The wind howling down from the jagged teeth of Foren’s frozen peaks did not merely bite; it chewed. It was a gnawing, insistent beast that sought to strip the warmth from bone and marrow, a fitting companion for the pair huddled in the lee of a wind-scoured rock formation, a few miles shy of the shivering outpost of Syrinlya.
Kragor sat cross-legged on a patch of permafrost he had diligently cleared of snow. He was a long, ropey figure of an orc, possessing little of the chaotic bulk common to his kin. His frame was all wire and leverage, draped in furs that smelled of ozone and old smoke. His face, lean and sharp-tusked, held the weary patience of a man who had spent his youth dodging the heavy boots of city guards in back alleys far warmer than this frozen hell.
Before him, curled like a glistening, thorny shrimp, lay Rime-flake. The white dragon wyrmling was five feet of absolute, crystalline malice, currently dormant. Their scales were the color of a clouded mirror, and their breath puffed out in little rhythmic clouds that turned instantly to ice crystals on the air.
“Wake up, you frost-bitten lizard,” Kragor murmured, though the tone was affectionate. “School is in session.”
The orc reached into a pouch at his belt, withdrawing a pinch of soot and a grain of rock salt. He began the ritual, a slow, ten-minute rhythmic chanting that felt less like casting a spell and more like greasing a lock. The starry, incomprehensible void that whispered in his ear enjoyed the breaking of barriers. Comprehend Languages. The magic settled over Kragor’s mind like a wet, heavy blanket, filtering the world’s noise into discernible meaning.
Flake’s eye, a pool of pale, milky blue, snapped open. A low rumble started in his chest. «Hunger. Meat. Warmth. Where?»
The ritual caught the Draconic growls and translated them into concepts Kragor’s street-smart brain could parse.
“Meat later. Words first,” Kragor said. He stood, his movements fluid, lacking the lumbering gait of a warrior. He had the grace of a pickpocket. “Pay attention, Flake.”
Kragor stood with arms crossed. For this he needed no book, no magic words, no mystical gestures. His magic was the magic of the lie, the cheat, the beautiful fabrication. He tapped into the Misty Visions eldritch invocation, that endless well of deception his patron granted him.
The air between them shimmered, and then the mist coalesced into an image. It was crude at first, then sharpened into the form of an orc, a specimen typical of the species. The illusionary orc stood tall, leaning on a greataxe, looking imperious.
Kragor pointed a long, grey finger at his own chest, then at the illusion.
“Nothok,” Kragor enunciated, the Orcish word heavy and guttural.
The wyrmling uncoiled, neck snapping forward with the speed of a striking cobra. He sniffed the illusion. It smelled of nothing. Disappointed, Flake looked at the much more corporal Kragor.
«Soft-skin. Meat-giver.»
“No,” Kragor corrected, shaking his head. He tapped his chest again, harder. “Nothok.”
Flake tilted his head, the icy frills rattling. He let out a chuffing sound, a sharp bark of noise. “Ghik.”
«Orc.»
Kragor smiled, a flash of tusks. “Good. Ghik. I am the ghik. I am the nothok.”
Kragor waved his hand, and the illusion dissolved into swirling vapor. In its place, he willed a new vision. This one was grander. He sculpted the mist into a dragon—not a wyrmling, but a majestic, adult white dragon, wings spread wide, jaws open in a silent roar. It was pure theater, a grander evolution of the crude distractions and sleight-of-hand Kragor had used to baffle marks in the bazaars, long before the stars whispered their secrets to him.
He pointed to the magnificent beast, then pointed to the small, frosty pug on the ground.
“Kulkodar,” Kragor said, infusing the word with reverence.
Flake puffed up his chest. He extended his own wings, mimicking the illusion. The vanity of the species was present even in the egg; the wyrmling looked at the image and saw no difference between its grandeur and his own small, deadly form.
“Darastrix,” Flake hissed, the sibilance carrying the pride of emperors.
«Dragon.»
“Aye, you vain little monster,” Kragor chuckled. “Kulkodar. Darastrix.”
Now for the hook. Kragor knew that to control a bully, one must control the desire. He dissolved the dragon and conjured yet another image: a heavy, iron-bound chest. The lid was thrown back, revealing a heap of gold coins and glittering gems.
To sell the con, Kragor leveraged the cantrip Minor Illusion. From the silent image came the distinct, heavy clink-clatter of gold coins spilling over one another.
Flake’s pupil dilated until his eye was entirely black. The instinct was ancient, coded into his being before he had even cracked his shell. He lunged, jaws snapping shut on the air.
His teeth passed through the mist. The clink continued, mocking him.
Flake let out a screech of frustration, swiping a claw at the empty air. «Mine! Sparkles! Where?»
Kragor stepped in, holding up a finger. “Not real, Flake. Magic. Look.” He pointed at the illusion. “Grumbull.”
The dragon snarled, agitated. He wanted the hoard. He wanted to sleep on it.
“Say it, and you get a snack,” Kragor bargained, producing a strip of dried jerky from his pocket.
Flake eyed the meat, then the fake chest. The calculus of survival outweighed the greed for a moment.
“Rasvim,” the wyrmling grumbled, the word dripping with acquisitive lust.
«Treasure.»
Kragor tossed the jerky. Flake snatched it out of the air with a snap that could have severed a hand.
“Last one,” Kragor said, wiping meat dust on his trousers. “Then we hunt.”
He altered the illusion of the chest, reshaping it back into the dragon. But this time, he animated it. The dragon beat its wings, lifting off the ground, circling higher and higher into the grey sky above the camp.
Kragor pointed at the soaring phantom, then looked at Flake. He made a sweeping gesture upward with his arms.
“Zes,” Kragor commanded.
Flake chewed the jerky contentedly, refusing to move. The ground was stable. The sky was work.
Kragor sighed. He concentrated, moving the illusionary dragon so it swooped down, acting as if it were about to steal the remaining jerky from Kragor’s pouch.
“It’s going to take the rest,” Kragor lied effortlessly, his skills of deception selling the casual warning.
Flake’s head snapped up. Rivalry. He wouldn’t let a cloud-ghost take his due! The wyrmling launched himself upward, claws scrambling on the ice for traction, wings beating frantically until he caught the updraft. He rose, five feet, ten feet, intercepting the illusion.
“Zes!” Kragor shouted up at him.
Flake batted through the smoke, realized he had been duped again, but held the hover, looking down at the orc with imperious disdain.
“Austrat!” he shrieked down, the wind of his wings kicking up snow around the warlock.
«Fly!»
Kragor grinned, pulling his collar up against the wash of displaced air. The wyrmling drifted back down, landing with a heavy thump that cracked the ice. The lesson was over. The trust was tenuous, bought with lies and jerky, but it was there.
“Good one, Flake,” Kragor whispered, canceling the spell. The mist vanished, leaving only the biting wind. He watched the wyrmling settle back onto the ice, a small, perfect engine of destruction already preening with an emperor’s pride. Kragor saw the future coiled within that frosty form—the power to shatter armies, to become a god of ice and fear, another tyrant ruling from a throne of frozen bones. He’d seen that same arrogance in the eyes of petty street lords, and he felt a cold knot of resolve in his gut. This one would be different. This one would learn that true strength wasn’t the power to command, but the will to be commanded by none. “Be your own master,” Kragor murmured, the words almost lost in the gale. “Not someone else’s.”