Posts from Snowy tale.

Another drained mug landed on the table with a thud. The beer wasn't bad and the meat was juicy, but the establishment lacked excitement; the people living here were boring. Just yesterday, they all ran to see some star, pfft! As if they'd never seen stars before. Just lift your head and look—see as many as you want! And no one was left in the tavern except for a Barbarian who was currently chewing on a large roasted ham, sitting in the same spot by the window. Hommi absolutely disliked Barbarians, and this tattooed giant inspired nothing but a growing desire to punch him in the face with every mug he drank.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon—maybe twenty minutes past, or maybe forty! There were practically no interesting people around, only the stupid Barbarian and a dozing fat man in the corner. You couldn't forge an axe with those same; it would be a waste to interrupt one's meal for them. Lazily picking at meat under mushroom sauce, the dwarf sank into his thoughts. Damned little town, a complete misunderstanding, there wasn't even a way to get out of here. Magic had broken down, bad weather was closing in from all sides, and on top of that, the guards had chased all the festive folk back to their homes. Oh, how brother will be displeased by his absence! And what could Hommi say in his own defense if he hadn't even managed to fight well?
The door flew open with a crash, and the blizzard touched those present in the establishment with the very edge of its windy cloak. Already slightly tipsy, hungry, frozen, and embittered, the mercenaries escorting a trade caravan stumbled into the room. Sitting down at a large table, they called out to the serving girl, who quickly disappeared behind the kitchen doors. A small barrel of beer was rolled in for them, the table was filled with hot food, and a local bard suddenly appeared from nowhere, immediately receiving several requests.
But for a serious conversation, something more interesting and own exciting was missing—something that didn't take long to arrive. When two-thirds of the food had been eaten, the barrel was almost completely empty, and several mercenary songs had sounded from the bard's lips, the door crashed significantly once more, letting in a company of dwarves stranded in the city. Bound for the capital, they were escorting a very important kinsman carrying a valuable gift for the king himself. A delighted Hommi began to quickly devour his lunch while there was still a chance. Well, finally, now it begins!
Sitting at another table, the dwarves frequently cast unfriendly glances at the mercenaries. On the road, these two categories of travelers conflicted so often that it was clear to everyone present in the tavern—expect a fight. The owner understood this too, having sent the maid in advance to invite a patrol squad of guards for tea. At first, everything was quiet; the dwarves chewed peppered meat with potatoes, sipped ale, spoke loudly and laughed. Then the parties moved on to loud jokes mixed with insults. And it ended with one of the dwarves asking to play the song "Wet Pants," which told of a certain cowardly mercenary. This was followed by several direct insults appropriate for the occasion. And finally, the moment came when the shouting brawlers leaped from their seats with movements polished to perfection. Without unnecessary chatter or drama, a tall man drove his fist into the bearded face of the sturdy short warrior.

Hearing about the impossibility of traveling along the tract due to bad weather, Arandor was furious. On his way back, he dreamed only of how this fraud, appointed as the chief curator here, would be literally thrown out of the guild after one angry letter to the capital. Then he remembered that all communications were currently severed; there was absolutely nowhere to go. Oben, who was waiting for him in the carriage, didn't even bother to wake up, so the merchant had to shake him well by the shoulder. Grumbling discontentedly, the bodyguard assumed a sitting position but asked nothing; everything was already clear. Arandor commanded the coachman "to Haven!", closed his eyes and tried not to think about anything.
The carriage stopped in front of a large two-story building—an expensive inn, whose first floor housed an equally expensive restaurant. Haven, owned by almost the bishop himself, had always been a favorite stopping place for wealthy foreigners. Smooth steps of white marble, always perfectly cleaned, led the visitor to luxurious ebony doors, behind which a smiling servant always waited ready. Ordering a table for two, Arandor went up to his room. He needed to tidy himself up before the evening at Lady Drake's; many other distinguished guests would be present. Including His Excellency the General, who might make a small exception in his order for an elven ambassador.
Returning to the first floor, Arandor encountered Oben, who had managed to fill his stomach without waiting for the leader. Reminding the bodyguard about the trip to the warehouses, the elf sat at the set table, waiting for the waiter. A minute later, snow-white plates with expensive dishes stood before him. Sipping red wine from a glass, he with pleasure tasted the most delicious meat under a delicate creamy sauce, appreciated the thick mushroom soup, and enjoyed the aroma of freshly baked bread. Seeming to have completely forgotten all his problems, the merchant became angry again upon learning that Oben had taken a bottle of very expensive wine with him.
But still taking pity, he did not burst into the servants' room he had rented for the bodyguard, but preferred to take a bath and dress appropriately before the trip. About an hour passed; Arandor was fastening his white shirt in front of the mirror when there was a polite knock at the door. The shaman, returned from a special assignment, stood on the threshold, stretching his lips into his usual detached half-smile. Arandor understood immediately—the negotiations had failed, although he hadn't hoped for anything from the start. The sleepy gaze of the shaman, looking somewhere toward the curtained window, shifted to the negotiator; smiling lips softly uttered "they did not agree." It was to be expected that local hunters would not risk violating the general's order forbidding departure from the city.
At the appointed hour, a carriage waited outside. Oben, despite his total possession of the bottle of wine, looked more cheerful than in the morning and was already waiting for the commander on the street. The carriage quickly moved toward the warehouses. The head of the caravan who met them only shrugged; none of his men had been able to find out anything about the stolen cloak. Finally realizing that there was no point in thinking about a timely arrival in the capital, Arandor gave the guards permission to rest. He himself, upset, tired and angry, went to the gala evening.
The negotiator left the carriage, stepping onto the snow-cleared stone path of the Drake mansion. The shaman followed him out, whom the lady, interested in various magics, very much wanted to meet. As for Oben, he trudged on foot toward the unfavorable district of Etelflad, where mostly various kinds of scoundrels dwelt. He, of course, told no one about his plans. A maid so beautiful opened the door for Arandor that, contrary to the rules of etiquette, he kissed her hand. The girl, red with embarrassment, led him into the hall, where all the main social figures had already gathered: the respected Naira Drake, charming the guests with her incredible red dress; General Naver, thoughtfully sipping wine from a glass; and many others.
Noticing the arriving guest, Lady Drake waved to him, inviting him into her company. Out of the corner of his ear, Arandor heard two women talking about some runaway maid who, according to rumors, had taken a thousand gold coins, a family amulet with diamonds, and a couple of thoroughbred horses. Thinking again about the Drakes' maid, he decided that material losses in this case could be quite relative. Kissing the hostess's hand, Arandor hurried to express his admiration for the richness of the reception. Soon, the general joined the conversation, greeted the respected negotiator and asked if there had been any problems on the road. Hearing about the bold robbery, the general shook his head with concern, promising to deal with this misunderstanding personally.
The evening proceeded in its own way; the gentlemen held social conversations, drank good wine, and listened to virtuoso musicians. The guests quickly appreciated the elven ambassador's ability to tell of adventures that had happened to him during his travels. The general even proposed a toast for the glorious acquaintance, which was gladly supported by all the guests. It was time for dessert; the maids, among whom was the one Arandor had taken a liking to, brought in silver trays with appetizing contents.
The calm flow of the evening was interrupted by the captain of the guard, who ran up to the general, quickly reporting on the situation. As information arrived, the general's eyes widened more and more, and his fists clenched tighter. Patting the soldier who had finished the report on the shoulder, he turned to the hostess, apologized for the forced departure, and walked briskly toward the door.

Junior Captain Ent Faragem entered the spacious cell once more, looking over the prisoners sitting in it with a sense of superiority and slight contempt. Opening a scroll with a habitual movement, he read several names, inviting those named to follow him. Among them were two old acquaintances who were not the most friendly toward each other... The dwarf Hommi—a lover of fighting, drinking, and eating well all along the way—cast malicious glances at the mountain Barbarian Loken, who disliked big cities, idiots, and recently, dwarves as well. The former had still managed to land a good blow on the latter's face, after which he was fully rewarded for it by having a beer mug smashed over his victorious head. In general, everyone remained satisfied, including the owner of the establishment, who charged the brawlers a triple bill for the broken furniture.
Having collected signatures from the detainees, the captain waved his hand, pointing to the exit. Not believing their luck, the people left the dungeon building one by one. Instead of a night in a cell, morning questioning, conversations with the captain, and foul porridge made of water and manure (at least that's how it tasted), they were released in all four directions. The dwarf assumed this was somehow related to a holiday or the involvement of foreign peoples in the conflict, so he wasn't particularly worried. Outside, of course, it was already evening; for some reason, soldiers were scurrying around and wagons with banners were passing by. It didn't look much like preparations for a celebration.
The hungry people trudged toward the nearest tavern. Weighing the options, Hommi followed their example; there wasn't much else to do anyway. In the establishment, all conversations were about one thing: a giant monster had attacked a small village in the outskirts of the city, people had fled, a Sorceress from the guards who arrived the day before had failed, and the general had gathered two hundred archers for defense. First stars, now a monster—strange people! But despite all the apparent absurdity of the situation, Hommi was very interested in this news. It was exactly the kind of fight he dreamed of; such a thing wouldn't be embarrassing to brag about to his brother when explaining his absence. Finishing his beer, the dwarf went outside, heading back toward the dungeon.
The captain familiar to him was equipping large sleds, by which soldiers were waiting. The dwarf simply boiled with rage when he saw among them his sworn enemy, the tall Barbarian with a giant sword on his back. But there was nothing to be done; he had to reconcile himself to this. For some reason, Faragem was glad for any reinforcements, even those consisting of tipsy brawlers, so Hommi received permission to depart with them without further talk. Giving no importance to the captain's excessive compliance, the self-satisfied dwarf impatiently waited for the command to act. When the moment finally arrived, in the sleds, besides numerous containers, there were only two sworn enemies and the junior captain on the driver's seat.
- Try not to block the view for real warriors with your bulk! – Hommi grumbled discontentedly.
- Try not to get underfoot, beer barrel.
Thus began the triumphant cooperation of two seasoned warriors.

Waking up from loud conversations between business-like mages, Drakkoshka poked her head out slightly from a pile of blankets she had borrowed from other cots. In the half-empty guard barracks, it became unbearably cold by the end of the night; someone decided that heating the stove was just a waste of time. Outside it was dark again; once more they faced a cold journey along snowy roads and through dark forests. Maybe if she just stayed lying there, they would forget about her? But no such luck. The senior captain, appearing as if from nowhere, loudly proclaimed "get up, young lady" and, with a sense of duty fulfilled, went to equip the transport.
Sleepy and in rumpled clothes, she emerged from her cozy warm lair. Almost colliding in the passage with a southerner who nearly spilled hot tea on her, the maid burst into the dining room. As it turned out, the only food present was dried meat with beer. Considering such a breakfast unacceptable, especially after everything she had endured over the last twenty-four hours, she demanded that the kitchen be placed at her disposal. Quickly chopping vegetables and meat, adding one Creator knows what else, the girl prepared a whole pot of edible food. Attracted by the smell, Alexis immediately rushed in, surprised by the unusual activity in the kitchen; for this, he was forced to carry the heavy pot into the dining room.
Having seated her forced acquaintances to consume normal food, Drakkoshka returned to the kitchen with the intention of preparing an equally normal hot drink. Fortunately, the kettle was relatively clean, some herbs were found, and the tea itself didn't smell of mold, which was a very good sign. Having prepared the fragrant drink, the girl poured it into mugs and carried them into the dining room. The sated wizards expressed their great gratitude to her for the work done; the senior captain noted that it would be nice to get such a housewife at home, with which, surprisingly, Fail agreed. Smiling and pleased with herself, Drakkoshka set the mugs on the table.
Having fully restored their strength, the people left the cold house, climbed into the equipped sleds, and moved forward. All last night Ment had led them through the forest, searching for "gems" one by one; a total of eight pieces were destroyed. As it turned out, other expeditions had been sent to the other cardinal directions as well; one could only guess how many of these curious pebbles still remained on the earth. But the general magical atmosphere had become much lighter; the wizards felt this clearly, and only a little more effort remained.
Then, beyond another hill in the forest, a familiar glow appeared; Alexis, ignoring the objections of the mage and the captain, drove the horses straight through the forest, thereby increasing their arrival time at the necessary point. A sharp glowing stone was stuck between two trees, having never reached the ground. The mage tried to reach the gem with his staff, but it was too high. To create a crack, it was enough to touch the stone with a hand; it was surprisingly unresponsive to all other types of influence. After a short meeting, it was decided to lift up the lightest member of the team, providing her the opportunity to touch the wretched thing. No matter how Drakkoshka resisted, she was the one who had to climb. Standing on Alexis's folded arms, she climbed onto Dag's shoulders, but still couldn't reach. Then she grabbed a nearby branch with one hand, caught the curve of the trunk with the second, jumped, pulled herself up, and finally touched the cold smooth surface of the gem with her palm. Before she could rejoice, she slipped and flew down with a shriek. The southerner, who reflexively caught her in his arms, was slightly surprised by the sudden gift from the heavens.
- I did it! – Drakkoshka reported.
- My congratulations. – replied Siver-Fail, letting her continue her fall.
Today's snowball, carefully crafted by the maid, did not repeat yesterday's success, hitting the man in the shoulder. It was good that the senior captain helped the girl get back on her feet, thereby reducing the degree of her dissatisfaction. The magical stone creaked, clicked, and crumbled to the ground as silver dust. Ment pointed the direction to the next—and last in this area—gem.
As the sleds advanced into the forest, the mage spent more and more time checking the map, and when a light appeared in the distance, he sighed heavily. The horses' path was blocked by a fence of large crooked sticks fastened with shrub branches. There was nowhere to go; on one side was a ravine, on the other a thick forest, and ahead an impassable barrier. Through huge gaps in the fence, white radiation was visible; there could be no mistake—what they were looking for was somewhere there. Not daring to cast spells in dangerous proximity to the gem, Ment asked the captain for advice. After reflecting, Dag examined the fence and struck it with his halberd, knocking out several snow-covered branches holding the construction. Shaking his head, the mage still did not interfere with the unscrupulous destruction of someone else's property. Pushing aside the thick crooked sticks, the captain stepped beyond the fence; the others followed him.
Walking toward the light, the unwanted visitors quickly stumbled upon the master of this place. A large gray troll sat by a campfire, roasting a piece of meat on it; two meters away from him, an abnormally large "gem" shimmered with light. Giving the command to stay behind the trees, Ment went to introduce himself to the owner of the estate. Hearing footsteps, the troll turned his head, jumped up and stomped his feet.
- Respected troll! – the mage shouted. – We are from Etelflad, my name is Ment, I am a mage!
- My land! Mine! Go away! – roared the troll, but then seemed to think it over. – Morrut Tullus is my name, I am very busy, you leave now! Spousibbo!
- My friend Morrut, the thing is that by fate's will this same gadget fell upon your land! – the mage pointed to the gem. – This stone is very dangerous, although certainly beautiful! Allow us to dissipate it, and after that we will immediately leave, not daring to disturb you further!
After these words, the troll's eyes spun in different directions, his fists clenched, and he growled.
- Mine! Mine! Mine! I won't let anyone touch my shiny! Get out, spousibbo!
Ment tried to negotiate, but the troll refused to listen; he stomped his feet, waved his huge arms, and roared. Giving up, the mage returned to the others, only shrugging.
- We'll have to go back and call negotiation specialists here.
- So maybe we can sneak in unnoticed and touch the stone with a hand? – asked Drakkoshka.
- The stone is huge; here we need to combine the energy of two, or even three people.
- Shall we beat it? – suggested Fail.
- Absolutely not! – Ment exclaimed. – Trolls are listed in Hreyuod's Red Book as one of the rarest species of creatures!
Drakkoshka, who had never seen trolls before, asked permission to talk to him. The mage nodded his head, continuing to explain something to Sezam. The girl carefully approached the campfire, on which the roasted piece of meat had already managed to char on one side. The troll turned his head toward her, made a grimace, glanced at the gem and grunted "not take my shiny."
- You should flip the meat, Mr. Tullus. - noted the girl.
The surprised troll spun the pole and howled in grief upon seeing the black crust on the appetizing chunk. They talked a bit about the weather. It turned out that because of the blizzard, the respected Mr. Tullus was left without his favorite treat—chickens roasted to a golden crust. The merchant, who had promised to bring many different delicacies in exchange for skins, mushrooms, and berries, sent word that he would arrive only after the holiday. Then Drakkoshka asked if he wanted to exchange his glowing stone for a roasted chicken. Hearing about the star once again, the troll first became angry, then thought it over. The mage told him that the stone would crumble into dust in a few days, and the troll, of course, believed such a respected person. Making a difficult decision for himself, he demanded "many" tasty roasted chickens with a golden crust in exchange for his precious shiny.
Pleased with the diplomatic skills opening up within her, Drakkoshka ran to tell the others about the concluded agreement. Hearing the terms of the deal, Ment thoughtfully scratched his beard and asked the pertinent question: "where on earth will we get such a quantity of chickens?". The girl remembered that in the cellar of the guard barracks where they spent the night, there happened to be several pieces. The mages decided to stay here to ensure nothing bad happened to the troll and the stone, while the others went for Tullus's ransom.
Flying into the dark kitchen, the girl began giving orders left and right. Thus Alexis was forced to light the stove, Dag to carry chickens from the cellar, and Fail to search for all sorts of ingredients for her. The southerner demonstratively resisted the assignments but still performed them; he very much wanted to finish this fascinating adventure as quickly as possible. The first chicken went into the oven; the second was preparing to follow its example. Sauces, pepper, spices, salt, fruits—all this swirled around the maid with incredible speed, participating in the preparation of festive food for a lonely troll. The overly curious southerner, who had never seen such cooking before, received a pinch of pepper straight to the face. He shouldn't have distracted the master at work!
No one counted how much time was needed to prepare this pile of chickens, but the result satisfied everyone. Most pleased was the respected Morrut Tullus, who, having barely tasted the blessed golden chicken in spices—juicy and tender—completely forgot about his ephemeral preciousness.

Another visitor entered the gloom of the tavern; swaying, he sat at the bar, demanding beer. Upon receiving his order, he placed a small steel figurine on the table, drawing the owner's attention to it. The fat bearded man only shrugged, returning to wiping mugs, but soon disappeared from view for a couple of minutes. Someone's hand abruptly tore the hood off the mysterious visitor's head, revealing Oben's fair-haired head to the world. A moment of surprise, then an unskilled blow, which the elf easily dodged. Slipping out of the resulting encirclement, he kicked the nearest man in the stomach, split the second one's lip, and dropped the third to the floor with a skillful trip. Freezing in a combat stance, Oben waited for new attackers, but no brave souls were found. From somewhere deep in the hall, a hoarse voice rang out:
- Get lost while you still can.
The click of a pistol lock was heard; a large man rose from his seat, closely watching the further actions of the dangerous bloodhound. Putting the figurine in his pocket, Oben left the establishment and headed to the next one. From a dark alley, a quiet "pointy-ear" was heard. Hiding in the shadows, a person concealing their face behind a black scarf looked around fearfully. As soon as Oben approached, he assured him that he knew who the figurine belonged to and where to look for this person. Naturally, information cost money.

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!

Gliding smoothly through the night sky, a dragon flew toward the camp broken by soldiers, its enormous wings gracefully cutting through the air, shimmering beautifully in the starlight. The captain, frozen to the bone and tasked with monitoring the beast's movements, stepped away from the massive telescope on an iron tripod. Shouting something below and waiting for a response, he commanded "fire!". A tall Barbarian with a torch in hand ran to the projectile tip, igniting it; a dwarf grunted as he knocked out the retainer, after which a huge flaming arrow soared into the heavens. On the other side of the tower, the soldiers performed the same action.
The dragon, which until that moment had paid no attention to the lookout post, grew angry and changed course. The piercing sound of a war horn rang out, demanding readiness from the few remaining soldiers. Cursing, the warriors hastily reloaded the ballista, while archers scattered across the area to take advantageous positions. One of the projectiles hit the dragon, leaving a small scratch on its scaled belly; a whole cloud of arrows followed, but were easily stopped by a powerful blast of air created by its wings.
The dragon dove steeply downward, preparing to drown the land in fire. At this, even the bravest archers ran for cover with screams. In a matter of seconds, the stream of fire engulfed the wooden structures, turning the ground into a blazing hell. Quickly realizing where the huge, heavy arrows were coming from, the beast folded its wings and began climbing up the stone wall. The soldiers at the ballistas were ordered to retreat, but Hommi did not want to lose the chance to fire the last projectile, for which they had spent so much effort preparing. Shouting "wait!" to the Barbarian yelling at him, he waited for the dragon's head to finally appear over the wall. The beast did not make them wait long, leaping onto the wide, frozen wall in a single bound. The arrow, fired almost point-blank, clanged off its chest without causing harm. Lunging forward, the dragon grabbed the ballista with its teeth and threw it down onto the burning ground.

Nervously fiddling with a flare gun, the general stood by his tent on top of the hill, gazing into the distance. The troops below were ready to move out, awaiting only the command, but something made him hesitate. Perhaps it was hope for the return of the elven ambassador or an unwillingness to send innocent soldiers into an unequal fight. Or perhaps a knowledge of something secret that allowed him to see things in a completely different light. An out-of-breath adjutant arrived, reporting the destruction caused during the dragon's attack. Surprisingly, there were no losses among the soldiers; the men had escaped with only minor burns. As soon as the general dismissed his subordinate, a second one ran up to him, reporting the arrival of a member of the Mages' Guild who had completed his assignment. Ordering that the mage and all his companions be admitted immediately, Naver fell deep in thought, weaving the appearance of a powerful guardian into the current plan.
Waiting for the arrivals, the general invited them into the tent, where at least it was bright. To his great surprise, he was introduced to a little girl holding the hand of a southern Sorceress. Noticing His Excellency's confusion, Ment began to explain what had happened in the attacked village. Realizing that no support could be expected from an eight-year-old "guardian," the general turned to the mage, wishing to know his thoughts on the difficult situation. Ment confirmed the presence of an unstable background interfering with the casting of magic, suggesting that its source was much stronger than those they had previously dispersed. If two people had handled the large gemstone in the troll's estate, then here, likely, four would need to apply themselves. The main problem was crossing a completely empty snowy field while being as plain as day before a dragon that could see perfectly in the dark.
Interrupting the discussion, Arandor burst into the tent. Instead of explanations, the elf raised a hand with a bright cloak, trying to catch his breath. At that very second, the general called for the adjutant, sending him with an order to prepare the fastest horses capable of covering the required distance. For the next ten minutes, His Excellency explained a simple plan to Arandor and everyone present: they only needed to approach the ruins of the castle and correctly recite a spell, after which the dragon should be defeated. Ment asked for more details about the mysterious spell, unknown even to an experienced mage like him. Naver, not wishing to waste time, brushed it off by explaining that it was a special form of curse created exclusively to fight a specific creature.
Watching the business-like adults shouting and pointing fingers at a large map, the little guardian suddenly piped up:
- But what about the star?
Hearing her, Sesam loudly repeated this question, which had been lost in the depths of the negotiations. The general looked up from the map, frowned, and asked "what?". Stroking his beard, Ment thoughtfully uttered "the star." That very thing that gives all sorcerers a headache, making the dragon an invincible opponent on its own territory. The general silently poured himself wine into a glass, drank it in one gulp, and whispered "I need to rest."
- We don't know exactly how the energy of the "gemstone" affects curses, - Ment said.
- And why should it affect them any differently? – Fail asked.
- Because these are two different types of magic, - Sesam explained.
- Since it hinders us, we must destroy it! – Alexis shouted.
- To destroy it, you first have to reach it, smarty-pants! – Heroist said irritably.
- If you ask me, I think the dragon will incinerate us first, - Dag added reservedly.
- What if we use a sled?
- And are you going to drag it across the field?
- But what about the horses?
- In such snow, it's faster to go on foot than by horse.
- I can help, - said the shaman, who had been standing aside all this time.
Everyone fell silent, abruptly turning their gaze toward the nature caster. Slightly embarrassed, he explained his idea, which involved moving forward on a sled pulled by enchanted horses. Of course, there was a huge amount of risk in this, but unfortunately, they had no alternative solutions.
Rushing out of the tent, the general ordered the transport to be prepared and provided the operation participants with everything necessary, after which he led Arandor into his private tent where the coveted scroll was kept. Moving through the camp, the elf noted that the soldiers were ready, awaiting orders. Campfires burned, people warmed themselves as best they could without leaving their posts at the loaded bolt-throwers. Despite the dangerous proximity of a beast of incredible power, the men chatted cheerfully and laughed; no one wanted to think about a possible bloody battle. Giving the guard the command to let the elf through, the general flew into the tent, immediately rushing to a small chest on one of the tables.
Before Arandor had even entered, the general was already carefully unfolding an old parchment on the table in the center of the room, ensuring its integrity. Showing the negotiator faded letters stamped in black ink, to which he nodded affirmatively, confirming his knowledge of the ancient language, Naver just as carefully rolled the spell back into a tight scroll. Handing the elf a sturdy shoulder bag that perfectly fit the vital artifact, the general also handed him a sword.
- Will the dragon not fall after the curse is read? – Arandor wondered.
- That's exactly how it will be! But you'll need the sword after that, take it! – Naver commanded.
Nodding gratefully, the elf fastened the sword to his belt, put on the bag and raised the hood of the magic cloak, emphasizing his complete readiness. Together with the general, they headed down to where the hill smoothly transitioned into a flat snowy field. The sleds equipped for the journey, harnessed to three horses, awaited departure.
- Whatever the dragon tells you – do not listen. It is a cunning creature that has destroyed many! – the general suddenly said.
Arandor nodded, not fully understanding what was meant.
Standing on the sled, Oben hurried the commander, shaking a torch. An angry Drakkosha argued desperately with Fail, proving she deserved her place on the sled, to which he insistently objected, saying this was no pleasure trip and girls, especially those so skilled in cooking, would have to wait in the safe camp. An enthusiastic Heroist chatted with a mysterious stranger, who was actually the demon Ple’Sen. Naturally, a couple of mages were along, discussing the mysterious spell and possible scenarios related to its use. The final participants were the rogue Tox and the silent shaman, settled on the driver's seat. Jumping up, Arandor commanded "forward!".

Sputtering green sparks from under their hooves, the horses raced across the smooth snowy plain at incredible speed, leaving behind only a shallow trail from the sled runners. The rogue steering them was encountering such magic for the first time and was therefore deeply impressed and thrilled. The sled quickly approached the ruins; the amazing thunder of hooves on a snow cap that didn't give way by a single centimeter very quickly attracted the attention of the master of these lands. An angry beast appeared in the heavens, descending rapidly toward the ground. Patting the driver on the shoulder, Oben pointed to a half-destroyed wall running along the ascent. A pillar of fire, cast down by the dragon from above, formed a small steaming pool behind the heroes. Urging the horses with all his might, Tox directed them toward an illusory shelter indicated by the elf. A wave of bright fireflies rushed forward, lighting the way. Although natural magic experienced no negative consequences in the presence of the star, the caster felt them fully. The heavily breathing shaman supported the spell with his last strength, preventing the sled from suddenly getting bogged down in the snow. The dragon descended to the ground, again breathing fire toward the unwelcome guests, but the sled was faster this time as well.
The wall indeed made flight very difficult for the dragon, allowing the daring driver to win enough time. The horses burst through the ruined gates, ending up in the center of a chaotic pile of stones that were once part of a beautiful castle. The heroes immediately scattered in all directions, splitting into two groups of four, while Arandor had to remain alone this time. A furious roar echoed from outside the castle, wings flapped, and the monster, flying over the heads of the intruders, perched on the remains of a high tower.
Wrapped in his magic cloak, Arandor hurried toward the half-destroyed steps leading to an elevation. To successfully read the curse, he needed to take a good position that allowed maximum visibility of the target. Somewhere there, behind the wall, the dragon roared again, filling its own ruins with fire. It suddenly grew warmer, and as he moved forward through the stone debris, it became hot. Keeping his hand on the coveted bag containing the key to victory over this ghastly creature, Arandor slowly moved toward the black tower, which he intended to use as a platform for casting the spell. From somewhere to the side came the crunch of stone, a growl, and suddenly a coarse, thunderous draconic voice asked:
- What are you seeking here, brave one? A feast is coming, it's time to have fun, is it not?
Arandor froze in place, seeming to forget how to breathe. His heart hammered wildly, a shiver ran through his body; fear, which until this moment had barely manifested itself, completely took hold of him.
- You have no need to hide, I know where you are, - the dragon said, guessing his thoughts.
- I seek your doom! – the elf shouted without thinking, running to another shelter.
- Are you a renowned warrior, possessor of enchanted weapons, a master of the blade?
- No! – after a brief hesitation, the hero answered.
- Hrr... are you a master-wizard, an important figure in the guild, endowed with secret knowledge?
- N-no! – through shivers replied the lone dragon-slayer, suddenly losing all faith in himself.
- In what then are you renowned, killer of dragons, what trial same I face?
- I... I trade in silks, spices and jewelry; I am a wealthy, respected merchant!
- A wealthy merchant? – the dragon let out something like a laugh. – Why then have you come here, O master of the world? What else but money grants absolute happiness? Could killing truly bring you more joy?
- Yes! Partly because of glory! But... you are a monster, a destroyer of lives! For me it is an honor to slay you, saving the lives of many innocent people!
The dragon laughed loudly, causing the walls to shake. Taking advantage of this, Arandandor ran to the next shelter; the dragon, as if nothing had happened, flew from one spot to another, closer to his interlocutor.
- Are these people so innocent? – the beast inquired. – I recall it was they who burned my castle, destroyed its beautiful towers, and trampled the flowers in the meadow.
- A dragon cannot live in a castle! – Arandor shouted. – Even if that's true, I believe you deserved it!
- Why?
At that moment, a huge draconic head appeared above the elf, making him scream as he fell onto stone warmed by the fire behind the wall.
- Was I cruel? Unjust? Did I harm someone who did not deserve it?
Crawling backward, Arandor did not know how to answer this terrible creature that had suddenly drawn him into this strange conversation.
- The curse of madness, the very one lying in your bag, O merchant, that is the price of greatness!
At that moment, a bright flash illuminated the ruins, signaling that the interference from the star was gone. Caught by the dragon, the hero jumped up and ran toward the tower; his enemy followed him. Barely running into the wide arch, Arandor pressed himself against the wall, trying to catch his breath and organize his thoughts. The tower shook violently, stone dust fell from the ceiling; it seemed the dragon had landed on its summit.
- Well then, merchant, answer my question, - the dragon spoke from above, – is the glory of a dragon-slayer worth what you are about to experience?
- How did you know I have the spell? – the elf shouted into the darkness of the tower.
- I felt it.
- Glory is not the main thing! I will not allow you to sow destruction and death!
- In that case, you have nothing to worry about; troops are already on their way, - striking the tower wall with its tail, causing another tremor, the dragon revealed.
- I don't want the soldiers to suffer!
- Oh, you can be unconcerned about that as well; the destruction of the crystal returned magic to its former course; a few strong mages will easily be able to repel my breath.
Arandor pondered the beast's words for some time, suddenly realizing that he could have long since been resting under piles of stone if the creature had wished it. Nothing stopped it from protecting the precious star, thereby making the assault on its fortress an incredibly difficult and costly endeavor. But for some reason, it preferred this silly conversation with a completely harmless merchant possessing a scroll with a curse.
- Tell me, trader of silks, what drove you when you agreed to read the curse? Did you desire so much to protect all these people that you agreed to share the great madness?
- Madness? – Arandor asked back, beginning to understand something.
- He didn't tell you? How sweet of him, - saying a growl similar to laughter again, the dragon said. – He who reads the ancient symbols shall share the curse, freeing the prisoner from his shackles.
The dragon jumped from the tower, landing smoothly on the stone platform.
- You have satisfied my curiosity, merchant, - the dragon said, looking at the lights below, the soldiers' lanterns.
- What now? – finding the courage to step out of the tower, the elf asked.
- Nothing, - the beast flapped its wings, rising into the air.
- Hey! Stop! – Arandor shouted. – I have a question!
But the dragon did not hear him, soaring in the heavens, preparing for a steep dive into the faces of the approaching shooters. At one look at them, his malice slowly grew, displacing reason. Letting out a frenzied roar, he released a stream of flame into the air. Realizing this was the last chance to use the scroll, Arandor tossed between decisions. The general's words came back to him, only now gaining meaning.
Focusing, the dragon-slayer pulled the scroll from his bag, hastily unfolded it and began reading the symbols. Just in time, for the dragon was already ready to enter battle. The beast froze in mid-air, growling something in an ancient language. As he read, the dragon tossed from side to side, unable to control himself; the rage in its eyes would either subside or flare up with incredible force. Having read the last symbol, Arandor wiped sweat from his forehead, feeling himself shaking from intense heat. The beast that descended groaned in agony, scratching the cold stone with its claws and making rasping sounds. Finally, a crack rang out, after which the dragon crumbled into black dust, carried by the wind in an unknown direction, and in its place lay a man with very long black hair. He was unconscious.
Completely unexpected, Arandor froze in place, trying to understand what had happened. Coming to his senses, he ran to the unclothed man lying in the cold, took off his magic cloak and tried to wrap the unfortunate soul in it somehow. Remembering the sword hanging from his belt and the general's words accompanying its acquisition, he was horrified. It is one thing to slay a monstrous beast threatening a city; it is another to kill a defenseless human!
Magic lights flew past, illuminating the stone square covered in ash. A cry was heard: "He's here!".

The snowstorm that had raged for several days finally subsided, turning into a beautiful, gentle snowfall. The evening streets of Ethelflad were illuminated with all sorts of lights; shop windows sparkled with New Year's decorations, and street vendors offered the townspeople delicious, colorful gingerbread cookies practically for free. Everything in this city exuded a festive spirit, just hours away from its arrival. Various performances took place on the Great Expedition Square, prepared by talented (and not-so-talented) musicians, actors, and poets; there were even those who invited members of the public to participate in the performance!
A carriage decorated with shiny baubles stopped at the colorful bollards set up on the road by the guards; entry to the square was closed for the new year. General Naver, dressed in his festive winter uniform, was the first to step onto the snowy cobblestones. Remembering etiquette, the man offered his hand to Lady Drake, who gracefully jumped down from the top step. Many prominent figures promised to be at the square on New Year's Eve, but it seems few overcame their desire for warmth and comfort.
The foreign ambassador, who had gained incredible popularity among the people after the events of recent days, laughed heartily as he watched the street performance, where the actors decided to choose Ple’Sen, the jester, from the crowd as an assistant. As a result, the innocent story about a man going into the forest to find a Christmas tree turned into a heroic epic with dragons, demons, fireballs, and villains disappearing in a cloud of smoke. Children running from all over the square clapped happily, demanding more. Even Arandor's silent companion smiled, watching this carefree fun. Now wearing a black fur coat, with his hair washed and braided into pigtails reaching his waist, he looked more like a nobleman.
Meanwhile, the children who didn't go to watch the demonic performance gathered around three wizards launching magical arrows into the sky. Through the combined efforts of the shaman and Sezam, greenish-red streams of energy intertwined and soared into the sky, scattering into colorful dust when they reached their peak. Using magic without permission was, of course, prohibited within the city limits, but when you are the one issuing those permissions, nothing can stand in the way of fun! Smiling conspiratorially, Ment began "molding" a ball of bluish light with his hands. The children, anticipating something unusually exciting, held their breath. The ball suddenly burst, enveloping everyone around them in harmless bluish lights. Now that's what I call real fun!
In the meantime, in the middle of the square, where a small wooden stage decorated with colorful toys and fir branches had been set up, promising activity began to unfold. The bearded Madgerson first climbed onto the platform, settled down comfortably, placing his large drum in front of him. A piercing sound echoed across the square, increasing in speed. Soon, Vishmaster, carrying a guitar, joined him on stage. Bold rattles, which Yashur waved furiously in the air as if he were crazy, added zest to the melody. Heroist sat at the edge of the stage, adding the sounds of his cheerful flute to the music. If there are musicians, there must be a singer, and it didn't take long for one to appear. Rolling across the stage, doing a backflip, Tox shouted at the top of his lungs, "Dance!"
Need we say that after such an introduction, almost everyone started gathering near the stage. Hommi, who had already consumed a couple of liters of good ale by this time, hearing the song, interrupted his story about the battle on the wall, where he and the barbarian heroically fought against a dragon, repeatedly wounding it in all possible places. Although he had already told this story today, the soldiers, and even Loken himself, who had taken direct part in it, listened attentively to the narrative.
- Come on, guys, let's go! – hitting his chest with his fist, on which hung the Order of Courage, awarded to all participants in the battle, roared the dwarf.
- Can you even dance, beer-guzzler? – Loken asked, laughing.
- I?! I fight dragons better than I dance!
- What about drinking beer?
- To hell with you! Now, Dag, as the senior officer, order them to shut up!
After finishing their mugs, the five comrades left the table under the awning, which had kindly sheltered them for several hours.
The cheerful Drakkosha dragged Faile towards the square, who didn't want to dance foreign dances. Naturally, he eventually gave in, twirling the girl in virtuoso movements, causing some ladies to feel envious. It was good that the servant’s mistress, having learned about her service to the city, forgave her sudden escape, promising to increase her salary. But, apparently, she will have to look for a new maid.
Pleased by the entertainment, Ple’Sen grabbed Arandor by the sleeve, theatrically saying "dance!", and then ran into the crowd of revelers.
- Shall we go? – offered the elf.
- I don't dance, - replied the dragon.
- Look, everyone is dancing! Come on!
Watching these two walk towards the stage, Obben even felt sad, thinking how great it would be to be there now, among the joyful, smiling people… but his servant, who had returned with a bottle of wine from Drake's mansion, quickly dispelled those thoughts. If you think about it, one happy person is no worse than many.

A wonderful time, a wonderful holiday, as if magically allowing us to overcome any adversity. Uniting people of all kinds, sometimes ready for any desperate actions, just to protect this invisible magic. Whether they are natural enemies, who were ready to beat each other up yesterday, or ordinary soldiers forced by fate to stand shoulder to shoulder with bandits against the danger looming over them all. What's more, even a foreign merchant possessing untold riches is sometimes ready to commit utter madness, just for something unseen, cherished... what word should be used here? But perhaps it's not in vain that it is so unseen and cherished; let it remain unnamed.

The guard heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Turning around, he saw the heroine of recent events walking towards him and couldn't help but smile. Red-faced with embarrassment, she stopped in front of the parapet, casting a glance at the wondrous city of Ethelflad, from which she herself had only recently returned.
- Have you been watching me often? – she asked, smiling.
- Not really, the storm made it difficult, - replied the man calmly.
Sighing, the woman wanted to wrap herself in her huge cloak out of habit, protecting herself from the gaze of an adult stranger, but then thought better of it.
- It was so fun! But I remember everything vaguely; many things will be a surprise to me!
- You were a good girl; don't worry, - said the guard, laughing.
- Yesterday we played snowballs with the children; I was also a child; it was so much fun, you wouldn't believe it!
- Do you want us to go play now?
- We are adults, - she whispered conspiratorially, giggling.
- Adults, important people have about an hour before the start of the holiday; shall we go?
The most powerful guards, protectors of Great Hreiwood, appointed by the king himself. These men laughed and ran into the street, carelessly throwing snowballs at each other.