Reconsiled

Deimos awoke as the stars rolled across the sky, visible through the glass ceiling of the queen's quarters in Eclipse Keep. The castle was a monument worthy of his mother, an ancient dragon of unmatched glory. What a wonderful life she must have had, waking up to the swirling pinks, blues, and purples staining the night sky.
Rising from the small pool that served as his pond, water cascaded off Deimos's scales. Sleeping in the low gravity of water had never occurred to him before, but the results were undeniable—he was incredibly well-rested. As he slinked across the bedroom, his gaze swept over rows of bookshelves. He had been reading for days, yet he hadn’t even made a dent in the vast hoard of books.
The architecture of the castle, built for dragons, never ceased to baffle Deimos the more he explored. The ceilings were so high that he would have to fly to touch the glass and marble above. There were ledges leading to other corridors, yet no place in the palace was unreachable for a human, thanks to stairs and a series of lifts rigged with chains and sandbags. But he couldn’t help noticing how lifeless the castle was—no scurrying maids, no noblemen walking the halls. The palace had been designed to house many dragons and humanoids alike, but now it stood empty.
Deimos leaped from a ledge, his wings catching the air and gently landing him in what appeared to be the main hall. A massive marble pedestal loomed before him, as large as the one from which King Helios himself ruled—a throne. Each day he returned to marvel at it, but he hadn’t yet dared to climb the steps and take his seat. Once, his mother had curled atop this throne, her massive tail spilling down the steps. Now, Deimos barely filled a quarter of the space.
He knew he couldn’t just hide away and read, as tempting as it was. He had to be the lord of the nightlands. With a deep breath, he ascended to his mother’s throne and stood tall, gazing across the vast room. Was he supposed to feel different now? Elevated? Important? He knew it was foolish to expect the answers to come flooding in just because he had taken his seat of power, but he couldn’t help hoping for some kind of grand revelation.
Just as he was about to step down and return to his books, the sound of footsteps echoed across the marble floors. The main doors before him were closed, yet someone was here.
“Hello?” Deimos called, his head tilting as if to peer around the black marble pillars.
“Y-Yes, milord?” a mousy voice squeaked from the shadows, as the footsteps came to a halt.
“I am sorry, but I just wish to know who has been scurrying around my castle. I was under the assumption I was alone.” Deimos settled down, lowering onto his haunches before lying on the throne as King Helios had done.
“Do… you wish to be alone?” the voice asked, still hidden in the hall.
Deimos was silent for a moment, tapping a claw against the marble. “If I’m honest, no. I fear that if I am left alone to read too long, I may never leave again,” he jested, and an audible sigh of relief echoed from the hall.
“Thank god, you really are your mother’s son,” the voice replied, closer now as the footsteps resumed. From a side hallway, a young elven man trotted forward, carrying a large book bound in red leather. He was tall and thin, with a rather mousy face. His robes, though once fine, were now fraying at the seams, and the hems of the sleeves were beginning to come unstitched. “Hello, Deimos. My, how you’ve grown.”
“I... wait. I know you,” Deimos said, recognition dawning the longer he gazed at the man’s face.
“You do! Or rather, your mother did. I was her steward for the last hundred years. The last time I saw you, you’d barely hatched.” The man shifted before opening his book. “It was, in fact, my idea to hide you among the humans. The last time we met, I was placing you on those nice people’s doorstep, hoping and praying I’d chosen well. Did I?”
Deimos searched his memory before the realization hit him. “Farlane? Yes, you chose very well. Kathy and Bill are wonderful parents. I don’t think you could have picked a better pair.”
The elf smiled, setting his book down. “Glad to hear it, and glad my name hasn’t faded from your memory. But now that I see you are no tyrant or terror, we have much to discuss.”
Deimos tilted his head, leaning forward to get a better look at the elf, who began digging into his pockets. One by one, he produced small rolls of parchment, each the width of a finger and tied with string and wax seals. The dragon's eyes narrowed questioningly as the pile of scrolls grew with each retrieval.
“What are those?”
“Grievances, petitions, and complaints, my lord,” Farlane replied, folding his arms as he stared at the pile of thirty or so papers. “And this is just from this week.”
“How are there already this many complaints? I only took control two days ago. And who’s complaining?” Deimos asked, standing in shock as his tail lashed behind him. He knew things were bad, but not this bad. His shock deepened as Farlane suddenly burst into laughter.
“Oh—oh, I’m sorry, my lord,” the elf said, wiping a tear from his eye. “It’s like seeing your mother reincarnated. No, no, these complaints aren’t about you. They’re almost entirely about Lord Angos’ decrees. I don’t believe most settlements here even know you’ve taken the seat yet.”
Farlane knelt to gather the scrolls again, but Deimos, still processing, asked, “So... Angos was a bad lord paramount, then?”
He had his suspicions, based solely on the appearance of the bloated dragon, but part of him had hoped Angos had at least taken care of things in his lineage’s short absence.
“It wasn’t that he was bad at ruling, more that he simply didn’t rule,” Farlane explained, ducking his head in a shameful bow. “He gorged on livestock, taxed the people into oblivion, and fathered so many bastards I suspect every other young male dragon is likely the same shade of sapphire. While your return is fortuitous, I’m afraid your kingdom is on the verge of collapse.”
Deimos paused, assessing the elf. A pit of rage and sorrow settled in his stomach. What good was a kingdom if it was going to continue shriveling and dying? “Oh.” He sat back on his haunches, deep in thought. “Well, I suppose we’d better get started on fixing it, then... that is, if you’re willing to remain my steward?”
A twinkle of delight animated the elf as he stood a little straighter. “Oh, of course! Your mother was a dear friend, almost like family to me. I was hoping to ask exactly that, but I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. I also have a rather... um... uncomfortable request.”
Deimos stared for a moment before giving a nod for him to continue.
“See, I was technically Angos’ steward as well," Farlane began. "But, along with running the kingdom into the ground, he also slashed my wages to practically nothing—”
“Say no more, Farlane,” Deimos interrupted. “I don’t intend to be a slaver. How much was my mother paying you for your services?”
“Roughly 200 silver a month.”
“You’ll get 300, for the trouble Angos caused and for helping me,” Deimos said firmly. “I’m afraid I’m clueless about the state of things. Would you mind enlightening me on what I need to handle first?”
With a wide smile and a bow, the elf flipped open his book and turned through the dusty pages. “I’d say the biggest current issue is the state of the mines. Angos ordered maximum silver production but didn’t allocate any of the income for maintenance. The mine’s now too dangerous to operate, so when the silver stopped flowing into his hoard, Angos raised taxes. Rumor has it no one can so much as breathe without being taxed a silver piece to Lord Angos. This poverty has led to peasant revolts and a rise in bandit activity. And if you factor in the complete neglect of infrastructure, the nightlands have been an example of impoverished anarchy for the last twenty years.” Farlane let out a breath as his little rant tapered off.
Deimos nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, so the big issues are mines, money, and unrest.” He began pacing. “What would it take to repair the mines?”
Farlane paused, flipping back through his book. When he reached the front cover, he raised a finger to signal a pause, then reached up his coat sleeve, producing yet another large leather-bound book from seemingly nowhere. He continued searching through the pages, while Deimos just stared, wondering how many other things the elf had hidden up his magic sleeves.
“The last inspection was ten years ago,” Farlane said finally, “and the estimate was 4,800 silver for repairs. But that was ten years ago, and the damage is likely much worse by now.”
Deimos descended the steps of his throne. “Send another inspector. That’s my first priority—everything we have goes toward getting the mines functional again.” His mind raced, trying to figure out how on earth he’d get that kind of coin. 4,800 silver was the total wealth of some lesser nobles, and given the two decades of mismanagement, he’d be surprised if he had even a single silver left to his name. Then an idea struck him, and he stopped in his tracks.
“How much was Angos’ hoard worth?”
Farlane paused, lost in thought, then gave up searching his memory and pulled out yet another book.
“How are you planning to move that money, anyway?” Farlane asked as he leafed through the pages.
“I was going to send wagons,” Deimos replied.
“Well, that hoard was worth 60,000 silver,” Farlane said, slamming the book shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. “But you won’t see a single silver if you send wagons. The roads are so riddled with bandits that the moment they leave Goros, they’ll be robbed. And you don’t have the silver to hire the kind of mercenaries it would take to protect them.”
Deimos processed this, thinking through several possibilities before suddenly laughing. “Oh, don’t worry, Farlane. I’ve got something much better than any mercenaries money can buy.”
He knew his Jordans could easily be persuaded, and once one was convinced, the other would follow. And gods help any bandit who thought they could win that fight.
“I’ll send the Jordans,” Deimos said confidently. “And once they’re on the job, there won’t be any bandits left. Problem solved. That’s a good chunk of the mine money.”
Deimos began walking again as the steward scurried behind him, clutching his book to his chest. “The Jordans?” Farlane asked, trying to keep up.
“Trust me, those two can handle more than just bandits. They could probably take on some of the stronger dragons here, too. Honestly, they’re overkill for the job, but I’m confident every bit of silver will make it here. All it’ll cost me is batting my eyelashes at one of them and cooking a really good dinner for the other.” Deimos continued his stride toward the garden, lush with blooms that faced the evening sky.
“Right,” Farlane panted, struggling to catch his breath. “So where are you going now?”
“We’re going to announce my rule and hopefully put a stop to the unrest,” Deimos replied. “Whatever you’re doing on Sunday, clear it. We’re holding court.”
XXXXX
As night descended, a group of peasants grumbled in the streets of a fairly sizable village. They were dirty, hungry, and every building around them seemed on the verge of collapse, held together by sheer will. A line formed as the villagers awaited their meager dinner of thin soup and hardtack made from the last of the previous year's grain harvest.
The cook’s ladle scraped the bottom of the kettle, spooning smaller portions into each bowl. The hopeful expressions of the villagers quickly turned to defeat, then to ferocious anger. A dispute about who had been in line first devolved into a full riot. Fists flew, and the kettle was knocked over, spilling what little food there was into the mud. Amid the chaos, the sound of a dragon’s approach went unnoticed.
The roar of the lord paramount of the nightlands shattered the sky, bringing the riot to a screeching halt. His obsidian wings were nearly invisible against the night, but his descent to the torchlit village center was impossible to ignore. Deimos trilled again, demanding respect as the villagers dropped to their knees in terror. The sight was pitiful to him—these people looked absolutely wretched. His wing lowered to allow Farlane to step off his back.
“Bring us your castellan!” Farlane called out. “Angos is dead! The lord of the nightlands has returned!” Despite the announcement, the peasants exchanged glances with little reaction—neither cheers nor boos, just indifference.
A man approached, slightly better fed than the others. He was the castellan. Deimos’s tail lashed as he took in the man’s appearance.
“Your name?” Deimos asked, hoping the man spoke Draconic.
“Davi, Ma-lord,” the castellan replied, his Draconic broken but understandable.
“Right, Davi. We are holding court at noon on Sunday. Gather no more than three of the most important petitions from your village and the three nearest villages, so you can be heard,” Deimos instructed.
“Court?” The man squinted, looking at Farlane with confusion. “What’s that?”
Deimos raised an eyebrow and glanced at the elf. None of the other villages had reacted this way.
“Sir, the lord wishes to remedy any grievances your village may have,” Farlane began.
The castellan interrupted, “Well, we gots plenty of those. The water supply’s foul, our fields—”
“Sir,” Farlane cut in. “Bring a list of the biggest three grievances on Sunday. We’ll see to it that a solution is reached. Good day, sir!” He climbed back onto Deimos’s back, while the dragon cast a pitiful glance at the village. He hadn’t seen such desperation in any of the other places they had visited.
Taking to the skies, Deimos banked toward the forest, dipping down to snatch an unsuspecting moose. His teeth latched onto its throat, and he swiftly dispatched it. Hovering over the village, he dropped the carcass into the center before turning home.