"Exactly, my fair lady," the black-bearded dwarf replied with an exaggerated smile, clearly delighted by her engagement. "This is our designated meeting spot. We'll rest here and prepare to rendezvous with Toyef's squad."

  "To hell with Toyef," Jim spat on the ground. "I opposed putting that fool in charge of the escort from the beginning. Ten to one he's passed out drunk in some roadside tavern."

  Walin theatrically spat in response. "You're just jealous he can drink you under the table, Jim. Everyone knows it!"

  "I was feeling ill that day!" the brown-bearded dwarf shot back, fuming.

  "Gentlemen, there's no need for quarreling over such trifles," Fendi attempted to pacify them. "Our need for Mr. Bilinski is quite apparent," Jim glared at him. "It's not because of his drinking, but because he knows more about trebuchets than anyone else."

  "Okay, I can't argue with that," Jim Harad conceded grudgingly, turning away. "The Bilinski family's craft dates back to the Seventh Era—the Era of Rebellion. During the major conflicts that followed, the Bilinski family produced most of the weaponry and armor."

  "—And now this illustrious heir is nothing but a day-drinking sot. There, I've finished your thought," Walin continued needling him.

  "Hmph!"

  Fendi Firshield surveyed their surroundings. "Though Mr. Bilinski chose this area as our rendezvous point, this red-leafed region is vast. Without a more specific landmark, both parties face a challenge."

  Holar Peter Wilton tugged his reins, directing his horse toward a western clearing. "There's our landmark, our meeting symbol," Walin Barklo Vaslov announced proudly, indicating a protruding red rock in the clearing. "Wyrm Ember—or Dragonhorn Rock, call it what you will."

  "That's Wyrm Ember?!" Jim Harad exclaimed, mixing disbelief with excitement. "It's less impressive than I imagined." He recalled various legends from years past. "The red dragon Anrencodil laid her eggs in such a place?"

  "She had little choice," Fendi explained. "Legend says that winter was exceptionally brutal—so cold that even the distant Great Wyrm volcanic range ceased activity, covered by a thin sheet of ice. Under such circumstances, ancient dragons had to seek alternative sanctuaries, either for hibernation or reproduction."

  "Later, a prince of the First Ptolemaick Dynasty—or was the dynasty not yet established? I can't recall. Anyway, the prince coveted a dragon egg and assembled an expedition to Kulen Mountain to bargain with the red dragon. I know this tale," Caroline listened intently, almost forgetting to blink.

  "Unfortunately, Anrencodil answered with dragonfire approaching three thousand degrees. I imagine the expedition initiated negotiations with arrows and swords," Walin remarked sarcastically. "For that mere dragon egg, the Ptolemaick prince sacrificed dozens of expeditions before finally driving the red dragon from her Kulen Mountain lair. If legends speak true, Anrencodil perished atop this very rock—her blood soaking into the stone, her fiery breath staining the surrounding birch leaves crimson."

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  Caroline Tobias tapped Fendi's shoulder and asked, "The red dragon—was she killed by humans?"

  "No, miss," the young dwarf turned to her. "Despite grievous injuries, Anrencodil managed to lay her eggs and conceal them near Wyrm Ember. She chose this location because flight was no longer possible. The red dragon used her magma-hot body to warm the eggs while enduring human harassment and assaults, until her legacy continued—all three eggs successfully hatched."

  "When the hatchlings emerged, the red dragon had but one breath remaining. Upon hearing this, the Ptolemaick prince changed his directive, ordering the expedition to capture at least one young dragon. The three hatchlings lay upon their mother's cooling yet still-warm body, wailing mournfully. Then came the shocking development—the hatchlings began to devour their mother, red dragon Anrencodil's flesh."

  The infant suddenly cried out, and the girl quickly cradled her closer.

  "The hatchlings grew rapidly by consuming Anrencodil's flesh, and though nowhere near their mother's size, they'd already developed true draconic form and presence. After dissolving their mother's remaining flesh and bones, the three young dragons turned their fury upon the humans in vengeance. The expedition warriors, in their so-called 'righteous cause,' vowed to slay these 'evil dragons.' The battle concluded with the near-annihilation of the expedition, yet they managed to capture two juvenile dragons—the youngest pair." Jim Harad, noticing the girl soothing her infant, unconsciously lowered his voice.

  "And humans never learn from their mistakes," Walin Barklo Vaslov continued vividly. "Though they captured the younger siblings, they allowed the eldest to escape. Can you guess what that dragon did upon learning his dying brothers would be dragged before the Ptolemaick prince? He devoured them, just as they had consumed Anrencodil."

  The baby's cries intensified, but Holar remained impassive. By now, the caravan had reached Wyrm Ember's base.

  "Naturally, he paid his price. After consuming his brothers, he became too bloated to move and was captured and presented to the prince," Walin said, dismounting using his specialized stirrups. "The Ptolemaick prince, believing the hatchling dead, furiously berated the expedition members, threatening to burn them alive. But just then..."

  "The hatchling fulfilled his final wish," Jim continued. "That young dragon exploded—likely some internal detonation. Dragonfire consumed the entire royal city. Subsequent Ptolemaick kings had no choice but to relocate—or rather, flee from those ruins. Not until the Second Ptolemaick Dynasty did people begin settling those ruins, gradually establishing a nation—Wyrmδenborn, the Land of Dragons."

  Walin assisted his companions in dismounting. Caroline declined to hand the baby to Fendi, who waited with outstretched arms, choosing to dismount unassisted. "Take the horses somewhere they can rest properly. They've traveled all day—the poor beasts are exhausted," the elder dwarf remarked, removing saddles and wagon harnesses while patting the brown horse's leg. Holar Peter Wilton led the horses toward a small nearby pond. "Oh, nearly forgot. Holar, take this too," Walin indicated a peculiarly shaped stone in the wagon. "Please bring it along."

  "This location is certainly conspicuous, Lord Walin," Jim Harad observed, retrieving rough branches and flint from the wagon. "Perhaps excessively so—any passerby would find it hard to overlook."

  Walin sat beside Wyrm Ember, appearing utterly relaxed. The massive rock was pale yellow with complex, vibrant patterns that seemed incongruous against the barren surroundings. "Few would willingly approach this place, my dear Jim. Legends wield great power, yet remain unreliable. Who can guarantee Anrencodil laid only three eggs rather than four? You wouldn't want to rouse a sleeping dragon's wrath, would you?"

  "Hmph. If dragon eggs truly existed here, someone would have excavated this place entirely by now. Who fears your supposed 'sleeping dragon's wrath'?"

  "I can't speak for others, but you certainly would," the elder dwarf responded, using his arm as a pillow. "Don't wake me up unless you have to, or you'll feel Lord Walin's dwarven wrath."