THE DRAGON'S RETURN

The Gala of Lions

A dead man does not ask for an invitation to his own palace.

Thorn stepped over the low stone wall of the grand garden, his boots squelching in the muddy grass. He threw his ruined guard coat into the bushes, wearing only a plain black shirt and trousers. Rain washed the black soot off his face, but it could not hide the stone-gray skin on his left arm.

"You look like a drowned rat," Lyra whispered, her silver ghost light hiding in the dark folds of his shirt collar. "How do you expect to walk through the front doors of the grand hall?"

"I am not walking through the front doors," Thorn said, wiping rain from his eyes. "I am stepping in through the side pantry."

He slipped past three high stone pillars and ducked under a low marble archway. Two serving boys in crisp white silk tunics were carrying silver trays stacked with wine goblets toward a set of heavy brass doors.

Thorn stepped out from the shadows right behind them. Before the rear boy could turn his head, Thorn reached out with his right hand and grabbed the back of the boy's collar, dragging him into the dark alcove.

"Not a sound," Thorn said softly, pressing the cold steel of his short sword against the boy's ribs.

The serving boy froze, his tray shaking so hard the crystal goblets rattled together. "Please, sir, I am just a dishwasher!"

"Strip off the vest," Thorn ordered, keeping his voice dead and calm.

Thirty seconds later, Thorn stepped out of the alcove wearing the white silk vest over his black trousers. He held a heavy silver tray laden with purple grapes and red wine, using his left hand under the tray to keep his gray skin hidden from view.

"This is crazy," Lyra hissed as they approached the brass doors. "The room is full of high-ranking cultivators."

"Then they will be too busy drinking to look at a servant," Thorn replied.

He pushed open the heavy brass door and stepped directly into the grand hall.

The air inside was warm and thick with the scent of roasted meat, sweet oils, and burning incense. Gold chandeliers hung from the high painted ceiling, casting a brilliant light over hundreds of noble lords, imperial officers, and rich merchant masters. Music played from a wooden balcony, but no one paid attention to the melody.

At the center of the high table sat three men in brilliant white robes embroidered with glowing golden swords. They were the grand elders of the Radiant Sword Sect.

"Look at them," Lyra murmured, her voice tight with ancient hatred. "Feasting while the city below burns."

Thorn walked quietly along the edge of the room, keeping his eyes on the floor. He weaving past tables covered in roasted pig and baked bread, listening to the noblemen talk.

"Did you hear the bell earlier?" a fat lord in a green robe asked, chewing on a chicken leg. "The lower district guards are running around like headless chickens."

"Probably just another bread riot," a lady beside him laughed, sipping her sweet wine. "The city garrison always panics over nothing. The sect elders are here tonight. No one would dare cause real trouble."

Thorn reached the side of the head table, setting his silver tray down near an old man with a long white beard and razor-sharp blue eyes. The old man was Elder Vane's superior, the Grand Master of the Radiant Sword Sect.

"More wine, my lord?" Thorn asked, keeping his chin tucked into his chest.

The Grand Master did not look at Thorn's face. He raised his silver cup, letting Thorn pour the dark red liquid. "The city air smells like sulfur tonight. Did the basement furnace break again?"

"Just a small fire in the furnace room, my lord," Thorn said smoothly. "The guards have it under control."

"Good," the Grand Master said, taking a sip. "We do not want anything ruining the execution tomorrow morning. General Marcus dies at sunrise."

"Of course, my lord," Thorn replied, taking a half step back.

"Wait," a sharp voice called out from the middle of the head table.

Thorn stopped. He did not turn around immediately. He kept his fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of his wooden tray.

A younger sect master with a long scar across his nose stood up from his chair. His hand rested on the golden hilt of his long sword.

"You, servant," the scarred master said, walking slowly around the edge of the long table. "Where did you get that white vest?"

"From the kitchen, my lord," Thorn said, lowering his voice even further.

"The kitchen staff wear blue thread on their sleeves," the scarred master said, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. "Your sleeve has no thread. And your left hand stays hidden under that tray."

The music on the balcony suddenly died down as a few nearby lords noticed the quiet argument at the head table.

"Show us your left hand, boy," the Grand Master ordered, setting his silver cup down on the white tablecloth with a heavy thud.

"My hand is burned from the kitchen stoves, my lord," Thorn said, taking another step back toward the shadow of a stone pillar. "It is not pleasant to look at."

"Unwrap your arm or I cut it off," the scarred master barked, drawing his long sword halfway from its scabbard. The steel blade hummed with a bright blue light.

Lyra's ghost shape trembled inside Thorn's collar. "He senses the relic! Run!"

"No," Thorn thought back. "We do not run anymore."

Thorn dropped the heavy wooden tray. The silver goblets crashed onto the polished marble floor, spilling dark wine across the white rug like a pool of fresh blood.

He pulled his left hand out from beneath his vest, holding his bare, stone-gray arm out for the entire room to see. The dark veins beneath his petrified skin pulsed with a faint, dangerous purple light.

Gasps of horror echoed through the grand hall. Women shrieked, knocking over their wooden chairs as they scrambled backward toward the walls.

"Chaos skin!" a noble lord screamed, pointing a finger at Thorn. "It is the fallen prince!"

The scarred sect master lunged forward, his long sword flashing with blinding blue light as he aimed a deadly thrust straight for Thorn's throat.

"Die, rat!" the master yelled.

Thorn did not draw his weapon. He stepped directly into the blade's path, reaching out with his stone-gray left hand and catching the bare steel edge in his palm.

The blue light on the sword died instantly. The sharp steel blade did not cut Thorn's gray skin. It made a dry, metallic clink, like striking a mountain boulder.

"What?" the scarred master gasped, trying to pull his sword back. "My core energy!"

"Your sword is soft," Thorn said.

Thorn closed his petrified fingers around the steel blade and focused his mind on the metal's strength.

"Unmake," Thorn barked.

The long sword shattered into a hundred pieces of dull gray iron dust, blowing away in the room's warm breeze. The scarred master stumbled backward, staring at his empty golden hilt in utter disbelief.

The Grand Master stood up from his seat, his white robes billowing as a massive golden sword aura erupted around his body.

"Guards!" the Grand Master roared, his voice shaking the glass windows. "Seal the doors! Do not let the chaos monster leave this room alive!"

Thorn looked across the crowded hall at the grand doors slamming shut. He smiled, his dark eyes cold and empty.

"I am not trying to leave," Thorn said.