Tail
Tail
Harod and Tiyamal.
They shared the Claw surname, but in Belus Alpen that was more a marker of which district you lived in than a real family name. Angie was the same way.
Aslan had always figured they might know each other in passing, maybe as acquaintances.
Friends of friends, perhaps.
He had never once guessed they might be brothers.
But now that he knew and looked at them side by side, the similarities were impossible to miss.
Both were Dragon-kin with yellow eyes and red scales.
The shape of their horns was identical. Both had V-shaped horns growing from their brows just above the eyes.
Tiyamal was nearly a full head taller, but that made sense—even among Dragon-kin, Tiyamal was unusually large.
The biggest commonality was their expressiveness.
Harod's expressions were a little hard for a human like Aslan to read, but by Dragon-kin standards he was remarkably easy to read.
"Say hello. This is my younger brother, Harod."
And so Aslan immediately caught the look of deep displeasure on Tiyamal's face as he made the introduction.
Why introducing his brother would displease him was unclear, but with the man himself standing right there, asking was out of the question.
"Though I gather you two already know each other."
At Tiyamal's words, Harod gave a light nod and led the party forward.
The column stretched long, winding toward Belus Alpen: the heavily armed people of the Tail District following behind, and the party still not fully recovered from their injuries at the rear.
The distance wasn't great, but it was too far to walk in silence.
Harod chattered away about how he and Aslan had happened to meet, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
For a man who usually came across as dignified and grave, he was remarkably affable when telling stories to his own older brother.
So much so that Aslan found himself thinking, I'm pretty sure this guy wasn't like this before.
Still, the stories kept coming, and they didn't reach their peak until the tale arrived at the part where Aslan recruited Ereta.
Ereta, who had been eavesdropping, was now glancing sidelong at Aslan with a strangely pleased expression.
Aslan ignored the look and turned his attention to Tiyamal and Harod. Tiyamal let out a sigh.
"Good gods, this idiot..."
Had something in the story bothered him? Tiyamal heaved a long breath, enough to make Harod wilt.
"If it had been me, I wouldn't have gotten caught in the first place."
He wrapped it all up by bragging about himself.
At that, even Ereta, who had been shooting Aslan desperate looks, turned a flat stare on Tiyamal. The poor folk of the Tail District trailing behind wore expressions that said, Did he really just say that?
Anyone listening would have found it absurd, but Harod only smiled faintly. A vivid, unmistakable smile, even for a Dragon-kin.
"Ha, you would've, brother. Truly. The only reason I ended up a prisoner in Olpasbet is that I wasn't strong enough and got myself caught."
A smooth deflection. His words and bearing carried the practiced ease of someone who had weathered this many times before.
Tiyamal's face stiffened at the impressive counter. Ereta let a soft laugh slip.
Tiyamal stared at Harod's easy smile for a beat, then turned his head toward Aslan and said pointedly,
"You see? This guy's no fun at all. Not even worth teasing."
Aslan gave him a flat "Sure, sure" and left it at that. Only then did Tiyamal seem to realize he'd been talking to a kindred spirit and fell quiet.
The conversation naturally flowed back to Harod, and by the time the massive outline of Belus Alpen began to fill their view, the topic had shifted to how Harod had managed to return home.
In answer, Harod pulled out the Warrior Monk's shield slung across his back.
"The Collector we hunted with you, Sir Aslan—he was a Warrior Monk notorious even in Belus Alpen. I didn't land the killing blow, but I helped fight and bring him down, and I brought back his shield. That was enough to earn me recognition as a warrior."
In Belus Alpen, what mattered was strength and metalcraft. The shield Harod carried was proof of that strength.
In truth, it was Aslan who had made Harod's return possible.
So it was inevitable that Harod would go on about how he owed his homecoming to Aslan, and how he'd still be stuck in Olpasbet otherwise.
Aslan glossed over it with a few nods, and Harod flashed an uncharacteristically vivid smile.
"If there's anything I can help with, just say the word! I'll help until every last scale falls off my hide!"
"Then can I ask just one thing?"
It was Angie who cut in on Harod's grand declaration, right as he was grinning with confidence.
"Oh, Lady Angela! Of course, ask me anything."
At Harod's affable reply, Angie let a lazy smirk tug at the corner of her mouth before she turned and asked,
"Those guys—why are they armed? And armored, too."
She jerked her thumb toward the people of the Tail District.
The armed poor who moved under Harod's command.
Aslan had been wondering the same thing.
Just the fact that they were heading back to Belus Alpen made it clear this was an authorized group, but the idea of the Tail District poor forming any kind of organized body was unheard of.
Harod seemed to recognize the question for what it was. He smiled faintly and scraped his tail against the ground.
"I call them the Tail Warrior Squad. A unit under my command."
"Tail... Warrior Squad?"
"That's right, the Tail Warrior Squad! The only armed unit in all of Belus Alpen made up entirely of humans!"
Angie's puzzled question got an immediate answer. It came out polished, like something he'd said many times before.
Tiyamal scratched at the scales on his jaw, looking skeptical.
"The elders actually let you arm the poor from the Tail District?"
"There was considerable opposition. But I persuaded them, and they listened."
Persuaded. Aslan shifted his eyes toward Harod as he walked at the front.
"So it was your proposal."
"Ah, Sir Aslan is quick as ever. Yes, I proposed it."
Harod let out a quiet, eye-crinkling laugh and rested a hand on his hip as they climbed the slope.
"I was deeply impressed by Lady Angela's strength. She is called a Last Remnant of the Ancient God, but even without that, she would have been formidable. Watching her, I thought: even the poor of the Tail District might become soldiers if we trained them and gave them weapons."
Harod turned his head as he spoke. Behind him, the arms and armor forged by Belus Alpen's masterful metalcraft gleamed on the bodies and in the hands of the poor.
"And I was right. They may be weaker than us, but their ability to move unseen and their eyesight far surpass our own. The exact opposite of us Dragon-kin. I proposed we use them as scouts, and the Council of Heads agreed."
"The elders really agreed?"
"Not all of them, but you know how it works, brother. A council decision only needs a majority."
Tiyamal nodded with a faintly unsettled look, and Harod straightened his shoulders and spoke with open pride.
"They haven't had a chance to prove themselves yet, but if things continue as they are, they'll earn a standing of their own. They'll shed the simple label of 'Tail.' They'll become a tail that helps support the vast body that is Belus Alpen."
There was conviction in the words.
Pride born not of personal glory or ambition, but of the common good—pride beyond reproach.
Aslan was surprised by how much Harod had changed from the insufferably arrogant man he once was.
Even Angie, who usually had little fondness for Dragon-kin, was startled enough to let her mouth fall slightly open.
Only Tiyamal looked displeased.
He tapped the bow slung across his back and rolled his eyes.
"I don't know... I'll count it a blessing if they just don't put a knife in your back."
His voice was cold. Tiyamal had lived long as a Master in Geladrion and seen plenty. His suspicion was well-earned.
Goodwill doesn't always lead to good outcomes. Tiyamal knew that too well.
Harod looked aghast at the remark.
"Brother!"
"Not every human is a man of character or strong, not like these greenhorns or the little one here. Your life is your own to live, but..."
Tiyamal fixed the Tail Warrior Squad with a disapproving eye. The unease in his gaze was the instinctive wariness of someone who'd been burned before.
"I don't much care to leave my back to people like that."
Tiyamal's voice was rarely so cold. Faced with the sharp concern of a man worrying about family, Harod's expression turned uncomfortable. The conversation died there.
The column trudged on in silence until they reached Belus Alpen at last, and only then did the mood lift.
The Dragon-kin warriors guarding the gate and Harod exchanged shouted greetings, and the wings of the gate swung open.
The membranous wings, still slick with residue, lifted high, and the vast opening revealed the way into the city.
The city that emerged was like nothing else in Geladrion.
The enormous remains of a dragon sheathed the entire city. Beneath the cold husk of bone and dried membrane, buildings of every color stood propped against dragon ribs, or resting directly atop them.
The harsh sunlight beating down melded with the eerie architecture, giving the unsettling illusion of standing inside a living dragon.
Following that awe-striking sight upward, one saw the corpse of the Giant Dragon spanning the whole of the city.
The God of Fire and Smithing—the great smith said to have forged the arms of every god, a dragon, and the father of all dragons and Dragon-kin. His remains.
The city that lay beneath a god's remains was called Belus Alpen.
Dragon's Remains. Belus Alpen.
The homeland of Angie, Tiyamal, and Harod.
"Whoa... I've never... I've never seen anything like this."
"Me neither... no, Fay hasn't either..."
Even Ereta, whose reactions tended to be muted unless Aslan was involved, was gawking around, craning her neck and shading her eyes. Fay's gaze darted everywhere, curiosity plainly getting the better of her.
"Welcome to Belus Alpen, you greenhorns."
Tiyamal chuckled, clearly pleased by their honest reactions.
That "greenhorns" included Aslan too.
He'd seen the city countless times in the game, but this was his first time setting foot inside it for real.
Everywhere Aslan's eyes landed, buildings rose in different architectural styles.
Whether perched atop the bones, nestled beneath them, or wedged between, every structure differed wildly in purpose and appearance. Each section of the body even had its own distinct type of building.
The most striking were the ones inside the dragon's head and heart.
A magnificent palace, visible even at a glance—a structure that blended medieval European and Arabian aesthetics, right in the heart.
And right beside it, housed in the dragon's skull, was the Council Hall.
The dead god's body lay curled in on itself, so the palace of the heart and the Council Hall of the head sat in unnervingly close proximity.
Aslan knew exactly what those buildings were, even though he had never seen them in person.
They were no metaphor. They were, quite literally, the city's heart and its head.
The ones inside—those who governed Belus Alpen—were the elder "Heads" and the King who dwelled in the Heart District: the "Heart."
And Aslan needed to meet that Dragon-king, the Heart, to secure support for the ceasefire agreement.
While Aslan's eyes were fixed on the palace and most of the party simply marveled at the city, someone walked out from within.
A Dragon-kin warrior with black scales and violet eyes.
The warrior stopped before the group and cleared his throat to draw their attention.
"Are you Sir Aslan, Master of Combat?"
An archaic manner of speech and an aristocratic bearing. Tiyamal narrowed his eyes, and the rest of the party looked the stranger over.
"Yes, I am Aslan."
Aslan stepped forward before the party could even look to him for direction. The Dragon-kin warrior studied Aslan, who stood a mere ten centimeters shorter than himself, with an expression of interest.
"The Heart's master wishes an audience with you, good sir. If you would."
The Heart's master—another way of saying the ruler of Belus Alpen.
Aslan turned his head slightly at the black-scaled Dragon-kin's words and studied his companions.
They were worn down from three weeks of travel and still nursing injuries.
Aslan himself could maintain near-peak combat effectiveness despite injury thanks to Fighting Spirit, but his party couldn't.
He wanted to let them rest as much as possible.
"Then I'll have my companions and our gear squared away, and I'll come. If we could just—"
"There is no need for your entire party to attend. Sir Aslan alone will suffice."
Aslan's brow furrowed slightly at that. The black-scaled Dragon-kin bowed deeply from the waist, a motion that looked almost theatrical in its elegance.
"Dragon-king Bahamut Heart has said he wishes a private audience with the renowned Master of Combat."
A private audience. Aslan frowned, unable to guess the reason.
He had no choice but to mull it over. Eyes cast downward, he tried to deduce what the Dragon-king might want from him, weighing the possible benefits against his party's injuries and exhaustion.
Just as he was about to make his decision, a large hand clapped him twice on the back.
"Go on, greenhorn."
It was Tiyamal.
Tiyamal jerked his chin and gave a wide grin.
"Looking after a few pups is about as hard for this old-timer as lying down and scratching a scale."
Was this his way of being considerate? Aslan offered a faint smile in return for Tiyamal's hearty grin and nodded.
"Thanks, Tiyamal."
"It's nothing."
Aslan gave the party a light wave and followed the black-scaled Dragon-kin.
The Dragon-kin headed directly for the Heart District.
The palace that sat in the Heart District was opulent, yet it occupied precisely the spot where a heart should be.
Nestled in the vast hollow of the ribcage, the palace gleamed ever more brilliantly the closer they drew.
It looked almost sacred. The radiance didn't diminish once they stepped inside.
The corridors, the walls, the very ceilings—the palace was saturated with light. Aslan looked at it and understood what it was.
All of it was the divinity of an Ancient God.
A god's legacy, infused into the very stones and refined.
Guided through that hallowed palace, Aslan at last arrived at the throne room.
And there was a dragon.
The only one among all Dragon-kin to have inherited the divinity—the heart of the Dragon-kin.
A sacred king, chosen by the Ancient God, passed down through the bloodline.
Dragon-king, Bahamut Heart.
The black-scaled Dragon-king looked at Aslan, and with an expression of satisfaction, rose from his throne and walked toward him.
They were nearly the same height.
With every step the Dragon-king took, Aslan felt a heat of some kind radiating off him. The folded wings behind his back gleamed an even deeper black than the scales covering his body.
"An honor to meet you, Master of Combat."
"The honor is mine, to stand before a son of Fire and Smithing."
The Dragon-king approached and offered his greeting. Aslan bowed in return to the approaching king—
A sudden throb.
A pulse of pain lanced through one side of his head, and he stopped mid-motion, brow furrowing.
He knew this cold, tingling headache well.
A warning from his Luck, honed to the point of foresight.
When Aslan looked up at Bahamut Heart with that chill still prickling at him, the black-scaled Dragon-king was wearing a benevolent smile.
Something was happening.