The next morning, the guild was unusually quiet.

  Word of the previous day’s incident had reached the upper floors before sunrise. By mid-morning, a formal summons was issued. Roy, along with the two explorers who had accompanied him to North Ravine, were called to the guild master’s office.

  The Guild Master of this town was a well-known figure.

  Ragnar of Ruby.

  Nicknamed Iron Fist.

  When the three entered, the office spoke volumes before a word was said.

  Shelves lined the walls, stacked neatly with sealed documents, coin chests, and carefully labeled materials. Nothing was wasted. Nothing was out of place. Behind Ragnar’s chair, mounted prominently on the wall, hung a pair of gold-coated gauntlets—scarred by use, not decoration.

  Ragnar himself sat behind the desk.

  He was in his mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, with a massive scar running from his face down to his neck. His presence was heavy, but controlled.

  “Sit,” he said simply.

  They did.

  Ragnar folded his hands atop the desk and looked at them in turn before settling his gaze on Roy.

  “You know who I am,” he said. “Guild Head of this town. Ragnar. Iron Fist, if you prefer.”

  His eyes hardened slightly.

  “I’ll get straight to the point. Why did you argue with the gods’ blessed children?”

  The two explorers stiffened.

  “If they judged the situation necessary,” Ragnar continued, “then it should have ended there.”

  He paused.

  “But you,” he said, eyes still on Roy, “you’re not someone who argues lightly. I’ve watched you these past days. So tell me—why did you do it?”

  Roy remained silent for a moment.

  Then he asked calmly, “Before we begin… may we sit properly?”

  The request startled everyone in the room.

  Ragnar studied him for a breath, then waved a hand. “Fine. Sit.”

  Roy adjusted his posture.

  Ragnar nodded once. “Explain.”

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  Roy recounted the events of the previous day—methodically, without emotion. He described the caravan, the bodies, the heroes’ arrival, and their justification. The other two explorers confirmed his account, adding that they had only joined Roy’s group at the clerk’s suggestion.

  When the explanation ended, Ragnar raised a hand toward the two explorers.

  “Wait outside.”

  They hesitated, then obeyed.

  The door closed.

  Silence settled.

  Ragnar leaned back slightly, eyes sharp now.

  “Why,” he asked slowly, “is a draconoid working in my town without causing a single rampage?”

  The question landed like a blade.

  Roy’s fist tightened instinctively.

  “So you noticed,” Roy said, his voice low and serious. “As expected of a guild head—you sensed my aura last night.”

  He met Ragnar’s gaze directly.

  “I’ll be blunt. Keep this to yourself… or I leave this village with your head.”

  The threat was not loud.

  It was factual.

  Ragnar smiled.

  “Good,” he said. “Then I was right about you.”

  He leaned forward. “I don’t joke, and I don’t break my word. Your existence stays sealed.”

  His eyes gleamed with curiosity instead of fear.

  “What interests me,” Ragnar continued, “is why you didn’t work with the blessed children. Stories always speak of dragons fighting beside heroes—or being chained, tamed, hunted.”

  He scoffed lightly.

  “I never believed that nonsense. Your kind was born to rule nature, not kneel before it.”

  Roy felt something unfamiliar stir.

  Warmth.

  It passed quickly.

  “There is no free lunch,” Roy said. “So speak plainly. What do you want?”

  Ragnar laughed. “Straight to business. I like that.”

  He gestured vaguely. “I wanted to understand your behavior. Your refusal of quests. Your distance. And your disagreement with the heroes.”

  His expression darkened slightly.

  “To be honest? Their growth is terrifying. They arrived last year, and now even the king bows to them. One is already engaged to the Magic God’s chosen.”

  Roy said nothing.

  “They may look weak to you,” Ragnar continued, “but they carry dragon-suppressing tools. And a few days ago…”

  He paused deliberately.

  “They killed the Red Flame True Dragon.”

  Roy’s brow lifted slightly.

  He did not speak.

  Ragnar exhaled. “As for the caravan… my sources say those people raided a temple, killed orphans, and stole artifacts.”

  He shook his head. “Information I received independently. Heroes don’t always tell the full truth.”

  He looked at Roy seriously.

  “I don’t want you clashing with them over trivial matters.”

  Roy stood.

  “There’s one thing you should understand,” he said. “Crime or innocence is secondary. The real question is who gave the order to kill.”

  He turned slightly. “Was it their god?”

  Silence followed.

  Ragnar laughed again—this time without humor.

  “Well said.”

  He rose to his feet. “I won’t ask why you walk in human form. And I won’t pretend all humans are greedy monsters.”

  He placed a hand over his chest. “Some of us still remember kindness.”

  Roy studied him for a long moment.

  Then he spoke.

  “My name is Roy Val Drake,” he said. “A false name.”

  The air shifted.

  “I cannot reveal my true name easily,” Roy continued. “But you are the first human to hear it.”

  He met Ragnar’s eyes.

  “AERZHAL.”

  The room trembled.

  Mana rippled. The air itself seemed to acknowledge the sound.

  Ragnar’s knees bent instinctively.

  Roy caught him by the arm.

  “No need,” Roy said calmly. “Your words were enough.”

  He released him.

  “I will settle in this village,” Roy continued. “Until someone crosses the line. As long as that line is respected, this place will be protected.”

  Ragnar swallowed and nodded.

  Roy turned toward the door.

  “I’m hungry,” he added. “I’m going hunting.”

  Then, as an afterthought, he glanced back.

  “The two explorers did well. Pay them properly. And thank them.”

  He left.

  By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the Guild Master of Ruby sat alone in his office—aware that his town was now under the watch of something far older than heroes.