There are dragons that live underground: wyrms. They are not like those that soar the limitless skies; these dragons don’t have wings. They bear a greater resemblance to thick-bodied snakes than to lizards. They have long and sinuous bodies covered in heavier scales than dragons have because weight is not an issue for them. Some, like this one, while lacking hind legs, had forelegs and nails tough enough to claw through the earth.

Blood of the fallen still stained those nails, though it was fading with time. Fading, like so many things did in life. The passage of time was cruel.

He stood before the great beast’s maw, frozen forever in the act of opening wide enough for one to see all of the arm-length teeth jutting up and down from its jaws.

Lamarn had died from those teeth. They’d pierced his body and chewed him up before he’d been swallowed, gone forever. Well, his life was gone, anyway. They’d recovered the body eventually, after cutting open the monster’s stomach and fishing inside for their companion’s remains.

Gregor Weesely did not find himself moved to tears by the loss of his comrade that day; he’d lost plenty of comrades over the years. And he was not the weeping type. As a warrior and a man, he spat on such weakness.

It had taken days to haul the wyrm’s head out of the Flaxxis Dungeon, the greater of the two dungeons located just outside the City of Lubelum and the reason for that city’s existence. Why had they gone to so much effort? It had been a mixture of painful loss and being drunk on pride and glory, as well as some kind of revenge against the foe that had taken one of their own.

When the Hellions had resurfaced, their great feat had won them massive acclaim. The bronze and silver parties in the city had treated them like gods. The king had feted them. Crowds had turned out to watch as the wyrm’s head had been paraded through the streets, to the awe of all.

It had been the pinnacle of his career, the crowning glory of a decade as a gold-ranked adventurer. He’d thought his future assured. He’d thought he’d be appreciated for all that he’d done, a [Warrior] with few peers, one who had stood toe to toe with that wyrm and who was the reason that the lower right fang was now cut in half, broken by a blow from Gregor’s magical axe.

Fame and fortune had been his. His future had been bright. Until that ungrateful woman had kicked him out of the Hellions. The pewter tankard crumpled in his hand.

Officially, he’d left on his own. They’d given him that much. Even allowed him to take the wyrm’s head as a personal trophy, not that anyone else had wanted the grisly thing. After all, it was the size of a small house. The only reason the skull was now displayed high up on his living room wall was because his living room was the size of a few small houses.

That wyrm had been guarding a lot of treasure. And Gregor had damn well made sure that they hadn’t short-changed him his fair dues when they’d stabbed him in the back.

When she had.

She’d said she loved him. Liar. She hadn’t loved him, after all. Captain Rainwalker of the Hellions, [Peerless Ranger], loved and admired by all. And she was a gem rank now. The ranks reserved for heroes and legends. Emerald rank. It might be lower than Ruby or Diamond, technically, but no one had earned a higher rank than that on this continent. And the number of rubies and diamonds in the whole world could probably be counted on one hand, two at the most. And thanks to her, he’d never rise above gold.

After leaving the Hellions, he’d continued to adventure on his own and with mercenaries, for a short while. But there was only so much you could do without the right team to back you up. And despite the general accolades that he got in public, ill word must have spread in adventuring circles because he’d never again been welcomed long into any other parties. Not even when he was a certified wyrm slayer, one of the few to make it that deep into Flaxxis.

He’d had a choice: fade into living obscurity as an unwelcome adventurer while his former teammates continued to enjoy great success or change careers. So he’d ‘retired’, telling anyone who asked that swinging an axe and killing things simply hadn’t been a challenge anymore. And that he had no desire to be one of those adventurers that carried on into old age and fell forever at the hands of monsters because they simply could no longer do what they’d once been able to.

That was a lie. He’d been thirty-seven when he’d retired. He’d had good years left. And leaving that lifestyle behind had been the very last thing he’d wanted to do. It had been taken from him by those he’d once called companions. By her. May they all rot in hell, the lot of ‘em.

Someone male cleared their throat behind him. “Ahem. Sir?”

Gregor returned to the present. He stood in his living room, the wyrm’s skull overhead, as if about to strike him. It would never again get that opportunity.

The room was vast, a parlour meant for entertaining. It was more than two stories tall and filled with couches on one end, while the other end held an open space for dancing, a piano in one corner. A grand fireplace, seven paces long, ran along one wall. He turned, ruined tankard in hand, already craving another drink.

One of the dozen men that Gregor employed as security and personal agents stood in the doorway, dressed in black leather armour. He had something strange in his hand. Some kind of food, perhaps?

Gregor turned his head and moved to the bar. “What is it?”

“Something happening on Market Street, sir. Someone invented a new dessert. It’s all the rage. Thought you would want to know.”

“A new dessert?” He harrumphed and tossed his old tankard on the bar, filling a new one with spiced cider. As it was still fairly early in the day, he was imbibing a weaker cider, saving the stronger stuff for later.

The agent, a mercenary on a long-term contract, approached. He held out a white plate. On it was a brown cone, what looked like a waffle, and some kind of light-brown substance with flakes of red. Apple skin?

Gregor looked at it uncertainly. “What is this?”

“A frozen dessert,” the man answered in a deferential tone. They all learned to speak that way or they didn’t stay employed for long. “There are multiple flavours: mint, apple, rose, and pear. This one is apple. There were long lines all afternoon to get a taste. Four silver for the one.”

“Four?” Gregor’s brows rose. “For this little thing?” That was quite high. Most of the public would find that pricey.

“Something strange about it, sir. It’s a frozen treat. Yet it doesn’t melt. Some kind of magic involved, maybe.”

“Must have been an expensive creation.”

“Might not. I asked around. When the seller first came out today, he was selling it for only one silver. Raised his prices twice and still had people waiting an hour or more in line for it.”

“Oh really?” That was intriguing. The ‘challenging’ new career that Gregor the Axe had gone into after his so-called retirement? Business. He’d been rich. So, naturally, he’d started putting his money to work. He’d eschewed the official merchant class, having absolutely zero desire to be anything other than a warrior until the day he died.

But when you have as much coin as he did, the money did enough work on its own without needing special skills. It’s why so many idiots from rich families stayed rich, no matter how irresponsible they were and how outlandish their expensive lifestyles became. The rich always got richer; it was the nature of money.

To be fair, he wasn’t all that rich. He was wealthy in adventuring terms and lived far above the common person’s means but he was still well below the level of the big merchants in the city and multiple levels below nobles and royalty. But here in Belleville, where he’d practically been ostracized to after no longer being as welcome in Lubelum, he was one of the bigger fish.

A mansion the size of his in the city would have cost ten times as much. Or more. Here, it had used up a fair chunk of his wealth but had been initially affordable. However, the cost of maintaining servants and mercenaries, the taxes, the necessities of life, like this imported cider, brought all the way from another continent, were an ongoing expense. So he’d taken somewhat seriously to his new role, becoming not just a moneylender, but a moneymaker, too.

He didn’t really have a natural knack for business. He was much more skilled at hitting and killing things. But when you backed up your financial interests with a little muscle and when those who turned down your generous offers wound up a little bruised or even bloody in ‘accidents’, he’d found himself becoming much more successful. Belleville wasn’t his dominion alone—yet. But he had plans. And it would be his sooner rather than later.

Let his former, backstabbing comrades live it up in Lubelum as high ranks and celebrities. He was on his way to earning himself a proper title, one that came with real power and the kind of social rank that would elevate him above even gem-rank adventurers.

Gregor reached out and picked up the dessert. He bit into it without reservation, not the type to hold back and do things tentatively. That was for cowards. He ignored the sharp stab of pain caused by the cold and frowned. “It’s still frozen.”

The agent, Quro, nodded. “Seems to last for hours, at least.”

“Hmm.” He bit off a smaller amount, tasting. It was somewhat sweet for his palate but he recognized that it would be popular with others. “Are they still selling?”

“Think they’ve finished for the day, sir. But they announced that they’d be back tomorrow at noon. And rumour has it that the seller might be giving up the recipe in the afternoon.”

Gregor grunted. “We can’t have that, can we? If it really is something popular and new, then I’d best corner the market on it. No point in sharing profits if I don’t have to.” He finished the treat. Yes, too sweet for him. But kids and women would devour it like candy. “We’ll visit the seller tomorrow afternoon. Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

💰

That evening, Gregor had guests. Bellville’s social scene was a far cry from that of the city, but it did have a handful of lower nobles and merchants, the mayor, and a couple of noteworthy artisans. There was a particularly famous [Enchanter] here who, for some odd reason, preferred the quietude of the town to the bustle of the city. Gregor had yet to entice the man to an event but he did regularly dine with some of the others. And a few people did visit from the city, from time to time.

His guests tonight were Lord Barty Borthail, a youngish noble who enjoyed partying more than anything else in life, and Skinner Voight, who owned no less than three businesses in Belleville, but who was also secretly the fence for the town’s underground elements. And yes, the Thieves and Assassins Guild did have a small presence here. They endeavoured to have a presence just about everywhere. It was in one of their sayings: Wherever shadows be, so will we be.

While Gregor might have done in a number of thieves and assassins in his adventuring days, the methods that he employed in his current lifestyle had occasionally put him in bed with those who’d once been his targets. Neither side, however, bore the other any real ill will. Adventurers were sometimes hired to kill na’er-do-wells. Such was the nature of the game. And if anyone changed roles but there was still profit to be had, then bygones will be bygones. You had to be practical about it. Grudges were wasteful and got expensive.

The dining room Gregor and his guests sat in was elegant, with seating for a dozen. The chairs and table had delicately carved legs and edges. Paintings of local artists hung on the walls. The chandelier had magical lights. Servants in black and white uniforms meekly and quietly served dishes and refilled glasses as needed. When they weren’t needed, they stood at attention in the corners of the room, heads bowed but ready to immediately leap into action.

Gregor sat at his usual spot at the head of the table. He’d switched from cider to a dry and very strong whisky made somewhere in the northern half of the continent. It tasted of oak and maple and slid down as smoothly as anything. It was his favourite drink and he went through barrels of the stuff on a regular basis.

Lord Barty, a lanky, blonde man in his late twenties, sat on Gregor’s right, a dolled-up tart on either side of him. The luscious ladies were rentals, procured from the brothel in town that Gregor owned under a fake name. Providing the women to certain special guests was one of the perks of attending events in Gregor’s mansion. A connection to the underground sewer network allowed one to ship the ladies back and forth without word getting back to wives or husbands or nosey gossipers about the kinds of things that went on here.

Skinner was rotund. He habitually declined the offer of Gregor’s usual whores, having more selective and less socially acceptable tastes. Simply put, the women on Barty’s arms were far, far too old for him. And one of those girls probably hadn’t even hit the age of twenty yet.

The three of them smoked fat cigars as they digested a hearty meal, all of them stuffed with baked scintillion, freshly caught by fishers in Lubelum this morning. The fish had the odd distinction of having a fish’s texture, but tasting like smoked beef. Chicken-stew tarts and bacon-wrapped slices of steak had rounded out the meal. Gregor wasn’t much on vegetables and only went out of his way to serve more varied dishes with more varied guests. He regarded salad as something you only ate when it was a matter of life and death and you’d already killed and eaten everything, even all the monsters, within walking distance. And he could walk a long way.

Maybe a little less now, given his lack of physical activity these days and the way his bulk had grown. He missed the way his belly had once been flat and had rippled with visible muscles. But he retained much of his enormous strength and thus blamed the extra padding on his gut as an unavoidable part of aging, despite only being in his forties.

Barty openly fondled the breasts of the woman on his left, leering with pleasure. “My oh my. They certainly do grow them big out here in the country, don’t they?”

The curvaceous prostitute returned his leer with a sly smile of her own and pressed herself closer to him, thrusting her chest into his hungry hand. “All the better to please you with, my lord.”

The woman on his right pressed her own, meagre chest to his other arm. “Of course, some of us can please you in other ways. Ways you might find more interesting.”

“Ladies! Let’s not fight. You can both please me tonight.” He laughed and his other hand delved under the table, where it might explore what the skinnier girl was offering.

The girls giggled and played their roles well. For country girls, anyway.

“The city has far classier and more well trained, and prettier, sex workers,” Skinner pointed out, not caring that his words might take offence.

Barty, for one, did not take offence, though he did come to the ladies’ defence. “Not everyone feels the need for such things. Some prefer simpler fare that you can enjoy regularly to overly rich dishes that you quickly grow sick of. I am one such,” he declared.

The whores hummed appreciatively and cuddled even closer.

Gregor chuckled. “Also, at the rate he enjoys female company, it is far, far more economical to leave the city behind for Belleville’s strumpets.”

That got a good laugh from the three men. Even the females joined in, good-naturedly.

“Do you always come out here to play then?” the less-endowed one asked Barty. She was new to her job and wasn’t yet familiar with the people and clients involved in the industry.

“I do. Well, for the most part,” Barty assured them. “While other nobles stick up their noses and brag about the finest vintages they can buy, I myself like a good, solid ale.”

“You could always move to Belleville then,” she suggested. “Then we could see much more of you.” And make even more money off of him than the brothel already did.

“Ha! I’d love to,” he replied, “but I do have obligations in the city, you know.” He said it offhand and without seriousness but what he meant was that he was still part of high society there and that Belleville was a fun time but still removed from that.

The girl was, unfortunately for her, oblivious to such things, and to Gregor’s history. Which was likely was she was foolish enough to turn to him and ask, “You were famous, right? How come you don’t live in the city too?”

Barty and Skinner both glanced at Gregor but said nothing, pretending like nothing had been asked. Both knew it was a sore subject.

On another occasion, Gregor might have let the question go by or come up with something funny to say. But he was in his cups and he’d been a bit maudlin ever since the afternoon when he’d let himself reminisce a bit too long about the past. Still, he attempted to brush the question off, having no desire to engage in actual conversation with a sex toy who was only here to please his guest. He didn’t consider her a real person, per se. “I prefer the quiet life,” he told her. “I’m not a fan of Lubelum.”

“But the city is so beautiful,” she gushed, not understanding why he wouldn’t agree. “The castle is gorgeous. And there are so many more restaurants. They have a theatre. Oh, I’d love to see a play one day. Maybe you’d take me?” She tugged on Barty’s arm and gave him an imploring look.

As if a nobleman would ever take one of his tarts out in public, and to a play no less. But he didn’t say so directly. Barty just shrugged and picked up his glass. “Maybe.”

Seemingly taking that for a promise, she happily carried on with Gregor. “If you’re famous, you must know all sorts of people, right?”

Gregor frowned.

Skinner cleared his throat and attempted to control the conversation. “I heard a new bard’s in town. Playing a the Silver Finch. Supposed to be quite good.”

“Is that so?” Barty asked, pretending to be very interested, though he, too, was probably just trying to get the conversation in another direction.

The girl didn’t notice. She was, after all, only about nineteen and not the brightest star in the heavens. “You were an adventurer. Do you know Liza Rainwalker?” She babbled, full of childish enthusiasm. “I’ve always admired her, ever since I was a kid. She’s so pretty and smart and brave. She’s the greatest adventurer ever! Did you ever meet her? I’ll bet you did, right? Adventurers all know each other. Did you ever ask to join her party? I’ll bet she was so nice that she gave you adventuring tips, right? Or were you before her time?”

Both of the male guests straightened in their chairs.

“I might have another plate of those bacon and steak things,” Skinner said out loud, looking for a servant, who came quickly.

Barty patted the girl on the shoulder. “Let’s not talk about adventurers, shall we? What about that bard?” he asked her. “Have you heard him yet? Do you know his name?”

“I don’t want to talk about a bard. I want to talk about Liza Rainwalker. I’d love to meet her one day.” She looked at Gregor, full of hope. “Could you introduce me?”

Gregor felt his ire flare, fuelled by the drink, as it always had been. He glared at her. She seemed to have entirely forgotten her role as sexual entertainment and was speaking to him as if she were a regular guest. She should have kept her mouth shut except when flattering her client. And she sure as hell shouldn’t have brought up that name. The name of the woman who’d betrayed him and tried to ruin his life. The name that he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind all afternoon and which was, in large part, why he had been drinking so heavily.

The other prostitute, older and wiser, had quickly caught on and hurriedly tried to hush the other with a worried glance at Gregor and a tremor in her voice. “I think it’s best we change the subject, yes? Harriett? Remember your place?”

The younger girl finally realized that something was wrong. She looked around at the awkward looks on everyone else’s faces and the flush and frown on Gregor’s and tried to sit back in her chair, apologetic. “Sorry. Sorry. Forget I asked.”

But Gregor felt his anger no longer smouldering. It was burning. “Say her name,” he ordered her.

“What? Oh, no it’s ok. Sorry. I’ll stop talking now.”

“Say her name!” he thundered, pounding the table with a ham-sized fist.

The girl, suddenly scared, jumped in her seat. She looked around for help but none came. Gregor continued to glare. In a tiny voice, she said, “Liza Rainwalker.”

He roared and threw his whisky at her. The heavy glass hit her forehead and golden-brown liquid drenched her face.

Barty, Skinner, and the other whore, having seen his rages before, rushed out of the way, leaving the table behind and abandoning Harriett.

Gregor stormed up to the little female. She must have been a third of his size. With one hand, he grabbed her around the neck and squeezed, choking her. With his huge strength, he lifted the tiny thing right out of her chair.

The other woman looked desperately like she wanted to protest. She even went to far as to raise her hand and open her mouth to speak, but no words came out. No doubt she was smart enough not to want his anger turned on her too.

Barty and Skinner, having been through scenes like this a few times, stood quietly out of the way, like they were just waiting for the storm to pass before the evening could resume its proper course. Wise.

The girl gurgled, her face red. She kicked, but her skinny legs were ineffectual.

The urge to end her life woke Gregor out of his anger. There was no point in wasting someone who was going to be earning him money for years. Nor did he want witnesses to a murder. That sort of thing was best done in private. He dropped her to the floor.

She gasped from next to the legs of her chair, violently trying to take air into her lungs.

The other woman darted to her side to care for her.

Gregor kicked the latter away. He leaned down. “Yer a whore, not a princess. Learn your job!”

“S-she will, my lord!” the other woman promised, begging as she tried, once again, to sidle up to the hurt girl.

He turned away in disgust. This is why he didn’t like inviting playthings to socialize when they had yet to be properly trained. This one had yet to learn her role. Since the madame in charge hadn’t taken care of that before foolishly allowing her to be employed in his residence, then maybe he should step in and do the job himself.

Harriett started breathing. Tears were imminent and those watching likely knew it would only make things worse.

Barty stepped in. “Ladies, please. Let’s find somewhere quiet. Make sure you’re ok.” He helped pick the younger one up off of the floor.

She looked at Gregor with terrified eyes but allowed herself to be bustled off without complaint. As she should.

Barty grabbed a bottle of wine from the table. “Always exciting, Gregor.” He chuckled. “I’ll take care of the girls.”

“Of course,” Gregor half-snapped. “They’ve been paid for. Why wouldn’t you?”

“Exactly.” Barty waved and followed the women out of the room. He’d take them to his usual bedroom and make sure that he enjoyed himself regardless of what had just transpired. After all, as Gregor had pointed out, they’d already been paid for.

Gregor, still annoyed, searched for a new glass and another drink. As they had been trained, a servile woman in uniform appeared almost instantly, anticipating his needs and presented the whisky he was looking for. Without a word of thanks, he took the glass and then he and Skinner retired to the large living room.

There, the two talked a bit of shop as they smoked and drank, though they discussed nothing serious. That was for more sober hours.

After his guests had gone home for the night, it was finally time to retire. Gregor left his servants to clean up and went to his bedroom.

Clarissa was waiting for him, kneeling and sitting on her heels at the foot of the bed, her hands on her thighs, wearing only see-through lingerie. Her head was demurely tilted forward and she did not look up as he entered.

A bit unsteady on his feet, he sauntered forward until he stood in front of her. For a while, he just stood there, staring at her. She didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He had trained her well. Grabbing her none-too-gently by the chin, he forced her to look up at him. Her eyes did not meet his, even now.

When she’d first been introduced to him, she’d been a bright and eager thing, the life of her eighteen years full of sunshine and laughter. She’d also had a spark of defiance in her. And that had grown tiresome very quickly. Especially whenever she had tried to object to his wishes.

After two years of marriage, that spark was well and truly gone. The life and individuality had drained out of her eyes, which were now dull and humble. She was meek at all times, docile and absolutely obedient in all things, as a woman, as his woman, should be. Nothing at all like Rainwalker and her…

He squeezed Clarissa’s face harder in his anger. She did not protest and only a small whimper came from her lips. Yes, this is very much how he preferred his women. “You’re my woman, aren’t you, Clarissa?”

“Of course, husband.”

“You love me, don’t you?”

“Always, husband.”

“You understand that I know what’s best for us. For you.”

“You are wise and strong. You always know best, husband.”

“You would never even dream of leaving me, would you?”

“Never. You are my everything. I am nothing without you.”

“What a good, obedient girl you are.”

When he was done with her, she waited until he crawled into bed and then removed herself from the room.

He might have made her submissive but he wasn’t so foolish as to sleep in the same room as her. Or with anyone else for that matter. When the door clicked shut behind her, various magical wards and regular locks slid into place. It was the only way that he could get any shut-eye these days.