Dragon's Blood
Dragon's Blood
But footsteps soon followed, muffling the girl's own. Aslan's face hardened at the sound, and Ereta flinched at the shift in his expression, her hand darting to her waist.
The hand axe was already in her grip—her secondary weapon. She drew her mace and offered it to Aslan, her gaze fixed on the door with sudden, sharp intensity.
More footsteps trailed after Angie's. The hard scrape of scales and claws, not boots, stretched out endlessly, accompanied by the clatter of weapons knocking against stone and wall.
Aslan listened, sorting through the situation.
He had killed the Dragon-king.
The Dragon-king had been a priest, but it seemed no one had noticed until Aslan exposed it.
The stunned faces of the royal guards were proof enough.
Without that knowledge, to any observer, Aslan looked like exactly what he appeared to be: a man who had murdered their king.
But.
Common sense said you didn't waste a national treasure, a consumable like dragon's blood, on a regicide.
If that were the charge, a summary trial without treatment would have sufficed.
Instead, they'd fed him the blood and left him in a sickroom to regain consciousness.
That was not how anyone treated a king-killer.
How much they knew was uncertain, but one thing was clear: they wanted something from him.
And the fact that the footsteps approaching his room were Angie's suggested this wasn't a simple crisis.
If they meant to execute him, Angie would have resisted with everything she had.
In that case, the corridors would be echoing with explosions, not footsteps.
'Still, this isn't the time to be standing around picking unique magic.'
He closed the system window and gently pushed back the mace Ereta was offering.
"Aslan...?"
"Put it away."
The details would surface soon enough in the words and actions of whoever was coming. Antagonizing them now served no purpose, so he soothed Ereta with a calm tone.
She hesitated, eyes darting, then let out a small, pained noise and stowed her weapon.
As she stood glaring at the door, the footsteps halted, and it opened.
"Aslan!"
Angie was the first thing he saw. A wild girl with scarlet hair and burning golden eyes. Behind her stood several dragon-kin in full armor.
In Belus Alpen, armored dragon-kin meant only one thing.
The Fang. The council's direct strike force, the fangs of Belus Alpen.
The picture was forming.
The council was the only nest of vipers in this city.
If that was the case, whatever they intended after feeding him dragon's blood and patching him up was easy enough to foresee.
Angie sighed in relief, rubbing at the corner of her eye.
"You're okay... These lizard bastards swore they'd save you...."
"Prisoner Aslan."
One of the armored dragon-kin spoke.
"You are sentenced to death for the murder of the Dragon-king, acts of sabotage against Belus Alpen, blasphemy, and the slaughter of innocents. Do you acknowledge your guilt?"
Angie's face froze mid-gesture. Ereta's expression twisted into a snarl as her hand shot toward her weapon.
"That wasn't the deal!"
Angie's shout rang out. Fury surged, and she lifted her leg, ready to stomp down, collapse the building, and carry Aslan out.
Before her foot touched the floor, Aslan spoke.
"I do not acknowledge it. I demand a trial by combat."
"What?"
Angie faltered. Caught mid-stomp with one leg awkwardly raised, she promptly toppled over.
"Agh!"
She hit the ground with a loud bang, then scrambled upright, startled by the dragon-kin's claws near her hair.
As she put distance between herself and the warriors, the lead dragon-kin watched her coolly before speaking again.
"Accepted. Who will be your champion?"
"I will prove my innocence myself."
"Very well. Follow us."
While Angie and Ereta stood rigid, struggling to process what was happening, Aslan rose from the bed and set his feet on the floor.
"Ngh."
A strange sensation shot from his toes to his brain, like an electric current racing up his spine.
But the pain didn't linger. His high fighting spirit devoured it swiftly, leaving him able to walk.
Angie opened her mouth in concern, and Ereta moved to support him. He shook his head and raised a hand to stop them both.
A single bead of cold sweat traced its way from his forehead to his jaw, but his eyes burned as if he were entirely uninjured.
Deceive your allies first, if you mean to deceive your enemy.
He understood now what the council wanted.
"Let's go."
Only then did the dragon-kin warriors withdraw.
*
"This is absurd! Everyone saw what happened, and still—!"
"It is not ours to decide."
Tiyamal and Harod, the two brothers with red scales, exchanged words that scattered without filling even a corner of the vast chamber.
Given everything being said around them, it was understandable. But Harod showed no sign of caring.
Gritting his teeth, he stared out at the countless figures of his own people.
The arena was a circular pit beneath the Head District, where the sunlight filtering in made heat-haze shimmer above the sand.
The arena was packed with dragon-kin.
Every color of scale imaginable. They hurled curses and abuse at the lone figure standing at the center: Aslan.
"You're not even worried about him, brother?"
"Me? No. What reason is there to worry about that bastard."
Fury bordering on madness swept through the crowd. Harod watched his older brother with an uncomfortable expression.
A comrade was about to face a trial by combat, and Tiyamal didn't show a flicker of concern. It felt callous.
Harod was about to snap something when Tiyamal, arms crossed, let out a derisive snort.
"He's no fool. If he asked for a trial by combat, that means he's got a way to survive. I haven't known the whelp long, but he's not the type to act without thinking."
Harod still looked unconvinced, but Tiyamal's assessment was correct.
Aslan had a reason for stepping into this arena.
He needed to see the crowd's emotions, to gauge the situation without variables.
So he'd come.
And what he saw made it clear.
The people cursed and hated him.
The Dragon-king had been a beloved ruler, a demigod.
Having killed such a being, Aslan now stood before a mob that seemed ready to tear him apart on the spot.
Only by seeing that with his own eyes could he finally grasp what the council was orchestrating.
The elders who filled the council seats were the most distinguished warriors and mages in Belus Alpen.
Seasoned and perceptive, they had clearly pieced together what had actually occurred.
Aslan suspected the council had already guessed the truth: that he had been chosen by an Ancient God.
But explaining that to the masses would be futile.
In the worst case, it could spark a civil war between the council trying to protect him and the enraged populace.
Another internal conflict was the last thing Aslan wanted.
So he'd stepped into the arena, gripping a blunted iron sword that had likely been used many times before.
The council wanted one thing from him.
For Aslan to deceive the people with a flawless performance.
They were counting on him to see through their design and rise to meet their expectations.
And he had seen through it. Exactly as they'd hoped. He wore a flat, unamused expression.
The council's method was, admittedly, the optimal one.
A way to persuade the masses and aid the one chosen by the Ancient God without sacrificing their political standing.
If Aslan played his part well, he might even win the people's support.
They'd probably deduced he would catch on, based on his past actions and the evidence of his battle.
It was irritating.
He didn't care for it.
Deception was rarely enjoyable.
But if it was the best path forward, there was no helping it. This hadn't been his own choice, but the dissatisfaction faded when he considered that if he'd been given alternatives, he would have chosen the same.
At minimum, no one else would die. That alone made it worthwhile. He absently ran his thumb along the blunted edge of the iron sword, then lifted his gaze.
Across the arena stood a dragon-kin as massive as Tiyamal, gripping a heavy axe and watching him.
The warrior's armor marked him unmistakably as Fang, the council's direct battalion.
He would, to some extent, play along with Aslan's charade.
The cast was ready. Now it was all about the performance. Aslan brought up the system window.
[Unique magic generated based on acquired magic systems and highest magic skill]
[Select unique magic]
[Domination]
[Protection]
[Specialization]
[Taming]
[Attunement]
There was nothing to deliberate.
Twelve years had passed since Aslan fell into Geladrion.
The question of which build to pursue had been settled in year one.
Without hesitation, his finger pressed firmly against the empty air, and the text dissolved.
[Domination]