The dingy ceiling of the room beyond the entrance hung low, too low for the man to stand fully upright. He loomed in the doorway for several minutes, seriously considering whether he should enter at all. The gleaming silver armor of his breastplate seemed to stand in stark contrast with the dimness of the whorehouse, and his serious (almost angry) expression hardly seemed to fit with the sounds of laughter within. No, this was in no way the place that the Marshal Vesden expected to find himself or one of his men--though, he reminded himself, perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised given the man in question.

Steeling himself, Vesden at last entered the establishment and began the final leg of his search. The passage beyond the front door was narrow and lined with still narrower doorways leading into increasingly small rooms. He peered into several and found most empty. A few were occupied by women who lounged luxuriously upon the mats they had spread upon the floor of their respective rooms, beckoning to him with lazy, knowing smiles. He merely turned away from them without a word, set upon his task.

Warm red light flickered welcomingly at the end of the corridor and Vesden made his way toward it with mounting apprehension. He could hear conversation in the room beyond--multiple feminine voices and one lone masculine voice, rasping and gravelly in its timbre. The man attached to it seemed to be telling a story. Vesden just managed to catch the tail end as he drew nearer:

“The Lanvelor armies had been prepared for land defenses, you see. They managed to forge past our outer wall and dismantle our catapults and ballistas, but they hadn’t counted on the dragons.”

This statement was met with a number of murmured exclamations. The female voices insisted the male voice continue. He obliged them:

“..just as the inner wall seemed ready to fail, I led the Templars forward into the enemy lines.”

The corridor opened into a long room, into which Vesden peered tentatively. To one side loomed a massive, stacked stone fireplace roaring with a large fire. Nestled in a semicircle in front of the mantle was a small group of some four or five young women in various stages of undress and at their center, a young man. Their backs were all turned to Vesden so he was able to enter the room unnoticed. He paused just inside the doorway to observe the scene, the corners of his mouth twitching downward unconsciously when at last he spoke, “If I recall rightly, Rhourn, you were just a boy when we fought at Andolere. Your dragon hadn’t come into her fire and wasn’t even big enough to fly.”

The man at the center of the little group jerked his head upward at the sound of Vesden’s voice and, propping himself up on his elbow, turned quickly to see his commanding officer glaring down at him. The women around him all turned to look as well, though they seemed much less concerned by the Marshal’s presence. The man seemed suddenly aware of himself--shirtless, bootless, with a mead in one hand and the other hand wrapped around the waist of the nearest whore. Quickly he set aside his cup and jumped to his feet to salute Vesden, his expression a bit sheepish.

Vesden seemed not to care about his subordinate’s embarrassment as he stepped forward to inspect him, gloved hands folded behind his back as if he was simply a father preparing to admonish his wayward child, “Care to tell me why your beast is curled up outside in the rain while you sit in here, drinking away your earnings?”

The younger man stood at attention, eyes focused straight ahead upon the opposite wall rather than meeting Vesden’s gaze. He seemed unwilling to reply.

Vesden sighed, lifting a hand to massage his temple in agitation. He then gave a sharp gesture and turned away, “Get dressed. It’s time that you and I talked.” Without another word he left the room, making his way back along the narrow corridor and out the door into the rain.

The gravel of the road crunched soggily beneath his boots as he made his way around the side of the whorehouse. A massive shape loomed out of the grey to greet him with a friendly rumble--a large dragon. Her obsidian scales gleamed even in the growing dusk and the haze of rain, and she lifted her great head at Vesden’s approach, “I had warned him that you would come looking for him eventually.” Her voice, rich and deep, filled Vesden’s head as he came to a halt a few feet from where she lay coiled. He shook his head, “I am sorry to find you in such a state, Lorraki. I had thought he would take better care of you.”

The dragon rumbled again, “I am more than capable of taking care of myself. Rhourn, however, is well deserving of your pity.”

Hurried footsteps from behind caused Vesden to turn and look. Rhourn had dressed himself and rushed outside to meet him. Vesden turned to face him with his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed sternly, “This is the third time you’ve failed to participate in drills. Am I to understand that you forsake your training in favor of whores and beer?” Rhourn opened his mouth to speak, but Vesden cut him off with a wave of his hand and continued, “You’ve neglected your duties long enough and it will change starting tomorrow. I’ve secured a position for you at the castle and you will not disappoint me.”

Rhourn again opened his mouth, this time in protest, but Vesden again cut him off, “You will arrive at the palace gate at dawn. You will be sober, fully clothed, and ready to accept your new responsibilities as the princess’ personal guard. Am I clear?”

Rhourn seemed to hesitate for a moment, then straightened and saluted, “Aye, Marshal.”

Vesden turned back to the dragon, who nodded her approval, “Make sure he does this.”

The dragon bowed her head, the very end of her pointed tail flicking to and fro thoughtfully as she watched Vesden depart. Her golden eyes then turned upon her rider and she snorted disapprovingly, causing a puff of smoke to erupt from her nostrils and curl upward in the rain.

Rhourn relaxed his stance the moment he was sure that Vesden was out of sight and turned to face his beast, a hand raised to rub the back of his head, “I didn’t think I’d be long. Apologies, Lor.” The dragon did not respond and merely watched him with a mixture of agitation and motherly concern evident in her gaze.

The man who stood before her was well into his thirty-fourth year, with broad shoulders and thick, muscled arms and legs. His torso was wide at the chest and narrow at the waist, toned from years of training. He was tall, maybe six feet in height, with curling brown hair cropped close to his head. His face was exceptionally handsome despite the creases that had begun to develop around his eyes--a strong jaw, a straight nose, and dark, glittering eyes that always seemed to flicker with mischief. He was dressed in merely a tunic, pants, and a pair of boots, but when he donned the full uniform of a Templar Knight, he resembled the heroes of old (at least in Lorraki’s humble opinion). She was so proud of her rider...when he wasn’t making foolish mistakes and shirking his duties. Why hadn’t he shed his boyish tendencies years ago?

She growled resignedly before raising up onto her feet and moving toward her rider. She nudged him firmly in the chest with the tip of her snout, indicating that he was to lead the way back to their quarters, “To bed with you. You’ve sullied the Templar reputation well enough for one evening.”

The morning, hopefully, would put an end to his wayward tendencies.

---

The sun had not yet risen when Lorraki had roused Rhourn from his restless slumbering, but the sky was beginning to turn faintly blue from black and the horizon was tinged with a thread of pink where the new day threatened to begin with or without the Knight. Her insistent growling did at last manage to wake him, but it was a reluctant awakening--one that involved a great amount of shifting and muttering as he rose to wash and dress. Lorraki peered in at him through the open window beside his bed to oversee his progress, but did not speak save to hurry him along periodically. She was deeply apprehensive of Vesden’s new appointment given Rhourn’s recent track record.

Something had happened to her rider in the past year that had rendered him nigh useless. She had some vague ideas of what might have caused the sudden lackadaisical outlook he had developed, but he had never seen fit to discuss it with Lorraki, and Lorraki was not one to pry. Her connection to him may have bordered on the telepathic, but she prided herself on her ability to maintain her rider’s privacy. They were bonded, it was true, but she always hoped that she wouldn’t need their mental connection to know what went on inside Rhourn’s head. As it was, he had never discussed the sudden, drastic change in his mood with her and she could only watch as he slowly tore himself apart with the guilt or depression that resulted.

When at last he had completed his morning ablutions and had dressed in his ceremonial armor--Vesden hadn’t mentioned that it was necessary, but both Rhourn and Lorraki thought it appropriate given that he would be meeting with a princess--Rhourn emerged from his quarters in a grumpy silence, greeting Lorraki with merely a lukewarm pat on her great shoulder. It was evident that Rhourn was greatly displeased by his new position, but also that he was grudgingly determined to see it through. Vesden’s admonishment had made its mark--Rhourn hated when the Marshal made his disappointment so clear; he’d always been a kind of father figure to Rhourn and the rider had always secretly striven to please him as any son might.

Briefly he checked the straps of Lorraki’s harness and saddle before mounting her. He never, ever gave a command to move--partly because it was unnecessary, but partly because Lorraki disliked being treated like a common horse or donkey. She was not merely a beast to be ridden, she was a dragon--the fire in her blood was ancient as the mountains and ran nearly as deep.

Instantly she bounded into the air with massive wings spread wide and took to the sky with the deft ease of a bird a hundreth her size, a great black shadow against the coming dawn. Rhourn leaned forward in his saddle, a hand raised to massage his eyes from beneath the visor of his helmet as the world fell away beneath them. The magic and beauty of flight had been lost on him with familiarity and he could only notice the pounding sensation that filled the space behind his eyes, which were ringed with dark circles.

The castle swiftly came into view below them. Lorraki circled it once before finding a clear space to land at the far end of the bridge leading up to the front gates. Sliding out of his saddle with astonishing grace, Rhourn dismounted and glanced down at his attire briefly to ensure that everything looked as it should. The silver breastplate gleamed in the dimness, as did his bracers and greaves. The scabbard at his side was, he suddenly noticed, decidedly empty and he threw up his hands in agitation.

Lorraki shook her head and, using the pointed tip of her muzzle, nudged him forward gently between his shoulder blades, “The sword is unnecessary. Don’t draw attention to it and no one will notice.”

“I’ll notice,” came a voice from ahead. Both Rhourn and Lorraki looked up to see Vesden striding along the bridge toward them. He came to a stop a few feet in front of his Knight, hands folded behind his back as he inspected Rhourn’s appearance. It was clear from the downward curve of his lip that he was not entirely pleased, but also not entirely displeased. If he had been surprised to see Rhourn at the appointed place and time, he didn’t say as much. Instead, he growled, “But she’s right. I doubt the princess will care if you are armed. This introduction is purely formal, but you better have your weapon tomorrow.”

Rhourn replied only with a nod and a salute.

Vesden nodded, then turned with a gesture for Rhourn to follow, “They’re waiting at the gate for you. Lorraki, you must come too. The king insisted he wanted to meet both dragon and rider.”