Chapter 37: News of the Dragon
Upon hearing Gawain’s words, Victoria gave a slight nod. Beside her, Duke Bertram raised an eyebrow. “Am I expected to leave?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Gawain replied casually, plucking a glass of red wine from a passing servant’s tray. He turned back to Victoria. “It’s about dragons.”
“That’s just a rumor,” Victoria said coolly, her tone as cold as the northern wind. To those unfamiliar with her, she might even seem unapproachable. “I’ve already sent people to investigate. Apart from a drunkard that day, no one saw any sign of a dragon.”
“I’m not talking about that one time,” Gawain said, locking eyes with the duchess. “I mean over the past several hundred years in the North—since my death, how many rumors of dragons have there been?”
Victoria’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Duke Bertram glanced at her with curiosity. “Now that you mention it… these ‘dragon sightings’ do seem to be a bit of a northern specialty, don’t they?”
“Stories of dragons do occasionally circulate in the North,” Victoria explained, “and there are even small cults that worship dragons. But it’s mostly superstition among the mountain folk. The North is mountainous, with frequent snowstorms and howling winds that the locals interpret as dragon roars. Plus, the North borders the Holy Dragon Principality, whose people claim descent from dragons and openly revere them. The mountain folk have been influenced by that, so strange tales naturally arise. But the Wilde family has lived in the North for seven centuries, and not once have we truly seen a dragon in the sky. Those stories are just fabrications.”
“But now a real dragon flew right before my eyes,” Gawain said calmly.
“If there really was a dragon, I’d be the first to inform you,” Victoria replied lightly, a faint smile touching her lips. “For a moment, I thought you were about to ask me for a dance.”
“I’ll pass—I’m terrible at dancing, and after seven hundred years, I have no idea what modern dances even look like,” Gawain chuckled, waving his hand. “You all go on with your business. It’s uncomfortable for me to just sit here chatting as a living relic from seven centuries ago. I’ll look around on my own.”
Both dukes’ expressions stiffened—Victoria’s was always somewhat stiff—but usually, this kind of remark was directed at younger nobles or lesser aristocrats at gatherings. This was the first time in years someone said it to them directly, and it felt like a strange flashback to childhood…
And there was no way to retort.
Watching the two dukes depart, Gawain sighed softly to himself.
It wasn’t going to be that easy. Earlier, when the Duke of the North mentioned rumors of dragons, Gawain had thought it might be a crucial lead.
Dragons had long since left this continent—so long that nearly a thousand years had passed without any confirmed sightings. To most intelligent races here, dragons were almost mythical. But to Gawain, who had spent tens of thousands of years in the skies, dragons were no strangers.
After witnessing the dragon, he sifted through his memories and reviewed every recorded sighting of dragons. He found that nearly all dragons had come from the North.
No matter if the time span was thousands or tens of thousands of years, whether a single dragon or a flock, they always crossed the northern mountain ranges first before entering the continent’s interior. And every time dragons appeared, they seemed to have a clear purpose—they would fly straight into the heartland, accomplish something, then quickly leave, with no sign of wandering or sightseeing.
Unfortunately, Gawain’s vantage point in the sky was limited—he could only see parts of the continent and some southern coastlines. He wasn’t even sure how far north the continent extended, so he couldn’t guess whether those dragons came from beyond the northern mountain barrier or from a distant land across the sea.
Still, he had a feeling—dragons would definitely appear again.
Gawain and his party didn’t linger long in the capital. On the third day, they set out.
The king’s promised aid would take time to assemble: food supplies couldn’t be transported overland without losing half to consumption by people and horses along the way; river transport would have to wait until the Dorgon River on the Holy Spirit Plain rose in half a month. The hundred-strong team of craftsmen and apprentices also needed time to form—each guild had to nominate their outcasts, the unlucky ones with no influence who had been pushed aside or offended others, then select the worst hundred among them to register. It was a slow process, and it was already a miracle they’d be able to depart before the food shipments.
Gawain couldn’t wait. He had finally secured the right to explore, and a flood of plans swirled in his mind. After collecting a stack of documents from the king, he left the capital in a hurry.
He had arrived leisurely, wandering the way here; now he rode hard, wishing he could just fly home. At times like this, he envied the “teleportation spells” from the fantasy novels he’d read—if only he could open a door and be home instantly, no need for all this hassle.
But on this continent of Loren, magic existed but wasn’t that convenient. Most races used it for throwing fireballs or blasting arcane energy in the face. Spells like teleportation or spatial storage were recorded but almost legendary—said to be mastered by the primordial elves long vanished from history, or hinted at in dragon tongue magic, the source of many spells…
But no one had ever seen them in practice.
Meanwhile, in the North, Duchess Victoria Wilde had returned to her castle—Winterhold.
Dukes guarding the kingdom’s borders couldn’t be away from their lands for long. Though the North was more stable than the East, it still needed leadership. So after her first meeting with Gawain Cecil, Victoria left Silverhold at once, riding the fastest griffon back to her domain.
She tossed her thick, warm silver fox cloak to a servant and strode quickly toward the castle’s inner chambers.
Sitting in her office, a woman with black hair and eyes approached, placing a cup of hot tea on the desk. Then, standing behind Victoria, she expertly massaged the duchess’s shoulders.
“You look tired,” the woman said in a low, soothing voice.
“The founding duke has truly returned—the legendary Gawain Cecil,” Victoria whispered. “He looks exactly the same, wields the Sword of the Pioneer just as before. I even dared to use a truth-detection spell, and everything he said turned out to be true.”
The woman, who seemed like a maid, countered, “A clever deceiver can fool truth-detection magic. Even when it works, it’s not always reliable—there’s always a chance of error. You can’t depend on it too much.”
Victoria shook her head. “Maggie, I trust my instincts.”
“Instincts…” Maggie pondered. “So what do you plan to do?”
“That great hero who returned seems uninterested in the kingdom’s current power struggles. He just wants to exercise his permanent right to explore,” Victoria said calmly, recounting her time in the capital. “What concerns me is his attitude toward the king—I expected the founding duke to fiercely defend the Morn family’s legitimate bloodline, maybe even confront the current royal house over it. But he openly acknowledged Francis II as the rightful heir of the founding monarch… That caught me off guard.”
“They must have met privately,” Maggie said, pausing her massage. “You underestimated that.”
“I did,” Victoria frowned. “And now, His Majesty the King will be even harder to control…”
“Are you going to—”
“No,” Victoria shook her head. “The Wilde family wants Ansu to prosper, not power.”
“So you won’t take any action,” Maggie continued massaging. “You’re too soft.”
“I don’t like how my ancestors handled things. It’s no longer suitable for this era.” Victoria’s gaze drifted involuntarily to the opposite wall.
There hung the Wilde family crest, alongside five portraits—the founding patriarch Charles I and the four pioneering knights—standard fixtures in noble houses across Ansu.
Next to the ancestors’ portraits was Gawain Cecil’s image: a formidable man in armor, holding the Sword of the Pioneer, his weathered eyes staring into the distance as if piercing through time to see the far future. The thought of his resurrection after seven centuries made Victoria shiver slightly.
“Vicky?” Maggie’s voice came from behind.
“Take down Duke Cecil’s portrait,” Victoria said quietly. “It’s not appropriate to display it now.”
“Take it down? Is that allowed?”
“…He told me himself he’s not comfortable being hung on the wall while still alive,” Victoria’s voice carried a hint of weariness. “He’s an elder, a friend of our ancestors. I can’t just ignore his wishes.”
“Alright.” Maggie sighed and moved to remove the portrait.
Victoria then asked, “By the way, Maggie, you’re from the mountain folk, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the stories about dragons? What do you think of them?”
The black-haired woman turned away, hesitating briefly before shaking her head. “Just boring old legends.”
“But what if a real dragon appeared in the southern Cecil lands?”
“Is that so?” Maggie said, removing Gawain’s portrait. “That’s probably bad news.”
(End of chapter)