The city of Harrowgate appeared on the horizon late in the afternoon of Tom's third day of travel. Sunlight glinted off its slate rooftops and stone walls, casting the trading hub in a golden glow that belied the chaos of war that had engulfed much of the kingdom.
Tom slowed his pace as he approached the main road, joining the steady stream of travelers, merchants, and refugees making their way toward the city gates. After days of using his enhanced speed across empty countryside, the return to normal human movement felt restrictive, like wading through mud.
Tedious, Skaravosk commented, sharing Tom's impatience. We could simply leap over these walls and avoid this congestion entirely.
"And immediately attract the kind of attention we're trying to avoid," Tom replied under his breath, pulling his hood lower to shadow his face. "We're just ordinary travelers, remember?"
'Ordinary' is not a concept I have ever embraced, the dragon sniffed.
Tom suppressed a smile. In the days since leaving the farm, he and the ancient dragon had fallen into a rhythm of banter that would have been unthinkable to Tomas Reed, the grim veteran soldier. This new existence—experiencing the world through younger eyes and with a sarcastic dragon's commentary—had awakened a sense of humor he'd forgotten he possessed.
The line at the city gates moved slowly, each entrant subjected to cursory questioning by bored guards more concerned with collecting entry taxes than with security. When Tom's turn came, he kept his responses short and unmemorable, paying the small fee with coins taken from the abandoned garrison.
"Purpose in Harrowgate?" the guard asked mechanically, not bothering to look up from his ledger.
"Looking for work," Tom replied with the practiced neutrality of someone unremarkable.
The guard waved him through without further interest, already focusing on the merchant behind him.
Inside the walls, Harrowgate revealed itself as a maze of narrow streets and crowded marketplaces. The city hummed with commerce and conversation, its population swollen with those seeking refuge from the war. Perfect for disappearing into anonymity.
Your species creates such fascinating hives, Skaravosk observed as they navigated the bustling main thoroughfare. So much concentrated activity, yet so little apparent purpose.
"The purpose is survival," Tom replied quietly. "Same as anywhere else, just with more haggling."
He found an affordable inn near the edge of the trading district—not so cheap as to be dangerous, not so expensive as to draw attention. The room was small but clean, with a window overlooking a quiet alleyway that provided a secondary exit if needed.
Old habits died hard, even in a new body with ancient power flowing through its veins.
After securing the room and storing his few possessions, Tom settled cross-legged on the narrow bed, his back against the wall. The position offered a clear view of both the door and window—another old habit.
"We need to talk about your abilities," he said aloud, now that they had privacy. "I've been figuring things out as we go, but I need to understand what I'm capable of. What we're capable of."
Skaravosk's presence in his mind seemed to stir, like a great beast shifting position. Yes, I suppose a more systematic explanation is overdue. My power flows through you now, but without guidance, you access only the most basic aspects.
"Like the strength and speed," Tom nodded. "And the durability."
Mere physical enhancements, the dragon dismissed. The merest fraction of what is possible. I was not called the Sword Dragon King for nothing, Tom.
The mental connection between them deepened, and suddenly Tom's mind was flooded with images—memories not his own, showing a massive crimson dragon in battle. The creature—Skaravosk in his true form—wielded blades of impossible size and destructive capability, summoned from thin air to slice through armies like wheat before a scythe.
"You could create weapons," Tom whispered, awed despite himself.
Not create—summon, Skaravosk corrected. There is a difference. I forged each blade myself over centuries, imbued them with portions of my essence, and stored them in a pocket dimension accessible only to me. They exist still, waiting for a wielder with the right bloodline—or in your case, the right essence.
"And I can call these weapons?"
You should be able to. Our merged essence gives you access to my dimensional armory. Try it—extend your hand and visualize a blade forming within it. Nothing elaborate for your first attempt. A simple shortsword perhaps.
Tom extended his right hand, palm up, and focused on the image of a sword materializing there. For several moments, nothing happened.
You're thinking too much like a human, Skaravosk advised. This isn't magic as your kind understands it. It's an assertion of will across dimensional boundaries. Don't request—command.
Tom closed his eyes, changed his approach. Instead of visualizing a sword appearing, he simply... expected it to be there. Demanded its presence in his hand as if its absence was the aberration to be corrected.
Heat flared against his palm. He opened his eyes to see crimson energy coalescing, solidifying into the form of a shortsword. The blade gleamed with an inner light, its metal an impossible deep red that seemed to drink in surrounding illumination rather than reflect it.
"It worked," he breathed, testing the weapon's weight with a few experimental motions. The balance was perfect, the edge visibly sharp enough to slice through steel.
Of course it worked, Skaravosk replied, a hint of pride in his mental voice. That is Bloodthorn, one of my simpler creations. A mere letter opener compared to my greater works, but suitable for a beginner.
The blade hummed softly in Tom's hand, resonating with the draconic essence they shared. After a moment's practice, he willed it to disappear, and it dissolved back into crimson energy before vanishing entirely.
"Useful," he commented, already considering the tactical advantages. "No need to carry weapons that can be taken away or lost."
You think like a soldier still, Skaravosk observed, though without criticism. But yes, the practical applications are numerous. As you grow stronger in our connection, you'll be able to summon larger, more powerful weapons. My personal favorite was Worldrend, a greatsword that could cut through mountain stone as easily as flesh.
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Subtle."
Subtlety was never my preferred approach, the dragon admitted. Though I appreciate yours when circumstance requires it.
"What else can I do?" Tom asked, eager now to understand the full scope of his new capabilities.
Skaravosk's presence seemed to expand in his mind, a sensation like standing before an immense tapestry being slowly unrolled.
My powers manifest in three distinct transformative states, each offering different advantages, the dragon explained. What you experience now is merely the enhanced human form—stronger, faster, more durable than an ordinary mortal, but still essentially human in appearance and limitation.
Images flowed into Tom's consciousness—not memories this time, but projections of possibility.
The first true transformation is the half-dragon form. Your body remains largely humanoid, but develops draconic features—scales along your arms, legs, and neck; claws capable of rending steel; a tail for balance and as a weapon; wings suitable for short-duration flight. This form maintains human dexterity and size while greatly enhancing physical capabilities.
Tom saw himself transformed as described—his skin partially covered in crimson scales that gleamed like armor, membranous wings extending from his back, a powerful tail lashing behind him. His eyes glowed like embers in the vision, his teeth sharpened to points.
"Not exactly inconspicuous," he noted.
The second transformation addresses that concern somewhat, Skaravosk continued. The dragon armor form. Rather than physical transformation, this manifests my essence as a complete set of draconic armor covering your body. The scales become plates of armor, the wings fold against your back when not in use, the tail remains but can be controlled more precisely. This form offers greater protection and maintains a silhouette that, while imposing, could pass for an armored knight at a distance.
The mental image shifted, showing Tom encased in ornate crimson armor that moved as if alive, each plate flowing seamlessly with his movements. The helmet formed a draconic visage, intimidating yet functional.
"And the third form?" Tom asked, already suspecting the answer.
The full dragon form, Skaravosk confirmed, pride and something like wistfulness coloring his mental voice. My true body, recreated through our shared essence. Massive beyond human comprehension.
The vision expanded dramatically, revealing a dragon of truly staggering proportions. This was no mere large beast—this was a living monument, a creature that rivaled the royal castle in the capital in size. Its body would tower over the tallest structures in Harrowgate like a mountain looming over hills. Crimson scales glittered like countless rubies across a frame that would cast entire villages in complete shadow. Its wings, fully extended, could blot out the sun over a small town. Each tooth was the length of a longsword, each claw capable of rending buildings in half with casual swipes.
This was a being that existed on a different scale entirely—a creature from the ancient world when gods walked the earth and the laws of nature bowed to their presence.
In this form, I once battled the minor god Heresh, Maker of Deserts, for thirteen days and nights before driving him back to his celestial realm, Skaravosk recalled. The conflict reshaped the Western Coastline and created what your people now call the Smoking Islands.
Tom blinked, returning to the present reality of his small inn room. "That's... quite a range of options."
Indeed. Though I should note some practical limitations, the dragon added. The more advanced the transformation, the more of our shared energy it requires. The half-dragon form should be sustainable for several hours before requiring rest. The armor form perhaps half that time. The full dragon form—
"Let me guess," Tom interrupted. "Minutes?"
At your current level of development, yes, Skaravosk confirmed. Perhaps five to ten minutes before complete exhaustion would set in. And the recovery period after such a transformation would be substantial—days of relative weakness while our energy replenishes.
Tom nodded, processing this information with the strategic assessment that came naturally even to his more lighthearted current self. "So the full dragon form is essentially a last resort. A trump card to be played only in dire circumstances."
A reasonable assessment, the dragon agreed. Though as our bond strengthens and your body adapts further to my essence, these limitations will gradually diminish.
"How do I activate these transformations?"
Similar to weapon summoning, but on a larger scale. It requires focus, will, and a clear understanding of the desired form. The half-dragon transformation would be the logical first attempt, but I would advise waiting until we're somewhere less... confined.
Tom glanced around the small room and chuckled. "Good point. A sudden growth of wings and tail might be hard to explain to the innkeeper."
He stood and stretched, feeling the dormant power thrumming beneath his skin. The knowledge of what he could potentially become was both exhilarating and sobering.
"Tomorrow," he decided. "We'll find somewhere outside the city to practice. For now, I believe I promised someone his first taste of city cuisine."
Skaravosk's mental presence perked up immediately. The ancient dragon's enthusiasm for human food had become a source of ongoing amusement for Tom. For a being who had once devoured entire herds of cattle in a single meal, Skaravosk displayed remarkable appreciation for the subtleties of human cooking.
I have compiled a list of priorities based on conversations overheard during our journey, the dragon informed him with utmost seriousness. Apparently something called 'fresh-baked bread with honey butter' is considered exceptional by human standards. Also 'roasted lamb with mint sauce.' And for dessert, the previously mentioned 'apple pie.'
"Your research is commendable," Tom replied with mock solemnity, buckling on his belt and adjusting his cloak. "Let's see what Harrowgate's taverns have to offer a hungry dragon and his human host."
The common room of The Broken Shield tavern near the city's central market proved an ideal place for Tom to both satisfy Skaravosk's culinary curiosity and gather information about Harrowgate. He claimed a corner table with his back to the wall—another old habit—and ordered generously from the surprisingly extensive menu.
As platters of food arrived, Tom ate with measured enjoyment while Skaravosk experienced each new flavor with almost childlike wonder.
This... what did you call it? the dragon asked as Tom took a bite of a flaky pastry filled with spiced meat.
"Meat pie," Tom replied silently, nodding thanks to the serving girl who brought a tankard of ale.
It's extraordinary. The contrast between the crisp exterior and soft interior. The complexity of the spices. Your species has elevated sustenance to an art form.
We find ways to enjoy the small things, Tom thought back, amused by the dragon's enthusiasm. When your lifespan is measured in decades rather than millennia, you learn to appreciate the moment.
Around them, the tavern buzzed with conversation. Merchants discussing trade routes disrupted by war. Locals complaining about the influx of refugees. Travelers sharing news from distant provinces. Tom listened casually, gathering information about the city and the wider conflict while appearing to focus on his meal.
One conversation at a nearby table caught his attention—a group of mercenaries discussing a job posting that had appeared that morning on the city's contract board.
"Five hundred gold pieces to clear out Westridge Mine," one of them said, shaking his head. "Sounds good until you hear it's riddled with corrupted creatures from a minor dungeon breach."
"The mining guild's desperate," another replied. "That mine produces half the iron ore for the western provinces. Without it, weapon production falls behind, and the army suffers."
"Not our problem," a third mercenary countered. "No amount of gold compensates for dungeon corruption. You go in human, you come out... something else. If you come out at all."
Tom sipped his ale thoughtfully. A dungeon breach—similar to what he'd encountered at Howling Crag, but apparently smaller in scale. The coincidence seemed potentially significant.
You're considering taking this contract, Skaravosk observed, not a question but a statement.
It would be a controlled environment to test your abilities, Tom replied mentally. And the payment would establish us in the city with resources and credibility.
A practical consideration, the dragon acknowledged. Though I sense additional motivation. Curiosity, perhaps? A desire to test yourself against these corrupted creatures?
Tom smiled slightly. Maybe I just want to see what we can do together, Skarry.
The dragon's mental sigh at the nickname had become almost affectionate. Your insistence on that diminutive will never cease to irk me. But your suggestion has merit. Dungeon corruption is familiar territory for both of us, and such environments tend to be isolated—ideal for experimenting with transformations away from prying eyes.
Their meal complete, Tom left payment on the table and made his way to the city's central square where the contract board stood. Sure enough, the Westridge Mine posting was prominently displayed, its generous payment and urgent language suggesting the situation was indeed serious.
After memorizing the details, including the location of the mining guild representative who had posted the contract, Tom found himself wandering through Harrowgate's market district as evening fell. Lanterns were being lit along the main thoroughfares, casting warm pools of light that pushed back the growing shadows.
It was there, passing a weaponsmith's shop, that Tom paused. In the window display lay an assortment of finely crafted swords, none approaching the quality of even the simple Bloodthorn he had summoned earlier, but respectable work nonetheless.
You're thinking of your old sword, Skaravosk noted. The one shattered in your final battle as Tomas Reed.
"It served me well for many years," Tom replied quietly. "Saved my life more times than I can count."
Sentiment toward inanimate objects—another curious human trait, the dragon mused. Though perhaps not entirely foreign to me. I too felt attachment to my creations.
Tom continued walking, hands tucked into his cloak against the evening chill. "You spent centuries crafting your weapons. That's more than sentiment—that's artistry."
An unexpected compliment, Skaravosk responded, genuine surprise coloring his mental voice. You continue to defy my expectations of humans, Tom.
"And you continue to defy mine of ancient, imprisoned dragon kings," Tom replied with a grin. "I expected more evil monologuing, less food criticism."
Their banter carried them back to the inn as night fully claimed the city. Tomorrow would bring the mining guild, contract negotiations, and their first true test as a merged entity. But tonight—rest, reflection, and the novel experience of lying in a proper bed after years of campaign cots and bedrolls.
As Tom drifted toward sleep, Skaravosk's voice came once more, unusually contemplative.
For millennia, I viewed humans as either threats, minions, or prey, the dragon admitted. Never as potential... companions. This arrangement continues to yield unexpected insights.
"That's what happens when you spend a few thousand years talking to yourself," Tom murmured sleepily. "You miss out on scintillating conversation with lesser beings."
Your humor remains bewildering, Skaravosk replied, but Tom sensed something like affection behind the words.
"Get used to it, Skarry," he mumbled as consciousness faded. "We're just getting started."
In his dreams that night, Tom soared above mountains on crimson wings, the world spread beneath him in miniature, while an ancient voice guided him through clouds and thermal currents with the patience of a teacher who had finally found a worthy student.
Tomorrow, they would begin to test the true extent of their shared power.
Tonight, the Sword Dragon King and the once-unremarkable soldier shared something neither had experienced in a very long time.
Anticipation.