Shadows Over Arcadia Chapter 34: 34. Guest Of Honor

Read chapter 34 of Shadows Over Arcadia by Zacheas on NovelPedia.

34. Guest Of Honor I am Ren Drakemore, age 8, the 2nd Prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia, and I am about to meet with an ancient dragon. https://shadowsoverarcadia.com/api/storage/objects/uploads/94d9f12d-768f-4ec3-a12d-51b487be4617 "I think I’m ready," I say, trying to convince myself just as much as I’m trying to convince Lady Willow. We had set off on horseback at first light. The road to the kobold cave veered into wild terrain, too rough for wheels, so we left the carriage behind. The air was still crisp, the morning sun only just beginning to chase away the frost clinging to the grass. Last night was... interesting. I secured the authority to negotiate on behalf of Griswald’s domain far more easily than I had expected. I had come prepared to argue my case thoroughly, equipped with detailed reasoning, economic projections, and political strategies to demonstrate how every point would strengthen Griswald’s standing within the kingdom. But none of it was necessary. Griswald had been in a remarkably agreeable mood and signed the decree without a single question or moment of hesitation. I thought it would be a lot harder. "You’ll do just fine, young Master," Willow says warmly as she ties off the reins of our horse. This time, I use earth magic to conjure a proper stone hitching post. I wasn’t about to risk another Huckleberry incident. I don’t feel like walking back to Stonebrook tonight. "Remember what we discussed about dragons?" Willow asks, her voice airy and matronly. Her long silver hair catches the breeze, the strands gleaming in the pale morning light. Despite the chill in the air, she wears the same refined, oddly elegant maid’s uniform, entirely unbothered by the cold. "All dragons can be persuaded by offering whatever it is they hoard," I repeat. "And they have massive egos, so praise works well." "Exactly," she replies with a nod, but then lets out a small sigh. "There’s one more thing. Dragons and the Fae... do not get along. I can’t be seen entering with you." “You’re not coming?” I blurt out, startled. What little confidence I had was rooted in the assumption that Willow would be there to back me up. “I can’t face a dragon alone!” “You won’t be alone,” she says gently. “I’ll still be with you, though I’ll need to remain hidden.” “ Phew, ” I exhale, relieved. “Good. Don’t scare me like that.” After a moment, though, her words sink in more deeply. “Why don’t dragons and the fae get along?” “You remember reading about the war between the Dragon God and the God of Creation?” Willow asks. “Yeah,” I nod, thinking back to the tome I’d been reading on the road yesterday. “The war where the Dragon God fought against the God of Creation, and most of the dragons were killed.” “Correct. And the dragons who survived blamed the fae for remaining neutral, rather than joining the war on their side,” she says, looking away, her voice losing its usual warmth. “That’s it?” I ask, sensing something more beneath the surface. “Interesting choice of words, young Master,” Willow replies with a mirthless smirk. “The dragons that remain have spent the last five centuries believing that they lost everything when the Dragon God was slain. Yet in all that time, despite having both the ability and the opportunity, they have done nothing to rebuild. They have lingered at the edge of extinction, choosing inaction over restoration. And still, they blame the fae for their fate, as if our refusal to intervene absolves them of their own failure to act. It is a grudge this dragon may hold against me personally.” “I see…” I say quietly, absorbing the weight of her words and the bemused tone with which she spoke of them. I get the impression she views dragons as somewhat foolish, much like the way she often remarks on the customs and habits of humans. Occasionally, Lady Willow offers historical context that no book could ever provide. It’s easy to forget that she didn’t study these events, she lived through them. To her, it isn’t history. It’s memory