“I Came to Steal Your Dragon, Not Save Your Empire!” — The Enemy Spy Climbed Onto the Emperor’s War Dragon as His Soldiers Raised Their Crossbows

The Imperial Archives beneath the West Tower were a labyrinth of towering wooden shelves, breathing with the dry, suffocating scent of aged parchment, crumbling wax seals, and centuries of dust. The subterranean vault stretched for miles beneath the volcanic rock of the palace, illuminated only by dim, copper-encased mana lamps that cast long, flickering shadows against the walls.

Captain Valerius stood guard at the heavy oak doors, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes darting down the corridor. "You have one hour, miss. The guard rotation changes at dusk. If Malakor’s men catch us down here without an official imperial decree, even my authority won't save us."

"I don't need an hour," Isra said, already moving down the central aisle, her eyes scanning the carved wooden placards marking each section. "I just need the military logbooks for the Western Sector, Fourth Year of the Current Epoch."

She moved with frantic efficiency. For six months, she had memorized imperial filing codes from stolen patrol ledgers. She knew the empire was obsessively bureaucratic—every arrow shot, every ration distributed, every patrol route ordered was logged in duplicate.

She reached the section labeled Western Marches - Military Directives. Thousands of leather-bound volumes lined the shelves from floor to ceiling.

Isra dragged a rolling wooden ladder across the floor, climbed four rungs, and began pulling down dusty tomographs.

Logbook 412: Spring Patrols. Nothing. Logbook 413: Troop Reassignments. Nothing out of the ordinary.

She pulled Logbook 415: Tactical Orders - Sector 7. Renth fell into Sector 7.

Her hands trembled as she laid the heavy book on a wooden reading desk and flipped open the brass clasp. The pages were yellowed, written in the sharp, spidery script of imperial military scribes. She flipped to the month of the massacre.

There it was.

Operation Crimson Dawn: Clearing of Sector 7-B.

Isra’s eyes scanned the page, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. According to the entry, the order to march on Renth had been issued by Emperor Dean himself, bearing his personal wax seal and signature.

"No..." Isra whispered, her eyes filling with tears of betrayal and rage. "He lied to me. He signed it."

She slumped against the desk, her stomach turning to iron. The emperor had stood on the ridge, looking into her eyes with apparent sincerity, playing the noble monarch ignorant of his generals' cruelty. It had all been a performance.

Wait.

Isra’s logical, analytical mind—the mind that had spent six months uncovering Kira’s patrol patterns—forced her to look closer. She pulled a small magnifying glass from her satchel and held it over the Emperor's signature.

The ink of the signature was dark, rich, and well-preserved. But the ink of the text describing the order was slightly faded, bearing a brownish tint characteristic of oak-gall ink used four years ago.

The signature had been placed on the page recently.

Isra leaned closer, scraping her thumbnail lightly over the wax seal. The red wax flaked away far too easily—it hadn't fully cured over years; it was fresh, soft resin.

"It’s a forgery," Isra breathed.

She quickly flipped back several pages to the original entries for that month. Beneath the modern forgery, she saw thin, faded traces of scraped parchment. Someone had used an iron blade to carefully scrape away the original entry and overwrite it with the order to attack Renth.

Isra reached into her pack, pulled out her own hand-drawn border map, and laid it beside the logbook. She held the scraped page up to the dim light of the mana lamp. In the thin parchment, illuminated from behind, the ghost of the erased letters became faintly visible.

Original Order: Redeploy Third Legion to East Watch. Avoid Renth Valley. Sector designated as Neutral Trade Zone.

Isra gasped. The original order signed by Dean four years ago had explicitly forbidden imperial forces from entering Renth. Someone had erased that order, forged a new one commanding the destruction of the village, and sealed it with a stolen imperial stamp.

"Who altered the page?" a cold, smooth voice echoed from the shadows behind her.

Isra spun around, clutching the logbook to her chest.

Standing at the end of the aisle was not Captain Valerius, but a tall, slender man wrapped in high-collared velvet robes of royal purple and gold. His face was sharp, pale, and completely devoid of emotion. Behind him stood six heavy palace guards wearing grey surcoats—the same grey surcoats worn by the shooters on the canyon cliffs.

Lord Chamberlain Malakor.

Captain Valerius lay unconscious on the stone floor behind them, a pool of dark blood slowly spreading from his head.

"A clever little rat from the west," Malakor said smoothly, stepping over Valerius’s still form. "I must admit, I didn't expect Dean to return from the border with an enemy spy in tow. But then, Dean has always been soft. He lacks the ruthlessness required to truly rule an empire."

"You forged the orders," Isra said, stepping back until her spine hit the heavy wooden bookshelf. "You ordered the massacre at Renth. You started this entire war!"

Malakor smiled, a thin, cruel line. "Started it? My dear girl, I saved the empire’s economy. Do you have any idea how much profit is made from war? The iron foundries, the grain contracts, the weapons manufacturing, the land seizures... Peace is terrible for business. Four years ago, Dean was going to sign a permanent border treaty with your western chiefs. He was going to give away the mining rights to the Spine Mountains!"

"So you slaughtered my village to provoke the Resistance into fighting back!" Isra screamed, her voice shaking with rage.

"And it worked brilliantly," Malakor replied calmly, raising a hand. His guards drew their shortswords. "Bren took the bait, Dean was forced to defend his border, and for four years, my house has grown richer than the Crown itself. And now, thanks to your little stunt at the ridge, Dean is currently being arrested for high treason in the council chamber."

Isra’s blood ran cold. "What?"

"Did you really think he could just walk into my council room and demand my head?" Malakor chuckled softly. "I have thirty high lords in that room who owe their fortunes to my war contracts. The moment Dean walked in without his dragon, I declared him unfit to rule—driven mad by western blood magic. My guards disarmed him ten minutes ago."

Malakor held out his hand. "Give me the logbook, girl. You've played your part in history. Now it's time to close the book."

Isra looked at the heavy logbook in her hands, then at the narrow gap between the shelves behind Malakor. She was an enemy spy, trained in mountain survival, agility, and quick thinking. She didn't belong in a throne room, but she knew how to run.

"If you want the book," Isra said, her eyes flashing, "you'll have to ask the dragon!"

With a violent roar of effort, Isra hurled the heavy ten-pound logbook directly into Malakor’s face.

The heavy leather cover smashed into his nose with a sickening crunch. Malakor shrieked in pain, stumbling backward into his guards.

Isra didn't hesitate. She grabbed a metal oil lamp from the desk, smashed it against the wooden ladder, and threw the flickering flame onto the dry, dusty tapestries hanging along the aisle.

Instantly, a wall of bright, orange fire erupted between her and the guards.