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Axburg was not large enough to have a proper library. What it did have, however, was nobility. Poz made his way through the streets to the manor of Baron Xayant. He drew some stares as he did, stares of a different flavor than the ones he’d garnered the night before. Last night he had been a symbol of the towns turned fortunes, a wretched creature. Humans knew little of the Depths, and likely believed by now that most of the Underfolk were like Poz had been, reduced to eating naught but bats and bugs. He had been a symbol of what they saw as the fate of the Underfolk they had once relied upon.

Now, striding through the streets with the regal bearing offered by crowflesh, he was getting a mixture of hope and resentment. He understood both – hope that he meant the return of the Underfolk, and resentment at wondering where they had been for the last sixteen years. You should turn that latter look to your new gods, he thought. We did not flee from you.

At least, Poz assumed. He had to admit to himself that he knew little of what had driven the Underfolk to forsake the sun completely. A mystery for another day. Poz reminded himself.

Ahead of him loomed the Baron’s manor. It had once been a majestic building, a four storied structure with the sloped roofs of the Zhomin dynasty. Poz remembered seeing it during the first days of exile, when his mind still burned with the intelligence granted by his crime. Back then, the walls had been painted in brilliant white inlaid with gold wires that glowed like the sun the humans loved so much.

Now, those white walls were peeling to show the wood beneath. The gold was tarnished, and did not shine at all. You’d think the Alohym would want to maintain the fiction the nobles still held power. Perhaps it was a sign of their displeasure. Rumor was that Xayant’s eldest son had fled to join the Resistance under the Dragon Princess. Poz wasn’t sure how well founded those rumors were. Every time someone went missing, they were said to have joined the Resistance.

To his mind, it was more likely that the majority of them had disappeared into the bowels of some Alohym dungeon.

A guard held up a hand as Poz approached. “State your…”

The final word died on his lip as he looked up and saw Poz standing there, his skin as black as a crow’s feathers. Crowflesh offered narrower eyes than what Poz was forced to rely upon before, closer to the size of the humans of this region, and his massive ears had shrunk down to the long tufts of feathers. Humans often found Crowflesh intimidating, which had always amused him. This guard could likely beat him to death with minimal effort, but fear would keep him from doing so.

“My apologies,” the guard said, recovering from his shock. He touched his fingers to his forehead, a gesture of respect humans had adopted from the Underfolk. When he spoke next, he did so in Poz’s language. Human tongues never could quite form all the sounds, but Poz appreciated the gesture. “I am Calop, watcher of grass. My debt owner will pray to you to bless us with knowledge of why you are.”

“Thank you, Calop,” Poz said, after figuring out the guard had meant I am Calop, guardian of these grounds. My master will wish to know more of the reason for your visit. “We can continue in your language if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Calop said with an appreciative nod.

“You’re most welcome. I know how hard our language is on your throats. And I’m here because I wish to access your master’s book stores.”

Calop nodded and knocked on the guardhouse behind him. “I’m certain he will be happy to allow you to pursue them at your leisure. It’s been some time since your kind walked these lands.”

“Far too long,” Poz agreed.

A few minutes later, Calop was leading Poz through the manor, apologizing profusely that Xayant was unavailable to meet him. Poz assured the man that it was no concern, although his mind turned furiously over the possible causes. Were there Alohym representatives here? That would be the worst possible scenario. Forgotten Gods, I know by breaking your Laws I will never be welcome into the Darkness. But if my work before earned me any remaining credit, I would beg of you; let that not be the case.

Of course, praying at all was blasphemy for Poz. He was damned. Which, as far as Poz could reason, meant there was no risk to further blasphemy. No Forgotten Priests walked the surface to punish him further, and the Forgotten Gods could not double-damn him. In a way, breaking the final restriction and eating crowflesh had liberated Poz. Now he was free from any restrictions of his faith, since he could not be damned further. He could even…no. Not that again. You went too far.

Being so close to the Wilds meant the Barony of Axburg was very concerned with the habits of the creatures that lurked beyond its borders. The next few hours Poz sent in silence, save for when a servant brought him more crow, reading on dragons. The crow was fresh and had been cooked with ginger, which Poz had relished in eating. It was never the same pickled.

The golden egg, it seemed, was left behind by any dragon when it died. Its exact purpose was one of eternal debate by human scholars. Some believed that it was how dragons reproduced, although since other texts referred to it being passed on to a dragon’s children, Poz thought that one unlikely. Others believed it was not truly an egg, in spite of its shape, but rather the actual embodiment of the dragon’s heart. Poz found a reference to a particular scholar, Ghrolid the Mad, who believed that the golden egg allowed the dragon to be reborn. Given that he had earned the appellation “the Mad,” Poz found that theory unlikely. There was a theory by Karlina dav’Ohlim that the egg could be used by dragons to create an elixir of immortality.

Poz rubbed his temples in thought. There was no agreement, no consensus. What was agreed upon was that dragons would protect golden eggs with brutal efficiency. Karlina and Ghrolid agreed that the Immolation Wars had been started when the Black Emperor had obtained a Golden Egg. If dragons had not been near-extinct, Poz would have had an entire flight of young dragons descending upon him days ago.

Now there was only one dragon, a half-human. I don’t believe she’ll not seek me out, Poz thought, feeling some of the despondence that had weighed on him when he’d been relying upon Grubflesh. It was bad enough that the Alohym hunted him with some strange half-man, half-Alohym monstrosity. He’d also have to contend with a dragon’s wrath.

No answers. Only more questions. Poz resolved to stay in the library until the master of this manor would see him. He didn’t need the knowledge stored in dusty tomes to resolve his current predicament.

Right now, what he needed what was happening now. Because as troublesome as the egg was, Poz was beginning to a path to salvation from it. Two possible ones, in fact. One involved giving it to the right people as it was now. The other, however, was far riskier. If it hatches…

Eating Manflesh, even if it had been freely gifted to him, had earned Poz exile from his home. It had also given him unrivaled intelligence for a time, a mind so sharp he could now barely understand his own discoveries during that time.

What would he gain from a creature born of a dragon’s heart? And even if it was freely given, could I ever forgive myself for taking it?

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