Snowy tale.

Huge black claws dug into the frozen stone as if it were soft clay; a powerful tail, with random sweeps, repeatedly knocked chunks out of the crumbling walls. Having reached the very summit of the remains of a once-magnificent tower, the black dragon, master of this forgotten place, looked upon own Ethelflad, shimmering with the warm lights of lanterns. Rage seized him once more; taking flight into the air, the dragon let out an ominous roar, exhaling a pillar of chaotic flame.

The junior captain froze for a moment, watching as a bright flash of fire erupted over the ruins. Rubbing his eyes, he told himself not to think about outside matters while carrying out the general's assignment. Two volunteers, who had kindly agreed to help with the difficult task of transporting equipment, had practically finished unloading the crates. A hulking Barbarian lifted the last one in his arms and dragged it under a prepared canopy by the wall of an ancient watchtower. The task was complete; all that remained was to wait for His Excellency and the troops. Jumping down from the sleigh, Ent Faragem moved toward the tower gates, waving for his tired assistants to follow him.

The guards categorically refused to let the elves through to the general, despite a snow-white document describing in gold letters the exceptional importance of the person standing before them. Arandor had no intention of giving up, for if the rumors spreading throughout the city were true, his long-held dream might suddenly come true, even if not exactly as he had imagined it. Let him act as a mere observer—it didn't matter; the main thing was that he would be able to see everything with his own eyes! After prolonged negotiations, some of which took place in a very crude manner, the general was finally informed of the ambassador's visit. Upon receiving the corresponding order, the guards darkened their expressions and opened the way for the persistent aristocrat.
His Excellency stood thoughtfully atop a hill, holding a spyglass in his hand. Noticing the approach of the esteemed ambassador, he smiled wearily and extended his hand. After a minute of silence, which Arandor felt would be tactless to interrupt, the general uttered: "the village is burning." Indeed, looking closely, one could see smoke in the distance, barely visible through the blizzard. According to intelligence, the dragon had returned to its lair in the ruins of an old Castle. Squads of archers, supported by a dozen mages, were preparing for an attack. Based on the current plan, the mages were to erect fireproof shields capable of absorbing part of the dragon's breath, while the archers would shower the enemy with arrows featuring special tips. According to the plan, everything was proceeding perfectly—the monster defeated, losses minimal—but in reality, it could go differently. The cause of all this was a huge star that had fallen straight into the creature's lair; according to the mages, it was precisely this that caused its awakening. It was impossible to approach it unnoticed; the dragon jealously guarded its territory from outsiders.
— Is there really no other way to defeat the monster? — Arandor asked.
— I fear that in this situation, there is not, — Naver replied, looking toward the ruins, — no brave soul, should one be found, would be able to withstand dragon fire long enough to properly recite a spell.
— Recite a spell? — the surprised negotiator asked back.
The general told him about an ancient scroll containing the formula for a curse capable of neutralizing the beast. Theoretically, just one single person could defeat the wicked creature, whose destruction required a small army that would hardly be able to manage without losses. Before Naver could finish his thought, triumphant images already arose before the elf's mind: unprecedented glory and honor... Arandor—the dragon slayer... Arandor—the savior of the innocent... Arandor—the boldest of warriors. The dreamer's heart tightened painfully when he realized that the key to fulfilling his dream had been lost on the night road, falling into the hands of dishonorable robbers. The world around him seemed to plunge into a fog; his body weakened, his thoughts became muddled, and he wanted desperately to scream out loud, cursing either the bandits or himself for such a rash, foolish decision.
But the bodyguard, arriving as always in time, did not let him fall into the abyss of despair. Apparently not wishing to deal with elves any longer, the guards let Oben into the camp without further question. Despite the fact that his subordinate smelled of cheap drink and tobacco, despite his disheveled appearance, and despite an ordinary but nonetheless irritating rudeness, upon hearing the news he brought, Arandor was ready to grant his dear friend all of his high standing along with the trade caravans and gold in banks. Unaware of the conversation that had taken place between the esteemed gentlemen, Oben first thought that a pocket demon had possessed the commander, so frightening was the behavior of the noble merchant. Trying to be as calm as possible, the negotiator began to quickly tell the general his story, leading up to the point that he could be the very person capable of reading the scroll. Mentally, of course, he added: "the hero who slew the black plague trying to ruin people's holiday."
Understanding only every other word his companion rattled off, Naver still caught the main meaning of his words. Without wasting a second, he assigned as many free soldiers as he could, arranged for transport, and ordered that the stolen item be returned by any available means. In a frantic rush, all participants in the operation piled into three hastily cleared wagons and flew toward the outskirts of the city.

Hardly having stepped onto the snow-cleared pavement, Ment found himself surrounded by people in cloaks bearing the symbols of the mages' guild. Colleagues shouted loudly, shoving freshly approved plans and documents necessary for immediate execution into his face. The mage resolutely understood nothing, being in ignorance regarding events that had occurred outside his own mission. But there was nothing to be done; the guys would have to stay in his company a bit longer. Pursued by guildmates wishing to share news as well as learn his thoughts regarding said news, he returned to the sleigh. The members of the team he had assembled were chatting relaxedly, awaiting the long-awaited permission to be free. Explaining the situation to them and stating that he deeply regretted this misunderstanding, Ment promised to treat everyone to a delicious lunch at the guild's expense.
Gathering all their shattered expectations into a fist, the people had no choice but to obey another order from the mage.
Leaving the city limits, they moved along the road toward the unfortunate ruins upon which all public attention was concentrated. After a little over an hour, they encountered the first camp of soldiers awaiting the general's command. Soon another, then another... the mage could not understand: had the mysterious beast brought its own army with it? Why was it necessary to pull so many soldiers from their homes? The answer came on its own as soon as the sleigh reached the nearest village to the ruins, a quarter of which had turned into a snow-covered ash heap. Stopping the sleigh before a smooth semicircle beyond which lay scorched earth, the heroes proceeded on foot. It was hard to believe that anyone could have survived here, but soon a man ran out from behind the charred remains of a barn, waving his arms desperately.
Having arrived straight from the capital along with his mistress, an esteemed guardian, the man could not have imagined what situation they would find themselves in. Having decided to personally investigate the problem, by a twist of fate, the esteemed Sorceress met face-to-face with a giant dragon that had decided to burn the village for good measure. Without thinking about possible consequences (though she had no choice), she tried to erect a shield to protect the homes of innocent citizens, but the magic worked in her favor only partially... The man led them to a charred roof which, having fallen, formed a small canopy. It was here that the very powerful Sorceress—the magnificent guardian maintaining order in the country—was hiding. Dangling little legs in boots clearly several sizes too large and wrapped in a long mantle, she smiled at her new acquaintances.

As soon as the cart stopped before the building indicated by Oben—which externally resembled a large, unsightly shed—Arandor, crazed with excitement, was the first to jump onto the road and run into the establishment. Semi-darkness reigned inside; there was a strong smell of tobacco, and the floor was covered in a carpet of spilled drink, cards, broken bottles, and other debris. After looking at all this, the esteemed aristocrat's surge of enthusiasm suddenly vanished. There were a huge number of people; it was not easy to push through the crowded tables where unpleasant characters of all sorts sat. While the negotiator searched with his gaze for something suspicious (what specifically, he must admit, he didn't know himself), Oben caught up with him. Grabbing the commander by the shoulder, the bodyguard pointed to a black piece of fabric in the form of a curtain closing the passage to another, smaller hall.
Unable to barge in as a whole crowd, most of the soldiers were forced to remain outside. Only the captain followed Arandor; five more fighters waited inside by the entrance. Whispering began throughout the establishment; people moved closer to the back exit, cursed, and pointedly twirled knives in their hands—none of them could understand what was happening. Before entering the second hall, they were stopped by a two-meter giant armed with a hideously looking spiked mace. The captain nodded toward the people at the door who awaited only his order, carelessly brushing invisible dust from the emblem of the general's company. After a second's thought, the giant politely stepped aside, pushing the dirty fabric to the side.
Unlike the main hall, this room was well-lit and cleaned; they had not skimped on space either—there was plenty of room. Only a few tables were located here, at which people played cards with passion; crowds gathered around the hottest games. Arandor's gaze immediately found a glimmer of orange fabric in the crowd, standing out brightly among the same old black, gray, and brown colors. Moving straight toward the table around which a sizeable crowd had gathered, the elf witnessed an intense game. A modestly dressed young aristocrat (this one, it seemed, had been at a reception with the Drakes) nervously toyed with his cards, not daring to take specific actions; the crowd was already urging him on, mocking him with jabs. His opponent, conversely, felt like the king of the situation! Playing with wine in his glass, he admired a pile of coins he had already won earlier, and his shoulders were adorned by that very stolen cloak. The people around, naturally, noticed the arrival of the foreigner and immediately began to discuss the event in hushed tones, but when several soldiers entered the hall, everyone tensed up. Not noticing anything suspicious, the youth placed his cards on the table, saying "I play." The Heroist did the same, but his gaze was fixed on the elven guest, whom he had the honor of meeting just yesterday. The judge overseeing the match swept up the youth's coins, adding them to the pile of the experienced cheat; the crowd cheered without enthusiasm.
— I bet more! — the aristocrat declared, dumping about a dozen coins onto the table.
— Would you allow me, my friend? — Arandor interrupted him.
Looking back and seeing the esteemed foreigner behind him, the youth jumped up, showering apologies for something unclear, and then vanished from sight entirely. The negotiator stepped forward, placed a tiny figurine on the table, and said "you dropped this." Demonstrating complete lack of interest and own confusion, the gambler glanced at the figurine, merely shrugging his shoulders. Stepping forward, the captain entered the conversation; he had no intention of being ceremonious with a bandit, especially since time was pressing. Promising to throw all scoundrels involved in the matter into a dungeon, he gave the order to seize the criminal. About a second later, Arandor felt the point of a dagger at his throat; fast as lightning, Tox was ready to end his life this very second. Oben's sword pressed against the attacker's chest; he was shocked by the suddenness of the attack. The crowd began to noise; some tried to leave the establishment, others conversely prepared for a fight; the gambler's other accomplices appeared, not intending to surrender without a fight.
— Two dozen of Ethelflad's best soldiers await us outside; touch us and most of you will not leave this place alive. — the captain said loudly.
— Well, let's at least see what our beloved army is worth! — someone from the crowd shouted.
— Stop! — Arandor screamed with all his might, not wishing at all for a bloody slaughter to begin. Especially considering his current position. — We only need the cloak! Give it back and we will leave!
— Try and take it! — Heroist replied, striking the table.
For a full minute, complete silence reigned in the establishment; everyone awaited further actions from the participants of the conflict.
— Ready to put it on the line? — the negotiator finally uttered.
The player, looking around suspiciously as if seeking some support from the crowd, asked:
— Against what?
— Ten thousand coins. — the elf replied.
The crowd became noisy with new force; everyone simultaneously forgot about the armed soldiers waiting only for an order to cut them into pieces. Heroist paused, searching for a catch in the offer.
— Cards, "yant," until total loss, cloak against money, — the gambler announced the conditions, — the rag is with me, put up the money.
After these words, the man tore the precious item from himself and threw it on the table. Arandor, in turn, inquired if there was a bank representative in the establishment. A small pot-bellied little man in glasses responded to the call. The required sum was written into a check lined with magical ink, after which the negotiator stamped his personal seal onto the document, turning an ordinary piece of paper into real money. Rolling ten thousand coins into a tube, Arandor tied it with a snow-white ribbon, which he had specifically torn from his handkerchief for this purpose.
— Here is the money; I agree to your conditions, but I shall put forward one of my own! — said the elf.
— Out with it. — snapped Heroist, who was eaten by impatience, wanting to get to the game sooner.
— My subordinate will play against you; he understands this business much better.
— I don't care! Where is he?! Bring him here, and quickly! — shouted the heated gambler.
— A couple of minutes; he is waiting outside.
Giving the check to the captain for safekeeping, thereby ensuring the greedy attention of the tavern patrons, Arandor, together with his bodyguard, went outside. Finding a suitable place for the ritual turned out not to be so simple; in every dark corner, someone was performing their own "rituals." The search ended when Oben kicked a sleeping drunkard out of a dark alley, shouting something about the natural needs of a high-ranking gentleman. This time, the cut finger burned with pain so strong that the summoner's hand went numb up to the wrist, but the rite was successfully performed and they returned to the tavern in the company of a mysterious man whose face was barely visible beneath a hood hanging over his forehead.
The opponents took their places; the judge began dealing cards. The first round passed very quickly; Heroist easily took the first payout. The second was also in his favor; people in the crowd began to joke about the easiest ten thousand in the world. In the third, a real struggle unfolded; words like "fight," "pass," "I play," and "double" were heard from the opponents time and again. Arandandor did not know the rules, so understanding what was happening on the table was quite problematic for him. Finally, both players stopped at "I play" and the third payout went to Arandor's champion. The next round was even hotter; the opponents loudly shouted their moves, periodically sealing them with strikes of cards against the table. Three more rounds passed this way, resulting in a slight advantage for Heroist, but the final payout more than covered that difference.
The opponents thought for a long time, grew irritated, and light insults were used. The audience watched the final game intently. On whose side would Lady Luck stand? Who would be smarter? Whose nerves would give way faster? An enraged Heroist struck the table, barking "I play," to which the mysterious champion laughed, throwing his response cards on the table. The crowd howled, demanding a result. The judge flipped Heroist's cards; they were: three dragons, queen of thorns, king, and death. The joyful public began to congratulate the lucky man, who looked as if he had suddenly aged ten years. The judge intended to officially announce the winner, but the presumed loser flipped his own cards. Three dragons, queen of thorns, king, death. Everyone fell silent at once, unable to believe their eyes; only Heroist looked with hatred at his opponent, perfectly understanding the essence of what was happening. But the latter did not intend to stop there; his hand slowly reached for the stack of cards used for drawing. Carelessly thrown by him, the cards flew across the table, revealing their face to the viewers—all of them black nines. Even Heroist had not expected such a turn of events; jumping from his chair, he grabbed the cards from the table, trying to understand where the trick was.
A piercing scream rang out in the neighboring hall, but it was impossible to make anything out; everyone listened. Again something unclear, then muffled and suddenly distinct: "everyone save yourselves, a dragon!", "a dragon!". A man with crazed eyes rushed past, delivering the secret message to all who were not yet aware of the matter.
Realizing that he needed to act quickly, Arandor grabbed the coveted cloak from the table but was caught by the hand by the robber who had come to his senses.
— We are not finished yet; I demand a rematch! — the latter roared.
— First learn to play fair, — countered Ple'Sen, removing his hood under the cover of the noise.
— A demon! Did I really play against a demon?!
— You played, for the most part, against yourself, — the joker replied haughtily, pulling a card with a dragon from his sleeve.
Taking advantage of the gambler's confusion, Arandor tore his hand from the grip and ran toward the exit. The soldiers led by the captain were loading into wagons, preparing to return to the defensive position under the flawless command of the general. But someone had created such panic in the city that the roads turned into one continuous impassable market square, through which people walked in a hurry, mixed with hastily gathered wagons. The captain cursed, demanding that the townspeople clear space for the army's transport.
Help came from a completely unexpected side. Patting Arandor on the shoulder, the spirited gambler inquired what was wrong. There was critically no time for contempt and haughtiness, so the negotiator simply described the current situation. Nodding thoughtfully, Heroist suggested he use the services of his own man, capable of easily delivering them to any point in Ethelflad. Use the offer of the robber through whose fault he had ended up here, in this tobacco-smelling place, or wait? On his side was Ple'Sen; after all, everything would be fine. Informing the captain that he would reach the general independently, Arandor followed the robber.

The girl put her little fists on her hips, looking sternly at the mages who understood nothing. What was not clear?! She had explained about the village, about the big ball, and finally, about the big winged kitty! And they just keep shrugging their shoulders, glancing at each other.
— A biiiig ball! — showing its width with her hands, she began to explain again. — And then it hit a transparent ball!
Barely suppressing a smile, Sesam whispered into Ment's ear "dragon's breath and a magic shield"; the mage, scratching his head, nodded. The girl, meanwhile, continued the story.
It was very difficult to say how long the barrier held back the incinerating flame, but those minutes were more than enough for the villagers to run to a safe distance. The girl became angry when Sesam, finally unable to hold it in, began to laugh. What silly adults! They understand nothing!