Chapter 1 - The First Step
The camp beneath the mountain is teeming with a small squadron of knights—Knights of Ixmtaraza. They are garbed in glistening silver armor, shining beneath the sun, each chest plate coated with crimson. Black engravings of a large bird‑like creature with a brilliant gold back are printed on every chest. All of the knights stare resolutely at the mountaintop where the White Dragon of Arcus roosts—a frightening creature that for decades has razed the townships surrounding the County of Arcus under Margrave Gillian Arcus.
The knights are not situated to assist their fellow knight who braved the mountain to defeat the beast, but to stop it from descending into the towns should the knight die.
All of them assume they will not be carrying word of victory—only of defeat. Yet now the mountain is quiet. For two days, explosions rocked the small clearing beneath the mountain where they camped. Now, not a single sound comes from above.
"Sir Gibraltar, it's been too quiet," one brave Knight of Second Class states. The quiet ranks stare at him before turning their attention to the commander.
Joseph Gibraltar—an older gentleman compared to the younger knights—has seen twenty years in the knightage. He began as a young squire under several knight companies embroiled in harsh battles, fighting against brutal opponents and beasts alike. He has faced a dragon and lived to tell the tale, though none of his comrades survived. Still, Gibraltar stayed his course as a military man. Now, the tall, broad‑shouldered commander looks up at the mountain, waiting for the appearance of a dragon slayer. Hope blooms in his chest. For the mountain is quiet.
"That is good. If the beast wasn't injured or dead, this entire valley would be awash in flames," Gibraltar intones. His booming, deep voice carries through the crowd. They hang on his words, looking up at the mountain expectantly, waiting for the knight who defeated the white dragon to appear.
"Or they both could be dead," another knight—a lowly cavalier—grumbles from the back. Perhaps out of jealousy for not having the chance to become one who goes down in legends. Even those slain by dragons are remembered in history. Bravery, foolishness—whatever one calls fighting such a creature, everyone knows of their deeds. Still, his uncaring remark sends a wave of uneasiness through the group. For the knight on that mountain is one of the strongest in the Empire.
None of them could hope to achieve half the accomplishments of the knight upon that mountain. That knight slew the Grand Lion of Sunmen. They fought off a company of four hundred enemy soldiers testing the borders. They were the undefeated champion of the Jousters Martial Tournament, where fighters from every country competed for glory. They reigned undefeated for four years before achieving knightage—not through squiring, but through achievement alone. Far more impressive in the eyes of the masses than being born noble, doing chores, and fighting occasionally for four years.
That is not the type of knight Galt Zarracen is. Zarracen was born in the dirt, lived in mud and filth. But instinct told them they were powerful. And so Zarracen became powerful. They did what few commoners—and even fewer "rats"—could do: they became a knight of the realm. Yet that was not enough. They wanted more. They strove for more. They achieved a level few could dream of. They became the Grand Knight of Valor—a rank achieved only by those with determination, fearlessness, and bravery.
That is who Galt Zarracen is, and all the knights know it. That is why none respond to the jealous cavalier. They wait. They wait for the drum of victory.
They do not wait long. A white sheen flashes from the mountain. They ready themselves to fight—but fear grips them. For Zarracen is the strongest among them. How could they triumph where she might have fallen? But the white sheen disappears, and then a mass falls from the sky. Broken and bleeding is the White Dragon of Arcus. The dragon they feared was ready to kill them—dead.
If it is dead, then they look back up—and they see them.
Zarracen.
A cheer. A shout. Hollers ring through the valley as they take in Zarracen walking nobly down from the mountaintop. Her armor is askew and broken, yet it appears to have taken the brunt of the damage. The knight herself walks toward them seemingly unharmed. Crimson red eyes glint with victory. A smirk lines her face upon closer inspection. Brown sun‑kissed skin shows proudly for all to see.
Sir Gibraltar is the first to move. He greets Zarracen on a bended knee—a posture meant only for those of higher status. As a Margrave, there are few above him. And now Zarracen has reached that level in his eyes.
"Rise, Sir Gibraltar," Zarracen states. Her voice comes out soft and husky, with little of her obvious femininity showing.
"Galt Zarracen, you have defeated the White Dragon of Arcus. My battalion will be honored to escort you back to the Magnapolis," Gibraltar says, standing. His fist is poised across his chest in a proud salute. Zarracen arches an eyebrow.
"I wouldn't have thought the Emperor would send any knights to my aid," she remarks. It is not snide—simply fact. The Emperor is not benevolent enough to send aid on a pass‑or‑fail mission. "I'm guessing you all were sent as a stopgap."
"Yes, Milady." There is no need to deny it. The Emperor is as benevolent as he is cruel—and as cruel as he is practical.
"Then it is time to return home."
"Do you not need rest?"
Her stomach rumbles at an inopportune moment, causing an embarrassed smile to appear on her face. "It appears I'm a bit hungry."
"Then shall we feast?" He nods toward the dragon, hope shining in his eyes. Those who feast on dragons are said to gain a portion of the dragon's strength. Zarracen tilts her head, looking up at the taller man. A look passes across her face before she turns her gaze to the company of knights.
The knights stiffen under her gaze, masking whatever expression lies beneath their helms. Though if they were players, they would have been called out—their posture gives them away even if their faces do not. They are hopeful, though most would not fault her for denying them such a bounty. As the Dragon Slayer, Zarracen would feast on the beast herself, gaining its strength. She brought the whole thing down, after all.
"Save the heart, flame sac, and head. The Emperor would destroy any who thought to partake in his prize."
With that warning, the knights cheer and begin butchering the beast.
"Caleb!" Gibraltar booms. A young teen—no older than sixteen or seventeen—runs up through the company. He wears only a chain shirt and leather armored pants, marking him as a squire. Zarracen stares down at him; he is shorter than her, though that is no feat. She stands at six feet even. In the company of Gibraltar, an almost seven‑foot‑tall man, her height is modest.
"Galt Zarracen, this is Caleb—one of the few squires given leeway to join this mission," Gibraltar says. Zarracen nods. "Follow him to the tent we set up for you. There you will find coals, a large basin, extra clothing, armor, and weapons to outfit yourself with."
"You thought my victory was certain, then," Zarracen says, arching an eyebrow. The supposed weakest Grand Knight of Valor against a dragon. Gibraltar simply nods.
"Power is not an art. It is a fact. Though you fight in a bastardized style of martial combat, you are still power. Being a master is not just wielding a weapon beautifully. With your sword arts, I've seen you cut a Solat—a Giant of Bronze—in half with just a dagger. I had faith you would return victorious, bringing Ixmtaraza to greater heights of glory."
Zarracen has nothing to say. She nods to Caleb, who leads her to her tent. The young man talks the entire way, intent on talking her ears off. Zarracen keeps her expression blank, giving only a few answers as they arrive. She bids him goodbye before entering.
It is clearly a tent meant for someone of her rank or higher. Such luxuries are not usually afforded to her—nor is such a battalion. This quest must be important.
Zarracen is not the weakest of the Grand Knights of Valor, despite assumptions. She is powerful—perhaps only beaten by one. And that man went to fight the Red Dragon Bracchus, a named dragon, one with intelligence and speech. Zarracen prays her sole true friend in the order survives, just as she survived her bout. The others she cares little for. Those without the title of Grand Knight of Valor—she does not feel they should gain more power. Yet those with class and power were given the stronger dragons to absorb their strength.
Zarracen scoffs, knowing this is why she was given the weakest. Though she is fine with that—she barely survived. Her armor hides the brunt of the damage, but as she slowly divests herself of it, bruises, cuts, and gashes appear across her torso, arms, and legs. Burn marks coat her skin. In some places, the searing metal clings to her flesh. She grits her teeth and rips it off. Blood bubbles to the surface, sending waves of pain through her.
She is not done. She still needs to remove the garments beneath the armor. Doing so slowly does not help. Her back shudders and ripples. Her body contorts under the pain. Crimson eyes close as she exhales.
Slowly, Zarracen makes her way to the tub—a simple metal basin longer than she is tall. It is empty, but runes inscribed along the sides will fill it with warm water once activated. With her magic, she activates the enchantment.
The basin fills. It stops at half capacity. Not one to ruin a good bath, Zarracen uses one of the many washcloths on a nearby chair to slowly wash soot, blood, and grime from her skin. It is not everything, but enough to soak the rag in blood and mud. She dips another cloth into the water and repeats the process until she feels she can sit in the bath without disgust.
It is no surprise that as she enters, the water's color slowly changes. Zarracen sighs as the bath loosens and soothes her muscles. Her cuts and bruises still ache beneath the water. She settles in, thinking about her triumph. She wonders idly what accolades await her when she brings back the dragon. The others may have already defeated their beasts—though she imagines some failed. Not out of fault, but because she knows her own weakness compared to them. Yes, she is almost certain some failed.
"Grand Knight! Greetings!" a booming voice rings out.
"Enter," Zarracen responds, loud enough to carry. The man steps through the tent flap. From her seat in the tub, she stares at him. He balks slightly upon noticing she is naked.
"What's your report?"
"Commander Gibraltar sent me to inform you that dinner is almost complete, and that a messenger has arrived from the Mitra," he reports.
"Understood. Inform Commander Gibraltar that I will be out soon."
"Yes!" He salutes, turns on his heel, and hurries out.