The guard’s eyes widened, as he stared at the Wanderer in sheer disbelief.
"Did I stutter?" the Wanderer said with arrogance. "Go inform your lords Defiance has returned."
Before the guard could reply, a young man with a mane of vibrant red hair stepped through the iron gate. He was dressed in expensive silks, and his face was twisted in a look of profound annoyance. "What on earth is going on out here?" he demanded, looking at the sentries.
The guard quickly stepped toward him, rasping. "My lord... this man, he's a Black Crown. He claims he has Defiance."
The young man’s irritated demeanor vanished and immediately lunged towards the Wanderer, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Is it true? Where is it? Tell me!"
The Wanderer aggressively shoved the young noble's hands away, forcing him back a step. "My demands first... cousin," the Wanderer sneered.
The young man’s face darkened, his eyes flashing with hatred, maybe from the aggressive push, or the sheer audacity of a low-life Black Crown calling him family.
Seeing the young crown irritated, the Wanderer laughed, pushing him further. "Have the Red Crowns truly become so gullible?" the Wanderer chuckled, shaking his head. "Why on earth would I even carry a legendary heirloom like that out in the open?"
The young man stared at him for a moment, then he snapped his fingers at the nearest sentry. "Go. Inform my father immediately." He turned his gaze back to the Wanderer, and said bitterly. "While I take my... cousin to our guest area."
He gestured for the Wanderer to enter.
Flanked by a dozen heavily armed citadel guards, the young Red Crown accompanied the Wanderer deep into the heart of the fortress. They eventually entered a breathtakingly massive hall. The Wanderer looked around, his eyes scanning the lavish decorations. The space was filled with priceless porcelain vases, towering gold statues, and massive, sweeping paintings.
Oddly enough, his gaze locked onto one particular painting.
It was the painting in Zero’s chamber, with the man radiating light from his palm.
The Wanderer stared at the painting for a moment before turning a cynical grin toward his guide. "You know, you could easily fit a couple houses from the slums inside this hall alone. You've been living quite the lavish life up here, Red Crown, huh?"
The young man ignored the comment. "Where is Defiance?"
The Wanderer casually pulled up a cushioned chair, slumping into it comfortably as if it was his home. He reached out to a silver fruit bowl on the table, grabbed an apple, and took a loud bite. "You guys seem to have a serious hearing problem," he muttered around a mouthful of fruit. "I said: my demands first."
The young man crossed his arms, shifting his weight. "And what exactly are your demands?"
The Wanderer kicked his boots up, slamming them onto the large table. He took another slow bite of the apple, then waved his left hand dismissively. "Leave this kind of talk to the grown-ups, kid. Go back to your mother's breast. You look hungry."
The young noble's face instantly turned as bright red as his hair, he drew his steel sword, pointing the tip towards the Wanderer.
"You dare insult the Red Crowns within their own citadel?!" the boy roared in anger. "Draw your sword and defend your pathetic words!"
"Baylen! What in the God of Light's name are you doing?!"
A voice boomed from the entrance of the hall.
"He insulted me and my mother!" Baylen yelled, his eyes staying locked on the Wanderer, the tip of his sword trembling.
The old man marched forward, and grabbed Baylen by the shoulder, pinning him against the wall. "Then do it properly, like a man. On a formal duel. Not barking like a stray in my guest hall." He leaned into his son's face. "Leave us alone. Now. We will discuss your lack of restraint later."
"But, Father-"
"Not another word. Leave us," the old man commanded, waving his hand.
Baylen reluctantly sheared his sword, and began walking away, keeping his burning glare fixed on the Wanderer. The Wanderer, matching his gaze, slowly lifted his hand and mockingly sucked his thumb like a baby.
Baylen’s face flushed an even deeper shade of crimson. He aggressively snapped his head forward, marching out of the grand hall.
The old man watched the heavy doors slam shut before slowly turning around. He looked down at the Wanderer's dirt-crusted boots resting on his mahogany table. "If you are quite finished teasing my child and trashing my hall... tell me what you want."
The Wanderer slowly lowered his legs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. "Come on, uncle. You left us down there living less than rats. You can't honestly be mad at me for teasing your precious son."
"It looks like Harith forgot to teach you basic manners, Vincent," the old man replied, walking toward the head of the table.
The Wanderer waved his hand dismissively. "He was a little too busy breaking his back working in the mines to worry about etiquette."
The old man let out a sigh. "Where is Defiance, Dragonborn?"
"In a very safe place," the Wanderer said smoothly. "Outside of Hosar, of course. I was actually able to track down the foreign merchant my grandfather supposedly sold it to all those years ago. Took some time, but I got it back."
"And you would give up your own family heritage so willingly?" the old man asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
The Wanderer adjusted himself in the luxurious chair, shrugging. "The family heritage means nothing to me anyway. Coins and power do. You can't buy bread in the slums with legacy, uncle."
The old man began to pace slowly around the massive table, his hands tucked behind his back. "And what, exactly, is your price?"
"A nobility status," the Wanderer stated firmly. "And, of course, a permanent seat at the Red Council here in Hosar. I am a Dragonborn, after all. It’s time I start living like one."
The old man slammed his palm against the mahogany table, rattling the silver fruit bowl. "You are pushing my patience, Black Crown!" he roared. "The only reason you and your pathetic family are still drawing breath in this city is because we happen to share the same blood! But to hell with that cursed blood, I can erase you and all the Black Crowns from existence with a single snap of my fingers!"
The Wanderer's mocking laughter echoed off the high ceilings. "Then do it, uncle. Go ahead and snap your fingers. But the second my heart stops beating, you will ensure that the Red Crowns never see Defiance ever again."
The Wanderer stood up from his chair, stepping right into the old man's personal space.
"It's a remarkably small price to pay, don't you think?" the Wanderer whispered. "What is one more noble title to a family that owns the city? What is a single seat at a table? Think about the bigger picture, uncle. Don't you want to be remembered as the legendary
patriarch who finally restored the fractured Dragonborn heritage?"
The Wanderer spread his arms wide, gesturing theatrically toward the massive grand hall. "Imagine the glory."
The old man sat heavily at the head of the long table, his fingers under his chin as he sank into deep thought. After a long minute, he looked up at the Wanderer. "And when exactly are you going to deliver Defiance?"
The Wanderer offered a smile. "In a year. Exactly one year from the day I officially become a noble."
The old man's brow furrowed angrily. "A year? A year is far too long for-"
"We have been rotting in the dirt for decades," the Wanderer cut him off aggressively. "You can hold your breath for a single year until I am well established and secure in my new position." He leaned down, his face just inches from the old man's. "Or would you prefer I hand it over on day one, only for me to conveniently die in some tragic 'accident' the very next afternoon?"
The old man stood up abruptly, kicking his chair back slightly as he walked away. "A council seat is impossible. Nobility… perhaps, however It is a massive decision. I cannot simply grant it on my own whim." He stopped a few steps from the table, before turning back."I will have to discuss your outrageous demands with the Red Council. But I warn you, Black Crown... if this turns out to be a trick, death will be the least of your concerns."
The Wanderer placed a hand over his chest and bowed mockingly. "I would never dream of tricking you, uncle."
"And stop calling me uncle!" the old man snapped in pure disgust. "I am Lord Jericho Dragonborn."
The Wanderer chuckled softly, straightening up. "As you wish, Lord Jericho."
As the tension simmered, the Wanderer's eyes drifted back up to the massive painting on the wall. He pointed a finger toward the canvas. "By the way, Jericho... who is the man in this painting?"
Jericho followed his gaze, an arrogant grin returning to his weathered face. "It truly looks like Harith was far too busy to teach you anything at all. That is your great-grandfather. The First Dragon."
Jericho turned and began walking toward the grand exit of the hall. "I will send for you once the council has reached a final decision on your terms."
"Until then," the Wanderer called out, his voice stopping the lord in his tracks, "I want unrestricted access to the Red Citadel. We must ease the transition from the slums to high society, right? I need to get used to my future home."
Jericho slowly turned around, staring at the Wanderer for a long moment. He reluctantly nodded. "I will inform the sentries at the gate. You may enter the guest area." He sharply pointed a threatening finger. "Only the guest area."
The Wanderer shrugged carelessly. "I can work with that. For now."
Jericho turned back and swept out of the grand hall.
Left completely alone in the lavish room, the Wanderer's smile vanished. He turned his full attention back to the painting of the First Dragon, his mind racing.
The First Dragon... he thought, staring at the blinding light in the man's hands. How on earth is the founder of the Dragonborn bloodline directly related to Zero and the Owls?
After a few quiet minutes, the Wanderer turned his back on the painting and walked out, heading back toward the main gates.
He had barely stepped into the outer courtyard when he heard the clanking of metal. He looked up to see Baylen sprinting toward him from across the stone plaza. The young noble had completely stripped off his fine silks, replaced with a polished armor that caught the brilliant desert sun.
Baylen stopped steps away, his face still flushed with humiliation. "In defense of the Red Crown honor, I challenge you to a formal duel!" he barked, violently ripping off his armored gauntlet and hurling it straight at the Wanderer's feet.
The Wanderer looked down at the silver glove, then up to Baylen’s glamorous, untouched by a blade armor. He let out a mocking laugh and waved his hand dismissively.
"Scramble away, kid," the Wanderer said, turning to keep walking. "I don't have time to teach you a lesson."
Baylen drew his sword with a dramatic arc."Afraid to be humiliated by a Red Crown?" he said, stepping into a combat stance. "Isn't that the usual for a filthy Black Crown?"
The Wanderer slowly turned back around, his gaze locking onto the young noble. He bent down, picked up the glamorous silver gauntlet from the dirt, and tossed it lightly in his palm.
"You know what?" the Wanderer said, a smile breaking across his face. "I might just have a minute to spare."
Baylen’s eyes lit up with arrogant satisfaction. He aggressively swung his sword around his sides in a series of flashy movements, showing off his form. "Name your time and place, Black Crown."
The Wanderer drew his sword casually.
"How about right here, right now, kid?"