''The Crow Who Dreamed of Dragons


    In the sky so wide and high,


    A little crow went flapping by.


    Black as night and quick as light,


    With beady eyes so big and bright!


    He loved the things that shone and gleamed,


    A silver coin, a button, a beam!


    A locket lost, a golden ring,


    Oh, how he loved each sparkling thing!


    "One day," he cawed, "I''ll shine so bright!


    I''ll hoard and hoard with all my might!"


    For every crow who gathers well,


    Will change—oh yes!—a magic spell!


    With every treasure, big or small,


    His wings grew strong, his body tall!


    Feathers shimmered, gold and red,


    Dreams of fire filled his head!


    And when his nest was full and tight,


    He closed his eyes one silent night.


    And as he slept for years untold,


    His feathers melted into gold!


    Then—ROAR!—he woke with mighty wings,


    No longer small, no need for things!


    A dragon now, so grand and bright,


    He soared into the morning light.


    So, little crows, be quick, be keen,


    Gather treasures, bright and clean!


    For if you hoard with patient cheer,


    A dragon wakes—so have no fear!''


    Revan traced a finger over the inked lines of the fairy tale, his eyes scanning the verses with idle thought. The words flowed in simple rhyme, a child''s tale spun from wonder and ambition, but beneath its playful cadence, he saw something else.


    A crow that hoarded, a crow that changed. ''This shit would be cancelled so easily in my world, just because it is teaching kids to steal...''


    Revan closed the book slowly, exhaling.


    He had spent the last hour flipping between history and folklore, trying to stitch together a semblance of understanding. The history book had been thin, its contents sparse, as if this world itself had barely begun weaving its own story. And yet, the myths—those had weight. The fairy tales, the legends, the whispered accounts of the past—they held more presence than history itself. The book of Fairy tale, Folklores and myths and legends were thicker then the history book, ''Unbelievable.''


    There was only one god recorded. The Mother. Though unlike the religions from Raven''s homeland this one had very detailed explanations about origin of the God itself, how she was angered, how she spared the people of this realm, from the wrath of Gods when the age of Gods was ended by us waging war against their kindness. ''Interesting propaganda.''


    Bias, perhaps. Or maybe history had been kinder to this world, its records untainted by the blood-soaked annals of conquest and war. Or maybe, Revan thought, it''s just because no one has lived long enough to write more.


    He had questions. Many.


    But for now, they were secondary.


    His promises—to El Ritch, to himself—remained.


    Tugging the book of fairy tales and myths beneath the bed, he let the white cotton bedsheet drape over it, hiding it from sight. Then, at last, he slipped beneath the woolen blanket, feeling the warmth seep into his bones. He had gone three days without rest, running himself ragged in his pursuit of power, but now, finally, sleep came easily.


    —


    Revan awoke groggily, grumbling under his breath as he rubbed at his heavy eyes.


    ''What the actual fuck…?''


    He had slept—a good, solid six hours, uninterrupted and without disturbance. Yet the exhaustion remained, clinging to his limbs, weighing down his movements like iron chains. His body felt no different than before he had collapsed into bed.


    As if those hours had done nothing.


    Frowning, he pushed himself upright, repeating his morning routine with quiet efficiency. The fatigue lingered, but he ignored it. He had long since learned to function under strain.


    Cain arrived at the usual time.


    "Lovely morning, Young Lord Elphonse," he greeted with an easy smile.


    ''There''s nothing fucking lovely about this morning,'' Revan thought.


    Instead, he mirrored Cain''s expression, forcing a small smile. "Indeed."


    The pleasantries passed quickly, a few words exchanged before training resumed. Revan played his role well, feigning difficulty, ensuring that any progress he revealed remained just believable enough. Cain had already remarked on the unnatural speed of his progress before—any more and suspicion would begin to fester.


    Still, the sleep-deprived haze of his thoughts brought forth a question.


    "May I ask, Conjurer Cain," he said, deliberately fracturing the two-dimensional square he had manifested, watching as the whitish mana construct crumbled into nothing, "why is Sir Aldric not present with us today?"


    Cain''s reaction was minor—too minor for the untrained eye to catch.


    A pause. A small, barely noticeable hitch in his mana flow. The kind of change that accompanied a shift in breath—subtle, nearly imperceptible. A sign of stress. A telltale mark of someone who was either lying or carefully choosing their words.


    "Funny you should ask," Cain said, his tone smooth, unruffled. "Because I don''t know the reason either. My apologies."


    Revan met his gaze for a brief moment, then simply nodded.


    He wouldn''t press.


    It was none of his business.


    But that didn''t mean he wouldn''t remember.


    Keeping his expression neutral, he continued with the exercise, feigning the failure of his mana constructs, watching them break apart in controlled, intentional failure.


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    Just as expected. Just as planned.


    ALDRIC PARKER


    "Well, isn''t that a surprise?"


    Aldric''s voice carried mock excitement as he leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the wooden armrest, the other bringing his cup of coffee to his lips. His gaze flickered over the woman standing before him, taking in every detail.


    Rich dark grey coat, buttoned neatly to the collar. A silver medal pinned to her left breast—the shape of a shield, denoting rank. The coat stretched down to her knees, black leggings tucked into polished boots that reached just above her ankles. Military. High-standing. Efficient.


    Her dark eyes, sharp and cold, stared at him through the dark bangs that fell from beneath the brim of her peaked cap. She was assessing him just as much as he was her.


    Aldric smirked. He knew her type. The kind that took themselves too seriously.


    "I''ve heard about you lot," he mused, letting his gaze travel down to the squadron behind her.


    At least a hundred men, standing in rigid formation. Four groups, five columns each—neat, disciplined.


    Aldric tilted his head slightly, unimpressed. "I''d still say that, with that little tail-wagging army trailing behind you, it isn''t much of an impressive sight."


    He saw the way her jaw tightened, how her back straightened further, as if trying to appear taller, bigger. She said nothing. Instead, she exhaled slowly, controlled, keeping her temper in check.


    Aldric took another sip of coffee, deliberately slurping the liquid with an obnoxiously audible noise.


    Her eye twitched.


    He smirked behind his cup. Perfect.


    "How may this person, in all his humility, grant you a penchant of help?" he drawled at last, setting his cup down.


    The woman did not rise to the bait.


    "Sir Aldric of the Guild and Academy of Knights, Anvil, the—"


    Aldric raised a hand mid-sentence, stopping her without a word. He did not break eye contact as he took another long sip of his coffee, the slurp even louder than before.


    A pause. A flicker of irritation crossed her otherwise unreadable face.


    He licked his lips and sighed in satisfaction, finally lowering his cup. "Please. I am but a humble man. I require no such titles. Just my name will suffice."


    Then, without missing a beat, he resumed drinking, slower this time, staring at her all the while.


    She studied him for a long moment. Then, with a measured breath, she relented. "Sir Aldric, then."


    He nodded approvingly, motioning for her to continue.


    She straightened. "I have been presented with a quest from the Church, and in such, I require your diligent aid—"


    "I''m too tired from my previous missions."


    He cut her off immediately, shaking his head in feigned disappointment. He set his cup down, finally breaking eye contact, reaching instead for the edge of the table as if prepared to rise.


    She exhaled sharply, adjusting her stance. "This particular reason is why—"


    For the first time since their conversation began, she moved with purpose.


    Uncrossing her straightened arms upon each other, she reached into the depths of her coat with her left hand, retrieving a sealed parchment. The thick yellow paper bore the unmistakable red wax insignia of the Eyes of the Goddess, Mother. The Church''s Inquisition.


    Aldric''s fingers twitched at his side, his smirk thinning slightly.


    The woman extended the document toward him. He took it without hesitation, breaking the seal in a single motion, scanning its contents with a practiced eye.


    They had anticipated his refusal.


    Of course they had.


    This was no mere request. The parchment bore the Queen''s signature—an official commission. He was bound to this now. A matter sanctioned by both throne and church.


    An investigation into missing children.


    Aldric sighed, pressing his thumb against his temple as he set the parchment down.


    ''It sure was a nice day…''


    "I would help you diligently. Of course. Presently, yes, but I am no detective, nor am I a dog. What would they have me do? Supply you men from my guild?"


    Aldric sighed as he rose from his chair, stretching his arms in mock reluctance. "For that, time is required. A notice must be pulled. Forms signed. All so very tedious."


    With a snap of his fingers, the plump waitress waddled over, her apron dusted with flour, a bright smile already forming as she neared him.


    "It was a wonderful coffee, ma''am," Aldric said smoothly, pressing a gold coin into her palm. A ridiculous amount for something so simple, but he had never been one to follow common standards.


    The woman gasped, her face lighting up. "Anything for you, darling! Do come back next time. It''ll be on the house."


    She reached up, pinching his chin playfully before sauntering back to her post.


    Aldric chuckled to himself. ''The women from the east really are… different.''


    His amusement, however, did not extend to his companion.


    The woman before him remained still, her posture rigid, unyielding as stone.


    "The investigation does not require men," she stated. "The Queen''s councillor has confirmed as much, as he has also confirmed your expertise. That is why we come to you for aid, Sir Aldric."


    Aldric''s gaze flicked to her, studying the way she held herself.


    ''So that''s how it is.''


    He had no interest in mingling with Conjurers—never had. Their ways, their beliefs, their entire foundation stood in contrast to the principles of knighthood. Where knights built strength upon discipline and steel, integrity, honor and unyielding change. Conjurers relied on intellect, on manipulation of forces unseen, their perception based upon change of things. Their worlds were opposite ends of a spectrum, and he had no desire to bridge that gap. Not trustworthy. In his opinion, the worst of men displayed and cheered for.


    And the missing children?


    Likely another case of nobles playing their games in the shadows. The same old story, repeating itself with the same, tired script. Twenty years ago, they had uncovered an entire network—children trafficked, bartered like livestock. Noble and commonfolk similar. The resolution had been swift. An uncompromised execution. Titles had not saved them. Nobility had not shielded them. Three weeks, the Capital burned as Knights of the Anvil hunted down and massacred every possible connection that was proved with evidence. The poor and the rich, none were safe. Which finally resulted in the respect between the Conjurers and Knights, where Knights were severely disrespected before because quote-unquote from conjurers, "They have no ''critical thinking'' while serving or passing judgement. They are brutes to be exploited and discarded."


    And yet, here they were again.


    "Have you looked at the chambers of the Lords who sponsor you?" Aldric asked, his voice deceptively casual as he turned toward the street, watching as the city slowly came alive with the day''s first movements.


    A pause.


    "That was the case twenty years ago—"


    The woman''s voice, clipped and tense. "We checked them," she snapped before he could finish, her voice laced with exasperation.


    Finally.


    Aldric smiled internally. ''There it is. A crack. A sliver of real frustration.''


    He pressed further, tilting his head. "Did you really? Are you sure you personally checked them? And not your officers—who may have been bribed—"


    The crack split open.


    With a sudden, violent motion, she slammed her palm onto the wooden table beside her. A sickening crack echoed through the air as the wood split under the force. Blood dripped from her fingers, a small wound where the skin had torn. A Conjurer was obviously similar to a common man in physical strength. What was she thinking? Aldric snickered internally.


    Aldric barely suppressed his smirk.


    "Two hundred and thirty."


    Her voice was sharp, cutting through the murmur of the waking street.


    "Do you know what that means, Sir Aldric?"


    The way she spat the title, ''Sir'', was nothing short of venomous.


    "Two hundred and thirty children. Gone altogether. Not just from the Capital, but from Strig. Your city-" She looked around, "The one you are meant to protect."


    Aldric''s smirk faded slightly.


    She scoffed, shaking her head. "I do not know what kind of nobility I am assigned to work with, but I do believe, with or without your help, I will solve this case."


    She did not say it.


    But Aldric heard the words anyway.


    Or die trying.


    For a brief moment, he considered her. Truly considered her. Her conviction. Her anger. Her resolve.


    He didn''t trust her, not fully. He never trusted Conjurers. But he could respect her. Even if this was all a facade—even if she was hiding something beneath the surface—he could respect the effort she put into maintaining it.


    He nodded, exhaling through his nose before offering her a slight bow.


    "My apologies. I was… negligent."


    Rising to his full height, he looked down at her, his expression unreadable save for the faintest, knowing smile curling at the edges of his lips.


    "Allow me to assist you."


    The woman''s jaw clenched as she met his gaze, her irritation only growing.


    Aldric, of course, found that endlessly amusing.