Tayandarix groaned and shifted beneath cloth of gold sheets, eyes scrunched shut against the possibility of seeing anything other than a pitch black void.

  For long minutes he lay there as the latest in a long line of migraines pressed down on him, boring into his skull and igniting phantom bursts of colour in his otherwise unseeing vision.

  Extreme mana drain sucked worse than scalebies.

  For the past month, the dragon had been almost entirely consigned to his bed - an admittedly lavish place of convalescence, but it had failed to improve the experience. The only times he’d crawled from the covers had been to relieve himself every few days.

  It had been blessedly quiet; the wards on the room kept the rest of the world out, and the attendants that brought him food and water weren’t the mortal kind.

  Thankfully, the {Spectral Servants} and {Bound Familiars} were self-sustaining, and the constructs ran on mana crystals. He hated to think what state the place would have been in otherwise. Dust everywhere. Not to mention the effort it would have taken to recreate them when his reserves had returned.

  Calculating the time it would take and the resources he’d need to duplicate his unthinking workforce kept him busy for another minute, but as the remnants of the migraine faded into a fleeting memory of pain, he couldn’t put things off any longer.

  Weeks of recovery. Inactivity, when Dralmor could scarce spare his might. Thirty days worth of lost spells and runic crafting. Not to mention the legion of golems that had never materialised.

  He slid from a bed large enough to fit a hundred men and slowly forced himself onto all fours, neck stretching with a cracking of bones that sounded more like the snapping of ancient oaks.

  “Oh, that hits the spot.”

  A shake of his head set his neck spines rattling, and then he began to move, covering twenty yards with every footfall. He was recovered enough now to step back into his role, but first, a few small spells to test the waters and prepare. Oh, and he should get dressed too…

  —

  A vaguely humanoid glowing figure handed him a jacket and Tayandarix scoffed.

  “No you imbecile, I said aquamarine; that’s just a bright teal. Try… oh, try looking in the zenorth chamber storage.”

  The familiar hung its head and began to float up to another room, but Tayandarix was already moving onto other matters.

  “The burgundy cravat I think. That matches the fashion this year? Oh why am I asking you, you’re not sapient.”

  Another familiar visibly wilted but the dragon wasn’t bothered. He’d made them that way.

  “Well, get a move on. I want it ready for when I finish breakfast. I’ll eat as myself. Char and cinders, I’m having a whole ox, no, two whole oxen today, and a barrel of wine.”

  He began to move in the direction of the main dining hall, still quadrupedal. He’d adopt a more humanoid, dragonkin guise before he left his palace, but whilst he was alone he’d stretch and relax. Ashes knew he needed it.

  It wasn’t to put off casting the spell to transform for another hour or two.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Definitely not.

  Even without casting a spell, Tayandarix was an innately and powerfully magical being, and the various constructs and bound spells he’d set up to serve him in his private residence were connected to him in subtle ways. He could feel them moving throughout the halls and corridors that made up the gigantic edifice, and calculated he had a few minutes before his morning repast would be served, unless he wanted to intervene directly via magic, which he didn’t.

  Again, not for any particular reason…

  Instead, he turned down a passageway wide enough for three wagons to be drawn abreast and ducked into a three-storey chamber covered in maps and notes and communications.

  The spectral servants that saw to his needs were as advanced as it was possible to make them without having specific Skills, and though he’d made them capable of taking reports and updating charts, they lacked the ability to respond to the officials that had delivered them, or act independently.

  That was what the golems were meant to be for. That and their unparalleled crushing ability.

  True golems - elemental creatures of earth, not the animated constructs that he or [Golemancers] used. It had been ambitious, even for him.

  Then again, circumstances had called for it. He picked up a stack of more than a thousand papers with a telekinetic cantrip and began to flick through their contents as a different part of his brain focused on another matter entirely.

  I really need to thank Vel properly for stepping in whilst I was indisposed. A crate of Iffanian Blue? The Scrolls of Stintannobile? Alnurian diamonds?

  A mental list began to compile itself. He’d need to check if any of her minions had been maimed or killed before he settled on anything, but it was always good to have an idea.

  Idle calculations of reparative presents and the status of the interminable war occupied his mind as he felt the familiars carrying huge platters of steaming beef begin to move from the kitchens, and he let his feet carry him in the direction of the dining hall.

  It mattered what she’d sent to cover for him. He flicked through a few pages worth of updates from the front lines, searching for unfamiliar units. A squadron of jakkal riders with a level 40+ commander. A circle of [Evokers]. A verdant titan? Seasnakes, he’d really have to pull out all the stops to repay this particular favour.

  And, even with the reinforcements, his people had been pushed back.

  He flicked through scores of updates as he entered the hall, following the scent of roast beef. Waves upon waves of reavers had flooded the border with the southern wastes. Casualties up by a fifth compared to the previous month, even with Vel’s aid. He swayed round the protruding chair of the young girl eating an omelette and headed for his dragonform’s accubitum.

  Precisely why I went for golems. If the numbers don’t let up I’ll have to try it again, with Vel’s help this time.

  He settled down, tail tapping as he waited for the servants to ent-

  Wait, hold on. What had he swayed to avoid?

  His gaze rose from the suspended papers he was reading and looked down a table large enough to seat two hundred guests.

  He was alone in his palace. The only living creature for a miles whilst he was recovering, protected by wards strong enough to foil even a level 90 [Thief] or [Archmage].

  Or, he should have been.

  Instead, half way down the exquisitely-laid-out banquet table, sat a child. No more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Skin the colour of almonds. Long, dark wavy hair, unbound but freshly brushed. Large, green eyes staring up at him with an expression so unconcerned that it was almost offensive.

  Her mouth opened.

  “E aí! Curti teu cantinho. Tu é um drag?o? Brigad?o por toda a comida. Teus ajudantes s?o super gente fina, mas n?o souberam me dizer: onde é que eu t?, mano?”

  Tayandarix blinked, then his mouth opened.

  Then it shut again.

  One of the most powerful creatures on the entire planet, able to go claw-to-claw with a voidmaw leviathan and (in theory at least) summon a legion of true golems, was brought up short by a little girl.

  "E aí, tá tudo certo? Eu n?o sabia o que fazer, mas a galera aqui me ajudou a me ajeitar."

  He blinked again, and finally found his voice as the shock of the situation dispelled the lingering hesitancy to utilise the vast arcane power at his command.

  “{Comprehende Linguam}.”

  He replayed her last words in his mind.

  ‘Hey, are you ok? I didn't know what to do but the staff here got me settled.’...

  …what in the name of…

  His head, many times the size of the girl, lowered as he peered closer and looked for traces of spellcraft on her.

  Her head titled as she regarded him back.

  Nothing.

  “Who are you, and how did you enter my home? {Analysi Maxima}.”

  The young girl’s expression shifted, suddenly growing brighter.

  "Heus! Illam partem ultimam intellexi. Nomen meum Emília est. Quod est tuum?"

  That was when Tayndarix fully freaked out, lurching backwards, crushing the incoming {Spectral Servants}... along with two towering platters of beef, a vintage of wine older than some empires, and, worst of all, his breakfast schedule.

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