Chapter 55: DD3 Chapter 001 – The Ball

“It’s degrading.”

“Yes, it is, but it’s also the only way they’ll let you inside,” Arilla said, awkwardly clutching the offending piece of metal in her hands. “You don’t have to come. I can go by myself. Gods know there’s a thousand different things you could do to help instead.”

“With the rumours about me as wild as they are, my absence will only make your job even harder. Besides, what if something goes wrong and you need me? I’m coming. Once it’s all over, we’ll finally stop receiving gifts of pretty virgins and actually be able to start fixing things,” Typh stated.

The warrior let out a tired sigh, electing to run a hand through her thick hair rather than dispute the dragon’s wisdom.

“You’re right. You should come, but you do realise that the collar is going to be the least of it?” her lover asked.

“I know. But are we sure it’s me who is going to be the problem, Noble Slayer?” she teased, only half joking.

“I can control it.”

“You better. These aren’t border barons anymore. It’s Helion. The most powerful nobles in the realm will be there, and we can’t have you getting all twitchy because your class wants to kill them all.”

“I keep myself in check around you, don’t I?” Arilla asked.

“Hardly,” Typh scoffed. “Now put it on me before I change my mind.”

The dragon raised her chin, extending her neck, and felt a pleasurable shiver run down her spine when her warrior took the opportunity to affectionately stroke her exposed skin. A stolen kiss later and it was over. Arilla had placed the ornate collar around her throat, and with an audible click the catch snapped shut.

Collared like a dog.

The dragon immediately felt profoundly lesser. She knew it was all in her head. Typh had checked and rechecked the runes carved into both sides of her unwanted accessory countless times, and she knew that the arcane symbols remaining were almost entirely for show. The elaborate limiting enchantment had been thoroughly defanged, with only enough of it left behind for it to pass a rudimentary check. In its current state the runes meant to cripple her power were little more than some esoteric squiggles etched into the gilded silver.

Still, even with that little bit of trickery, just wearing it was a loss. It both reminded her of her brief stint in captivity, and it was an admission that she was nothing more than a tamed beast to be looked down upon. 

Ordinarily, she would have refused to attend the ball for the insulting way the invitation had been delivered. But it was their first real break since camping her forces outside Terythia’s capital over a month ago, and if things didn’t go to plan it could all too easily be their last chance to resolve things without besieging the city. 

They both knew that the only reason they had received an invitation at all was because the hosts—Lord and Lady Nauron—governed the province which happened to contain Rhelea. 

Typh didn’t understand human politics enough to get the nuance, but she had come to understand that the shame of refusing to send Arilla an invitation was somehow worse than the insult of having them both attend. And so a messenger had been sent from their estate to issue the lesser shame, but to ensure there were no misunderstandings, an iron collar wrapped in dragon-hide had accompanied the written invitation. It was a nice little touch that really drove home just how unwelcome the dragon’s presence would be at the ball.

Fortunately, she didn’t have to wear it. While Terythian law was clear that a collar was required for a tamed beast like her to enter Helion, it didn’t have to be the one provided by their reluctant hosts. The jewellers in the campgrounds had taken the challenge of crafting something suitably elegant seriously, and within hours a beautiful forged choker of gold-plated silver had replaced the thick hunk of cast iron that their messengers had initially received. It actually complemented Typh’s elaborate ball gown quite nicely, and if it wasn’t an enforced condition for her admittance, she might not actually hate it. 

Yet for the first time in her life, the intoxicating scent of precious metal wrapped around her throat filled her stomach with nausea. It seemed that no matter how much things changed, they stayed the same. She and Arilla were to be humiliated for poking their noses in where they didn’t belong. 

She could tolerate it for one more night, but she was getting so very tired of biting her tongue when a bout of dragonfire would convey her sentiments far better than a polite letter of acceptance ever could.

The dragon looked at her lover and sighed.

“Come on, let's go,” she said.

With her collar weighing heavy around her neck, the pair left their shared tent, and boarded the carriage waiting outside. They had a party to attend, and only all of Creation was at stake.

***

The streets of Helion were very much unlike those of Rhelea. They were wider for a start, and not just where the city made use of a branch of the ancient Old Roads that ran through it. The buildings were grander in design with more green open spaces between them, reflective of the capital city’s vastly larger size. With the exception of government buildings and wealthy manors, few houses they passed spanned more than two-stories, with none reaching the lofty heights of the tenement blocks that were so common in Rhelea. 

The lack of classed labourers no doubt made taller constructions far more challenging to create. Although, whatever Helion may have lacked in terms of classers with their pseudo-mystical abilities, it made up for with human ingenuity and the sheer quantity of souls that were leveraged to each labour intensive task. In Rhelea, and the campgrounds outside of Helion, Typh had seen men rip trees out of the earth and sculpt the displaced soil into brick walls with their bare hands. Here, she saw the same things being done, but with pulleys, cranes, kilns, and an exponential increase in the number of workers assigned to every menial job.

As impressive as it was, it seemed wasteful for a society with so many better options. Classers made everything easier, and in the month they had spent camped outside of Terythia’s capital, her tent city, filled with those sworn to her and the humans who’d taken up Arilla’s call to arms, had begun developing into something increasingly permanent. If the campgrounds had the same number of souls to put to work as Helion did, they could build a city to rival Terythia’s capital in a matter of weeks—as things stood, it would probably take them as little as a year.

The people who populated the streets were as varied in their tones, heights, and hair colours as their contemporaries from the west, but when Typh peered out of the carriage window, none of the pedestrians walking by ever dared to meet her gaze. She doubted her species and level tag helped, but it was obvious to her—even without smelling their fear—that this city of the unclassed was considerably more cowed by the presence of a fast moving carriage than their classed counterparts ever would be. 

Despite the small amount of trouble they’d had at Helion’s southern gate, they were making remarkable time, likely due to the more monstrous nature of the beasts that drove the vehicle. Everyone hurried to get out of their way, and while more than a few guard patrols looked twice at the fast moving carriage, thanks to the thick iron collars prominently displayed around the beasts’ necks they were never stopped. 

Typh had access to horses who could have been used instead, but the focused attention on the beasts was useful, and what was the point of being feared as some kind of ‘monster queen’ if she never played the part.

After another agonising delay, the carriage passed through the warded gates of the Nauron Dynasty’s Helion estate, and began its slow crawl up the long gravel path. The distant sounds of raucous celebration steadily grew once they were inside the almost palatial grounds with glowing privacy runes at their back. 

The music and laughter travelled clearly across the extensive and carefully manicured lawns that separated the large manor-house from their vehicle at the gates. Ahead of them, a sparse line of ornate carriages queued along the path, and Typh watched as one after another, they reached the house only to be led around the back once their esteemed passengers had been safely deposited at the very front of the manor’s steps. 

It was already a far cry from the last party Typh had attended, although with her skill-enhanced sight she could spy several noble-tagged guests recuperating outside in the cool night’s air, so perhaps it wasn’t all that different.

The men wore silks almost as grand as the womens’ dresses, although on more than one occasion lines were blurred where women wore militaristic-styled suits like Arilla’s, and the men makeup and lacy frocks.

The line continued to creep forwards, and enraptured by the garments on display, Typh hardly noticed the slow passage of time. Their carriage in particular earned itself a very wide berth thanks to its more monstrous draft animals. When it was finally her turn to exit the vehicle, Typh watched with some amusement as a young stablehand backed away in abject terror from the train of six spidersnakes that were desperate to be led to water.

While the beasts thrashed their snake tails, and the driver tried to allay the stablehand’s fears, Typh let Arilla take her arm in hers, and together they climbed the stone steps up to the ball.

Noble-tagged onlookers—predominantly high-clay and low-pewter—watched from the sides of the steps with a wide variety of expressions on their faces: confusion, disgust, horror, and excitement to name but a few. She couldn’t help but remark that there was a time when this kind of attention would have terrified her, but Typh had grown a lot since then and was now far more comfortable in her skin.

With her sequined ball gown–in gold of course—holding her in, she entered the estate with her warrior at her side. Their invitations got them past the sneering guard at the door, although she didn’t miss how the look of disdain quickly morphed into fearful surprise upon reading their respective class tags. 

They passed through the entrance chamber and several corridors filled with bustling staff before they joined the queue to enter the main hall. More nobles joined behind them, and soon Typh and Arilla were sandwiched between couples on either side of them who pointedly pretended that they were not there.

It was amusing until it wasn’t.

Eventually, it was their turn for the short man hovering about the entrance to the main hall to announce their arrival.

“Lady Arilla Traylan, Governor of Rhelea, and her tamed beast.” 

The voice boomed and the party stilled. Typh stood awkwardly in the doorway and glared daggers at the announcer while she imagined what would happen if she bit his throat out. Their invitation card was far more detailed than that, and nowhere on it did it say those last two words. 

While they had waited in the short line for their turn to enter the hall, the officious little man had unironically read every title and meagre accomplishment of every noble to pass through the archway before them. Men who’d won foot races against their peers, women who’d utilised a simple spell in mock-combat, had all had their time in the sun. Their exaggerated—and likely self-described—titles had all been politely applauded by the noble occupants within the busy hall and a surprisingly large part of her wanted it to.

She wanted their recognition. Not a lazy slur. 

She didn’t know why she cared, but Typh’s pride wouldn’t let her move from her spot before she’d received some form of acknowledgment beyond the words ‘tamed beast.’

“Tamed beast? Read the rest of it,” she snapped, while a particularly detailed fantasy of biting through the man's throat played out in her head on repeat.

“Lady Traylan, others are waiting in line. You should be grateful that you’ve been allowed to attend with your beast at all, especially given the nature of your relationship. Why don't you avoid a scene and move inside?” he asked, pointedly ignoring Typh’s withering glare, as he looked only to the warrior by her side.

“Read the rest of the words,” Arilla replied coldly, manifesting an air of menace that Typh couldn’t quite match in the moment. They made eye contact, and the announcer flinched.

“Of course, Lady Trayl—”

“I prefer Lord. She’s the Lady here,” the warrior clarified.

“Of course,” he began, before taking a deep inhalation. “The court welcomes, Lord Arilla Traylan, first of her name, the current sitting governor of Rhelea, the Dragonrider, and her partner, Lady Typh, the Lord Sovereign of the non-humans, the Sovereign Dragon of Rhelea, and the slayer of Monsters.”

The man took a shuddering breath to recover, and the pair moved on to the sounds of pained silence, which was only broken by muted applause moments later when another couple with equally grand—albeit hollow—sounding titles were loudly proclaimed to the rest of the room. 

Arm in arm, they walked forwards through a whispering crowd that watched but never approached them. Typh couldn’t even claim to be surprised by this, she had a charisma score in the triple digits, and while the nobles in the room all had their corresponding classes, this was not Rhelea. Magical beasts and non-humans simply didn’t come this far east with the same numbers or levels as they did back home. Kill experience was much harder to come by, and passive levelling was that much slower. Noble classes may have usually been charisma heavy, but with the pronounced tier gap between them and her, it wasn’t like they had much choice in staring.

It also didn’t help that she looked stunning, and was proudly displaying her true tag in all of its draconic majesty. Even Arilla’s much more humble warrior one stuck out like a sore thumb where she was more than triple the room's average level, and the only warrior present to boot.

The main hall itself made the Adventurer’s Guild Hall back in Rhelea look like a pauper’s hovel, although it paled in comparison to Erebus’s palatial chambers. The portraits lining the walls were artfully done and housed in elaborately carved frames that moved with palpable pulses of arcane magic. The grand chandelier that cast the hall in a brilliant white magelight, floated high above the heads of the dancers who flitted about the central floor like bits of multi-coloured ribbon in the breeze. Everywhere Typh looked, she saw signs of opulent wealth that set her draconic instincts screaming.

It wasn’t just abundant, it was so poorly guarded. She could take it, and she doubted that anyone could stop her.

The dragon inhaled the stench of money and shuddered with undisguised pleasure. The liberal quantities of gold, silver, and well-cut gemstones draped about the predominantly young nobles present was enough to set her appetite racing. She felt light and giddy, and above all else hungry.

“Are you okay? I know there’s a lot of eyes on you…” Arilla trailed off.

“I’m fine. I just lost control of myself for a moment,” Typh explained.

“Lost?” the warrior asked.

“There’s a lot of wealth in this room. I was surprised by the quantity of it,” the dragon shrugged.

“Right, well we can’t have that. We have to be on our best behaviour.”

“I know, I know... Do we even know what Lord Nauron looks like?”

“I’ve heard that he has a full beard, dark-hair, and is considered to be quite attractive,” Arilla offered, and Typh merely gave the warrior a strong look in response. “Not nearly as attractive as you, of course.”

“Of course not,” the dragon smiled, and from the way Arilla’s breath caught in her chest, Typh knew it was a good one. Squeezing her lover’s arm, she looked over to the crowd of dancing couples moving in complex patterns on the dance floor while a troupe of musicians—unclassed one and all—played an equally elaborate tune.  “Regardless of what he looks like, we still have hours to kill. We should at least try to enjoy ourselves before the hard part starts.”

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“What are you thinking?”

“Do you want to dance?”

Arilla chuckled loudly, earning them both a series of puzzled looks from the nobles standing nearby.

“You know I don’t know how,” the warrior explained.

“So what? Neither do I.”

***

The rhythm grew faster, and they moved their bodies to match its increasingly frantic beat. With Arilla’s tall frame pressed up against her cheek, Typh breathed in the familiar scents of her lover as she allowed her chosen human to lead her through the steps of a dance that neither of them knew. 

With their physical stats far outpacing those of their dancing peers, and limited to music produced by mere mundane musicians, muddling their way through the elaborate dance steps was a surprisingly easy challenge. While Typh would never describe herself nor Arilla as particularly graceful, they were both dextrous. Their steps never fumbled, no toes were stepped upon, and every elegant lift and twirl was performed with ease. For while they had both grown increasingly heavy along with their rising strength scores, Arilla’s physical might far outpaced Typh’s increased density.

The dragon found herself enjoying the dance far more than she thought she would. Arilla’s hands held her close when Typh wasn’t otherwise being swung, or twirled through the air, and their fingers were constantly intertwined in a surprisingly intimate show of public affection. She could feel the rough calluses on her warrior’s palms pressing against her own pristine skin—a surprisingly pleasurable side-affect from Arilla’s near-obsessive training with her sword. 

Wrapped up in her warrior’s arms, the dragon felt more than just safe, she felt wanted. 

Their constant partnered motion to the uplifting beat, along with Arilla’s reassuring presence provided her with a much needed escape from hostile looks that otherwise filled the room. She didn’t have to focus on the glares and wonder who would try to hurt her next, instead she gazed into her lover’s hazel eyes, and let the moment carry them. 

It was beautiful, magical in the more mundanely-poetic sense of the word, but it could not last forever.

All too soon, the song was over and Creation firmly reasserted itself. Her heart rate slowed, the room stopped spinning—or rather she stopped twirling—and Typh was faced with the stark reality of them standing alone in the centre of an otherwise empty dance floor.

“Care to go again?” Arilla asked, beaming a wide and care free, like their obvious ostracisation didn’t bother her in the slightest.

“I’m not sure we should…” Typh trailed off. She didn’t need to turn her head to see the stares. To know that she wasn't wanted in the city, let alone the room or on the dance floor. She was a dragon, and as much as the wealth on display called to her, the nobles who owned it would never let her be welcome. “We’re here to work, not dance. I enjoyed it—I really did, but perhaps this was a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was our first dance, not a mistake, and Gods help me, but I won’t let it be our last.” The warrior gestured with her head towards the watching but not-quite-silent crowd. At their scandalised stage whispers from behind half-covered mouths that Typh couldn’t help but overhear. “Let them stare, Typh. We’re never going to fit in, so let’s not play their games. Until our hosts show themselves we have nothing better to do. With that in mind, would you do me the honour of this next dance?”

The dragon stared at the woman she had chosen almost a year ago and smiled. She offered Arilla her hand, and when the music didn’t immediately start, she sent a hostile pulse of her aura at the musicians waiting on the stage. They startled, but quickly found their places, and within moments the music started again.

Arilla took her hand, and together they swayed to the ever-swelling slow throb of the beat. She rested her head against Arilla’s chest, and upon seeing that they could not be cowed, other couples eventually joined them on the floor. 

Although they never did stray close.

“You were right. We needed this, it’s nice to have a break from all the needless killing,” Typh said.

“I often am,” Arilla replied smugly. “It’s good, for it to be just us for a change. No ‘Lord Sovereign’, or ‘Lord Traylan’. Just us. Like the old days.”

“The old days weren’t that long ago,” the dragon stated.

“No they weren’t... Would you go back if you could?” the warrior asked.

“In this hypothetical of yours, is Creation still in dire peril while we frolic naked in the wilderness?”

“Same peril, same everything really. Do you regret choosing this?” Choosing me. 

Arilla didn’t have to say the words for Typh to know what was on her human’s mind. The dragon looked at her partner and knew that the warrior felt guilty for pushing their shared crusade onto her. For not running away together back when they still could, before their responsibilities had come for them, and tried to drown the women they were beneath its crushing weight.

“No. Even with all the pressure—this is better. I wouldn’t change it,” Typh said, not sure if it was the truth, but certain that it was what Arilla needed to hear.

The music carried on, giving them something slow to sway to while the soft notes let them talk and relax. It was an opportunity for them to hold each other close, and neither of them were fool enough to let it pass them by.

They were already so tired and they needed the respite.

“May I cut in.”

It wasn’t a question.

Typh turned to face the unanticipated voice, and mentally kicked herself for not paying attention to her surroundings. The noble’s path had been clear and easy to predict in hindsight, the woman having made a beeline towards them as soon as the music stopped.

She was conventionally attractive, and possessed an exaggerated hourglass figure. Typh couldn’t tell if it was the result of a discreet corset, or more invasive body alteration magic. A low-cut bodice and tastefully applied make-up made the noble look, well—like her. When she finally realised, Typh did a double take, something the woman clearly didn’t approve of. The noble’s hair had been cut and curled to look similar. Everything down to the metallic ball gown, made the stranger a near doppelganger. She was only let down in her imitation by the shade of her skin, and a few extra inches in height.

Typh realised she was staring. She wasn’t sure she cared.

“Who are you?” the dragon asked before she could stop herself.

“I’m Lady Sennia of house Nauron, dragon,” the noble announced, before turning to face, and actually curtsying before Arilla. “Lord Traylan. You neglected to pass around your dance card. Given the unique circumstances of your ascension, I will let this insult slide, but only if you give me this next dance. You can play with your pet later.”

“Typh isn't—”

“Arilla. It’s okay,” the dragon lied. “Remember why we are here.” 

The warrior eventually nodded her assent, but Typh had already retreated to the side of the room, trying not to look while the beautiful young woman took her lover’s hand and placed it squarely on her wide hips.

They danced, while the dragon tried to find a place to hide in the room. She flitted past numerous conversations that steadily grew in substance the further away she got from the dance floor. Talk of shipping disruptions in the far east, and the sharply rising price on Aberian whisky seemed to be all the rage amongst the local nobility, which reminded Typh that she had yet to indulge in that particular vice.

With a crystal glass in hand, and the pleasant burn of alcohol in the back of her throat, she allowed herself to stop pacing and brood.

“You’re a braver woman than most—you do identify as a woman, right? Not a she-dragon or something else?” a surprisingly soft-spoken man asked.

Typh turned to face the noble who’d approached her. He was low-bronze which made him a rarity in this particular crowd. He was also significantly older than the majority of the nobles in the hall, with the first signs of grey sprouting from his temples. Most of his contemporaries present looked to be in their late teens if not their early twenties, and with the life-extending properties of their classes factored in she doubted many were truly above 40, which made this grey-haired man, old, in both senses.

“Why do you say that? And yes I do, Lord?” Typh asked.

“Lord Drusus of House Prieligon,” the noble answered. “And I say that because Lady Nauron who is currently dancing with your paramor has very recently ended her engagement to Lord Cassius of House Tronasal.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“Very little, but the young Lord Traylan over there? Quite a lot.”

She followed his eyes to where Arilla danced with Sennia at the opposite end of the hall, and she felt her possessive nature strain against her desire not to make a scene. They both watched as Sennia pressed herself luridly close to Arilla, and it took the dragon a great amount of effort to unclench her jaw.

“Can you please explain what you mean?” Typh asked, emptying her whisky glass, and yanking another from a nearby servant's tray with a pulse of golden mana.

“Neat trick,” Lord Drusus commented, waving over a refreshment of his own. “Lord Traylan is unwed, with no heir or real family beyond the previous Lord who has publically abdicated in her favour. Yes, there’s a handful of bastard nieces and nephews whom we won't see independently contesting her claim for at least another decade, but they don’t really count. The Naurons are her liege lords, and they suddenly have a low-born stranger without any political ties, in charge of a city within their domain. A city which has been destroyed—”

“Not destroyed, just damaged. The rebuilding effort is going surprisingly well,” Typh interrupted.

“Be that as it may, the city has been damaged and reports indicate the ruins are overrun by monsters—non-humans,” he said, correctly anticipating her nascent interruption. “They’ll want to bring her into the fold before anyone else does. Better a pliable ally than an enemy puppet in their garden. Hence, Lady Sennia’s recent broken betrothal.”

“And I take it this, Lord Cassius of Tronasal, is going to be upset by this,” Typh muttered, barely resisting the urge to hold her head in her hands.

“You could say that,” Lord Drusus shrugged, gesturing with his half-empty glass to a clearly furious young man, who practically stomped over to where Arilla and Sennia danced scandalously close.

The unmistakable sound of a resounding slap soon followed, followed by a sharp collective inhalation which was the final nail in the coffin that signalled things had gone from the unpleasant to the bad.

“I will not stand for this dishonour. I challenge you to a duel, Lord Foundling!” Lord Cassius yelled in a surprisingly shrill voice and Typh’s lingering hopes for the evening plunged like a rock.

“Is there any other way that we can resolve this?” she heard Arilla ask calmly.

“Short of you cutting off your hands for daring to touch Lady Nauron, and subsequently handing over the dragon to me, No,” the irate noble declared.

“Fine. In that case I accept,” the Noble Slayer said, and damn her if Typh couldn’t hear the woman’s smile.

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