At last, the final hour came, dusk settling on the blade of fate.
Alicia and Ling sat again on the high dais, stone cool as moonlight under their palms.
It was the same perch where talk of alliance had once flowed like a steady river.
Below them rose a forest of dragon heads—red, black, white, green—like a painter’s palette brimming with wet color.
Ling searched those colossal eyes, finding no storm of anger, no ash of resentment, like a sky holding its breath before dawn.
Relief pricked like dew on her skin, yet caution coiled like a winter snake in her gut.
Ninety Nine Maiden must not have told them about the hatchling, the thought drifted like mist across a valley.
She had acted for the greater tide, yet she knew words alone wouldn’t anchor trust, like a net cast into rough seas.
They’d hear “excuse” in her truth and dig suspicion deeper, like roots pushing through stone.
One rumor would be ten, ten would be a hundred, truth hardening like frost into “fact” inside Dragonfolk hearts.
Dragons had flesh and blood; they were born to shield their own, like cliffs throwing shade over their nests.
So Ling chose silence, her will flat as a lake at midnight, because their ignorance matched her plan like lock to key.
Joy rustled in secret like bamboo leaves, while her gaze swept the crowd like a hawk’s wing.
That black hatchling was gone, the gap like a missing star in a constellation.
It must’ve flown off to hide, like a shadow slipping into the pines.
“Comrades,” the call rose, beating like a war drum in open air.
Ninety Nine Maiden looked like a maiden, yet her voice struck like iron on an anvil.
“We stand here again,” her words marched like banners in the wind.
“Surely you all know why we’ve gathered,” her gaze skimmed the crowd like sunlight over the sea.
No dragon wore confusion; eyes were clear as polished obsidian.
“Good. Look at these two maidens,” she pointed, her hand cutting the air like a blade.
“They brought only one mount—Edmund—like a single steed under twin riders, and they went into the Undead.”
“With just the two of them, they wiped out the Undead nest, clean as fire through dry grass.”
She paused, drawing breath like a bellows feeding flame.
“Are people like this not worthy of being our partners,” her shout thundered like storm-surf against cliffs.
Momentum spilled from her in waves, a tide no wall could hold.
Dragonfolk, minds slower than claws, caught fire from the mood like tinder catching spark.
A voice rang out, sharp as a thrown stone: “I have a question!”
Stubborn or just tone-deaf, the thought clacked in the air like beads on a string.
Yet the tone wasn’t baiting; it felt earnest, like a lantern held for the path of the tribe.
Ling let it come, her calm folding around her like a cloak.
“Please speak, and we’ll answer,” her words fell steady as rain.
“Thank you,” the voice steadied like a plumb line.
“How do you prove only you went into the Undead nest,” the question drilled like a woodpecker at bark.
Evidence, the pebble that makes kings stumble, rolled cold as river-stone in Ling’s chest.
She searched for an answer, thoughts scattering like sparrows, but Alicia moved first, swift as a cat.
“Ask your Dragon King,” Alicia’s smile was a blade wrapped in silk.
“She stayed at the cave mouth; she can testify,” her gaze rang clear as glass.
All eyes swung to Ninety Nine Maiden, a sudden tide turning toward a single rock.
Awkward heat rose to her cheeks, blooming like late roses in winter.
Truth would shame the sky: she had flown off to play, her freedom like a lark in blue air.
By sheer luck she’d seen them at the mouth again, like catching a falling star at the edge of sight.
That truth couldn’t be spoken; it would break the hall like a hammer striking brittle ice.
“Yes,” she said, palm over her heart, the pressure biting like a thorn.
“As Dragon King, I guarantee,” the oath fell heavy, like a seal stamped in wax.
She felt the lie sting her chest, pain blooming like a bruise under armor.
The dragons saw a vow of life, bright as a torch held over the abyss.
The first questioner nodded, old-souled as a stone carved by wind.
Suspicion eased, a knot loosening like twine dipped in rain.
The heat of the crowd cooled in that pause, brains clearing like fog lifting at dawn.
Questions bubbled up, a spring gushing from new ground.
“What do the Undead look like,” a voice asked, curious as a fox.
“All bones,” came the answer, “ugly as sin, like a scarecrow left to rot.”
“Are the Undead strong,” a second voice tugged, sharp as a hook.
“Just bones,” the reply laughed, “weak as wet twigs in a storm.”
“Can you eat the Undead,” someone barked, hunger like a wolf behind ribs.
“Only bones,” the answer wrinkled, “stink to high heaven, like a pit left open.”
“What is the ultimate answer of the universe,” a voice drifted, absurd as a kite in a cave.
“…” Silence spread, dry as dust over old tomes.
Impatience pricked Ninety Nine Maiden; her toe tapped, light as rain on a drum.
The soft beat carried everywhere, a ripple running the lake; the hall went still.
“All right,” she said, voice set like a spear, “Ling, let’s begin—”
A shout cut in, bright as a flash: “I have a question!”
Ninety Nine Maiden snapped her head toward it, glare sharp as shattered glass.
Beauty twisted with anger, like silk scorched by flame.
The dragon ignored her look, thick-skinned as bark; he spoke anyway, steady as a millstone.
“How do you prove the Undead are completely eradicated,” the words landed like heavy stones.
“You doubt your Dragon King,” her fury slammed the table, sound cracking like thunder.
Her voice carried weight, iron and storm, and the dragon’s legs trembled like reeds in wind.
Yet he held to the question, the stubbornness old as mountain roots.
“You—” she drew breath, fire leaping like oil to flame.
Alicia caught her arm, grip gentle as snow yet firm as a brace.
“Easy, Jiu Jiu,” she smiled, warmth spreading like morning light.
“I think I should answer this gentleman’s question,” her tone smoothed the air like a hand on silk.
