Tristan was mid-breakfast when his amulet began vibrating. Pulling it out from under his armor, he poured some essence into it as he gently spun his crucible. “I’m here,” he said, swallowing down a bite.

  His grandfather glanced over at him, but seemingly understood what was going on as he pulled out his own family sigil which also had the Archon’s favor clipped into the bottom.

  “I did determine with a very essence-intensive divinity spell that the Winterbloom bloodline…I’m sorry to tell you this…but they are all dead.”

  Tristan dropped his fork into the small herb salad topped with sliced, hardboiled eggs. “What?”

  “You heard me. I checked with two colleagues to make sure my divination spell was not being interfered with by Logos, the Realm Protector of the Thought Realm. I am sorry…this must be devastating.”

  “A whole bloodline,” Tristan whispered. “Every Winterbloom in the Mortal Realm?”

  “Every one of them. Granted, there were only a few hundred of your bloodline – mostly in the capital cities, oddly enough – but I cast a Twelfth Order spell to confirm after receiving my colleagues’ reports. You are the last Winterbloom Elf.”

  “Why would assassins go after an entire bloodline of Elves?!” he said, feeling an outrage and despair at the same time.

  “Is there something special about your bloodline?”

  Then, it struck Tristan. “We…we are naturally authoritative, in some way. Other Elves, it seems like, have to obey the Winterbloom bloodline’s commands.”

  “I will do more digging, but a theory I have is that, perhaps, these assassins know of this capability and do not wish it to manifest. If that is the case, then the only logical group would be other elves who do not wish to be bound by this. Which is strange, because thus far the assassins have been of various races.”

  “But that means father wasn’t involved.”

  “Possibly. He could be involved somehow; perhaps revealing to this group of similarly clothed killers that a Winterbloom elf resided in his household. I’ve heard rumors but haven’t investigated them as I do not have a clear lead like I do with you, that other prominent bloodlines are being hunted down. This could be a wider effort to cull certain bloodlines, but as to what purpose I could only conjecture. I will explore these theories. I must go, our time is about u-” he cut off.

  Tristan sighed and put his amulet down, but then his grandfather held up his amulet and engaged in a brief conversation that Tristan did not listen to, as he slowly went over his salad, moving bits of the leafy vegetables around with his fork. Glancing sideways at Felicity, she had shoved four hardboiled eggs in her mouth and looked quite ridiculous, eliciting a chuckle from Tristan as he reached over and gave her a scratch between the antlers.

  His grandfather cleared his throat, and Tristan looked up at the patriarch of the family. “Tristan…how would you feel about heading out on a real dragon hunt?”

  Tristan smiled a rueful smile, “I’ve already hunted one.”

  “No, you’ve killed one. I mean a real hunt. Going out into the wilds to track down the beast. You haven’t done that yet – and no, hunting this charming, little Felicity does not count.”

  Felicity nodded her head and swallowed down the eggs. “It would be good practice, Tristan.”

  He looked up at his grandfather with a longing look, “I wanted to spend some time here with you.”

  The man chuckled, “Who said you would be going alone?” he lifted his mug and gave Tristan a wink. “The Archon will have a messenger deliver the orders soon enough. It’ll be you and me, out on the open road, just like I did with Bertram for his first dragon hunt, and your father for his.”

  Tristan felt the trepidation at the grim implication of the Archon’s earlier report wash away at the prospect of going out on the road with his grandfather, something he had never done. “When can we leave?”

  The man chuckled, “That’s the spirit. But patience. We shall spend the day here getting ourselves nice and fat, stock up on supplies, enjoy some creature comforts…and then we travel.” He set the mug down, “And this is a big one. Wyrm size…and one I’ve never hunted. A dragon from the Demon Realm…a demonic dragon.”

  The day passed rapidly. Tristan very much enjoyed the time with his grandfather, just sitting on the porch while Hurvun smoked a pipe and regaled him with the story of his most recent hunt. The man also produced a vial from his pocket and handed it to Tristan, “Sadly this last one was just a juvenile – shoddy reports from the outer scouts. But this one we’ll be going after? The report cannot be mistaken, as it came from a very reliable source – one of the King’s head scouts.”

  Tristan turned the vial over in his hands, “What Realm is this one from?”

  “Elemental Realm of Poison. Drink up.”

  Tristan nodded and popped the cork, sucking down the liquid. He doubled over on the chair and winced in pain as his stomach churned. Hurvun laughed, “Hold it in like a bad cup of ale! If you puke, it’s wasted!” He let out a guffaw as he drained a whole flagon of wine.

  The rumbling subsided after a few moments and the cramping pain ceased. Tristan sat up, huffing in breath. “Thanks for getting some for me,” he said between gasps of breath as spittle dripped from his lips.

  “Don’t mention it. I had to bring you back some type of souvenir.”

  “What…what did you do with the body?”

  “I gave it to the king, of course. Dragon scales, hide, meat, claws, teeth – all that stuff is excellent crafting materials for those who know how to work it. How do you think I built our family’s wealth? By selling the corpses of the things I killed.” He slapped his armrest, “Hey, Felicity! You want another flagon?”

  Felicity was sitting nearby on a child-sized chair that Tristan remembered fondly from his nursery. She looked quite humorous, sitting upright with her feet plopped out in front of her, her front paw-claws turned into small hands as she sipped the flagon of red wine. “I’d…” hic, “love more!”

  Hurvun laughed, and Tristan joined in at the ridiculous sight of a plastered fairy dragon.

  The night came rapidly, and Tristan ensured that he stayed in the Fey Realm. Felicity brought back bottles of wine and shared them with her fellow siblings, and they got quite riotous to the point that Tristan had to force them out of his room and continue their drunken revels elsewhere. He got a good night’s sleep, and the next morning had to peel Felicity off the floor outside the front of his room.

  “He…hey!” she grumbled. “No…no one…mandhandles…me…unless I want…them to!” she began making a weird, heaving noise, and Tristan held her to his side as she retched. “Blech!”

  He carried her in his arms up the spiral of the tree center, went to the dirt circle, and spun his essence crucible as he fed the stream of power into his ring, vanishing from the Fey Realm and returning to his room.

  Downstairs, in the foyer, his grandfather was getting all their packs together. Once he had learned about Felicity’s extradimensional storage space, and the fact that Tristan could ensure they rested each night in comfort in the Fey Realm, he had foregone the usual bedrolls and tent to instead pack additional food and alcohol.

  “Ah,” grandfather Hurvun said as he stood up, “How’d you sleep.”

  “Great,” Tristan replied.

  “Horribly,” Felicity mumbled.

  Hurvun let out a guffaw of laughter, “Come on little missy, open up that storage space and let’s get it all loaded up!”

  She did so, and Tristan helped his grandfather load up the space before she let it shut. “Now, invisible, Felicity,” Tristan said softly.

  She held her head with her paw-claws, “Ugh. It hurts.” She vanished from sight to all but Elf blooded folk. Tristan moved her from his arms to the top of his head, and she nestled in between his ears as she began to snore lightly.

  This is why I don’t drink to excess, Tristan thought. Hurvun led him out to the stables and they both mounted gorgeous destriers; actual traveling horses. Tristan immediately removed the bit and bridle from his steed.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Now why do something like that?” Hurvun asked.

  Tristan smiled, “Elves have a natural way with animals.” He leaned into the horse’s face and whispered, “You’ll serve me well, won’t you?” It whinnied in response, and Tristan clambered up before gently guiding it with his legs.

  Hurvun let out an impressed sound, “Huh, look at that. Either you’re a natural horseman, or you aren’t bullshitting me.”

  Tristan cast a mischievous glance at the man, “Who said I’m not both?”

  Hurvun chuckled, “Come on, we have many miles to travel. And it is hot as balls out here. Hottest days are ahead, too. Even with as much Fire dragon blood that I’ve drunk…still is miserable traveling.”

  Tristan smiled and spun his essence crucible, letting the essence vent out of him as he ensured not to let too much out to cause ice, but enough to cool the temperature drastically. The horses seemed agreeable to it as well, and Hurvun smiled. “Full of surprises, aren’t you, boy?”

  “Yes, I am,” Tristan replied. “Come on, old man, we have a journey to set out on.”

  The next five days were some of the best days Tristan could recall in his adult life. The days were spent traveling over the gorgeous grasslands that began to turn to dry shrub as they kept traveling to the arid highlands leading to the mountains of the Gredo Expanse. The nights were spent indulging in Fey Realm culture, with his grandfather even taking a hand at dancing with The Matriarch, to which Felicity felt like she had to show up her mother, shifted into her own elfanoid form, and dragged Tristan to the dance floor as the band played.

  All in all, it was a pleasurable trip.

  His grandfather was constantly giving him lessons as they traveled over the lands of the kingdom of Bhant. Lessons on how to slay dragons, primarily, but also telling him about the small repertoire of dragonbane spells he had developed.

  “Your weapon and armor are the two most important, hence why I commissioned those bloody expensive artificers to make them-”

  “I can make items of artifice myself,” Tristan stated.

  “No shit?” Hurvun asked as he turned on the mount.

  Tristan shook his head, “I am not shitting you.” The vulgar language felt odd in his mouth – his mother had insisted that he speak properly and not curse; and at court he was expected to act as such. But his grandfather, apparently, over the past few years had forgotten. Or perhaps it was because he viewed Tristan as more of a man now, having slain his first dragon.

  “Then remind me to have you make a bunch of arrows-”

  “The quality must be very high. Regular arrows won’t cut it.”

  “Damn. Well, I can investigate that on our return.” The older dragonslayer was covered in armor like Tristan’s, the progenitor of the design. His sword was akin to Gisele’s heavy, chopper-style blade, but had two edges like his father’s Greatsword. “There’s a few more spells you need to be aware of.” He handed Tristan a small, pocket-sized notebook. “I spent some of last night writing down the spells for you. Study those well.”

  Tristan nodded as the horses continued plodding along; the travel group cooled by Tristan’s consistent venting of essence. “What capacity is your essence crucible? Are you a mage? A sorcerer?”

  Hurvun let out a barking laugh, “Mage. I can only do Second Order.” He pointed at the notebook, “But I’ve made up a bunch more. Paid that old adventuring friend, the one I told you about, remember? The wizard who went into the Elemental Realm of Fire with me?”

  “Jacoby the Dim,” Tristan said with a slight smile. “The man you described as a simpleton and yet one of the strongest Archons to exist.”

  Hurvun chuckled, “He was simple, aye, but when it came to essence-weaving? He was unparalleled. Singularly focused. Just had to wave some spicy jerky in his face when you wanted him to do something other than essence-weaving.”

  “Is that why all the spells are in the Standard Tongue?” Tristan asked as he flipped through the notebook. “And why the gestures are so simple?”

  Hurvun nodded, and looked off into the distance, wistfully, “Aye. That’s right. Shame he died. Did I tell you that stor-”

  “Choked on a chicken leg.”

  “Hah! I knew I told you that one.”

  Tristan shot him a mock-disappointed glance, “When I was six.”

  “Well, you were choking on some chicken at the time.”

  “Because I’m a half-elf, and I didn’t like the taste or texture.” He handed the notebook to Felicity who snagged it from his hand and put it into the pocket dimension. I’ll read it later, he thought. “Why have your friend make spells for every Order if you never focused on improving your essence crucible?”

  Hurvun sighed, “I have a shitty essence crucible. Lowest of the low when it comes down to it. I can’t go much beyond my current essence-weaving. So, I focused on my martial talents instead.” He looked over at Tristan, “You remind me of him, sometimes.”

  Tristan frowned, “How?”

  Hurvun grinned, “You have a bit of a cold shoulder!” He let out a laugh, and Felicity giggled a little bit at the bad pun.

  Tristan smirked and shut off his venting essence as he stopped spinning his crucible. The air grew noticeably hotter.

  “Hey! Turn that on again before I pee on your head!” Felicity shouted as she hit her paw-claws against Tristan’s head.

  “Fine,” Tristan said as he mocked her tone of voice, spun his essence crucible once more, and vented his essence into the surrounding air. “Remember, old man, I’m the one keeping you cool in this sweltering heat.

  Hurvun took a swig of his waterskin, “That’s a good lad. Mind making it cooler?”

  The dawn of the sixth day, the first of Building Season and the hottest time of the year, they reached the high, mountain territories on the edge of the kingdom of Bhant. The natural barriers marked a boundary between the kingdom and the mountain-dwelling folk. Half-Broxtar primarily resided in these high fortresses, enormous-sized people like the chef Gertrude Tristan was familiar with, though she was not very Broxtar-blooded, having more Human in her.

  Hurvun led Tristan to a tower that stood at the foot of a mountain pass. It was marked with the banner of the kingdom – a black crown on a crimson field. He waved his symbol overhead, and the gates set within the walls, creating a small perimeter for some interior buildings, ponderously swung open. Some mercenaries of The Black Company sneered at Tristan who had not bothered to hide who he was, but they were overseen by a handful of actual members of the kingdom’s military.

  Hurvun dismounted and walked up to one, clasping the man in a hug. “Barty! It’s good to see you!”

  “Hurvun, you fucking bastard.” He clapped the old man in an embrace. “Up here to solve our dragon problems?”

  “Aww, you know me so well.” Hurvun looked back at Tristan, “This is Tristan, my son’s son, and the person I hope will actually inherit my house after I am rotting in the ground for the worms.”

  This Barty, a swarthy, dark-skinned man who had a few tattoos on his enormous, bulging biceps that necessitated the removal of arm armor, stroked his ornate mustache. He was also shaved bald like grandfather Hurvun, but the top of his head was tattooed as well. “How’d you bugger someone and make an Elf?”

  Hurvun smacked the man on the head as Tristan heard the whispers of the non-Human haters surrounding him thanks to his enhanced senses. “I didn’t make him. Listen properly next time and get the cock out of your ears. He’s my son’s child.”

  “Still doesn’t make sense,” Barty replied as he walked up to Tristan. “How’d you come out a full Elf? Your father do some dark ritual with sacrificing a goat or some shit?”

  Tristan crossed his arms and smiled, “No. My mother was an Elf, my father Human.” He pointed at Hurvun, “Or as much human as you can be with his blood running through you.”

  Barty let out a guffaw of laughter, and clasped Tristan around the shoulder, “You got your grandfather’s sense of humor, lad!” He turned to Hurvun, “Why didn’t your son turn out like this one, eh? This one doesn’t even look like you!”

  Hurvun walked over and smiled at Tristan in a way that filled the young dragonslayer with a sense of pride, “Well, it’s because this one was raised right. Not coddled by his mother.” He met Tristan’s gaze, “Your grandmother was not okay with me taking your father out to train up.”

  “Yeah, she was a right batty witch,” Barty replied. “Always forcing you to go home instead of staying out drinking.”

  Tristan looked at Barty, “How do you know my grandfather?”

  “We adventured together! Him, I, our dim-witted friend Jacoby, our hot camp slut Beckah, and our pack mule, Goob.”

  Tristan cast a wary glance at his grandfather, “A camp what-now?”

  “She was just a hanger-on,” his grandfather replied. “I never indulged. That’s why I’m the only one out of the group who didn’t get the clap.”

  Barty grinned, “Also why he doesn’t have a bunch of bastards running about like me. This one was chaste for his beloved back home. Only, when he got back home, his beloved had become a worry-wart.”

  Hurvun looked up at the mountains wistfully, “I still loved her, despite her coddling my son and worrying for me all the time.” He smiled fondly as if recalling a memory that brought him much joy, and a small tear rolled down his cheek before vanishing into his beard.

  Barty leaned over to Tristan and whispered to him, “This guy. Jeesh. Found his soul mate and loved her to the day she died. What about you, lad? You got a girl of your own?”

  Tristan instantly blushed, “I, erm, well I-”

  “Hurvun! Your desired heir here hasn’t been with a woman!” He let out a laugh before straightening up and casting a suspicious glance at Tristan, “Unless that’s not what you’re into?”

  Tristan shook his head, “No! I just have been busy. Nobles are expected to save themselves for their spouse.”

  “Horse shit! Every nobleman sleeps with the sluts in the capital, ain’t that right, Hurvun?”

  Hurvun shook his head and met Barty’s gaze, “No. Not my family. I made sure of that. Plus, you think my wife would have let Fawkes off of his leash long enough to go to a brothel? No sir. And he kept that same leash on his children.” He gestured to Tristan, “Leave him be; he’s been chasing a fairy dragon for two years.”

  “Two years to hunt a little, insignificant-”

  “I’m going to claw his dick off,” Felicity growled atop Tristan’s head – invisible and unhearable to all except for Tristan.

  “-pesky fairy dragon?”

  Tristan caught the man’s gaze and frowned, “Have you ever fought a fairy dragon? Or seen one?”

  “No,” Barty replied as he returned a look of arrogant cockiness. “But I bet it wouldn’t take me two years to hunt one down.”

  Tristan frowned, “Then you know nothing.” He looked to his grandfather, “We dropped by to say hello to an old friend alone? Or is there some other reason we are here?”

  Hurvun nodded, “Aye, we should get going.” He walked up to Barty and clasped hands with the man, “Come visit me at my fancy estate sometime.”

  Barty smiled, “Anytime, old man.”

  Hurvun let out a laugh and remounted his steed, gesturing for Tristan to do the same. “Take care, old friend.”

  “You too! And lad, keep the old guy from falling off his horse the next time he eyes up a fat-titted Half-Broxtar! Or, better yet, when you see one, kick him off his horse and go get your dick wet! Those huge women are amazing if you just pinch…”

  Tristan’s blush deepened and he spurred his steed on with whispers, as the voice faded into the background, “Faster, faster, get me away fast.”

  Felicity was still growling, “I have half a mind to fly back and rip him apart root and stem!”

  Hurvun rode up to Tristan as they entered the mountain pass which began to slope upward, causing the horses to slow. “Sorry about that, I should have warned you.”

  Tristan took a deep breath to compose himself. “It is alright, grandfather. Let’s just get this dragon.”

  If you liked Tenebroum, you need to read Winchester's newest story. It is so good.