Sett descended swiftly into the world chat channel, fingers moving with urgency. He listed the rooster for trade—offering it in exchange for clothing, two barrels of water, and one fine steel sword.
No sooner had he launched the trade than the rooster vanished—and in its place appeared all he had asked for, including a good-quality yellow gambeson, black leather pants, and sturdy boots. The gambeson had faint blood stains, evidence of its previous use, but it was better than nothing.
The two water barrels thudded softly onto the dirt floor beside them.
Without hesitation, Sett donned the clothes, chest rising and falling rapidly. It wasn't the chill that made him anxious—it was the shame of being seen stark naked by his subjects. It would be an awful first impression.
He forced his feet into the boots just as the light from the gray altar dimmed.
Fwoom!
Five peasant freemen materialized in a pillar of pale light, dressed in simple linen garments. Their rough-spun tunics and pants were well-worn, overlaid with woolen coats more suited to the cool weather of Durnshade.
"My Lord!" they cried in unison, dropping to one knee.
Among the five stood two able-bodied men fit for labor. Beside them was an older man in his fifties with grizzled hair and a calm demeanor, a boy of about fifteen with wide, uncertain eyes, and a woman with a butcher's apron tied around her waist. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and two knives—one large, one small—hung from leather straps at her side.
"Rise," Sett commanded softly.
All five obeyed, though most kept their gazes low—whether from humility or fear was unclear. Only the boy and one of the men dared to glance up, eyes widening at the sight of the three scaly creatures perched on Sett's shoulders and back.
Dragons.
Yet the word didn't come to their lips. They stared in awe, but not in recognition. The legends had faded. Dragons had not been seen for centuries—long before their great-great-grandfathers had been born.
"I-I have something to tell you," the young boy, James, stammered, avoiding Sett's eyes. He couldn't mask his reaction to the Lord's alien appearance: midnight blue hair streaked with silver lightning, and eyes that burned a fierce red.
Such features were unnatural in a world of brown and black-haired folk. They whispered of something otherworldly.
Sett crouched down to meet the boy's gaze, softening his expression.
"They're like my children. They won't harm you. What is it you want to tell me?"
James exhaled, as though bracing himself to speak in the presence of gods. The three dragons—Ague, Aion, and Keraunos—watched him in silence, heads cocked with eerie intelligence.
"I saw a vision," James whispered. "There was a tree. White… massive. It pierced the sky, and its branches seemed to cover the whole world. Mountains looked like dwarves next to it."
He gulped, trembling. "It spoke to me. A woman's voice… like my mother's."
Sett tilted his head slightly.
"She asked if I wanted a better life. Said she could free me from the baron who took our land… the one who caused my mother's death. I said yes. I begged her to bring my father too. Then I woke up—here."
Sett glanced at the others. So they didn't appear randomly... They were chosen.
Before he could dwell further, the sky split.
A massive black beam surged downward, slamming into the Shadow/Hero Altar with a deafening boom. Wind exploded outward, whipping Sett's hair and forcing him to shield his eyes as dust and sand swirled in the air.
A silhouette emerged from the light.
Tall. Towering.
The man that stepped forth stood nearly seven feet tall. His long, silver-white hair billowed around a pale, chiseled face marked with harsh lines and a commanding presence. A raven perched on his shoulder, unmoving but watchful.
He wore a thick black cloak over a dark wool tunic—clothing practical enough for a warrior, refined enough for a lord. A longsword hung from his belt, the sheath worn but clean.
Step. Step.
He descended the altar stairs with quiet power. Compared to Sett's 5'10" frame, this man was a behemoth.
Then, in a surprising show of humility, the stranger dropped to one knee.
"I, Swain, shall be at your service, my Lord," he said, voice calm but firm. Behind it was something else—gratitude.
Sett frowned slightly. This man acted like he owed him his life.
Following instinct, Sett summoned Swain's profile.
Name: [Swain]
Title: [The Noxian Warfather]
Order: [Latent | Level 1 (0/20)]
Innate Aspect: [Flockborne Will (+)]
Aspect Description: [This aspect binds shadow ravens that can morph into weapons, tools, or even mounts, so long as there are enough ravens. With each kill, the flock grows.]
Potential: [Triune]
Loyalty: [92]
Sett's eyes widened slightly. This man's first aspect alone is monstrous. Even if the next two were subpar, he'd still be a force to reckon with.
"Rise," Sett said. "Were you summoned by the Tree of Life?"
Swain stood and met his gaze. "Not summoned… revived. It was my era when the last dragon was slain. That was in the year 500."
He glanced at the three baby dragons, his expression unreadable.
"And this… what year is it?"
Sett answered, "The year 900, Stormborn calendar."
Swain blinked. "Then I've been dead for four hundred years." He bowed his head. "Thank you for giving me a second chance, my Lord."
Sett nodded, hiding his thoughts behind a calm expression.
He instructed the villagers to gather dry branches and stones for a fire pit, while Nirelle brought over the rabbit and began slicing it into cubes—starting with portions for the dragons.
The raw cubes were laid out on a flat stone slab. The three dragons climbed onto the table, sniffing eagerly.
"Ignis," Sett whispered.
Ague and Keraunos unleashed controlled bursts of blue and crackling flame. The meat sizzled and seared in seconds. Both dragons devoured their portions with gleeful grunts, licking their snouts clean.
Swain squinted. Nirelle let out a quiet gasp.
But Aion remained still. His portion sat untouched.
Sett approached him, brow furrowed.
Aion nudged the raw meat with his snout. He knew. His breath was different—volcanic ash and shadow, not fire. Not like his siblings.
"Aion…" Sett said gently.
The black dragonling looked up with deep violet eyes.
"Should we cook it for him?" Nirelle asked, stepping forward.
"His siblings can do it," Swain added, though his gaze lingered on the silent black hatchling. 'Why can't this one breathe fire?'
Ague let out a low hiss, as if annoyed by the implication. She and Keraunos flared their nostrils and together, bathed Aion's portion in gentle flame.
Sett smiled. "Go ahead, little one. Eat."
–—
While the others worked to make the fire, Sett led Swain into the lord's private chamber.
Creak.
The door opened to a modest square room. At its center stood a short stone column, about a meter high. A small pouch lay atop it.
A narrow window offered a clear view of the developing village. Beside it were a wooden table and chair.
"My Lord…" Swain called, shaking the pouch. The clink of coins echoed in the small chamber. "It's money."
Sett raised a brow. "Count it."
He approached the stone column, eyes drawn to the smooth surface where something gleamed faintly beneath the dust.
Embedded into the top was the city's stele—an ancient artifact of governance.
As his fingers brushed across it, a translucent screen shimmered to life—visible only to him.