Morning in the dragon city was a strange thing.
The city never woke gently—it lurched into life. Bells tolled from the towers, not lodious but sharp, ant to drive n from beds and won to markets.
The sll of baking bread, of frying onions, of the sour wine left unfinished from the night before—these were the perfus of the capital's dawn.
And amid all of it, at a battered wooden table outside a roadside tavern, sat Aric Valerian and Serina Marceli.
Their clothes were wrong for breakfast. His black coat was streaked with ash and crusted blood. Her sleeves were stiff where they had dried crimson.
The passerby noticed but pretended not to; in this city, you did not ask why strangers carried blood on their collars.
The tavern owner dared not shoo them away. Instead, he brought bread, cheese, and a pan of eggs that hissed faintly as they cooled in the morning air.
Aric ate as though nothing had happened.
He cut a piece of bread, soaked it in the yolk, and chewed slowly, his gaze on the street. His movents were unhurried, the ritual of a man for whom ti bowed.
Serina, by contrast, did not touch her food. Her eyes were fixed on him, her fingers idly tracing circles on the rim of her cup.
Finally, Aric broke the silence.
"Ozborn," he said, as if continuing a conversation they had already begun. "He had in his possession the letter he and Northrend exchanged. Last night, he gathered them with intent to burn them."
Serina tilted her head slightly, listening.
Aric smiled faintly. "But instead… he delivered them right into my hand."
For a mont, the clamor of the market seed far away. Serina's brow knit as she studied him.
She let him finish a bite before asking, "How do you know?"
Aric didn't look up from his plate. "How do I know what?"
Her voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut through the clatter of wagon wheels.
"Everything. Since the mont I t you, it seed as though you could predict every move, every breath of everyone around you. As though you could see the future."
Aric shrugged, sipping his watered wine.
"I'm good at reading people."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She shook her head. "No. It's more than that. You knew of Ozborn's plans to burn letters he never even got the chsnce to burn, that more than just reading people."
She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice. "The Weaver of Balance… she rambled about it often. About you. I dismissed her words then, but now I am certain. You returned, didn't you, Aric? This isn't your first ti living this life."
The street noise swelled again, hawkers calling, children laughing, boots slapping cobblestones. But between them, there was only silence.
Aric finally looked up. His dark eyes t hers, unreadable, steady.
He said nothing.
The silence was its own confession.
Serina's lips curved into a knowing smile. "But finding out like this—this was also part of your plan, wasn't it?"
Aric's expression did not change. He watched her for a long while, then said quietly, "I trust you completely, Serina. And perhaps… that is my greatest flaw."
A soft chuckle slipped from her mouth. She lowered her gaze to her plate at last, the faintest warmth of amusent softening her face.
"When we first t—the actual first—what happened?" she asked, voice light but edged with curiosity.
Aric cut another piece of bread. "You called weak-minded and not worth your ti."
That earned a genuine smile. She lifted her gaze to his. "And were you weak-minded? Not worth my ti?"
"Oh, absolutely." Aric's laughter ca quick, unforced, startlingly human.
Serina laughed too, a sound sharp with mory but softened by the morning light.
For a mont, the blood on their clothes seed like an afterthought, their brutality folded into the past like any other shared story.
"I suppose a lot has changed since then," Aric said, almost wistful.
The mont was fragile, held like glass between them. And then—
The clamor of boots broke it.
Dozens of them. tal striking stone, armor rattling in cadence. The sound rose from the far end of the street, purposeful and heavy. The air shifted with it. Conversations stilled.
Market cries faltered.
Serina's eyes flicked up first, then Aric's.
The avenue beyond the tavern was filling with soldiers. Steel breastplates glead in the pale light, spears bristling like a forest of iron. The crimson and gold of Draken's crest shimred on their tabards.
Serina exhaled slowly, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. "Took them longer than I expected."
Aric set down his knife and pushed away from the table, rising with unhurried grace. He brushed crumbs from his coat as if nothing more than a casual stroll awaited him.
"I suppose subtlety is beyond them."
He turned to Serina as she rose beside him. "You realize," he said, a smile playing at his mouth, "I truly did make them co to ."
"You really are a man of your word," she answered, her tone mocking and fond in equal asure.
The soldiers were close now, their captain shouting orders to surround the square.
Townsfolk pressed against walls, retreating into doorways, eager not to be mistaken for part of the spectacle.
Aric and Serina stepped out from the tavern's shade into the open, side by side.
The ring of steel closed around them.
Dozens of spears leveled. The captain's voice rang out: "By decree of the Imperial Guard, surrender yourselves into custody!"
Aric raised his hands slowly, mock surrender dripping from every gesture. His smile was bright, sharp as a blade in sunlight.
"Alright, boys," he said calmly. "Take us in."
Beside him, Serina lifted her hands as well, her expression untroubled, almost amused.
To the watching crowd, they looked like prisoners cornered.
But if there was any who knew better, it was clear—Aric Valerian was never captured. He only ever arrived where he intended to be.
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