“Shit on fire, shit falling from the roofs, shit falling from the sky, shit on fire, god damn shit falling from the shit, more shit on fire, yeah, you want to know about the dragon attack during the Forty-eighth Emperor's celebration ? Yeah ? YEAH ? Well, there, you have it. Shit on fire, shit on fire everywhere, I tell you !

-traumatized citizen”

* * *

Azcheron

“Now they look even more furious.”

The screeching, fire-breathing dragons had started to set the city ablaze as soon as they realized that one of them had suddenly died. Already the Imperial army was on the move, water mages on the roofs trying to fight the fire, archers shooting at the dragons, knights and soldiers alike standing in formation.

But all that felt very vain, if anything. The dragons and their fire magic were much more potent than the Imperial mages, the archers simply missed their targets, and the swordsmen obviously had no idea what to do against flying opponents. Moreover, it was chaos. Citizens running around, fighters looking for an opportunity to desert their post, and, in general, people dying.

...Should I wait a bit ? Fearsome and deadly enemies make for a more booming glory once defeated. The deadlier the better, right ?

But Erin wouldn't like that. If at least he looked like he was busy, it could have worked. But he was just waiting on his horse in the middle of the main plaza while soldiers and civilians alike were getting burnt alive. And he wouldn't want to be accused of being late by the people he'd managed to save, that would be stupid.

One of the dragons landed on ground and started to eat soldiers and slice through them with its claws, occasionally burning groups of fleeing people. A battalion approached the dragon, for some reason. Either the fighters were brave idiots, or the commander was a irresponsible imbecile – perhaps both.

Glancing around, Azcheron spotted some fancy-armoured general with a feathered helm, screaming orders to his troops. The man was as panicked as one could be, but he was trying to sound confident and calm. It worked, to an extent, because for now his men obeyed him even if they were getting cooked by the beast they were dealing with. The cavalry was gathered around him while his mages and his archers were the only ones who could do anything. The regular soldiers tried, but it wasn't pretty.

Azcheron rode in his direction, and eventually called out to him with sound magic. “Hey, you ! Hello !” Seeing that everybody seemed much more focused on the dragon, he repeated his greetings. “Feather guy ! Listen, stop sending your men to their deaths !”

It got the attention of the general and a bunch of his knights for a second, but the commander apparently still didn't care enough and looked away. The knights, though, were throwing glances at Azcheron.

I can work with that. He amplified his sound magic before making one last call and giving them the small push they needed. “Does this pack of raw meat waiting to turn into steaks want to live or what ? Then follow me, raw meat !”

He created a handful of massive earth lances from the paving stones and threw everything toward the dragon, in order to impress the soldiers and give some credibility to his proposal, then made his horse turn around and began riding away. It didn't matter whether his spell hit his target or not. He glanced behind a first time to see a couple of other riders following him. The second time he looked back, the troops on foot were starting to scatter, and more riders came along. With a third glance, he caught a glimpse of the general following him with the remaining knights, and the dragon right behind them. A nice group of followers. He didn't have time to count, but he surmised there had to be around fifty or sixty riders.

With sight magic, he looked in the distance, behind the dragon, to spot Erin riding after it. Good, he thought, but as he focused back on the beast, he frowned.

“Why isn't it flying ?” Azcheron muttered.

“Seems like its right wing is injured, milord !” said one of the riders who had caught up with him. He was almost surprised to be addressed in such a polite tone, but he didn't mind it. After all, these men were fighting for their lives, they had no time to think about that guy who may or may not have looked like the Saint. Some of them probably knew who he was, in fact, but surviving an encounter with an angry dragon took priority over babbling about traitors and all that.

Especially when said traitor was their only hope at survival.

Even as he observed it, Azcheron couldn't find any injury on the dragon's wing, but it was barely moving indeed. Paralysis, perhaps ? It has to be an insanely strong lightning magic for it to work against a dragon. Guess we have an Imperial mage to thank after all.

But a running dragon wasn't a threat he could laugh at. It was still alive and kicking, or rather, biting and breathing fire. Whoever was unlucky enough to fall behind because of a tired horse could support that theory. Well, they can't anymore, but, you know.

More riders matched Azcheron's speed and were beginning to give in to panic. “Sire, what do we do !?” they asked. He glanced back at the general, who was dragging behind. It'd be hard to advice the guy without slowing down everyone – hence killing everyone. Was he reliable anyway ?

The first rider seemed to have caught on that. “What are your orders ?” he yelled, as more and more riders were surrounding him. It was loud enough with the dragon killing his way through the rearguard, what with the screams and all that, and the trampling hoofs of the horses only made things worse.

Azcheron thought for a bit. A dragon on ground was easier to deal with, provided they had the proper environment. “For now, we keep riding forward ! Is there anyone here who knows the city like the back of his hand ?”

“Yes milord,” said one of the riders, “I do milord ! Was born in the western district, milord ! Moved in the north when I was nine, have a little brother at the Academy whom I visit from time to time, and an older sister living in the eastern parts, milord ! She married a wealthy merchant and invites me for tea on a regular basis, milord !”

“Fantastical, Middle-child ! Direct us toward the nearest bridge, even a small one will do, as long as the dragon can go under it !”

“Are you planning to make it collapse on top of it ?”

Azcheron laughed heartily. “Nothing of the sort, it wouldn't be enough.”

It took a few minutes for the group to arrive at the proper location, near the entrance of a somewhat poorer neighbourhood. Azcheron could see the bridge at the end of the street, as it was leading down a basin where the less wealthy inhabitants of the capital lived. The people were mostly commoners here, but it wasn't a slum per se. The houses were still comfortable and the marketplace was prosperous. Children had access to education, and they were still able to climb up the social ladder. All this, according to rider Middle-child who was born and raised in this district.

Azcheron didn't care about that, of course. What mattered was that the parts around this street were elevated, hence the need of a bridge, so that impatient nobles sitting in their coaches wouldn't need to take a detour to go to the other side of the street. Because why use earth magic to easily make a slope when you can build a costly bridge and look superior while you cross the street ?

One of the riders, a knight in plate armour – most likely a highborn – asked the dreaded question. “So, what's the plan, sire ?”

“You'll have to act as bait and lead the dragon under that bridge, so slow down a bit because I have to get there before you !”

“Bait !?” a rider squealed.

“Slowing down... Ugh, milord, you were saying something about following you if we wanted to live ! Forgive me, how does this plan involve living ?!”

“Don't worry,” he reassured them in a tone full of confidence. He had to boost their morale at all costs. “Get the enemy under that bridge and I'll take care of the rest ! You'll survive if it works !” he said with his best smile.

Before they could rightfully protest, Azcheron took a sharp turn in some side street, and rode in direction of the bridge. He had to push his horse to its limits if he wanted to get there in time. He thought about using magic to enhance his horse's speed, but he had no idea how the mount would react and he would probably make it without that anyway. As he rushed toward the bridge, he could see the adjacent street through the occasional alleys between the houses. Catching glimpses of Erin, then a dragon shredding to pieces horses and men, then the group of riders that was getting thinner and thinner. The general with the feathered helmet wasn't there anymore, he probably was eaten at some point. Soon enough he overtook his group and there was nothing to look at, so he set his gaze back on the bridge.

He had originally planned to cast another mana-thing – he really had to find a name for this spell – from a high ground, taking the dragon by surprise, but he decided otherwise. He had spectators waiting to see what he would do, and there was one thing flashier than flashy magic. The plan wasn't about killing dragons, as much as it was about killing them with memorable style. Also, they still had to rehabilitate Erin's reputation. It would come naturally once he'd be acclaimed as a hero, but it would have been nice if people saw her delivering the killing blow.

Azcheron was now on the bridge, and he could see the riders and the dragons approaching rapidly as he dismounted. He had to choose, and quick. Glancing at his waist was enough to decide. Once the riders were close enough to see him, and after making sure the dragon was busy enough eating horses so that he would fail to notice him, he griped the handle of his sword, unsheathed it, and pointed the blade toward the sky. Kept the pose for a couple a seconds so that the scene would be etched on the soldiers' memory forever.

Just as the dragon was about to pass under the bridge, Azcheron jumped. In the short window of time he had while he fell, he created a blade of pure, concentrated mana around his sword, and screamed his lungs out.

“PLUNGING ATTACK !”

The blade of mana buried itself deep in the dragon's back, as if the scales were non-existent. The beast collapsed on the ground, and Azcheron clung to his weapon as the dragon rolled over several times, ruining the paving stones of the streets before eventually crashing in a house. The impact dislodged the sword and sent the Saint flying away. He groaned as he fell on the paved street inelegantly, while the beast screeched and growled in pain.

Azcheron rose slowly to avoid worsening any injury he might not have felt, and in the corner of his eyes he saw Erin and the surviving soldiers – less than half their original number – approaching carefully. They were, obviously, in awe before this spectacle, and began to whisper among themselves. He glanced at his sword now that his magic was dispelled, just in time to see the blade shatter in a thousand fragments.

Well, it wasn't a proper enchantment to begin with, that was to be expected, he smiled to himself. It's convenient actually.

He walked toward Erin and showed the handle of his weapon for all to see. “Its seems I have asked too much of my sword,” he said loud enough so that everyone could hear him over the pained screams of the dragon, “so I'll give you the honour, lady Verald.”

More whispers reached his ears, as intended. Erin understood his goals and lost no time. She neared the dying dragon's head, dismounted and took her blade out of her scabbard. A faint glow engulfed the steel before she shoved it through the beast's left eye, deeply enough to reach the brain. Seconds later, the screeching had stopped.

The street was silent, save for the soldiers muttering in admiration, and faint noises in the distance. There was still one dragon alive and rampaging, after all. Azcheron glanced over the twenty-odd soldiers who had managed to stay alive.

“Men !” he addressed them, and immediately their bodies stiffened. “It has been a difficult battle ! Many of your comrades have perished, but I couldn't have done it without you ! I admire you for your courage and your determination to live through such trials !”

That was his eloquent way of thanking them for their cowardice that allowed him to slay the dragon in the coolest of fashions, expertly replacing their feelings of guilt and dishonour by pride and satisfaction.

“But as you can see,” he pointed in direction of the Palace where lights and explosions could be seen, “the fight is not over yet ! There is one last foe to vanquish, and I shall head back there without delay.”

“Milord !”

“Sire, let us come with you !”

“We'll gladly give our lives if needs be, m'lord !”

Eh... Did I turn them into brave and selfless allies of justice ? He closed his eyes and shook his head solemnly. “I cannot accept that you lay down your lives when there is still much you can do. The streets are filled with injured and panicked civilians. Get them to safety, for this last battle will spare no bystander lingering too close.”

The knight from before came forward and took his helmet off. “Sire, I am Hugo of house Givster. I ask that you do us at least the honour of giving your name. I think that every one of us here already knows who you are, because of lady Verald's presence, but... please.”

Azcheron scoffed and crossed his arms. “Very well. I came here to protect my country despite my tarnished reputation and whatever enemies I have, but I found unexpected comrades in your persons. I owe you that much.” I always intended to give you my name, but still. It looks better when you're the ones asking. He jumped back on his mount, and Erin did the same. “I am Azcheron, the Rahal Saint !” he eventually said, as he turned his horse around and rode toward the Palace.

He was glad they could only see his back, because despite his efforts, he wasn't able to hide the obnoxious grin on his face. He knew it could be described as obnoxious because of the annoyed expression Erin made as soon as she looked at him.

On the way to the Palace, they had to slow down. The horses were too tired, but luckily they shouldn't need them for the last act of the piece. Once they reached the main plaza, they could see the carnage. The Imperial army was battling against the last dragon, but this one was still flying, dodging swiftly any magical projectile that came its way. It didn't seem like it would let itself be paralysed like its colleague. The soldiers on ground were getting burnt alive, it was a wonder they had managed to come this far. It seemed they weren't trying to flee because the dragon was baiting them, occasionally flying close enough to the ground so that they'd try to pierce him with their pikes.

They probably thought that as long as they had a chance, they'd try their luck. Hope was the reason they stayed here, in this hunting ground. Hope that they could slay the dragon and, in exchange for their own lives, save the city, their friends, their families. Probably.

If not that, then I don't know. Would have fled the battle immediately if I was in their shoes, but whatever.

Azcheron motioned for Erin to distance herself. Rudolph should have been far enough too, as he was instructed to stay away from the Palace. The Saint enhanced his body and jumped on a roof from where he could have a better view of the plaza. He gazed at the scenery for a moment, looked at the soldiers, at their faces, their shaking hands, their pants covered in piss.

He hesitated.

They're dead men anyway, he thought. They gave up on living, they won't try to flee. He had to act while the mages and archers were pinning the dragon here, above the plaza. The soldiers, as heroic they may have been, held no value. Their lives were insignificant. He'd save the many by sacrificing the few. He didn't care when Imperial soldiers and northerners died by the thousand at Pelirise. Why should he now ?

The only difference was that the war in the north was not his fault in the first place – here, it was a consequence of his own plotting. Why did Rudolph and Erin accept to help him with this plan, now that he thought about it ? It made very little sense.

Well. These concerns are for another time. He exhaled deeply, and decided to follow his original plan. He'd send the soldiers in the plaza to an early death – earlier, truly. He gathered the largest quantity of mana he had ever manipulated, and observed the dragon's movements. There was a cycle of some sort, the times when he'd get close to the ground happened at regular intervals.

These calculations are anything but accurate, though it should be close enough. Once he felt it was the right time, Azcheron directed the mana toward the Palace, and started to work. There, around the two thirds of the tower starting from the ground, cracks began to appear on the facade. The cracks became gashes, and soon enough tremors and cracking sounds echoed in the sky.

The part of the Palace that was facing the plaza imploded, and the top of the tower started to tilt. It was leaning over the city for a moment. And then it fell.

Large chunks of stone were now landing on the screaming soldiers, and the dragon seemed to finally realize. To prevent its escape, Azcheron casted a volley of magic missiles, which were dodged as expected, but it had bought enough time. When, eventually, the dragon looked up, it was only to see the higher third of the Palace falling at high speed right above him. Everything came down crashing, the earth shook and a powerful shockwave occurred.

“Fuck,” was all Azcheron had the time to mutter as the roof he was standing on was simply destroyed. Stones and horses and dead bodies and all sorts of things were blasted away. He fell in an alley and probably broke a few bones, but there was no time to think about the pain, else he'd be buried among the wreckage. He barely avoided a wall falling over him by destroying it with a mana blast.

In the main street, he found out he had a mountain of rubble to climb in order to see what was left of the plaza and the Palace. The impact had raised a thick cloud of smoke and dust, so he had to use a bit of wind magic to clear his view.

Once on top of the pile of rocks, Azcheron could see all of it. Two thirds of the Palace standing tall above the dust of cloud and the mess under it. The ruins were scattered with blood, dead bodies, and from time to time, injured people moaning in pain and screaming for help. It took him half a minute to spot the head of the dragon. Gaping mouth and empty, lifeless eyes. The rest of its body was undoubtedly squashed under these absurdly large pillars of stone.

“Well...” he whispered. I'll take credit for the first two kills. Maybe not this one.

He could spread the word that he didn't make it in time, that when he arrived, the Imperial army had managed to corner the dragon, who, in a last resort, destroyed the Palace and killed everyone. It would make the army look brave and competent despite its spectacular uselessness during the battle, while allowing Azcheron to pass for a tragic hero. He'd rather have people wrongfully accusing him of being late, than people rightfully accusing him of making the Palace collapse on the army.

Mass-murderers rarely become heroes. Then again, we have Oscar, so I don't know... Still, I wonder if it'll work.

But overall, the plan was a success.

* * *

???

The posterity will note that some authors, in their version of Azcheron's legend, depicted the battle in a much more favourable light. The Imperial army, willing to brave many dangers, followed Azcheron as he rode forward, against not three, but ten dragons, saving each and every citizens they met along the way, with everyone lending their energy to the Saint so that he could cast a mighty magic made from hope, friendship and determination. These authors were accused of plagiarism. Others found it interesting to foreshadow the death of Erin Verald before the battle, and give her a tragic death scene, after which Azcheron entered a raging vengeance that fuelled his magic with negative feelings. They, too, were accused of plagiarism.

History tells of a different truth : the battle, as previously seen, was less glorious than Azcheron would have liked it to be. It involved less friendship and more hypocrisy, and it certainly didn't end with the death of Erin, nor Rudolph's or any other named character, for that matter. Rumours said that they went to eat dragoncake at Anton's house to celebrate the Saint's costly victory, though such behaviour could only be, as some would put it, out-of-character for Erin and Anton.

But the story of Azcheron celebrating his success shall be spoken another time – it shall be mentioned in the next arc, actually – for the long awaited story of his beginnings as a controversial Imperial hero, is now about to be told.