after Tom's first bite, is worthy of study. The interplay of textures, the balance of sweetness and tartness, the aromatic complexity... your species has achieved something remarkable here.
Tom suppressed a smile at the dragon's reverent tone. "Just wait until you try chocolate."
After dinner, pleasantly full and more relaxed than he could remember being in years, Tom returned to his suite to plan their next moves. The mining contract had established his credentials as an adventurer, but more importantly, it had provided insights into the Demon King's broader strategy.
He spread out a map of the kingdom on the sitting room table, studying it thoughtfully. "The Whisper Priest mentioned other 'convergence points' throughout the region," he mused aloud, alone in the privacy of his rooms. "Places where dimensional boundaries naturally thin."
Such points often occur along ley lines—currents of natural magical energy that flow through the world, Skaravosk explained. In my era, dragon kings maintained maps of these currents and the nodes where they intersect.
"Do such maps still exist?"
Almost certainly, though not in human hands. The dragons would have guarded such knowledge carefully.
Tom traced a finger along the map, from Westridge Mine toward Howling Crag where he had first encountered dungeon corruption—and where he had died. "Two breaches, relatively close together. Coincidence or pattern?"
Draw a line between them, Skaravosk suggested. Then extend it in both directions.
Tom complied, using a piece of charcoal to mark a straight line connecting the two known breach points, then continuing the line across the map. To the north, it extended through sparsely populated wilderness before reaching the kingdom's border mountains. To the south, however...
"The southern battlefield," Tom realized, tapping the map where the line intersected directly with the region where the kingdom's army currently engaged the Demon King's forces. "Where the Heroes are focused."
A diversion, Skaravosk concluded. The southern campaign keeps the Heroes occupied while the Demon King's agents establish breaches along this ley line. But to what end?
Tom studied the map further, noting other features that fell along or near the extended line. "There's a major city here—Eastwatch. And beyond that... what's this circular marking?"
An ancient site, Skaravosk replied, his mental voice suddenly alert with recognition. The Stone Crown—a circle of standing monoliths that predates human civilization in this region. A place of significant magical convergence.
"A primary target?"
Almost certainly. If the Demon King seeks to manipulate dimensional boundaries on a large scale, the Stone Crown would provide ideal conditions.
Tom leaned back in his chair, considering the implications. The pattern suggested a clear strategic purpose behind the breaches—preparing for something more significant than mere territorial expansion.
"We should investigate," he decided. "Eastwatch first, then the Stone Crown if necessary."
A reasonable approach, Skaravosk agreed. Though it raises the question of our broader objective. Are we merely gathering information? Preventing further breaches? Directly opposing the Demon King's plans?
It was a fair question—one that forced Tom to consider how deeply he wished to involve himself in the wider conflict. As Tomas Reed, he had been a soldier following orders, his horizons limited by his duty and rank. As Tom Reed, enhanced by draconic power and bound to no authority, his options were considerably broader.
"For now, we gather information and prevent breaches where possible," he replied after consideration. "Once we understand the full scope of the threat, we can decide whether to involve the Heroes or act independently."
Pragmatic, Skaravosk approved. Though I would note that direct confrontation with the Demon King would likely exceed our current capabilities, regardless of how our powers develop.
The dragon's presence seemed to shift in Tom's mind, his mental voice taking on a more intimate, confiding tone.
Besides, defeating the Demon King is merely a side objective from my perspective, Skaravosk continued. My true goal remains justice against the Dragon Kings who orchestrated my imprisonment. These adventures—these confrontations with corruption and dimensional breaches—serve primarily to increase your strength and our integration. Each challenge hones your abilities with my power, preparing you for the true battle that will come when we face my ancient rivals.
"Using the Demon King's minions as training exercises?" Tom asked, surprised by the dragon's blunt admission.
Precisely, Skaravosk confirmed without apology. They present genuine threats requiring genuine effort to overcome, yet the stakes are somewhat... controlled. Each victory builds your capacity to channel more of my essence effectively. By the time we confront the Dragon Kings, you will need every advantage these experiences provide.
"Agreed. We're not looking to fight a war—just to understand it better and address specific threats within our capacity."
With their immediate course decided, Tom turned his attention to practical matters. The journey to Eastwatch would require supplies, transportation, and ideally, more information about the city and its surroundings. The adventurer's guild could provide some of what he needed, but for detailed intelligence, he would need other sources.
A knock at his door interrupted his planning. Cautious by habit, Tom approached silently, positioning himself to the side before calling, "Yes?"
"Message for you, sir," came a young voice—likely one of the inn's pages.
Tom opened the door to find a boy of perhaps twelve years holding a sealed parchment. "From Foreman Durnek of the Mining Guild," the lad explained. "Said it was to be delivered personally."
After tipping the boy, Tom broke the seal and unfolded the message. Durnek's handwriting was precise and clear:
Reed,
Matters have developed regarding our recent contract. Information too sensitive for writing. Meet me at the Silverfish Tavern in the eastern quarter at midnight if convenient. Come alone and with discretion.
—D
Intriguing, Skaravosk commented as Tom read the note twice more. Though potentially concerning, given our discussion of larger patterns.
"Agreed," Tom murmured, committing the message to memory before feeding the parchment to the fire. "Durnek seemed trustworthy, but caution is warranted."
He checked the clock on the mantelpiece—just past ten in the evening. Time enough to prepare properly for the meeting, whatever it might entail.
You suspect a trap? Skaravosk inquired.
"Not specifically," Tom replied, moving to check his equipment. "But the timing is convenient, given what we've just discovered about the ley line. And Durnek saw my transformation, despite his promise of discretion."
True, though requesting a meeting in a public tavern seems an inefficient method of arranging an ambush.
"Also true. Which is why I'll go—but prepared for complications."
Tom chose his attire carefully—quality but understated clothing that wouldn't attract attention, with light armor concealed beneath. No visible weapons, since he could summon Bloodthorn if needed, but several small knives hidden about his person from habit. A hooded cloak completed the ensemble, providing both anonymity in the night-time streets and protection against the light rain that had begun to fall.
By eleven-thirty, he was making his way through Harrowgate's eastern quarter—a working-class neighborhood of tanners, dyers, and textile workers. The streets here were narrower, the buildings pressed closer together, and the smells of industry lingered despite the rain. Few people were about at this hour, those who were hurrying with heads down against the weather.
The Silverfish Tavern proved to be a modest establishment catering to local workers—considerably less refined than the White Hart but far from the worst drinking hole Tom had encountered. A handful of patrons nursed ales at scattered tables, while a tired-looking barkeep wiped down the counter with a rag of questionable cleanliness.
Tom spotted Durnek immediately, sitting alone in a corner booth, a mug of something strong before him and his expression troubled. The foreman's shoulders were tense, his eyes constantly scanning the room—the behavior of a man expecting trouble.
Interesting, Skaravosk observed. He exhibits genuine anxiety rather than the anticipatory tension of someone setting a trap.
Tom approached casually, taking a circuitous route that allowed him to check for potential threats before sliding into the booth opposite Durnek. "Evening, Foreman. You wanted to talk?"
Durnek started slightly, then relaxed when he recognized Tom. "Reed. Thanks for coming." He glanced around before continuing in a lowered voice. "Something happened after you left the mine yesterday. Something I thought you should know about."
Tom waited silently, letting the man proceed at his own pace.
"We were securing the site as planned," Durnek continued, taking a quick sip of his drink. "Setting up a perimeter, documenting the collapse for the Guild records. Then as night fell, three riders arrived. Official insignia—royal intelligence division."
This caught Tom's attention. Royal intelligence operatives outside the capital was unusual, especially responding so quickly to an incident in a remote mining operation.
"They asked very specific questions," Durnek went on, his voice dropping further. "About the corruption. About what we found inside. About who had been contracted to address it." He met Tom's eyes directly. "About you."
"What did you tell them?" Tom asked, keeping his tone neutral.
"What we agreed—that you cleared the corruption through conventional means. That the mine entrance collapsed afterward. That you fulfilled your contract professionally." Durnek's fingers tightened around his mug. "They didn't believe me."
"Why not?"
"Because they knew things they shouldn't have known. Details about the crystal formation inside. About the specific nature of the corruption. About something they called a 'Whisper Priest.'" The foreman swallowed hard. "Things only someone who had been inside could know."
Very concerning, Skaravosk commented. Either they have other sources of information about the mine, or...
Or they're connected to the Whisper Priest directly, Tom completed the thought.
"That's not all," Durnek continued. "They confiscated all our records of the incident. Placed the entire site under royal quarantine. My men are being held at a military outpost for 'debriefing.' I only avoided it because I was already en route to Harrowgate with your payment."
"And you came to warn me," Tom concluded.
Durnek nodded grimly. "Something's not right about those agents. Their questions were too precise. And their eyes..." He shuddered slightly. "Something wrong with their eyes. Like they were looking at things I couldn't see."
Tom had encountered enough supernatural phenomena recently to take such observations seriously. "You're taking a risk coming to me like this."
"Consider it partial repayment," the foreman replied. "Whatever you actually did in that mine saved more than just our operation. I've seen corruption before—it spreads. You stopped something that could have consumed half the province." He reached into his coat and withdrew a heavy pouch. "Your direct payment, as agreed. The Guild portion was processed this afternoon, before... all this started."
Tom accepted the pouch with a nod of thanks, though money was far from his primary concern at the moment. "These agents—did they say where they were headed next?"
"No, but they were asking about other mining operations along the western ridgeline. Specifically ones that had reported unusual crystal formations or unexplained phenomena." Durnek leaned forward. "Reed... what's really going on? What was in my mine?"
Tom considered how much to reveal. Durnek had shown loyalty and discretion; he deserved some measure of truth. "Your mine intercepted something more significant than a simple dungeon breach. What you found was deliberately created—part of a larger pattern involving similar sites across the region."
The foreman paled slightly. "Created? By who?"
"Agents of the Demon King, seeking to establish weaknesses in the boundaries between dimensions."
"Gods," Durnek whispered. "And these royal agents—"
"May not be what they appear," Tom finished for him. "True royal intelligence would likely involve the Heroes or at least coordinate with the Adventurer's Guild on matters of supernatural corruption. These agents bypassed both."
"What are you going to do?"
Tom smiled slightly. "Continue my investigation. Starting with determining whether these 'agents' are legitimate or not."
Durnek drained his mug and stood. "I should go. Better if we're not seen together too long. But Reed..." He hesitated. "Whatever you are—and I have my theories after what I saw—be careful. This feels bigger than any of us."
After the foreman departed, Tom remained at the table, ordering a drink he didn't intend to consume while processing what he'd learned. The rapid response of supposed royal agents, their specific knowledge of the mine's interior, and their interest in similar locations along what Tom now knew to be a ley line—all pointed to coordination at a high level.
The implications are concerning, Skaravosk observed. If elements within the royal government are compromised by the Demon King's influence...
"It complicates everything," Tom agreed silently. "And potentially makes our investigation more dangerous."
Yet also more crucial, the dragon added. Corruption within human power structures has always been a favorite tactic of demon lords. It allows them to undermine resistance from within.
Tom left a few coins for the untouched drink and departed the tavern, his hood pulled low against the now-steady rain. The eastern quarter's streets were almost deserted at this hour, the only sounds those of rain on cobblestones and the occasional distant call of a night watchman marking the hour.
He was halfway back to the White Hart when his enhanced senses detected movement behind him—footsteps trying too hard to be silent, the subtle rustle of clothing suggesting more than one follower. Someone was trailing him, with enough skill to avoid detection by ordinary means.
Three pursuers, Skaravosk confirmed. Two keeping pace behind us, one moving parallel along the rooftops to your right.
Tom didn't break stride or give any indication he'd noticed, instead evaluating his options. Confrontation in the open streets risked public attention he'd rather avoid. Heading directly back to the White Hart might compromise his lodgings if his followers had malicious intent. Attempting to lose them through evasion was possible but would only delay an inevitable encounter if they were determined.
"Let's meet them on our terms," he decided, subtly altering his course toward an area he had noted earlier—a small builders' yard containing stacks of timber and stone, temporarily abandoned for the night. An open space with multiple exit routes, good visibility, and no civilian bystanders.
As he entered the yard, Tom positioned himself with his back to a stack of lumber, providing protection from behind while giving him clear sightlines to all approaches. Then he simply waited, appearing to pause as if checking his bearings, while actually preparing for confrontation.
They didn't keep him waiting long. Three figures emerged from the shadows, moving with the coordinated precision of trained operatives. Two approached from the street while the third dropped silently from a nearby roof to cut off his retreat. All wore dark clothing with no insignia, their faces obscured by hoods and cloth masks.
"Can I help you?" Tom asked mildly, as if encountering strangers in a deserted construction yard at midnight was a perfectly normal occurrence.
The central figure stepped forward. "You're the adventurer who cleared Westridge Mine." Not a question but a statement, delivered in a voice oddly lacking in inflection.
"That's correct. Guild contract, properly executed and completed," Tom replied, maintaining his casual demeanor while assessing the three for weapons and vulnerabilities. "Is there an issue with my work?"
"You will come with us for debriefing," the figure continued in that same flat tone. "Royal authority."
"I'd be happy to speak with legitimate royal representatives," Tom countered. "During normal business hours, through proper Guild channels, with appropriate documentation."
The three exchanged glances—a silent communication that struck Tom as oddly synchronized.
Something is wrong with them, Skaravosk observed. Their movements are too coordinated, their breathing patterns identical. And there's an energy signature... familiar...
Before the dragon could elaborate, the central figure reached into its cloak and withdrew not identification or papers, but a small purple crystal that pulsed with a light Tom recognized immediately—the same corrupt energy he had encountered in the mine.
"You will come with us," the figure repeated, the crystal's light reflecting in its eyes, revealing pupils that expanded and contracted in unnatural synchronization with the crystal's pulsing.
Puppets, Skaravosk identified with sudden certainty. Human bodies being controlled through crystalline implants. Similar to the corruption we encountered, but more sophisticated—tailored for possession rather than transformation.
That explained the unsettling coordination and flat affect. These weren't royal agents at all, but human vessels for whatever intelligence had been directing the dungeon corruption—likely the same entity that had manifested as the Whisper Priest.
"I'm afraid I'll have to decline your invitation," Tom said, dropping all pretense of cooperation. "But I'm very interested in that crystal. Mind if I take a closer look?"
Without waiting for a response, he lunged forward with enhanced speed, aiming to snatch the crystal from the central figure's hand. The vessel reacted with inhuman quickness, leaping backward while its companions moved to flank Tom, producing short swords from beneath their cloaks.
They're faster than normal humans, Skaravosk noted as Tom evaded a coordinated attack from both sides. The crystals enhance their physical capabilities while suppressing their individual will.
Tom blocked a blade with his forearm, the edge scraping against the light armor beneath his clothing but failing to penetrate. He countered with a precisely measured strike to his attacker's solar plexus—enough force to disable a normal human but not to kill.
The vessel barely reacted to what should have been a debilitating blow, pressing its attack with mechanical persistence. These weren't opponents who could be subdued through conventional means—the crystals driving them would keep the bodies functioning despite physical trauma that would incapacitate an ordinary person.
We need to separate them from the crystals, Skaravosk advised as Tom continued his defensive engagement, looking for vulnerabilities. Observe their movements—the crystals appear to be embedded at the base of the skull.
Indeed, as the vessels moved, Tom caught glimpses of purple light emanating from the back of their necks, just below the hairline. The controlling crystals weren't held; they were physically inserted into the bodies.
This complicated matters. Removing the crystals without killing the hosts would require precision and care—neither of which was easily achieved in a three-against-one melee in a dark construction yard.
"Any suggestions for extraction methods?" Tom asked silently as he ducked under a sword swing and delivered a sweeping kick that momentarily unbalanced one opponent.
Dragon claws would provide the necessary precision, Skaravosk replied. A partial transformation of just your hands should be subtle enough to avoid unwanted attention while giving you the tools needed.
Tom focused on channeling draconic energy to his hands alone, a more targeted transformation than he had previously attempted. His fingers elongated slightly, nails hardening and sharpening into crimson claws designed for surgical precision rather than brute combat.
The central vessel, perhaps sensing the shift in energy, suddenly withdrew several paces and raised the external crystal it had shown earlier. The purple light intensified dramatically, and the crystal began to emit a high-pitched tone just at the edge of normal human hearing.
A communication signal, Skaravosk warned. Calling for reinforcement or reporting our resistance.
Tom couldn't allow that to continue. With enhanced speed, he charged the central vessel, his transformed hands moving in a precise pattern—one to knock aside the signaling crystal, the other to dart around behind the vessel's neck, claws delicately extracting the embedded control crystal with surgical precision.
The vessel collapsed immediately, like a puppet with cut strings. The extracted crystal continued to pulse in Tom's clawed hand, its light fluctuating wildly as if in distress.
Crush it, Skaravosk instructed. Quickly, before it can establish a new connection.
Tom closed his fist, shattering the crystal. Purple light spilled between his fingers momentarily, then dissipated into nothing.
The remaining two vessels reacted to their controller's fall with increased aggression but decreased coordination—still dangerous but now operating on simpler programmed instructions rather than adaptive intelligence.
Taking advantage of their reduced effectiveness, Tom dispatched them efficiently, removing their control crystals with the same careful precision. As the final vessel collapsed, he examined the three unconscious forms sprawled across the wet cobblestones.
"Will they survive?" he asked Skaravosk, reverting his hands to fully human appearance.
The physical bodies should recover, the dragon replied. Though what remains of their minds is harder to predict. The crystal control may have suppressed or damaged their original consciousness.
Tom checked each for identification but found nothing—no papers, no insignia, not even distinct clothing that might indicate their origin or affiliation. Their faces, now visible with masks removed, were unremarkable—the kind that would blend into any crowd without notice.
Perfect vessels for infiltration.
We should depart quickly, Skaravosk advised. The signal crystal may have successfully communicated before destruction.
Tom agreed, but paused long enough to collect the fragments of the three control crystals, wrapping them carefully in a handkerchief and securing them in an inner pocket. They might contain valuable information about the broader corruption network.
As he slipped away from the construction yard, leaving the unconscious bodies where they fell, Tom's mind raced with implications. The Whisper Priest—or whatever intelligence directed it—had resources within the city, human vessels to carry out its will, and the means to track his movements despite his precautions.
His investigation had just become significantly more complicated.
By the time he reached the White Hart, Tom had made several decisions. First, he would need to change lodgings—not immediately, which might alert watchers, but within the next day. Second, his journey to Eastwatch would need to begin sooner than planned, before the controlling entity could organize more effective pursuit. Third, and most importantly, he needed more information about the crystals and their capabilities.
In his suite, Tom carefully examined the crystal fragments he had collected, spreading them on a cloth on the table. Even in pieces, they emanated a subtle purple glow and an almost imperceptible hum.
Fascinating construction, Skaravosk commented as Tom used a small knife to separate the larger fragments. These are not merely conduits for corruption energy but precisely engineered control mechanisms. Far more sophisticated than what we encountered in the mine.
"Created by the same entity?"
Almost certainly, though with different purpose. The mine corruption was environmental—designed to alter physical reality. These are targeted for domination of specific vessels.
Tom frowned, studying a particularly intact fragment. "Could they affect us?"
Unlikely, the dragon replied after consideration. My essence provides natural resistance to external control. However, prolonged exposure to larger corrupted areas could potentially have cumulative effects we should be wary of.
That aligned with Tom's instincts—caution without paranoia. He rewrapped the fragments and secured them in a hidden pocket of his pack. They would require more detailed examination later, preferably by someone with expertise in magical crystals.
Tom spent the remainder of the night in restless planning, mapping routes to Eastwatch, considering potential allies and information sources, and preparing for rapid departure if necessary. When dawn finally broke, he had formulated a workable strategy—one that balanced the urgency of continued investigation against the risk of hasty action.
After a hearty breakfast, during which Skaravosk continued his enthusiastic exploration of human cuisine ("The concept of combining eggs, meat, and bread in a single meal is elegantly efficient"), Tom made his way to the Adventurer's Guild. If he was to leave for Eastwatch, he would need information about the city and surrounding region, ideally in the form of an official Guild contract that would provide both cover for his activities and legitimate access upon arrival.
The Guild Hall was considerably busier than during his previous visit, adventurers of various classes and specializations crowding the main hall to review posted contracts, negotiate terms, or simply exchange information over cups of Guild-provided tea. Tom navigated through the crowd with practiced anonymity, heading for the contract board where new assignments were posted daily.
As he scanned the listings, a familiar name caught his eye—Eastwatch Municipal Guild, seeking Class C or higher adventurers for "investigation of unusual crystalline formations in local mine workings." The posting had been added just yesterday, with an attractive payment offered for what was described as "evaluation and containment of potential hazards."
Remarkably convenient, Skaravosk observed. Perhaps too convenient, given recent events.
Tom agreed, but the opportunity was too perfect to ignore. An official contract would provide legitimate cover for exactly the investigation he intended to pursue. The potential trap aspect was concerning but manageable—forewarned meant forearmed.
He approached the registry desk, where a different clerk from his previous visit managed the assignment ledger. "Interested in the Eastwatch mining contract," he stated, presenting his adventurer's crystal for verification.
The clerk—a young man with ink-stained fingers and perpetually furrowed brow—examined the crystal briefly. "Class C with physical enhancement, correct? Suitable for this assignment. You have experience with mine environments?"
"Recently completed a similar contract at Westridge," Tom confirmed.
The clerk's eyebrows rose slightly. "Westridge? That's been classified under special protocol. One moment." He disappeared into a back office, returning moments later with a senior Guild official—a gray-haired woman whose insignia identified her as a Guild Master.
"You're Reed?" she asked without preamble. "The adventurer who handled Westridge Mine?"
Tom nodded, immediately alert to potential complications.
"Walk with me," she instructed, gesturing toward a side corridor away from the crowded main hall.
Once they were relatively private, she turned to him with an evaluating gaze. "Unusual situation with Westridge. The Mining Guild filed standard completion documentation, but royal agents have since placed all records under seal. Care to elaborate on what you encountered?"
Tom considered his response carefully. This could be a legitimate security concern—or another attempt at information gathering by compromised individuals.
She shows no signs of crystalline control, Skaravosk noted, having grown more attuned to detecting the subtle energy signature after their encounter the previous night. Her pulse and eye movements are normal, her energy pattern purely human.
That was something, at least. Tom opted for a measured response. "The mine contained corruption consistent with a minor dungeon breach. I neutralized it, completing my contract according to terms. The entrance collapsed during the operation, sealing any remaining contamination."
The Guild Master studied him for a long moment. "That's the official report. Yet royal intelligence has quarantined the site and debriefed all witnesses. Quite unusual for a 'minor breach,' wouldn't you say?"
"I'm not privy to royal intelligence priorities," Tom replied evenly.
"No," she agreed. "Few are. But you should know that the Eastwatch contract you're inquiring about bears remarkable similarities to Westridge. Unusual crystal formations, reports of strange lights, miners experiencing lost time or returning with inexplicable injuries."
"Hence my interest," Tom said. "Relevant experience."
The Guild Master's expression remained neutral, but her eyes sharpened. "Mr. Reed, the Adventurer's Guild maintains strict neutrality in political matters, but we prioritize the safety of our members. If Eastwatch presents similar hazards to Westridge, I would be remiss not to ensure you understand the potential risks."
"I appreciate the concern," Tom replied sincerely. "But I'm well-equipped to handle such situations."
She nodded slowly. "So it would seem. Your Registry assessment indicates exceptional physical capabilities, and Foreman Durnek's contract review was... effusive in its praise. Unusually so for a Mining Guild representative."
She suspects there's more to you than appears in your records, Skaravosk observed. Intelligent woman.
"The contract terms are standard," the Guild Master continued. "Payment upon successful containment, verified by Eastwatch Municipal authorities. Transportation can be arranged through Guild channels—the caravan leaves tomorrow at dawn."
"I'll take it," Tom confirmed.
She gestured for him to follow her back to the registry desk, where she personally processed the contract assignment, linking it to his adventurer's crystal with the official Guild seal.
As she handed it back, she fixed him with a penetrating gaze. "One final matter, Mr. Reed. Reports from Eastwatch mention royal agents already present in the city, coordinating with local authorities on the crystal situation. Given the... unusual circumstances surrounding Westridge, you might wish to exercise additional caution in your approach."
The warning was clear, if carefully phrased to maintain official deniability.
"Understood," Tom replied. "And appreciated."
"The Guild looks after its own," she said simply. "Safe travels."
As Tom left the Guild Hall with his new contract secured, he felt simultaneously more confident in his course and more wary of what awaited in Eastwatch. The Guild Master's warning confirmed his suspicions that whatever entity controlled the crystals had significant reach—possibly extending into royal intelligence itself.
We should prepare for complex opposition, Skaravosk suggested as they made their way through Harrowgate's busy streets. If the controlling intelligence has already established presence in Eastwatch, we may face more sophisticated resistance than those three vessels last night.
"Agreed," Tom replied silently. "Which means we need better information before arrival."
His next stop was the city's central market, where among the stalls selling everything from fresh produce to exotic trinkets, information brokers plied their trade with subtle signs recognizable to those who knew what to look for. Tom had encountered such networks in every major city during his military career—unofficial intelligence sources that operated outside official channels, serving anyone with coin and discretion.
He located what he sought at the edge of the market—a small bookshop with a blue lantern hanging beside its door, currently unlit during daylight hours but signifying to knowledgeable visitors that more than books were available inside.
The shop's interior was dimly lit and dusty, shelves crammed with volumes of varying ages and conditions. At a small desk near the back, an elderly man with spectacles perched on a prominent nose looked up from his ledger as Tom entered.
"Browsing or seeking something specific?" the proprietor asked, his tone suggesting the question carried multiple meanings.
"Information about Eastwatch," Tom replied, approaching the desk. "Current events, notable visitors, unusual occurrences. Particularly regarding mining operations."
The old man removed his spectacles, cleaning them meticulously with a cloth while studying Tom. "Eastwatch queries have become popular recently. Interesting coincidence."
"I'm not fond of coincidences," Tom said mildly, placing several gold coins on the desk. "I prefer reliable information."
The proprietor nodded appreciatively at the payment. "Reliability costs more these days, especially regarding Eastwatch. The usual channels have become... restricted. People who ask questions sometimes stop asking anything at all."
"I can be careful with how I use what you provide," Tom assured him.
After a moment's consideration, the old man pocketed the coins and stood. "Wait here."
He disappeared into a back room, returning minutes later with a thin folder which he placed on the desk between them. "Recent courier reports, merchant gossip, and guard rotation schedules for Eastwatch. The mining situation is mentioned on page four—read it here, nothing leaves the shop."
Tom opened the folder and quickly scanned its contents, his enhanced memory allowing him to retain the information without needing to take notes. The reports confirmed much of what he already suspected—unusual activity in mines surrounding Eastwatch, increased presence of supposed royal agents, disappearances of citizens who asked too many questions.
Most concerning was a note about recent excavations at an ancient site near the city—the Stone Crown standing stones that Skaravosk had identified as lying along the ley line they had traced.
As we suspected, the dragon commented as Tom read. They're preparing the Stone Crown for some larger working.
After returning the folder, Tom purchased several legitimate books about regional history and mining techniques to maintain the shop's cover, then departed with a nod to the proprietor. His preparations were nearly complete—just a few supplies to acquire and arrangements to make before tomorrow's departure.
As he walked through the market, mentally cataloging what supplies he still needed to acquire, Tom became aware of a subtle shift in the crowd's movement around him. Nothing obvious—just a slight adjustment in flow, as if certain individuals were positioning themselves with deliberate casualness at key points.
We're being observed, Skaravosk noted. Three watchers that I can detect—one at the spice merchant's stall to your left, another leaning against the well in the center of the square, and a third on the roofline of the tailor's shop.
Tom didn't break stride or give any indication he'd noticed, continuing his shopping while extending his enhanced senses to verify Skaravosk's observations. The watchers were good—professionals who knew how to blend into a crowded marketplace. Without the dragon's perceptions augmenting his own, he might have missed them entirely.
"Guild agents or more crystal puppets?" Tom asked silently.
Difficult to determine at this distance, but their energy patterns appear normal. Most likely conventional surveillance—Guild security, perhaps, or legitimate royal intelligence.
That was somewhat reassuring. Conventional watchers could be dealt with through conventional means. Tom deliberately led them on a circuitous route through the market, making routine purchases—preserved rations, a new waterskin, sturdy traveling clothes—while gradually working his way toward the eastern exit.
When he passed a particularly crowded intersection where several market lanes converged, he timed his movement perfectly, slipping between two laden merchant carts just as they began to move in opposite directions. By the time the way cleared again, Tom had vanished into a narrow alley, scaled a drainpipe to a rooftop, and positioned himself where he could observe his former observers.
The watchers' reactions confirmed Skaravosk's assessment—professional but human. They communicated with subtle hand signals, split up to search likely routes, and eventually regrouped with expressions of controlled frustration. Not the mechanical persistence of crystal puppets, but the adaptive problem-solving of trained operatives.
Guild security, most likely, Skaravosk concluded as Tom watched from his elevated vantage point. The Guild Master mentioned looking after her own. She's having you monitored—for your protection or her information, possibly both.
"Either way, it's better to know about it," Tom replied. He remained in position until the watchers dispersed, then took a convoluted route back to the White Hart, using service entrances and staff passages to avoid potential surveillance at the main door.
In his suite, Tom laid out his purchases on the bed alongside the supplies he'd acquired previously. Tomorrow's journey would require careful preparation—not just physical equipment but mental readiness for whatever awaited in Eastwatch.
You've adapted well to these complications, Skaravosk observed as Tom organized his pack with methodical efficiency. Many would be unnerved by crystal-controlled puppets, Guild surveillance, and potential royal corruption all emerging in rapid succession.
"I had a good teacher," Tom replied with a slight smile. "Twenty-three years of warfare teaches you to expect complications and adapt accordingly. Though I admit the scale of this conspiracy is larger than I anticipated when we took the mining contract."
Indeed. What began as a simple examination of dungeon corruption has revealed threads of a much more complex tapestry.
Tom paused in his preparations, considering their position. "Are we out of our depth here, Skarry? This is starting to look less like isolated incidents and more like a coordinated campaign with high-level infiltration."
The dragon's mental presence shifted, something like a contemplative rumble passing through their shared consciousness. Not yet, I think. We face significant opposition, certainly, but our unique nature provides advantages few others could claim. The crystal control that subverts ordinary humans cannot affect us. Our combined combat capabilities exceed most conventional threats. And perhaps most importantly, we remain an unknown factor to our adversaries—they're still attempting to gather information about us rather than deploying their full resources against us.
"For now," Tom noted. "That could change rapidly, especially if we continue interfering with their operations."
True. Which is why our approach in Eastwatch must balance investigation with discretion. We need to understand the larger pattern before revealing our full capabilities.
Tom agreed, returning to his preparations with renewed focus. By early evening, he had completed his packing, secured his remaining funds in various hidden pockets and compartments, and arranged for an early breakfast before the caravan's departure.
As darkness fell over Harrowgate, Tom stood at his window, gazing out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, crystal puppets reported to their master. Guild watchers maintained surveillance on potential threats. Legitimate and corrupted officials pursued their respective agendas. And beneath it all, a pattern of dimensional breaches followed a line across the kingdom toward an ancient stone circle where something significant was being prepared.
"Whatever they're planning," Tom said softly, "it happens at the Stone Crown."
Yes, Skaravosk agreed. The question is whether we can discover and disrupt it before completion.
"We'll start with Eastwatch," Tom decided. "One step at a time."
The night passed quietly, without further incidents or suspicious visitors. Tom slept lightly, as was his habit, while Skaravosk maintained a subtle awareness of their surroundings—their arrangement of shared vigilance proving increasingly effective.
Dawn found Tom already awake and dressed, his pack secured and ready beside the door. The White Hart's kitchen staff had prepared a travel packet of bread, cheese, and dried fruit at his request—supplements to the journey rations he'd purchased the previous day.
You seem eager to depart, Skaravosk noted as Tom made a final check of the room to ensure nothing important was left behind.
"Eastwatch represents progress," Tom replied. "Movement toward understanding. I've never been comfortable with partial information."
A trait we share, the dragon agreed. Though I caution against haste. The journey itself may provide valuable opportunities for preparation and observation.
Tom acknowledged the wisdom in this. The caravan would take three days to reach Eastwatch—time he could use for planning, practicing more controlled transformations, and considering potential approaches to the investigation once they arrived.
He left the White Hart just as the city was coming to life, merchants raising their shutters, apprentices hurrying to workshops, street vendors setting up their carts. The eastern gate, where the caravan would depart, lay on the opposite side of Harrowgate from the White Hart, requiring Tom to traverse most of the city.
He chose his route carefully, avoiding the main thoroughfares where Guild watchers might anticipate his passage, instead navigating the network of smaller streets and alleys he had mapped mentally during his brief stay. Twice he sensed potential observation and adjusted his path accordingly, maintaining his anonymity through constant movement and awareness.
The caravan assembled outside the eastern gate was more substantial than Tom had expected—twenty merchant wagons carrying goods ranging from textiles to metalwork, escorted by a dozen armed guards wearing the livery of a well-established trading company. A Guild representative checked credentials as travelers and merchants presented themselves for inclusion in the group.
Tom presented his adventurer's crystal and contract documentation, receiving a numbered token that assigned him to the third wagon in the procession—a relatively comfortable conveyance transporting bales of dyed cloth and several passengers who had paid for transportation.
"Reed, Class C adventurer, assigned to security supplement," the Guild representative noted, making a mark in his ledger. "Position yourself wherever you deem most effective for observation. Captain Jerrick commands the escort—coordinate with him if you identify potential threats."
Tom nodded his understanding and moved toward the assigned wagon, stowing his pack and assessing his fellow travelers. Two were obviously merchants—well-dressed men with the soft hands and calculating eyes of those who traded in goods rather than producing them. The third was a woman of middle years, her practical clothing and ink-stained fingers suggesting a scribe or record-keeper.
"Heading to Eastwatch for business or pleasure?" one of the merchants asked as Tom settled onto a bench opposite them.
"Guild contract," Tom replied with polite brevity, establishing his role while discouraging further questions.
The merchant nodded understanding. "Heard they've been having troubles in the mines there. Glad to have additional security for the journey."
The caravan began to move shortly thereafter, the line of wagons creaking into motion as teamsters called to their horses and guards took up positions along the column. Tom observed the operation with professional appreciation—the trading company clearly maintained discipline and order, with established protocols for travel formation and security coverage.
As Harrowgate receded behind them, the road widened into the main eastern highway—a well-maintained thoroughfare that served as the primary trade route to Eastwatch and beyond. Farms and small settlements dotted the landscape, fields of early summer crops stretching toward the horizon under a clear blue sky.
A pleasant land, when not being corrupted by dimensional breaches, Skaravosk commented, his consciousness expanding to absorb the sensory experiences of the journey. I had forgotten how vibrant the ordinary world can be after so long imprisoned in darkness.
Tom understood. Even for him, after merely years of warfare rather than millennia of confinement, there was something rejuvenating about traveling through peaceful countryside unmarred by battle. It provided context for what they sought to protect—a reminder that beyond the complexities of conspiracy and corruption lay simple lives worth preserving.
The first day's journey passed without incident, the caravan making good time along the well-traveled road. They stopped for the night at a designated waystation—a fortified inn with stables large enough to accommodate all the caravan's horses and secure yard space for the wagons.
Tom took the opportunity to familiarize himself with Captain Jerrick, a veteran soldier turned caravan guard whose weathered face and alert eyes suggested both experience and competence. The captain accepted Tom's introduction with professional courtesy, asking relevant questions about his capabilities without prying into the specifics of his Guild contract.
"Extra blades are always welcome," Jerrick noted as they shared a simple meal in the waystation's common room. "Road's been quiet lately, but that often changes without warning. You've worked caravan security before?"
"Similar assignments," Tom replied truthfully. Military escort duty wasn't so different from caravan protection.
"Good. I run a tight operation—regular patrol rotations, advance scouts, rearguard sweeps. You're Guild-certified, so I won't dictate your movements, but I'd appreciate coordination if you spot anything concerning."
"Of course," Tom agreed, recognizing a competent commander who understood chain of command without being rigid about it. "I'll supplement your security rather than disrupt it."
The captain seemed satisfied with this arrangement, and they spent some time discussing the route ahead—including known hazard points where the road passed through terrain favorable for ambush. By the time they concluded their conversation, Tom had a clear picture of the caravan's security protocols and Jerrick had a professional respect for the newest addition to his journey.
That night, as the waystation quieted and most travelers sought their beds, Tom slipped out to the stable yard. Finding a secluded corner behind the hay storage where he wouldn't be observed, he began practicing the controlled partial transformations Skaravosk had suggested.
First came directed manifestation—transforming specific body parts while leaving others unchanged. Hands to claws, back to normal. Feet to taloned dragon appendages, then human again. Eyes enhanced with draconic vision, then returned to their usual appearance. Each shift becoming smoother, requiring less concentration, the transition between forms increasingly under conscious control.
Excellent progress, Skaravosk commented as Tom successfully manifested and dismissed a tail without disturbing any other part of his body. The precision of your transformations increases with each attempt.
Next came duration control—maintaining partial transformations for extended periods while managing the energy expenditure involved. Tom practiced holding draconic eyes for ten minutes, then twenty, noting how the enhanced vision affected his perception of the nighttime yard. He maintained scaled armor on his forearms for half an hour while performing normal movements to test flexibility and adaptation.
The energy efficiency improves as your body becomes more accustomed to the changes, the dragon observed. What initially required conscious effort now happens almost instinctively.
By the time Tom concluded his practice session, he had significantly improved both his control and understanding of the transformative capabilities they shared. The armor form that had been a desperate measure during the mine confrontation was becoming a precision tool he could deploy selectively and sustainably.
The second day of travel continued the peaceful progression eastward, the landscape gradually changing from agricultural flatlands to rolling hills covered with scattered woodlands. The caravan maintained a steady pace, the experienced teamsters managing their horses with practiced efficiency.
Tom split his time between riding in the assigned wagon and walking alongside, both to stretch his legs and to better observe their surroundings. Captain Jerrick nodded approval at this initiative, recognizing the value of an additional set of alert eyes scanning the route ahead.
It was during one such walking period, as the caravan navigated a section of road that curved between two wooded hills, that Tom sensed something amiss. Nothing obvious—just a subtle wrongness in the pattern of bird calls from the forest to their right.
There, Skaravosk confirmed, directing Tom's attention to a barely visible movement among the trees. Approximately twelve human-sized figures concealed in the underbrush. Their positioning suggests an ambush formation.
Tom signaled to Captain Jerrick, using the hand codes they had discussed the previous evening. The captain responded immediately, subtly adjusting the guards' positions without alerting the potential ambushers that they had been detected.
As the caravan approached the optimal ambush point—a narrow section where the road passed between two large boulders—Tom moved closer to the treeline, his senses extended to track the hidden watchers. Just before the lead wagon reached the choke point, he caught the metallic glint of a drawn weapon among the shadows.
"Ambush right!" he called clearly, the pre-arranged warning springing the caravan's counter-measures into action before the bandits could launch their surprise attack.
Guards who had appeared relaxed instantly raised crossbows and loosed a volley into the treeline. Wagons accelerated through the choke point rather than slowing as the ambushers had likely anticipated. Merchants and passengers ducked low while teamsters focused on maintaining momentum.
The bandits, their surprise advantage lost, emerged from cover in disarray—at least fifteen men in mismatched armor, wielding an assortment of weapons that suggested they were deserters or displaced soldiers rather than common robbers.
Tom drew no weapon as they charged, instead calling upon the training of the previous night to manifest subtle enhancements—slightly scaled skin for protection, marginally enhanced strength and speed, just enough to give him advantage without revealing his true capabilities.
The first bandit to reach him swung a rusted sword in a wild overhead strike that Tom easily sidestepped. Rather than counterattacking lethally, Tom chose precision over power, delivering a carefully calibrated blow to the man's temple that dropped him unconscious without permanent damage.
Captain Jerrick and his guards engaged the main body of ambushers with professional efficiency, crossbow fire having already reduced their numbers before close combat began. Those bandits still standing quickly realized they had lost any advantage of surprise or position, their intended prey proving far more formidable than expected.
Tom disabled three more attackers with measured strikes, leaving them alive but unconscious. Across the road, he noted a guard about to be flanked by two bandits who had circled behind him. With a quick burst of enhanced speed—noticeable but not supernaturally so—Tom crossed the distance and intercepted the flanking attack, disarming one assailant and using the man's momentum to throw him into his companion.
The entire engagement lasted less than five minutes. When it concluded, four bandits lay dead from crossbow bolts or guard interventions, nine were unconscious or disabled, and the remainder had fled back into the forest.
"Efficient work," Captain Jerrick commented as he approached Tom, wiping blood from his sword before sheathing it. "You spotted them before anyone else. Good eyes."
"Lucky angle of sunlight," Tom deflected modestly. "Caught a reflection off metal."
The captain nodded, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced by this explanation. "We'll bind the survivors for delivery to authorities in the next settlement. No sense wasting time hunting those who fled."
As the guards secured prisoners and checked for injuries among the caravan members, Tom examined the fallen bandits more carefully. Their equipment and appearance confirmed his initial assessment—former soldiers turned to banditry, likely displaced by the southern conflict with the Demon King's forces.
This was barely a test of your capabilities, Skaravosk noted as Tom helped the guards gather the unconscious bandits. But it does present an opportunity to experiment with your weapon-summoning abilities without revealing too much to observers.
Tom glanced around, noting that Captain Jerrick and most of the guards were occupied with securing the prisoners and checking the wagons for damage. He stepped into the shadow of one of the large boulders, where he would have a moment of privacy.
"What did you have in mind?" he asked quietly.
Beyond Bloodthorn, you've only managed to summon Worldrend once, under extreme circumstances. My dimensional armory contains dozens of unique weapons, each with specific properties. Let me show you two that would suit your fighting style particularly well.
Tom extended his hands, palms up, and focused on the connection to Skaravosk's dimensional pocket. Instead of simply willing a weapon to appear, he allowed the dragon's guidance to flow through him, directing the manifestation.
In his right hand, crimson energy coalesced into a magnificent curved blade. Unlike Bloodthorn's straightforward design, this weapon was more elegant and deadly—a single-edged sword with a slight curve that widened toward the tip. The metal was deep red with veins of black running through it like cracks in cooling lava. The edge seemed to drink in the surrounding light, while the blade's spine reflected it with an almost liquid shimmer.
Crimson Fang, Skaravosk identified. A cutter designed for precision rather than brute force. The blade can slice through most conventional materials with minimal resistance and leaves wounds that resist magical healing.
In his left hand formed something entirely different—a weapon that barely resembled a conventional sword at all. It was more like a crystallized flame, frozen in the shape of a blade. Jagged red crystals formed the cutting edge in an asymmetrical pattern that nonetheless felt perfectly balanced in his grip. The weapon radiated heat that Tom could feel but that didn't burn him, and tiny motes of energy occasionally broke free from its surface to float momentarily in the air before dissolving.
Ember Shard, the dragon continued. Forged from the heart of a volcanic drake. It carries residual fire essence that burns whatever it cuts, and can ignite flammable materials with sustained contact.
Tom tested the weight and balance of both weapons, marveling at how naturally they fit his grip despite their exotic appearance. They complemented each other perfectly—Crimson Fang was swift and precise, while Ember Shard provided raw destructive capacity.
"Impressive," he murmured, executing a few controlled practice movements with both blades. "Though perhaps a bit too distinctive for our current circumstances."
Indeed. These are not weapons for subtle encounters. But knowing you can summon them when needed expands your tactical options significantly.
With a thought, Tom dismissed both weapons, the crimson energy dissolving back into nothingness. The sensation of holding such power, even briefly, lingered in his muscles—a reminder of what was available when circumstances demanded it.
"Reed!" Captain Jerrick's voice called from the road. "We're ready to move out."
Tom rejoined the caravan, which was already reorganizing for continued travel. The brief skirmish had cost them less than half an hour, and the captain was clearly eager to make up for lost time.
"Those weren't common bandits," Tom observed as he fell into step beside Jerrick. "Former military, based on their formation and weapons."
The captain nodded grimly. "Getting more common these days. As the southern front shifts, units get scattered or cut off. Some make their way back to the main army. Others..." He gestured toward the bound prisoners being loaded into an empty supply wagon. "Others decide they prefer taking rather than serving."
"Desperation makes dangerous men," Tom agreed, thinking of how many times he'd seen similar patterns in his military career.
"Which is why I'm grateful for competent reinforcement," Jerrick replied, giving Tom an appraising look. "You handle yourself well. Better than the average Guild adventurer."
Tom acknowledged the compliment with a modest nod. "I've had practice."
The remainder of the day passed without further incidents, the caravan making good progress toward their next scheduled stop. As they traveled, Tom reflected on the brief opportunity to experiment with more of Skaravosk's weapon arsenal. The dragon had mentioned "dozens" of unique weapons—each presumably with specific properties and capabilities suited to different combat situations.
Most were crafted for my claws rather than human hands, Skaravosk explained when Tom inquired further. I've been adapting their forms to better suit your physiology as we progress. The mental templates must be adjusted carefully—too much alteration risks destabilizing the dimensional anchoring.
"Which explains why Bloodthorn was the first you showed me," Tom reasoned. "Simplest design, easiest to adapt."
Correct. As our connection deepens, more complex weapons become accessible. Worldrend was actually quite advanced—you shouldn't have been able to summon it so early in our partnership. Stress and immediate danger likely facilitated the connection.
They reached the second waystation shortly before sunset—another fortified inn, though smaller than the previous night's accommodation. The caravan's size meant some travelers would need to sleep in their wagons or in tents within the secure yard, with priority for indoor rooms given to paying merchants and official Guild personnel.
Tom's status as contracted Guild security earned him a small private room, barely large enough for a narrow bed and a hook for his cloak, but offering valuable privacy. After joining the caravan guards for a simple dinner of stew and bread, during which Skaravosk continued his enthusiastic commentary on human cuisine (The concept of breaking bread together has remarkable social significance among your kind. Dragons would never share food so communally), Tom retired to his room for another evening of practice.
This time, he focused on refining his control over the weapons he had summoned earlier. Drawing and dismissing Crimson Fang and Ember Shard repeatedly, working on reducing the manifestation time, experimenting with summoning them directly into specific combat positions rather than simply into his open hands.
Excellent progress, Skaravosk commented as Tom successfully manifested Crimson Fang in mid-swing, the blade appearing just in time to complete an attacking arc. Your intuitive grasp of dimensional manipulation exceeds my expectations.
"It feels... natural," Tom admitted, dismissing the weapon once more. "As if this capability was always there, just waiting to be accessed."
An interesting observation, the dragon replied thoughtfully. Perhaps our compatibility extends deeper than initially apparent. Some humans have distant draconic ancestry—diluted through generations but occasionally expressing in subtle ways.
"You think I might have dragon blood?" Tom asked, surprised by the suggestion.
It would explain certain anomalies—your exceptional survival instinct, your rapid adaptation to my essence, your intuitive grasp of transformative capabilities that should be entirely foreign to human physiology.
Tom considered this possibility as he prepared for sleep. The idea that something in his lineage might have predisposed him to this merger with Skaravosk was both fascinating and somewhat unsettling. Had he never been truly "unremarkable" at all, but rather carrying dormant capabilities that only needed the right catalyst to awaken?
Rest now, Skaravosk suggested, sensing his contemplation. Tomorrow brings us closer to Eastwatch and whatever awaits us there.
The final day of travel began under overcast skies that threatened rain but never quite delivered. The landscape had changed significantly since their departure from Harrowgate—rolling hills giving way to more dramatic terrain as they approached the foothills of the eastern mountain range. Eastwatch itself was built against these mountains, a city whose wealth derived from both trade and the rich mineral deposits found within the surrounding peaks.
Captain Jerrick had doubled the scout patrols following the previous day's ambush, but the increased vigilance proved unnecessary. They encountered no further threats, only occasional travelers and merchant carts heading in the opposite direction.
By mid-afternoon, Eastwatch came into view—a sprawling city of stone and timber whose buildings climbed the lower slopes of the mountains like a giant's staircase. Great waterwheels turned in the swift river that cut through the city's heart, powering mills and forges. Smoke rose from innumerable chimneys, evidence of the metalworking industry that had made Eastwatch famous throughout the kingdom.
Most impressive were the massive gates that gave the city its name—twin towers of white stone flanking iron-banded doors large enough to admit the tallest cargo wagons. Guards in the distinctive blue and silver livery of Eastwatch stood at attention, inspecting incoming travelers and collecting the modest entry tax that funded the city's maintenance.
An impressive human settlement, Skaravosk observed as they approached. Built to endure, unlike the temporary camps and villages your kind often constructs.
"Necessity and resources shape architecture," Tom replied silently. "Mountain stone is plentiful here, and protection from harsh eastern winters essential."
The caravan slowed as it approached the gates, joining a queue of travelers awaiting entry. Tom used the time to study the city's defensive arrangements with professional interest—noting guard rotations, archer positions on the walls, the mechanism of the reinforced gates. Eastwatch was well-prepared for conventional threats, its defenses designed to repel bandits or rival mercantile interests.
But would such preparations be effective against the crystalline corruption they had come to investigate? Tom doubted it. Conventional defenses rarely addressed unconventional threats effectively.
As the caravan finally reached the inspection point, Tom presented his adventurer's crystal and Guild contract to the gate officials. They examined both with professional thoroughness, then nodded approval.
"Class C adventurer, mining contract," the senior guard noted, making an entry in his ledger. "You'll want the Municipal Guild hall in the upper market district. Follow the main thoroughfare up three tiers, then west at the bronze statue. Can't miss it."
Tom thanked him for the directions as the guards waved their wagon through. Captain Jerrick caught his eye as they passed beneath the massive gates.
"This is where we part ways," the captain said, extending a hand. "Caravan continues to the merchant quarter for offloading. Been good having you along, Reed."
"Likewise," Tom replied, clasping the offered hand firmly. "Safe travels on your return journey."
After collecting his pack from the wagon, Tom stepped into the bustling streets of Eastwatch. The city hummed with commerce and industry—smiths hawking metalwork, merchants negotiating shipments, miners fresh from the tunnels spending their earnings at taverns and food stalls.
Yet beneath this ordinary activity, Tom's enhanced senses detected subtle wrongness. Certain individuals moved with too much coordination, their gazes lingering on specific people or buildings. Occasionally, he glimpsed a faint purple gleam reflected in a passerby's eyes—there and gone so quickly that ordinary humans would never notice.
Crystal puppets, Skaravosk confirmed, following Tom's observations. More sophisticated than those we encountered in Harrowgate. The controlling intelligence has established significant presence here.
"We'll need to proceed carefully," Tom murmured, adjusting his course toward the Municipal Guild hall while maintaining awareness of his surroundings. "Gather information before revealing our hand."
Agreed. Though I sense our opportunity for subtle investigation may be limited. The corruption here feels... advanced. As if it has taken root deeply within the city's structure.
Tom nodded slightly, feeling the weight of what they faced. What had begun as a simple dungeon breach investigation had led them to a city potentially compromised at multiple levels by an intelligence connected to the Demon King's broader campaign.
And somewhere nearby, ancient stones awaited whatever ritual or working the Whisper Priests intended.
With practiced nonchalance that disguised his inner alertness, Tom Reed made his way deeper into Eastwatch, a seemingly unremarkable adventurer carrying remarkable power. Whatever awaited in this city of stone and secrets, he was no longer the same man who had died in a dungeon weeks ago.
He was something new—neither fully human nor dragon, but a merging of both.
And he was ready to hunt.