Chapter 3: Blood Moon

It was the festival of the blood moon. A sacred holiday in honour of the great maple goddess, celebrated when the second of three moons that graced Gardyan’s nightly sky was seen in full state. This was only the case once a year and when it happened, unbridled instincts drove the children of the world maple. Their blood boiled under the oath their creator had once sworn. Her flesh would turn to wood, her fiery red hair to ruby maple leaves, so that she could forever watch over her children as Rayan’s most powerful creature. She gave up her divine body for it and vowed under the red moon that her descendants would be forever bound to their own land in bloodguilt. If, yes, if only they were to live forever.

Arayona was a proud goddess. Her creation, the Rayonaigh, were everything to her. Feral elven warriors and their matriarchs, who were once born from the blood of the divines under the tops of giant maple trees. But as perfect as their form, as irrepressible was their thirst for blood. They desecrated, slaughtered and murdered every night. Animals, travellers, yes, even themselves. And this instinctive behaviour put their goddess to shame. It was only possible to restrain thanks to ancient rites and a strict hand of leadership. Female leadership.

Back then already, the daughters of Arayona kept their inclinations in check far better than her sons. Therefore, with her last breath, the goddess decreed that Rayan would be subject to matriarchy until the end of time. And matriarchs were to steer the fate of the empire from then on. With harsh discipline and draconian punishments for disobedience, they subjugated their brethren and formed them into the dreaded warrior caste of the Raji’Draq. A mighty martial order that fought the bloodiest of all duels every year at Blood Moon in primeval frenzy: the Blade Dance of the Dragon’s Claw.

Aaron usually abstained from this activity, instead meditating in the deepest vaults of the maple grove at Zakuray until the night was over. This year, however, everything turned out differently. It was to be the night in which his son saw the light of day.

Even the nights before, he hardly got any sleep. Dark thoughts tormented his mind. He chased her and she screamed for help. But no one would help her, no one would be able to save her from his rabies-like state of mind. His hands were claws; his arms trimmed with red-golden fur. He stalked her, cornered her in a rocky gorge of the Red Forest. His mouth foaming, he growled at her, the mother of his unborn child. And when she let out a last desperate scream, he attacked her with the intention of tearing her apart. Bathed in sweat, he was startled every time before he could complete his cruel work within his dream. He couldn’t have lived knowing something happened to Adra and it being his responsibility. The feeling of guilt about what he potentially was capable of doing to her and the child almost drove him crazy. Which is why he decided to let off some steam in battle and stay as far away as possible from their country estate at the eastern borders of Rayan for the night. Adra wasn’t exactly delighted by him leaving her to head north to the capital of Rubinburgh while she was about to give birth to their son. But what he did was for her own and the boy’s protection.

Driven by unrest, he left his temporary accommodation in a fancy town hostel and in the deepest darkness of night, took the arduous journey to the foot of the Ray Mountains. Steep it was, and poorly lit, the forest path between town and ascent to the arena. Would have been easier to walk it drunk, but Aaron had every drop of alcohol removed from the house after being informed of Adra’s pregnancy. So, his innate night vision and iron will had to do the trick mastering the rocky path to the mountain pass. When he got there, most of the war dragons were already asleep on their outcrops. Only one was still awake. Rasheku, his old companion, still insisted on his role as guardian dragon of the Draq’enar and greeted the lord general as he climbed the stone spiral staircase. Noticing the familiar smell of a particular two-legged creature, the animal whispered throatily and lowered its head from its resting place between the foothills. His huge skull made the nightly shadows around Aaron even darker for a moment. The great dragon himself was surprised about his rider arriving at such late hour. Usually, it was only the eager youngsters who came here to test their strength during blood moon. But this time, their lord general would not only be present at the bloody spectacle, but probably also inflict a few injuries on one or two of them himself.

Calmly stroking the back of Rasheku’s majestic reptile snout, Aaron had to think for a moment about the last time they had actually taken a sightseeing flight over the plains. It had been quite a while. With all the bureaucracy that had plagued him like an annoying official duty since his promotion, he hardly found time for all the things he had done in his spare time as a simple hunter prince. And then, of course, there was her...

While staring into Rasheku’s large lizard pupils, he suddenly realized that his life would change even more drastically in the next few years. So, he patted the dragon on the chin once again in friendly a manner before continuing his way upwards.

It was about six hundred steps to the plateau of the Draq’enar Arena. Located in a deep rock hollow, it lay surmounted by one of the oldest maples in Rayan. Araqon, the dragon’s blood tree, shone in the sanguine moonlight like a sea of red clouds. It towered over the battlefield, whose facades were hewn from solid marble. Around the circular masonry, ruby crystals broke through the rocks in their purest form. The arena had been built in the middle of a crystal vein. A memorial commemorating the Second War of the Great Houses. Brutal battles were once fought on this ground for the precious blood of the earth. And so, Rayan’s first matriarch, Aaron’s mother Araya, decided that the ruby mines shouldn’t belong to either faction. Instead, the area of the Draq’enar was to become the new headquarters of the Royal Guard, where the warriors of all houses were formed, trained and accommodated. This Araya’s self-will was to claim her life. But her will was law and would be upheld to this day. With one nightly exception.

At the foot of Araqon’s mighty tree trunk, some onlookers had gathered, roaring euphorically down into the pit. Only the bravest of Aaron’s young warriors stayed in the hollow, wrapped in the blood-red war tunics they usually only wore at ceremonial occasions. Parcival and Peroy, two of his lieutenants, greeted the general with a surprised expression on their faces when they saw him coming up the stone stairs.

“Aaron, my friend! What are you doing here at such late hour?” Peroy asked in amazement, before he took his sworn brother into a headlock with his strong arm.

“He must have gotten lost!” Parcival joked and pinned a drinking horn with blood mead into Aaron’s hand, knowing full well that he had been out of the public eye for days to deal with his animalis in his own way as always. This time in vain it seemed.

Together, the two officers shooed a few of the life-weary newcomers off the ground to clear the way to the senior servants’ seat for themselves and their lord general. They knew he wasn’t here to watch if attending again after all these years.

Aaron scanned the scene. The Raji’Draq night camp had grown amazingly since his youth. In the past, there were ten or twenty of them here to smash each other’s skulls in. Tonight, there were probably at least a hundred gathering. As back in the days, it was the Blood Blades against the Blood Drinkers. Swordsmen against lethal berserks. An old feud that would never subside. Some things might always stay the same. Others clearly didn’t change for the better. There was no trace of an orderly man-to-man duel these days. Like a pack of wild dogs, three or four of them attacked another in the arena. They broke each other’s limbs, used treacherous weapons and tore the flesh from each other’s bodies with furious fangs and claws. Hardly did they hold back their animalistic transformation.

One could clearly see the disappointment at the decay of old customs with the few lieutenants still assembled as conciliators. Dangerous habits had developed. Without a massive bite wound, cut, occasionally even with severed limbs, rarely one of them went out here. They might have been immortal, but the pain remained. Often, the wounds also began to fester badly after a few days. That would be it for the next few months when it came to training. An incapacitated warrior was a burden to most mistresses. Quite a few lost their patron among the city nobility as a result. Worse, the danger of permanently turning into a beast was ever-present. It became all the greater the more often a transformation was carried out. Rayan’s baronesses would not tolerate such a beast within their society. Which is why in worst case, they’d find themselves either in the dungeon or as a castrated fighting dog in the even more merciless city arenas, meaning the end of a career as Raji’Draq. It was one of the few decorated professional careers accessible to a man in the social hierarchy. Very few got a second chance to get promoted. A game with fate. Like every year.

It would not take long till Aaron’s first victim should make himself known. One hulking youngster from the new additions thought it was a fabulous idea to impress his new general in battle. Skilfully he had wrapped his tunic down to his waist and thus converted it into a war kilt. An old custom that he mastered much better than the right tone towards his superior. Proletarian and slightly tipsy, he stood up in front of his peers, gathered in a circle around the campfire. “Lord Sion! Do you remember how to do it?” he called provocatively over to Aaron. “I’ll be happy to teach you again!”

For a laugh from his colleagues, he risked his place in the army. An exceedingly stupid decision. Because although otherwise known as the buddy-like mentor who liked to fool around, the lord general was not in the mood for jokes tonight. “Oh yes, I desperately need that, boy.” He pinned his drinking horn to Peroy’s chest, who accepted it quietly grinning to himself, just shaking his head.

“Shall I lend you one of my blades, general? Or have you thought of your own?” The giant enjoyed the amusement he received from his peers.

Aaron left it to him for the moment. After all, he wanted to take off in peace first. “You’re lucky, my friend. I’ve got them all with me.” His tunic was way too tight for him anyway. Truly, he had outgrown it over the years. Or rather, his shoulders had. A young fool’s face turned to stone as he watched the Raji’Draq drop his armour on the table under the rank leaders’ pavilion. The strap held three of his best swords, two daggers, a sabre, and an espada. He had dragged the weapons up the mountain under his tunic, and they did a great job of straining his neck on the way. Stretching it briefly to both sides, Aaron started rolling up the leather on the table in front of him. Fleetingly, he glanced at the battle runes he had tattooed on both his arms during his training, wondering if he would need them tonight. Probably not. Then he looked over to the cheeky idiot at the campfire. “Well, what is it? Do you want to put down roots over there, or what?”

Under the tense gaze of his pack, the young warrior now suppressed the last insolence in his chest. Was it because of the dragons about to land behind the arena, carrying a few guardsmen of honour in the saddle? Or because he, despite his size, looked a lot more slender than Aaron after the Raji’Draq had exposed his torso? Whatever it was, the general didn’t really care.

“To the blood, Lord Sion.” The reckless giant got a casual snort in reply. He would soon be able to taste his blood.

After he had professionally tied his long golden mane backwards into a knot, Aaron calmly made his choice of weapon. Well, at least he intended to do so... A few of the first-year students had very clear demands. “Rune Fox! Rune Fox!” they shouted at their general.

Those whelps definitely drank more than they could handle tonight and lounged around in the stands like the gentlemen of the arena. During their overzealous prayer, one of them almost fell off the parapet.

 “If you finally shut up then!” Aaron grumbled back.

Always the same. Legends of his Scimitar, Rune Fox, with which he was said to have once peeled a powerful warlock’s depraved soul out of the bastard’s chest, were still in circulation. It was Parcival’s fault. He knew it wasn’t true when he took a sip from his drinking horn in amusement and glared at Aaron, who had simply slashed the witcher open and torn out his heart. But that didn’t concern the whelps much. Hooting and cheering they were when their warlord gave in to their less than formal request. This limited his second choice quite a bit. Rune Fox was rather large for a sabre. Thus, the general’s two-handed swords were already gone. What remained was a dagger or the rapier. Again, the puppies chattered in his way: “Sanguinar! Take Sanguinar!”

Aaron snorted but grumpily reached for Sanguinar. The espada weighed light in his hand and was also very narrow and agile. Nevertheless, this boys’ choir in the background gradually got on his nerves. “Shut up, I said!” Moodily he spat on the ground whilst fixing some cheeky whelps up there with a flaming look. Only when they fell silent with a cackle did he walk towards the arena with both blades in his hand, closely followed by the juvenile challenger, who had definitely taken his mouth a little too full.

Tumultuous scenes in the arena quickly came to an end when Percival blew his war horn. Merely reluctantly and wolfishly growling the primitive slaughter troops dispersed within the ring. Their retreat revealed a bloody area in the middle of the pit, in which lay a completely exhausted and badly beaten newcomer. His upper arms, his back, oh what, his whole body was cut open by powerful paw blows and completely disfigured. His blood-covered head looked like a damaged pumpkin. One eye was mightily swollen, the other hung half out of its eye socket. Two arbitrators dragged what was left of the guy from the battleground.

In respectable distance, a juvenile giant trudged behind Aaron into the circle of combat. Eyeing him suspiciously, the challenger rammed his broadsword into the sandy ground at the sideline. Parcival did what he did best in the meantime. Demonstratively he stood next to the spot where the poor devil had crouched before and cleared a lost finger out of the way with his foot. Then he looked around, from the campfires up to the grandstand. “Well then, you flat pipes!” His voice echoed like a roundhouse kick into every corner of the arena. “Now that we were able to look at the worst selection of bloody scrubs in duels like every year, may I present to you something with a little more talent for a change,” he announced the next fight. “Our Lord General himself is doing the honours again after almost ten years and has also brought a training dummy with him!”

Laughter was great after his announcement. Just one didn’t find it funny. The young challenger felt humiliated. But instead of crying like a toddler, rage drove him. He tore his clunky broadsword out of the ground and let out a battle cry.

Having supplied their mobile dragon squadron, the guards of honour emphatically threw out the teenagers who had occupied their regular seats in the stands. They always came around midnight, after the beginners had let off steam. Looking up at them, Aaron straightened up. He still knew most of them as his mentors. Like every blood moon, they had just returned from their routine flight over Rayan’s outer borders. It was their job to make sure that none of the blood lusted got too close to Nemesava’s forest lines. An old pact between the two sister matriarchies demanded it. Fortunately, most Rayonaigh stayed away from the border area voluntarily. Nemesava’s nightstriders made sure of that. Their entire edge of the forest was covered with banishing runes, which imprisoned uninvited guests in agony. Captured souls would not be released until they were either acquitted or dead. This made the guard of honour’s work much easier. Nevertheless, the routine flights weren’t a walk in the park. Air in altitude was cold, the weather not always pleasant, and the flying reptiles were no less capricious than the guardsmen at full moon. Dragons and dragon riders alike had to struggle with their hubris under the lunar phenomenon. To put up a good fight and to celebrate the end of the day together with plenty of alcohol therefore was more than their good right. Exhausted, they raised their horns in greeting for Aaron. An honour, even for him. Aware of this, he took the exercises and ritual fighting ceremonies they had taught him all the more seriously. A formal salute in their direction, then he turned to the cheeky challenger: “So then, you mountain of an idiot. Let’s see if you’re suitable for a blood drinker.” Tryingly, the general swung Rune Fox around its own axis, as he first had to get a feel for the sabre again. The broad, curved blade was made of the finest damask. Its handle was wrapped in red linen fabric, which prevented calluses on the hands pretty well. Quite the opposite of Sanguinar. Its grip, made of dark cherry wood, rubbed more or less in the palms, depending on the intensity of the fight. He would have preferred a dagger. But what a man wouldn’t do for the fan community on the cheap seats.

According to tradition, Aaron would’ve bowed before his opponent with his blades held to heart. Time for it wasn’t granted. He lost little time, that giant whelp. Immediately he began to strike with another battle cry—every beginner’s first mistake. His open attack came to nothing. ‘Twas little trouble for Aaron to adeptly dance around the blade of the sword rushing towards him. And while the sword-wielder was still struggling to keep his balance after his sprint attack, the general already countered. Rune Fox did what it was notorious for. A quick, biting stroke at height of the giant’s hip gave him a first taste of the consequences for ponderous footwork in battle. An angry growl he unleashed but forbade himself any cry of pain. Hastily, he stumbled forward, slapping his arm in front of his loin to protect the open cut from excessive blood loss. It did not stop him from another life-weary attack. On the contrary, he stormed towards Aaron again in a rage, as if he hadn’t learned anything. Once again, the general nimbly dodged his attack, this time giving the novice a kick in the buttocks on his stumbling path forward.

“Is that all?” Aaron snarled, visibly disappointed by the lad’s performance so far. “I would have expected a little more, boy.”

If it wasn’t the arena’s war drums sending the newcomer into an angry bloodlust, it certainly was the general’s condescending manner. Maybe it was the mead or wine, too. He had already enjoyed both abundantly in the afternoon. A miracle he was still able to hold his sword in this condition, let alone fight a duel. But to be fair, he didn’t do the latter very professionally. The berserker in him was strong, but not very smart, Aaron figured. Nevertheless, his superior attended his animal transformation with the necessary prudence. The aspirant's anger about being paraded by the lord general only made his animalis break out even faster. He visibly lacked instruction in dealing with this bestial side, characteristic of every Rayonaigh. With wild eyes he tore his head around to Aaron, baring his fangs in blind rage. In this state, he was pretty beefy, the general had to give him that. Unleashed on a Rayan suburb, he would no doubt have stirred it up and done the Blood Drinkers all honour. If only he’d had the necessary restraint to curb his urges and this adolescent desire to prove himself. But as it was, he would unsuccessfully take his anger out on a beast tamer who had already trimmed larger blocks.

Like a raging toddler who, screaming and thrashing, was working towards nothing more than exerting himself excessively, the newcomer appeared. With each futile attack, his wrath grew further, and his form took on more and more monstrous proportions. First, his eyebrows became bushier, then his beard and cheek hair, and finally, after the sixth or seventh failed attempt to land a strike against Aaron, all his upper body hair had turned into thick fur. The boy had completed the first stage of a Rayonaigh’s metamorphosis—the blood fox. Secretly, Aaron had hoped he’d finally get to deal with a dragon blood once more, but very few had mastered the full potential of Arayona’s legacy so far. Such transformation required unimagined forces, exponentially increasing in amount the higher the animal forms of shapeshifting became. And the lad already seemed overwhelmed by it. Yet Aaron would show no leniency, despite the adolescent beast starting to jump.

With the sword still in his claws, the young blood fox heaved it down on his opponent from a great height. With a deafening scream, he smashed the blade into the arena ground, splitting several cobblestones in two. His thundering stab was followed by a no less powerful side blow, hoping to mercilessly clear his lord general out of the way with a sweeper. Unexpectedly, though, Aaron leaped backwards instead of sidewards, which gave him the opportunity to make the monstrous puppy’s shoulder acquainted with a well-aimed blow of Sanguinar’s blade. An agonizing howl resounded through the arena, accompanied by a cheering murmur from the crowd. That blow found substance. Aaron’s lesson was hard to bear for the half-strong, as he tried again and again to inflict a notch on the battle-hardened Raji’Draq in a brutal way only to be rewarded with another deep cut into his flesh each time.

“Come to your senses, boy.” Boiling red the general’s eyes glowed under the blood moon as he watched the fool making himself the laughingstock of the arena.

Aaron was about to get ready for the whelp’s next act of desperation when a voice all too familiar cut through the now silent rows of spectators: “Don’t you think you’re getting a little too old for such banter, dear brer?”

The lord general froze for a moment. Then his gaze wandered swiftly from the blood fox over to the crowd of spectators. They still continued to stare at him, or rather, behind him, where a well-known local legend was casually leaning against one of the stone arches surrounding the Draq’enar’s arena grounds. Another figure one wouldn’t have expected here tonight.

“A... rayon?” Aaron meant to scan the scene for the vocal troublemaker. An extremely ill-considered reaction, because the puppy he had just reprimanded with bloody blows was far from done. Seeing his chance in the distraction, he rushed towards the Raji’Draq again and could have inflicted serious injuries had Aaron not possessed the savvy reflexes that had saved his life so many times before. Nevertheless, he caught a slight stroke of luck from the furry colossus’ broadsword this time round. Deep enough to slit Aaron’s cheek flesh lengthwise. Brash enough for him to finally lose his temper.

In disbelief, the general dropped his weapons and touched his cheek in perplexity as it began to pulsate and fill his mouth with the taste of molten iron. When he pulled his hand from the gaping wound again, he saw only red. A bloody palm in front of his eyes seemed to deform. At first it was only a tremor deep within his chest, then an increasingly insistent quake, until finally sharp claws burst out of his fingertips. Aaron still tried to stop the transformation. But the death-addicted whelp wanted otherwise. Believing himself confident of victory, he intended to add a second strike to his balance. However, approaching the general with his arm extended far in order to hit, he already felt the paw of another fox beast around his throat. It didn’t just grab but dug its claws deep into the wannabe butcher’s neck. Next, there was a strong jerk before the young beast was hurled to the other end of the battleground in a high arc.

In the standing areas of the Draq’enar, youngsters raged violently. Now the lad would experience a real fight among blood foxes. On the touchline, Parcival and Peroy became restless. Not because they feared for the well-being of their fighting brother in arms, but for his self-control. Their fear was justified. Aaron had not activated a single battle rune before the fight began. There was nothing to keep the beast within him in check now. A flaming aura took possession of their friend as he darted after his victim’s trajectory like a cannon projectile. His ruby-red irises saw nothing but prey in front of them. And before his victim could kiss the ground, Aaron had smashed in the guy’s jaw with full force of his flying fist. The novice no longer knew what was happening to him. Rudely he collided with the cobblestones, where a second punch was received from above. He spat blood, and not too little—even more of it when he tried to roll away to the side in panic. Meanwhile, a threatening shadow towered over him.

“Well, look at this. You drink blood quite well already.” Aaron’s voice no longer sounded as rational as before. There was a peculiar touch of madness in it, interrupted only by an impatient growl as he spoke.

“Damn shit.” Parcival flung his drinking horn on the ground. He intended to enter the ring and stop the fight, but Peroy’s hand grabbed him by the upper arm and held him back.

“Are you tired of life?!” Peroy asked. Their leader hadn’t even fully completed his transformation, and his bloodlust already could hardly be stopped. Last time it got this far was the night before Aaron’s wedding. It took three men to free a bruised buck from his throat bite. Out of frustration, the bastard had insulted Aaron’s wife Adra as a dirty whore while drunk due to her having turned him down. After that, the bachelor party came to an abrupt end.

Reproachful and help-seeking at the same time, Parcival and Peroy glanced at the man who had helped prevent his cousin from committing an honour killing back then. How could Arayon interfere in a blood fight like that and derail it when he knew what his cousin was capable of in a fit of rage? And now he stood there, cool as a frostbite, letting the situation run loose.

Arayon rolled his eyes. He knew pretty well how it would end—with or without his involvement. Probably would’ve taken a couple more slaughtered lambs in the ring, but Aaron would’ve gotten there one way or another. After the last incident, he had actually hoped his cousin had become a tad wiser. Alcohol, longing and the blood moon were not a good combination to enter the battleground. He was lucky Arayon was in town at all.

In professional stealth, the commander of the Blood Blades had followed his cousin inconspicuously through the nightly shadows up to the Draq’enar. He might have left his two claymores at home, but his tranquilizer darts and blowgun as always were reliably stored on the inside of his jacket. At last, he pulled out both thanks to the penetrating looks of his old schoolmates. Not a second too late. Had he not fired a dart that very moment, Aaron would’ve still been set about disembowelling the poor guy on the ground in front of him. Tensing one paw to slash the novice’s stomach open, he was about to swing. But before he could complete his assassination, he felt a stinging sensation in his neck. Startled and angry, he looked around for the shooter. Said culprit after all gave up his lookout behind the rows of spectators and strolled down the stone steps to the fighting ring, unimpressed. A crowd forming a corridor for the dreaded Lord of the Draq’enar was the last thing Aaron saw before his vision blurred and he collapsed next to the half-dead beaten initiator.

“Really always have to save your ass, don’t I,” Arayon muttered to himself as he came to a stop next to Aaron. For a moment he looked at his cousin. The two fair haired guys still looked confusingly alike after all this time, with the difference that Arayon usually approached things with much more composure. Also, he had the better beard and slightly more untamed hair, the upper part of which must have been tied into the same man bun of a swordmaster for days. His battle coat however was paired as it should be with the adequate uniform shirt of the Raji’Draq. Overall, Arayon sported an appearance that made his figure resemble an old hermit throwing around stern wisdom on some mountaintop. But right now, his glistening apparition was visibly dimmed by the gasping sound of a creature almost choking on its own blood. “That’s enough now, you rascal,” he spoke tonelessly down to his tormented aspirant, who, suffering from complete exhaustion, was gradually losing his bestial shapeshift. “Let the healers patch you up and pray that you’ll be ready to train again in a few days.”

Now it was Parcival’s cue. Sighing in relief, he scurried like a snow flurry with waving arms to Arayon and the two mock corpses in the ring. “Alright then, guys. You had your fun,” he announced loudly. “Now it’s time for the tap! Go beat each other up in the forest or something.”

His jokes were not so well received by the viewers. They were anything but enthusiastic about the interruption.

“Ayyy, what’s that supposed to mean!”

“Boo!”

“RIGGING!”

“We’re not at yer annual family meeting!”

The audience found clear words for the premature termination of the fight.

“Great job you’ve done there,” Parcival hissed sullenly at Arayon, who in turn, visibly unnerved, had to take a deep breath before personally addressing the audience.

“Right, listen up, aye?!” yelled the lord commander. “This is still MY arena! If you have a problem, come down and I’ll fix your parting with an axe!”

There they were again, the unmistakable blood relations between two  Raji’Draq, whose roar could always be heard the loudest. But the crowd was no longer intimidated by this.

“Shite, man!”

“It’s blood moon!”

“Why do you always have to fuck things up!”

They behaved like toddlers.

“Yeah, yeah, shame on me. Now cut the crap, girls!” Provocative as always, Arayon stirred up the crowd. In the meantime, the violated giant seriously had enough and quietly crawled away from the scene in the background. “Who would’ve guessed you’re all so obsessed with mediocre fights!” Like his cousin, the commander of the Blood Blades rarely was at loss for words, but much more pleased to upset his audience.

“Then be of use, man!” roared a guardsman of honour from the stands, who was far too well supplied with schnapps. The rest of the pack agreed with him via loud roars. Even Peroy and Parcival took part in the theatrical uprising with a smile.

Arayon sighed. “Fine! The next round in the Golden Pheasant is on me!”

After these words, applause was his. Free blood mead was always welcome. Men who did not hold an office in the guard of honour or that of a high-ranking officer were usually short of money in Rubinburgh. This undoubtedly applied to the majority of those gathered.

While the cheering crowd made its way to the exit like a lively avalanche, Arayon picked up his blood brother’s weapons from the ground—excellently accompanied, of course, by marginal comments from the two arena guards.

“You’re lucky even the most bloodthirsty spectators can be fobbed off with alcohol,” Parcival cackled.

“And you’re lucky our mothers were good friends!” Arayon’s bickering sounded unmistakably pissed off. “What did I hire you two for if you regularly turn the Draq’enar into a slaughterhouse?”

Parcival swallowed hard while Peroy chirped: “Oh, come on, Arayon. Don’t act as if you haven’t already dismantled some big jerks here yourself.”

Arayon knew that his lieutenant was speaking truth for once and therefore he remained silent. The respect his soldiers paid him was no coincidence. It was hard-fought for. In forest fights, tournament duels, tavern disputes and all the other confrontations men have in a lifelong trial of strength. But precisely because he had a certain reputation and now felt obliged to act as a role model, he wanted to set a good example for the newcomers. “Now help me to bring this berserk here to the palace,” he grumbled at Peroy and Parcival.

Together they shouldered their sedated general, who had taken on a more mannered and, above all, easier to transport shape again thanks to his stunned state. On the way from the Draq’enar down to the city, a troubled commander was doomed to hear all about his and Aaron’s pranks in detail, which Parcival and Peroy had been meticulously documenting over the years. The stories visibly cheered up Arayon’s mind. This despite the fact that more than just one worry was going through his head. There were reasons why he had been looking for Aaron. But in this state, it was hardly possible to talk to his cousin. And so, the urgent matters had to wait until the Lord of Dragon Peaks had slept off his bloodlust.