The cold autumn air held the sharp scent of woodsmoke and distant rain. Barjuchne stood at the mouth of her cave, scales gleaming in the pale morning light, and stared out at the changed world beyond her mountain. The trees wore crowns of gold and crimson. The valleys below stretched in every direction, dotted with villages and townships that now belonged to her. Not by choice. Not by design. It was simply because she had defeated the man who claimed them first.
She flexed her claws against the stone.
[TERRITORY CLAIMED]Domain Expanded: +20 kilometres radius. You have absorbed [Jaesowen County].Ability Unlocked: [Monster Respawning] (Basic)Controlled monsters slain within your dungeon will passively respawn 24 hours after their defeat.Territory.
The word felt strange in her mind, heavy with implications she did not fully understand. Sure, she had gotten a few stretches of land here and there in the past. But this was more than ever before. The attacking lord’s armies had come to kill her, and she had killed them instead. Now his lands were hers. His people were hers. The thought made her stomach twist with something that felt uncomfortably close to panic.
Was she responsible for governing them now? Surely not. They’ll definitely be fine on their own. She’ll just ignore them.
Behind her, the dungeon hummed with quiet magic. Cracks in the walls sealed themselves with threads of magical energy. Shattered stone reassembled. The collapsed sections of tunnel reformed slowly, guided by the dungeon's passive construction power. The damage from the siege was healing, bit by bit, without her needing to do anything at all.
Barjuchne turned back into the depths of her home, her massive tail dragging across the stone floor as she walked past a team of goblins hoisting segments of the destroyed obsidian gate back into place with a series of pulleys and crude ropes.
The central chamber glowed with firelight from the braziers her goblins had placed along the walls. Her hoard had grown massive in the days since Parsmuth's defeat. Armour piled in gleaming heaps. Swords and spears leaned against the cavern walls. Rings, amulets, and jewellery filled three separate chests she had commissioned from the goblin craftsmen. Coins spilt across the floor in rivers of gold and silver.
The sight of it all made her dragon heart sing with joy.
The human part of her just felt tired. She wasn’t a bad person. She’s not happy about having had to kill, let alone so many people. Hundreds of them. But what choice did they give her?
She even put up a sign. What else could she have done?
It was what it was. And so, for this matter, she decided to let the dragon half of her hold control of her heart. It had very few qualms, in contrast.
She picked up a helmet from the nearest pile, turning it over in her claws. The steel was dented, marked by the blow that had killed its owner. She set it down carefully and moved to the next item. A sword with an emerald set in the pommel. Beautiful.
A window shimmered into existence before her eyes.
[HOARD UPDATE]Total Value: 47,823 Obols EquivalentSubjects: Approx. 3,400 SentientsBarjuchne dismissed the window with a flick of her claw. ‘Subjects’. The word made her want to crawl into the deepest part of her dungeon and never come out. She had never wanted subjects. She had never wanted territory. She just wanted to be left alone with her treasure and maybe Veliah.
The goblin princess is alright too, she supposes.
But that’s it. Nobody else.
But the world did not seem interested in leaving her alone. Such is the curse of dragonhood.
The morning after the dungeon finished healing its main chambers, Veliah approached her with a cloth-wrapped bundle in her hands. The elf moved quietly, her bare feet making almost no sound on the stone. At this point, she had finally stopped flinching every time Barjuchne looked at her.
"The goblins say there are emissaries at the mountain base," Veliah said. She set the bundle down on a flat rock near the hoard. "People. From Jaesownen Vale. They've been waiting since dawn.”
Barjuchne's tail coiled around her legs. Her scales prickled with involuntary heat.
"What do they want?" asked the dragon, sounding as frightening as ever despite the fact that the question was actually born of deep anxiety about having to talk to strangers.
"I don't know." Veliah unwrapped the bundle, revealing a collection of smoked fish and dried fruit. "But they brought gifts. The goblins accepted them and sent word up."
Tribute?
She stared at the fish, her mind racing through possible responses. Should she go down to meet them? Should she send Veliah? Should she ignore them entirely and hope they go away?
Her dragon instincts supplied an answer. ‘Go. Claim what is yours’.
So, she went.
Free stuff is free stuff, after all. Who could say no to that? Certainly not her.
The delegation waited in the clearing at the base of the mountain, surrounded by nervous goblin scouts who kept their crude spears ready but not raised. Five humans stood in a tight cluster, dressed in the fine woollens and furs of merchants and local governance. One woman wore the white robes of a magistrate. A younger man clutched a wooden chest to his chest with white-knuckled hands.
They all looked terrified.
Barjuchne descended the mountain path slowly, her claws finding purchase on the loose stone. She had meant to appear calm. Approachable. Non-threatening, if such a thing were possible for a dragon. Instead, her nerves made her movements stiff and mechanical. Her eyes glowed too brightly. Her tail lashed behind her with agitation she could not suppress.
The delegation saw a monster approaching.
Shaking, the magistrate stepped forward when Barjuchne reached the clearing. The woman was older, her hair streaked with grey, her face lined with the kind of exhaustion that came from sleepless nights born of her own troubles. She dropped to one knee, her head bowed.
"Great Wyrm," she said. Her voice shook. "We come bearing tribute from Jaesownen Vale. We beg for your mercy."
Barjuchne froze. Mercy? What were they talking about? She wasn’t going to do anything to them as long as they minded their own business.
"I—" she began, not sure what to say.
But the sound that came out was a low, rumbling growl instead of the single word.
The delegation flinched as one. The young man with the chest stumbled backward, nearly dropping his burden. The magistrate pressed her forehead to the ground.
"Please," the woman whispered. "We know you defeated Lord Parsmuth. We know his crimes against you. The Vale had no part in his siege. We are simple people. Farmers and craftsmen. We only wish to live in peace under your rule as we did under his."
Under her rule?
Barjuchne's thoughts scattered in six different directions at once.
"No," she tried again, wanting to explain that this wasn’t needed. Instead, her voice came out too loud, echoing off the mountainside with draconic resonance that made it sound imperious and cold.
The magistrate trembled, thinking their offer had been rejected and that they were all doomed. They all fall, begging for the safety of their families.
What was happening here?
Barjuchne wanted to scream. Why was this so hard? Why could she not just talk to people without her body betraying her at every turn? She forced herself to take a slow breath to calm the fire building in her chest.
"Please! Please accept this gift, Great Wyrm,” stammered the woman in fear. “A token of goodwill from the people. We would be honoured to provide regular tribute, if it pleases you. In exchange for your protection."
‘Protection’?
Barjuchne stared at the little treasure chest. Her dragon heart surged with interest at this.
Treasure. Hers. The human part of her recognised this for what it was. A protection racket. They were buying her off, paying her to leave them alone.
Except they had also said 'protection'. From her, yes. But Barjuchne knows there are other things out there. Bandits. Wild monsters from the deep forest. She could do that. Protect them. It was simple enough. Kill things that threatened her territory. That was just self-defence with extra steps. After all, these people now belong to her. That makes them her responsibility to protect, the same as any other part of her hoard, right?
This line of logic surpasses any, most certainly unserious, doubts about this, in fact, being deeply ethical.
Barjuchne’s claws reached out and accepted the chest before her brain fully caught up with the decision.
"I will protect what is mine," she said with draconic greed, her eyes and heart spellbound by the gold.
The words came out possessive and dark, humming with draconic authority she had not intended. The delegation heard a claim of ownership over their lives. To them, it was a conqueror’s declaration that they now belonged to her hoard just as surely as the gold and gems in her cave, as objects rather than as subjects.
But the magistrate smiled, relief written across every line of her face. “Thank you, Great Wyrm. The Vale will not forget your mercy.”
They left shortly after, hurrying back down the mountain path with the nervous energy of people who had just survived something terrible. Barjuchne watched them go, clutching the tribute chest to her chest. Inside, she found coins, jewellery, and a beautifully illuminated book bound in red leather. She wasn’t sure what it was about. She just liked the way it looked.
Her hoard had grown again.
Word spread quickly after Jaesownen Vale's delegation returned. Within a week, other villages sent their own emissaries. Small farming communities offered grain and livestock. A mining town presented raw ore and cut gemstones. A riverside settlement brought fish, furs, and a ceremonial sword their founder had carried.
It went onto the pile of swords she was amassing. Although she didn’t tell them that.
Each group came expecting a monster. Each group left believing they had somehow negotiated with one.
Barjuchne tried to be welcoming; she really did. She tried to smile. She tried to project warmth and approachability and all the things that normal people apparently did without thinking. But her dragon body simply refused to cooperate. Her eyes glowed. Her voice rumbled. Her movements carried an unconscious predatory grace that made even the bravest emissaries step back when she approached.
And slowly, without meaning to, she became exactly what they feared. A dragon lord. A hard, territorial ruler. A creature of terrible power who demanded payment and offered safety from her own wrath in return.
This wasn’t true, of course. But it is certainly what it looked like for all parties involved.
Her hoard value climbed past sixty thousand obols. Her anxiety at having to talk to strangers climbed right along with it to just as impressive levels. At some point, she started sending Veliah to handle the negotiations and talking instead. That ended up working out much better. The merchant’s daughter had a much smoother tongue than she did.
[HOARD UPDATE]Total Value: 66,007 Obols EquivalentSubjects: Approx. 3,401 SentientsVeliah had taken to organising the tribute as it arrived, sorting coins from jewellery, weapons from armour, and perishables from preservation. She has a ledger in her hand and was making a detailed merchant’s inventory of the full hoard, which some lizard part of Barjuchne actually likes a lot. The elf worked with calm efficiency, creating order from the chaos of Barjuchne's accidental empiric wealth.
Barjuchne watches her carefully.
It’s not that she doesn’t trust Veliah. It’s just that she has to watch her because Veliah is touching her treasure. It’s simply in her own draconic nature. There’s no way around it.
Veliah turns her head. “...Do you really have to stare at me? It’s embarrassing,” she muttered over her shoulder.
“Staring at my treasures is my favourite thing to do,” replied the dragon girl, giving a direct answer. She had meant it more objectively, as in her staring at the actual physical piles of gold all around them being her favourite thing to do. But Veliah instead took it personally as a flirtation and blushed, looking back away.
“Sheesh…” muttered the elf, embarrassed, and turned back to her work. “You’re the worst,” she said.
The goblins’ numbers had multiplied as goblins from other tribes began making their way to the mountain, submitting themselves to the Dragon Queen. Many tribes were beginning to unify under the banner of the Dragon Clan. What had started as a handful of scouts and warriors had grown into a proper amalgamation of many hundreds. They carved out living spaces in the upper tunnels, established a crude forge near the upper steam tunnel, and began bringing Barjuchne gifts of their own. Polished stones. Carved figurines. A necklace made from monster teeth that she wore like a mother hanging up her child’s terrible kindergarten painting because refusing to do so seemed cruel. The goblin who made that one was very excited and she didn't want to let him down.
He seemed like he worked very hard on it.
It isn’t so bad, either. Being called the Dragon Queen and being lavished upon. Except for the fact that being lavished upon requires people to be around her to actually do said lavishing upon her. So, it’s really a win-lose situation. She liked the pampering, but she hated the fact that being pampered required actual, physical people to do said pampering.
Life was hard, even for great and powerful dragons.
It was many hours later.
Barjuchne remained in her treasure chamber that evening, surrounded by wealth. The firelight caught on gold and silver, on steel and gems. Her tail curled around a pile of coins with unconscious possessiveness. The dragon part of her purred with satisfaction at the growing hoard.
"Are you alright? You haven’t left here all day. Do you want me to bring you something to eat?"
Veliah's voice pulled Barjuchne from her thoughts. The elf stood at the chamber entrance, silhouetted by the corridor's dim light. She had started doing that lately. Checking on her. Making sure that she was eating, sleeping, and all of that.
It was kind of weird?
Barjuchne didn’t understand what the elf was playing at. Was this some kind of scheme? Her paranoid draconic mind raced, going through the many possibilities. Ultimately, she decided it really must be a complot of sorts. She’s being studied and examined. The elf is watching her for weaknesses, for openings.
As expected of a sharp creature like Veliah, who is a merchant’s daughter, she thinks of the dragon’s inner mind as its natural biological paranoia overtakes her rational sense.
"They're going to keep coming," Barjuchne said to her. “People. Invaders.” The dragon’s eyes scanned her many prizes and things. “They want what is mine, Veliah. "It is in my nature to take,” she growls, the walls of the cave rumbling. “Everything,” she went on, her tail lowering down and wrapping itself around Veliah, pulling her closer. The dragon girl looked into her eyes, studying her carefully. “In that way, we are no different, they and I.” Barjuchne’s pupils tightened into a slit. “Do you also intend to steal what is mine too, Veliah?” asked Barjuchne.
“...What?” asked the elf, her hands resting on the tail that had itself wrapped around her frame. Barjuchne pulled her closer, their faces almost touching. “What are you talking about?”
Barjuchne studied her. “The township is in chaos. Your father has vanished. Your former suitor is dead at my hand,” said the dragon. “Of our original pact, I have completed my half and given you freedom. But this freedom was conditional on being locked in here with me, in the darkness of this hole,” explained the dragon, its tail winding more tightly around the elf. “So you could run. You could be free to run out into the world and go if you were to steal away as I slept,” she growled. “There is nothing keeping you here any longer.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever said that many words to me at once before,” replied the elf calmly, studying Barjuchne. Veliah stared at her. “...Are you stupid?” asked the elf, getting straight to the point. So much so that the dragon blinked, taken aback, and rattled free from her possessive state of mind. Barjuchne loosens the grip of her tail around Veliah, realising how firm it was. Frankly, she wasn’t used to being talked to so bluntly. But it was refreshing to hear, actually. Veliah pushed her forehead against Barjuchne’s, not so much as an act of closeness, but as one of defiance. She’s showing her she isn’t afraid of her anymore. “I could take some gold and run for the hills, sure,” said Veliah, her long ears drooping. “But then I couldn’t take the most valuable thing with me out there,” she explained. “So what would be the point? What I want is in here.”
Barjuchne thought about it, calculating. What was her most valuable singular possession in the entire hoard? “...The enchanted battle armour of the slain Lord, Parsmuth?” pondered the dragon.
It’s true. It did weigh a lot. The elf was hardy and healthy, but even for her, it would be a lot to carry on the run without also stealing a cart.
Veliah stared at her blankly for a long, long time with a very dry expression on her face.
Barjuchne stared back, her eyes scanning the room for a moment to figure out what she was missing, before turning to the elf’s pupils that hadn’t diverted an inch.
“...What?” asked the dragon, not getting it.
A long sigh escaped Veliah. “Just don’t worry about it. My word is my word. "Merchant's honour,” she replied, lifting a free hand in a vow. “Even if you told me to go tomorrow, you would have to carry me out yourself and I would fight you every step of the way. I’m staying.”
Before Barjuchne could retort with scepticism, she finds her face bound in place against another by a pair of gaunt hands, silencing her in both thoughts and words with its powerful magic.
Slowly, the dragon’s tail unwound around the elf, only to then instead rewrap itself around the both of them, binding them together.
Off-balance and constrained, they slid down the heap of gold together until they landed down, body to body, in a crevice of many treasures.
Elsewhere.
The road north from Jaesownen Vale cut through dense forest before opening onto the rolling plains that led to the kingdom's interior. The sister priestess of the Holy Church urged her anqa, which she rode, to greater speed. The large bipedal bird's powerful legs chased the distance with each bounding stride. The creature's feathers shimmered with iridescent blues and greens in the afternoon sun.
She had left the Vale before dawn, carrying news that could not wait for normal channels.
A dragon had claimed the southern mountains. The people were paying tribute to their new beastly master rather than to the crown. Lord Parsmuth was dead.
This area was dangerous. Bandits lived in these forests, led by a notorious, mysterious ring-leader that reports had only ever called ‘F.P.’ And now with the lord’s forces defeated, they would surely come out of the woodwork any day now, unhindered by the usual guards and soldiers who no longer have the manpower to watch the roads.
The priestess clutched the leather satchel containing her written report against her chest. The church needed to know. The crown needed to know. A dragon had not been seen in the kingdom for hundreds of years, and now one sat on the borders of civilisation, collecting gold and asserting dominance over human settlements.
If this wasn’t stopped soon, it would be the end of them all.
The anqa crested a hill, one of the many hundreds she had yet to cross in order to reach the capital that lay far, far beyond the distant horizon. She leaned forward in her saddle, urging the bird faster.
Somewhere in the far-off distance behind her, a great rumbling shook the mountainside.