Magma Dragon's Heir

54th of Season of Earth, 56th year of the 32nd imperial era

Newt slept poorly that night. Doubt haunted his soul, and he feared it might escalate into a heart demon. He almost gave up on going to Hailstown, only to realize that running away from his fears would turn his potential problem more substantial. Besides, his dream was clearly just that.

His mother and father had signed a contract which defended their dignity. Acting against the contract would abolish it, and let alone his father, even Newt's mother could then swat the offending Blackfist dead.

So, he forced himself to continue his anonymous journey, each step haunted with a strong sense of deja vu. The farmland all looked the same at the first glance, as did the mighty forest.

Yellow leaves fell off trees, dancing in the chill wind, heralding the Season of Water and its snows. Non-awakened toiled in the fields, and Newt paid extra attention to them, searching for anything familiar, but failed to find it.

Mud-stained men and women hunched above their crop, mostly common grain, which they produced in huge quantities, but there were orchards and vegetable patches all around. The fruits of their labor fed many deeper in the empire, but their lives came cheap, disposable.

Surrounding people lived sixty miles away from the Salamandra estate and nearly two hundred miles away from Hailstown, and they had nowhere to run once a saurian outbreak started. Newt wondered what was happening within the confines of their skulls. Did they know they were risking their lives? Which hopes drove those people to such risks? Did they plan to sell everything they owned to try their luck and awaken? Would they do it for their children? Did they even have talent? Did they ignore the looming threat or were they unaware of it?

A spikeback, lesser kin of macetails, pulled a cart heading towards Newt. He inspected the beast and its handler more closely, but they failed to evoke any sense of familiarity.

I'm too caught up with that realistic dream. Newt forced the thought away by focusing on a more philosophical topic.

He asked himself what exactly talent was? Humans could not awaken, not until the mages of old refined the first saurian cores to awaken their mindcores. The history of awakened was insane, much like men taming raptors for hunting; like domesticating hoppers for eggs, or rubbing two sticks to start a fire. Did it take talent to come up with such civilization-changing ideas? Was it just a matter of chance? Madness?

Newt didn't know. In his opinion, talent required several attributes - persistence, endurance, focus, and chances seized. Thinking of seizing opportunities, he recalled how his came to be, and wondered what would have happened had he been faster, had he grasped the flaming stars while they blazed.

Would he have become a grandmaster of an unknown realm, ninth or tenth perhaps? Would he have become a dragon? He wasted a chance to soar, but grasped the chance to climb. The former was luck, the latter was talent.

And yet, for a moment, he cursed his lack of decisiveness. Then Newt recalled that his first realm was better developed than Magmin's. His failure might one day prove to be a golden opportunity, a chance to surpass a legendary dragon.

Newt jogged, observed his surroundings, trying to see whether anything looked more than vaguely familiar, but it didn't. Not until he reached the first inn. The building seemed familiar, the two foaming clay mugs painted on the sign were common, his previous evening's resting place also had them.

Newt examined them critically, then entered. Inside were what he would have thought of as nondescript dirty commoners nursing their beers, eating ham and gooders. Newt would have ignored them before, but after the realistic dream, he examined their faces.

Messy beards, greasy and soaked in beer, belonged to much younger faces than he would have expected. The men were in their late twenties or early thirties, ancient from Newt's point of view, chatting about inanities.

The conversation died down, then picked up when the gathering recognized the newcomer as a nonthreatening stick-figure youth clad in ill-fitting, worn out traveling clothes.

Newt ordered a meal, no beer, and took a room for the night. He could push himself for two days without sleep, if he was forced, but after many days of staying awake longer than he should have, he chose to use his journey to rest.

The third day was much the same. Worse, both the inn and its patrons seemed familiar, nearly identical to what he had seen the previous evening. The differences were minor. There were more people inside, two older men joining the younger ones, the innkeeper was short, fat, and with strong raven hair, as opposed to the previous evening's short, fat, and bald host.

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On the evening of the fifth day of travel, Newt reached the city's massive walls. They were exactly as in his dream, but the lax, drowsy guards stood at attention, their eyes focused on their job.

Newt focused his mind's eye on them, seeing their aura. Unlike commoners, they had mana, but the amount was but a fraction of Stronggrow's and Captain Marrow's. Newt decided they were first realm knights, weaker than him, but the two of them working together might overpower him if they chose to do so.

Newt went over to the entrance for the awakened. Unlike in his dream, it wasn't empty, another youth was walking in, and a poster hung on the open door. He was about to read it when a guard approached him.

"Are you Newstar Salamandra?" Newt stared in shock, opening his mouth, but unable to form words. He nodded instead.

The guard was a regular man, wearing mail, a sword hanging off his hip. He didn't seem like an oracle, or anything, but he knew Newt's name.

"The townlord has been expecting you. He told you to visit him in the morning, and as for your sleeping arrangements tonight, he suggested Tickle and Giggle." The guard struggled to keep his face straight, but Newt was too distraught to notice. "He said it would open your eyes to the world."

Newt nodded, listening with half an ear while wondering how the townlord knew he was coming. Meanwhile, the guard explained how to reach the inn, recommending braised breasts and strong wine, winking as he said the company was great. In his shock, Newt failed to notice the stench as he entered the town and headed for his destination.

Twenty minutes later, Newt was at the Tickle and Giggle. Oblivious of the name's suggestive nature, he opened the door and froze. The young man gulped, gaping at the waitresses who were revealing way more skin than he had ever seen on a clothed woman, assuming they were clothed. Newt wasn't sure.

His face burned, turning red as he stood at the door. He thought about turning around and fleeing, but that was even more embarrassing. Why did the townlord want him in such an establishment? Newt's mind raced, nearly matching his galloping heart, and he finally took a step in.

Bravely, he stepped in and went towards the nearest empty table. He sat, waiting, observing his surroundings. Scantily clothed young women moved about, giggling as they brought food and drink to the patrons, often stopping to chat. There were way too many of them in the room, at least more than in any other inn he had visited before.

"What will your pleasure be?" A shapely young lady with smooth black hair tied into a ponytail and large brown eyes asked. Newt glued his eyes to her face, fearing his gaze would rove or worse, get stuck, if he so much as glanced below her neck.

"I," he stuttered. "Do you have any recommendations for supper, and I would like a room for the night?"

The girl looked at him, her smile turning more genuine and mischievous. She leaned over, her fingers sending a jolt down Newt's back as they touched his hand. Her voice became a seductive whisper as she leaned in and drew out the words. Newt bit his inner cheeks, telling himself to keep looking straight.

"I love the big, thick, massive sausages, and we are famous for breasts." She paused and drew back, her tone going back to normal, her words coming out a bit too quickly. "Hopper breasts, fileted and breaded until extra crispy, with hot sauce. I promise you'll lick your fingers when you're done eating them. Or I could lick them for you, if you want."

She winked, and Newt struggled not to faint and suppress the stupid smile, which tried to invade his face several times.

"As for the rooms, we have some, but nights are getting long and cold with winter upon us." She hugged herself to accent it, pushing her breasts up and rubbing her bare arms. "I don't think you can sleep well on your own."

"Just breasts, thank you," Newt somehow managed, before realizing his faux pas. "Breaded hopper breasts. With the sauce. Hot sauce. And a room for one. No company."

Newt lowered his gaze towards the ground in embarrassment, but his eyes got lost in the mountainous region for a couple of moments before finding their way further down.

"I am Dahlia." Dahlia giggled. "Do you want to drink something? We have an excellent selection of wines, and if you want, I will gladly keep you company for the evening. You can buy me dinner, and who knows what happens after a little wine and fine food."

Dahlia winked again, but Newt missed it. Then he realized the young woman had introduced herself, but he failed to do so. So, he stood and gave her a hand, keeping his eyes low, but with the change in position, he was no longer looking at the floor.

"I'm Newstar. Nice to meet you, Dahlia."

"Nice to meet you, Newstar," Dahlia's voice and laughter were like the ring of a silver bell. "When meeting new people, you should look them in the eye, not their chest."

Newt's gaze shot up. "I didn't, I mean—"

"It's fine. Whatever is on display is there to be seen, and I have nothing to hide." She moved her head closer to his, whispering in his ear, "And if you treat me to a nice dinner, I can let you touch. I was serious when I said I loved massive sausages."

She clicked her tongue, and Newt fell back into his seat, struggling to coin a coherent sentence, but eventually managed. "I would like to treat you to dinner, and I don't know much about wine, but you can order one fine bottle for us to share."

Newt was too young to drink wine before, and he had been too busy ever since leaving the mine to worry about something as nonsensical as alcoholic beverages. As for the nearly nude Dahlia, the closest Newt had seen was his childhood sweetheart, Jasmine, wearing a bathing suit when they were dipping together in a stream a week before his uncle staged the coup.

The seductive waitress left, and Newt's heart calmed down.

I absolutely cannot let her invite herself to my room.