“Quite,” chuckled Poldo, who had been banished to the far side of the camp after the ill-conceived meal.

“But that just proves my point,” said Thane. “The myth is that I belch out poisonous fumes, and the truth is I use too much garlic and beans in my stew. You can’t trust legends.”

“Not fully,” conceded Poldo. “But the same legends say you can hide yourself as a rock, and that you’re a fierce combatant, and nobody would dispute that. There is some truth in every story, and the Agekeepers say there’s much in the stories of dragons’ might.”

A Wood Gnome clambered up to Poldo’s shoulder and chirruped a question.

“Oh yes, though I don’t remember most of the histories. I recall that the last true dragon on record was when Queen Jorgette of Ruskan sent a small army of adventurers after a young dragon in Faespar back in the Sixth Age. A much smaller army returned with its head.” Poldo turned back to the flyer in his hands. “Sending six heroes into an ancient dragon’s lair… well, I’d be surprised if the guild doesn’t declare them all statistically dead as soon as they set foot in the dungeon. And if the king dies, that leaves ruling to Marja. That would be an undesirable situation by all accounts—including Marja’s, I’d wager.”

“True. But what if the king has found a way to win?” said Thane, helping the Gnome clamber up into the seat of his backpack.

“Even worse,” said Poldo dourly. “People didn’t invest in the Dragon of Wynspar expecting to actually see its hoard. They invested for the exact opposite reason!”

Thane’s face scrunched up as he started down the road. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s counterintuitive,” said Poldo.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s when something doesn’t make any sense, but it’s still how things are,” said the Gnome. “The dragon’s hoard fund is a safe place to store money, an asset that always grows more valuable because no hoard adjustor could ever get close enough to say otherwise. Or it was. Mrs. Hrurk’s analysis says there couldn’t possibly be enough treasure deep in Wynspar to pay everyone out as much as they think they own. Everyone has bought more treasure than there could possibly be.”

The Troll shook his head, nearly dislodging a Wood Gnome who had climbed up for a better view. “That doesn’t make sense either. You’ve always said the banks and investment firms are watching where people invest and how much. You said that’s their job.”

“It is their job. They should be watching the money, but I suspect what they’re all actually doing is watching each other. Everyone assumes everyone else is keeping track. Looking at the competition suffices for due diligence.”

“So it’s counterintuitive,” said Thane.

“No, this time it’s just straightforward stupidity and greed,” muttered Poldo. He glanced back at the northern horizon, where the distant silhouette of Mount Wynspar might have shown were it not for all the trees. “If the dragon falls and it isn’t sitting atop an impossibly large hoard of treasure, a lot of Arth’s businesses will be facing a sea of red ink and a lot of uncomfortable questions.”

“I mean, it don’t make any sense,” Gorm growled. “There ain’t a dragon. Even if he could find the biggest, nastiest drake on Arth and call it a dragon, even he can’t fake a dragon’s hoard!”

“Well, he could claim the hoard was smaller than expected,” said Jynn. “Or say that the dragon’s fire destroyed⁠—”

“He could say the fairy king of thrice-cursed Faespar took it, but a missing giant pile of money gets people askin’ questions!” Gorm leaned against the tower railing and glared down at the procession below them. “Everybody’s got loads invested in that dragon’s hoard. There ain’t any amount of storytellin’ or fancy talk that’s gonna keep people’s attention if all their money up and disappears, right? But the thrice-cursed king just gives that gods-forsaken laugh⁠—”

“Ha haaa!” Johan’s laughter rang out like a trumpet from the middle of the square. Several actual instruments bugled in reply, signaling several wranglers to whip their teams of oxen, pulling the thick chains behind the beasts taut. The chains pulled on a bronze ring held in the mouth of a life-sized dragon’s head, all cast in bronze and mounted on a massive doorway set into the Ridge. Metallic squeals of protest rang out from black iron hinges, each as long and wide as a war-wagon axle, as the Dungeon Gate began to lose its tug-of-war with the beasts of burden toiling in its shadow.

Gorm watched the oxen work from above. He leaned against the thick oak rail at the top of the northern guard tower, a ceremonial crossbow dutifully propped in his hand. “If all Johan’s gonna do is fake a dragon’s death, he’s just buyin’ time before the inevitable. There’s got to be another angle he’s playin’, something else he’s working at. Some reason for the delay.”

“Probably,” agreed Kaitha. “But there’s not much to be done about it yet. If he comes back with no dragon, we’ll be ready to take our story to the nobles and town criers.”

“And if he does manage to find one, we’ll need time to find a new strategy,” said Jynn.

“There’s little we can do but wait,” said the ranger.

“Look! There’s Mountain Thunder!” Heraldin, focused on the ceremony below them, pointed to a party of heroes assembled near the king’s podium. “They got a premium spot. High visibility. Good lighting. Still out of range of thrown produce. And yet we’re stuck up here.”

“It’s because they took down that rock gnurg that came down the mountainside,” said Laruna. “They say if the Great Zen hadn’t gutted the beast it could have broken through the Ridge onto the lower tiers.”

“Fair enough. But it doesn’t explain why Kethador Lounala and the Giant Slayers got top billing. They almost had a party wipe against a griffin last month.” Heraldin scowled down at the young party of heroes positioned at a prime spot. Despite the chill in the morning air, the plaza around the king was packed with nobles, rulers of city-states, prominent business people and officials, and more than a few popular adventuring parties. The elites milled and chatted between the dais that the Golden Dawn stood upon and the well-guarded barricades near the edge of the Dungeon Gate’s plaza. “Half of the heroes down by the stage are thrice-cursed newbloods!”

“Are you actually jealous of people’s position at this farcical event?” Jynn raised an eyebrow askance at the bard.

“Well, I… not jealous, per se. I don’t need to be right next to the king at the center of everyone’s attention, with adoring fans and agents and merchandisers staring at me,” Heraldin said. “But sticking us on top of the watchtower? It’s an insult! We’ll be lucky if anyone in the crowd can even see us up here. No, we’ll be lucky if they don’t!”

The streets beyond the king’s podium teemed with throngs of people, kept from the Dungeon Gate’s plaza by the Golden Dawn’s podium. Men, women, and children of every variety swarmed the streets and rooftops. Eager faces peered from every window. Andarun’s citizens were drawn to spectacle like ravens to a battlefield. With this much of Andarun’s upper crust gathered in one place, people assumed any related event would likely be historic, hilariously embarrassing, or—in the best-case scenario—both.

“It used to be very prestigious to man the guard towers when the Dungeon Gate was opened,” said Kaitha. “I remember being thrilled the first time I was selected.”

“Yes, well, just in case anyone today mistakes being stuck up here for some sort of honor, they put the Shadow Stallions in the southern tower.” Heraldin gestured across the plaza, where five adventurers in mismatched armor were crowded on one side of the ramparts to make room for a Great Eagle perched opposite them.

Jynn perked up at the name. “They must be fairly well-known if I’ve heard of them,” he said. “I recall someone saying they exceeded everyone’s expectations.”

A couple of the Stallions noticed the Heroes of Destiny staring and waved.

“More like outlived them.” Kaitha returned a wave to several of the oddball heroes while speaking out of the side of a smile as big and brittle as a mummer’s mask. “Everyone assumed that any party Jimmy Greensleeves assembled would be wiped by a band of Goblins, but they’ve somehow beat all the odds and managed to achieve mediocrity. Nobody has any idea how.”

Jynn squinted across the plaza. “Is that Elf waving a… fish?”

Gaist raised his eyebrows.

“That’d be Brooker of House Oscogen,” said Heraldin. “He’s the Stallions’ ranger.”

“Self-proclaimed ranger,” interjected Kaitha.

“But why is he holding a fish?” Jynn said, tentatively returning the wave.

“And who’s the Elf with the pink hair?” asked Laruna, nodding to a pale Elf in tattered leathers and long, fuchsia braids.

“Forbiddance of House Virteuth,” said Heraldin. “She’s their thief.”

A confused silence fell over the Heroes of Destiny.

Laruna opened her mouth, then closed it, then tried again. “How does one remain inconspicuous with that hair?”

“It really is a miracle they’ve survived,” said Kaitha through her teeth.

“I see,” Jynn said. “The, ah… the Sun Gnome looks normal enough.” He nodded to a stout woman with skin the color of brick and hair that matched her silver armor.

“Oh yes, Mirara looks normal,” said Kaitha. “And then she opens her mouth and you realize she only speaks Great Eagle.”

The Sun Gnome leaned in toward the giant raptor and emitted a screech loud and piercing enough to be audible over the Dungeon Gate’s rumbling groans. The eagle cocked its head to look at Jynn and hissed.

“And that’s who Johan is comparing us to,” said Heraldin. “He may as well spit in our eye.”

Gorm snorted. His eyes were still locked on the figure parading back and forth in front of the Golden Dawn. The opening gate and the whispering crowd drowned out anything Johan said, but it seemed to Gorm that the king’s speech was drawing to a close when Johan waved his flaming sword in the direction of the dungeon. An eruption of thunderous applause confirmed his suspicions a moment later, and the Golden Dawn began making their way off the stage and toward the dungeon.