“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 night air over the Western Marches was freezing, whipped by howling winds that carried the scent of snow and faint, distant smoke. Kira flew low beneath the mountain ridges, her shadow gliding silently across the snow-covered pines.

Below them, the western valley was lit by hundreds of small campfires. The Western Resistance had retreated from the canyon ambush and regrouped at their stronghold in Oakhaven—a massive fortified logging town nestled in the shadow of the crags.

"They're preparing for an assault," Isra said, leaning over the saddle. "Look at those siege lines. Bren is mobilizing every reserve unit he has. He thinks the Empire is about to launch a final push."

"And General Vance's Third Legion is doing the exact same thing five miles east," Dean said grimly. "If both sides march at dawn, the blood bath will be unstoppable."

"We need to talk to Bren first," Isra said. "If I can convince him the ambush was staged by Malakor, he might hold his line."

Dean scoffed. "Bren hates the Empire. He’s spent four years nursing his hatred. Do you really think he'll listen to the man he considers his arch-demon?"

"He won't listen to you," Isra said, turning back to face Dean. "He'll listen to me. But you can't come in with your sword drawn. You have to let me handle this."

Dean hesitated, looking down at the fortified palisades of Oakhaven. Archer watchtowers lined the walls, equipped with heavy, anti-dragon ballistas aimed at the sky.

"If this goes wrong, Isra, they will execute you as a traitor for bringing me here," Dean warned.

"They'll have to get through Kira first," Isra said with a subtle smile.

Kira glided down onto a snow-covered meadow half a mile outside Oakhaven’s main gates. The snow muffled her landing, but the sight of a thirty-ton black dragon sitting in the moonlight immediately set off warning horns along the wooden ramparts of the town.

HORN BLAST! HORN BLAST!

"Hold your fire!" Isra shouted, sliding down Kira’s wing and stepping out into the open snow, raising her hands high. "It's Isra! I have returned!"

Dozens of resistance fighters, clad in fur-lined leather armor and holding long spears, flooded out of the gates, their weapons raised. Leading them was Commander Bren himself, his heavy broadsword drawn, his face twisted in a storm of conflicting emotions.

"Isra!" Bren barked, stopping twenty paces away. "Stand away from that beast! Archery squads, lock onto the dragon!"

Kira let out a low, warning growl, her tail sweeping the snow, but Isra held up a hand, and the dragon went silent, crouching behind her like a protective mountain.

"Bren! Put your weapons down!" Isra called out. "The Empire didn't attack us at the canyon! It was a third party! We were set up!"

Bren stepped forward, his eyes burning with fury. "Set up?! I saw you sitting on that beast beside Emperor Dean! I saw imperial ballistas firing from the cliffs! Over two hundred of our men died in that gorge, Isra! And you come back riding the tyrant's pet?!"

"The tyrant is standing right here, Bren," a voice called out from the shadow of Kira’s wing.

Emperor Dean stepped out into the moonlight. He wore no helmet, his longsword was sheathed at his side, and his hands were open at his waist.

The resistance soldiers gasped, instantly drawing their bowstrings tight.

"Target the Emperor!" Bren screamed, raising his sword. "Fire! Kill him where he stands!"

"STAND DOWN!" Isra shrieked, stepping directly into the line of sight between the archers and Dean.

The archers hesitated, their hands trembling on their bowstrings. Isra was a beloved daughter of the West, a hero who had spent months risking her life on the border paths.

"Isra, move!" Bren yelled. "He has bewitched you!"

"Nobody has bewitched me, Bren!" Isra snapped, pulling the forged imperial logbook from her pack and slamming it down onto a wooden fence post in the snow. "Look at this! Read it! Four years ago, Renth wasn't destroyed on Dean's orders! The orders were forged by Lord Chamberlain Malakor to start this war!"

Bren didn't move. He stared at the book in disbelief. "What nonsense is this? The Empire destroyed Renth! We all saw the burning houses!"

"Because Malakor paid imperial traitors to do it!" Isra shouted, her tears freezing on her cheeks. "He wanted us to fight! He wanted the Empire to spend millions on war supplies so his house could profit! He played us, Bren! He played you, he played Dean, and he used the deaths of our families to make himself rich!"

Dean stepped forward beside Isra. "Commander Bren. I give you my word as the Sovereign of Kalith. I did not order the attack on Renth. My original order was to declare the western valley a neutral trade zone. I was betrayed by my own court."

Bren’s jaw worked silently. He looked at Dean, then at Isra, then at the heavy, official imperial ledger resting on the fence post.

"Even if what you say is true..." Bren said, his voice raspy and shaking, "it doesn't change anything. General Vance has ten thousand heavy legionnaires sitting five miles from here. They are preparing to wipe Oakhaven off the map at dawn. They won't listen to your books or your speeches!"

"They will listen to their Emperor," Dean said, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "If I stand before them with the Imperial Seal and command them to stand down, Vance will obey."

"And if Malakor’s loyalists in the legion attack you before you can speak?" Bren countered.

Isra looked between the two men—the general of the rebellion and the sovereign of the empire.

"Then we don't march as enemies," Isra said, her eyes shining with fierce conviction. "We march together. The Resistance and the Imperial Guard, standing side by side before the Third Legion. We show them that the war is over."

Bren stared at her like she had lost her mind. "You want us to march with the imperial army?"

"I want us to stop dying for a dead man's profit," Isra said softly.

Silence hung over the snowy meadow. The wind howled through the pines, carrying the heavy weight of four years of blood and grief.

Slowly, Commander Bren lowered his broadsword. He looked at his exhausted, war-weary soldiers, then back at Isra.