Chapter 111: The Dragonkin Joins the Team
Igna stepped out of the prison cell. Wade had the skeletons fetch bread and water—food left behind by the slave traders in the area outside the cells. The undead also found clean towels.
“Thank you.”
The dragon girl drank some water and ate a bit of bread first, then used the cold water to rinse her scales, roughly wiping away the bloodstains and grime on her body.
She rummaged through a storage cabinet near the cave and found bandages, along with medicinal herbs for treating wounds. These slave traders, who frequently subjected demi-humans to corporal punishment, always kept boiled herbal remedies on hand.
With practiced skill, the dragonkin bandaged herself, wrapping white bandages around her limbs. She concealed her scales and pulled a black robe from a hook, slipping it over herself.
Her draconic features were now hidden beneath the clothing. When she pulled up the hood, she looked almost human—provided no one saw her eyes.
Those golden vertical pupils were far too striking. Even without hostility, they gave off an unsettling, dangerous impression.
Judging by her surname, “Flamescale,” she might have red dragon blood flowing through her veins. Yet her scales were a dull gray-white, making it unclear which lineage of dragonborn she belonged to.
From the rumors Wade had heard, pure-blooded dragonborn were immensely powerful—like humanoid dragons, matching true dragons in strength and magical affinity.
An adult dragonborn, even without training, could rival a professional warrior in raw power. They could also effortlessly master low-tier spells aligned with their bloodline.
The biggest difference between dragonborn and true dragons was lifespan. They lived longer than humans, around three hundred years, but paled in comparison to actual dragons.
In legends, those proud dragonborn warriors were synonymous with might. It was said that Oswaldor, one of the Five Saints, could even use transformation magic to take the form of a bronze dragon so vast it blotted out the sky like storm clouds.
But Igna clearly lacked such power. If she were that strong, she wouldn’t have been captured by slave traders in the first place.
Perhaps she was simply too young. Though she’d been imprisoned for a long time, after cleaning her face, she appeared no older than a teenager.
Among dragonborn, she might not even have reached adulthood.
Wade suspected those stories and rumors were exaggerated.
Seeing was believing—practice was the sole criterion for testing truth.
Wade watched as Igna lowered her hood and used a knife to cut off her long hair. Reddish-brown curls fell to the ground, leaving only a practical shoulder-length cut.
Her features were sharp and androgynous, giving her a cool, aloof aura with that short hair.
By Wade’s estimation, if she dressed up in a skirt, she could be quite beautiful—just with an air of unapproachability.
No wonder the slave traders had been reluctant to beat her, resorting to so many chains to prevent self-harm.
A dragonborn girl with striking features? In a merchant’s eyes, she was a goldmine with limitless potential. Countless buyers would go mad for her. Of course they’d treat their cash cow with care, terrified she might scar her face.
She’d mentioned being transported by ship and brought up the “Lizardmen Faction.” The tattoos on those slave traders did resemble some kind of draconic lizard.
She knew who had captured her, understood the continent’s geography, and spoke multiple languages. Surprisingly, this dragonborn seemed educated.
Wade hoped to learn something from her—like why the Icelandic soldiers had come all this way to kill her, or where the ship that transported her was docked. If she arrived by sea, she must know of hidden ports. Maybe Wade could even find nautical charts.
He hadn’t forgotten his own goals. This war was beyond his influence; at best, he could only operate on the fringes, doing what little he could.
A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, but for now, Wade’s focus remained on himself and the secrets of the wasteland.
He wanted to return to Nidran, to Helburg—to visit his own grave. That was where he’d lived for years, where he had acquaintances and friends. If there was any place in this world he could call “home,” it was undoubtedly his little bakery in Helburg.
Even if the shop was rented, it was still his home. And he wanted to go back.
The other matter was waiting for that reunion with the Silver Moon Elf. But that depended on fate. Yulia Silvermoon had spoken of the Second Era—who knew how many millennia ago that was? Wade only knew they were now in the thousand-year-long Eighth Era.
By that math, that elf might well be over ten thousand years old. A reunion promised by an ancient elf could mean decades of waiting. To a being that old, a few decades would pass in the blink of an eye.
Wade could only focus on returning to Nidran. He needed to find a way out of war-torn North Tia, to the central-southern continent, back to that “land of milk and honey.”
Traveling by land was a poor choice with battles raging everywhere. If possible, he’d prefer a sea route.
Those slave traders’ shipping routes were a solid lead. Following them might offer an escape.
Once Igna had finished cleaning up, Wade prepared to question her.
He searched the cave for paper and ink—slave traders at least kept ledgers. Complex dialogue required writing; Mia couldn’t mediate written words for him.
But before Wade could ask, Igna spoke first.
She bowed formally to Wade. “O wandering soul from afar, I beg you to let me travel with you. I have no home, no path forward. Though I’ve lost my combat strength, I am no burden. I’ve read many books and know much of ancient history. I can answer your questions, guide your way, and negotiate with others.”
“I know you are not evil undead. So please, take me with you. If abandoned here, death is all that awaits me.”
“I believe you need someone to lead the way. I can serve that role. In exchange, help me leave this land of turmoil. I still have duties—my kin suffer as I did. I vow to rescue them, and until then, I cannot die.”
Her words were firm, her vertical pupils burning with resolve.
She had courage, unshaken by the skeletons’ ghastly forms, to willingly seek companionship with the undead.
Should he let her join?
As she said, hundreds of miles around lay barren snowfields. Ports and outposts near the Dragon’s Spine were hidden, and Icelandic soldiers still hunted her. Freeing her only to leave her here would be meaningless.
Having helped her this far, he might as well see it through.
Whether her offer stemmed from self-preservation or genuine belief she could aid a group of bones, Wade had never considered abandoning her.
Blood pooled on the ground, forming Wade’s name—his agreement to her joining.
“Wade…” Igna murmured, reading the letters. “Is this your name?”
Wade nodded. The dragonborn knelt on one knee. Him giving his name needed no further explanation.
“Igna Flamescale, a lone dragonborn who has lost her kin, pledges her service to you.”
With the dragonkin now part of the group, Wade turned his gaze to the three Icelandic soldiers.
He still hadn’t decided what to do with them. Then Igna stepped forward with a suggestion.
“Lord Wade, these three are soldiers of Iceland’s army. Letting them go is unwise. If you’re unwilling to kill them, I know the slave traders hid scrolls of slave marks in this cave. With their minds weakened, we can use those scrolls to brand them, controlling their actions and preventing any harm they might cause.”