Forte and his dragon, Nightmare, thrived in the western plains. Using the slaver’s schedule and map of the area, the two vagabonds constantly intercepted common slaving trails. Bit by bit, they amassed a small fortune by stealing from the slavers. Eventually, the slavers began changing their routes and travelling in larger groups, making it harder for the duo.

For food, they hunted increasingly large prey. Starting with rabbits and kams (a small mammal resembling a deer), they moved on to boars, bears, and even the venerable slogs. The black dragon loved meat of any kind, especially roasted slog meat, and refused to eat anything else. Whenever Forte needed to cook over a fire, Nightmare would ignite the firewood using his signature black flames.

Nightmare was far more intelligent than Forte had first realized. The black dragon understood his language, despite not being able to respond in kind. It had a brash temperament, constantly picking fights with bigger animals it had no business picking fights with, and displayed a tendency for sadistic behavior much like Forte’s own. Forte had read that dragons were a proud and violent species, but he did not expect even a baby dragon to exhibit such conduct.

In fact, Forte theorized that this particular dragon reveled when others were afraid. No wonder the dragon chose to hatch right when a band of raptors were tearing apart a slaver. And no wonder it had chosen him as its master. Forte no longer felt fear, and the dragon sensed that. Baby dragon Nightmare had grown significantly in the last few weeks. It was now a foot tall. It could still fit in the knapsack, but just barely.

Despite all the fascination Forte had for his dragon, one thing in particular bothered him. The dragon could fly. It glided around gracefully, and when the weather turned stormy it would get pushed to and fro by the heavy winds. However, Forte never saw the dragon flap its wings and take off. So he paid attention, and was shocked. The dragon levitated. It was a wobbly affair, but it was definitely levitating to gain elevation. Then it would spread its wings and glide around. How could that be?

“Hum,” Forte sneered.

Magic.

That was the only plausible conclusion. Magic was a rare art among humans, and obeyed one fundamental law, known as the First Principle of Magic. It takes the same amount of physical exertion to raise a boulder by magic, as it would by hand. This means that certain actions, such as putting out a fire, magic excels in due to low amounts of physical exertion and energy required. However, mages could not expect to lift a tree, or level a mountain, with magic. The energy exerted would kill the mage before the task was completed.

Furthermore, most human mages were scholarly and weak in constitution, amplifying the limitations of physical exertion. A theoretically strong bodied mage could be expected to push a boulder with sheer magic, a feat impossible for the common weak mage. As it stood, mages were combat inefficient and primarily served a supporting role in the Rottheim royal army.

It seemed the baby black dragon was similarly limited to its weak infant form. Levitation caused severe fatigue in the dragon, and even fire breathing was a challenge.

The black flames were another inexplicable mystery. Normal flames required ignition and then became self sufficient, using the oxygen in the air as fuel to keep the flame alive. Black flames not only burned the air, but also drew energy from the dragon as well. Even more curiously, heavy rainfall that would destroy any normal campfire did not perturb the black flames.

Black flames ended only when Nightmare willed them to end, or when he was physically exhausted.

Forte, sitting on his favorite tree vantage point on the edge of raptor territory, spotted a caravan in the distance. It was a bold adventurer’s caravan. An emblazed Rottheim Hunter’s Guild flag hung above the caravan, signalling that a big game hunter was on board. A single big game hunter and his entourage. While normal game hunters seldom strayed above A grade beasts, namely slogs, big game hunters ventured into the wet forested wilderness, home of S grade beasts such as raptors, wyverns, or even the S+ Tyrant Lizard. S grade meat was incredibly expensive and rare, due to the risk involved in securing the meat, as well as the strong market demand for S grade meat.

The big game hunter certification test is incredibly difficult to pass. The limitations were simple—venture into the wet wilderness, kill an S grade beast, alone, and bring back proof to pass. In the wet wilderness, fires were hard to maintain and could not deter beasts for long. Even then, killing the beast was only half the challenge. Making it back to the Kingdom with a bloody raptor head was not easy, as it attracted predators of all kinds. The success rate last year was an all time low, at just below 1%. Nine out of ten test takers would die during the test. Most of the successful test takers ventured into the shallow wilderness and snagged themselves a raptor kill. Only a handful passed the test by killing a wyvern. No one had ever killed a tyrant lizard alone.

And that was why big game hunters were dangerous opponents and should be avoided at any cost, Forte noted. He watched the caravan of a dozen men, proudly displaying the red emblazed Hunter’s Guild flag, trail across the dry western plains and into the wet forest.

A dust cloud gathered in the distance. Forte squinted his eyes. It was another caravan. This time a merchant’s caravan. He grinned. Merchants travelled unmolested on the western plains by slavers and the like, since they were protected under the Rottheim Merchant’s Guild. Since the Merchant’s Guild was a primary client of slave traders, it would be terrible for business if they attacked merchant caravans. Merchant’s immunity was the fancy term.

And immune they were, to most forms of bandits and slave traders, which all relied on the Merchant’s Guild to sell their ill gotten goods. But they weren’t immune to Forte.

The boy observed the caravan as it approached. The only passenger was the cloaked merchant. He smiled; this would be an easy hit.

“Just like always, okay boy?” he whispered to Nightmare. The dragon nuzzled against his arm in assent, and then flew off.

The merchant stopped his horses and he saw what looked like a tiny black reptile fly across the sky and descend into the plains. As a merchant, the sighting of an exotic animal excited his money making senses. The merchant stepped off the caravan, as Forte took the distraction to climb down and board the caravan. He drew his iron two-hand sword.

On cue, the black reptile took flight again, this time into the forest. The modestly armed merchant would not dare give chase into raptor domain. And so he sighed and boarded back on his caravan, with fleeting dreams of capturing a rare animal. He donned his hood.

Something pierced his back. The merchant looked down horrified only to see a sword poking out of his chest, grasping at the protrusion for a few moments before spasms and slumping lifelessly. The sword had pierced his heart.

Forte dragged the body to the edge of the forest and lay it there, and then cleaned his bloodied sword on the merchant’s clothing. Nightmare swooped down and landed on his shoulder. After emptying the dead merchant’s pockets, he headed back to the caravan to check the spoils.

It was a half-full cargo of assorted goods. Judging from the papers found on the dead merchant’s body, this shipment was meant for the medium sized town of Adith on the western plains, which was closer to the center of the Kingdom than the outskirt village of Daon was.

A large heap of beast hides lay stacked in the middle of the caravan. It looked like the main shipment. Forte walked in closer and inspected the heap. He looked closely at the fresh hides, and instantly knew what he was looking at.

“Slog-hide,” he whispered.

Aside from the dominating pile of fresh slog-hide, there were various confections and snacks. Forte found a small chest in the corner of the caravan, filled with silver and parchment.

Nightmare had uncovered a treasure trove of dried jerky, which he hastily gobbled up. He then tried some cake. To Forte’s surprise, the tiny black dragon seemed to enjoy the cake, puffing smoke out of its snout as it dug in and made a mess.

Forte found two letters tucked inside the heavy chest. First, a crumpled, faded letter to Count Florien.

It read: “…boy has been raiding our slaving routes. We request permission to…. the hounds…” was all Forte could make out.

The second letter, inscribed with spidery handwriting, held the seal of the Rottheim Merchant’s Guild.

It read: “…have informed me that a great storm is approaching. I urgently request that we liquidate our inventories in camping goods and other at-risk products that will see their price suffer from stormy weather. Liquidate discreetly. We should preemptively purchase as many slog-hide coats and the like. I have contacted the Grauschild bank; they have assured us that they will cause a ‘little accident’ ...will greatly hamper slog-hide suppliers and their affiliates for months to come… allows us to corner the market for a month or two until the great storm subsides. We are merely hedging our bets against the storm.”

The infant black dragon had its fill. It waddled to Forte’s legs and curled up around them, like a kitten.

Forte furrowed his brows, as he reached down and petted his tiny dragon. He vaguely remembered his economics training from his childhood. This was price manipulation of slog-hide, one of the only affordable materials that was all-around water proof. The Merchant’s Guild’s plan was smart—buy up as many slog-hide products as possible before the populace knew of the upcoming storm, and limit production by targeting slog-hide suppliers.

Two things still concerned him. First was the scope of this ‘great storm’ they were discussing. If the Merchant’s Guild expected a weeklong storm, they would make a quick profit by restricting supply of slog-hide products, but they wouldn’t bother to target the suppliers. Targeting the suppliers of slog-hides would only pay off after several weeks to a month, when the raw slog-hides from the western plains were refined and tanned and usable in products. What this meant, was that the Merchant’s Guild expected this storm to last for much longer than a month.

Nightmare casually puffed a few slivers of smoke from his tiny nose, looking more than satisfied after his cake and beef jerky meal.

His second major concern was the mention of the Grauschild family. Forte was woefully uninformed about them, but he knew that the Grauschild & Sons was a dynastic banking organization that reeked of old money and connections in high places. They operated in most of the known world, and were situated in many Kingdoms besides Rottheim Kingdom. The fact that they were in this dealing meant this great storm may be larger than he had ever imagined.

Forte’s mind was racing. Storms were bad news. When storms hit, beasts and predators of all kinds emerge from the wilderness, with the threat of fire gone. Forte imagined that such a storm was probably what brought the raptors into the outskirt Daon Village. The raptors must have killed all the villagers as well as the scouting squad of soldiers sent to investigate, and left after the stormy weather subsided.

If a storm of such magnitude lasted for more than a month, even the medium ranged towns such as Adith would be in trouble. The King would have to mobilize the royal army to combat the beasts, if they ventured too far into human domain.

Scratch, scratch.

Nightmare jerked alert, twitching his ears as it took in the noise. Forte hastily made his way over and peeked out of the caravan. A raptor’s head appeared out of the foliage and grabbed the dead merchant, tugging the body into the forest.

Forte looked up at the mostly clear sky, as he noted strange cloud formations. He could no longer risk staying in the outskirts. He had to move inland, deep into human domain.

A great storm was brewing.