The room was luxurious—at least by the standards of a medieval fantasy village. The bed frame, made of massive dark wood, drew the eye with its precisely carved dragons, which seemed to coil around the bedposts like guardians of the place. Every detail, from the scales covering their bodies to their dagger-sharp claws, was meticulously sculpted, as if the artist had spent long weeks perfecting them.
To the right of the bed stood a double wardrobe with massive, heavy doors that seemed to conceal not just clothing but perhaps secrets of the past as well. Samael wouldn't have been surprised if there was a passage to a mystical realm hidden behind them. After all, he was already in one.
Carved into its surface was an exquisite depiction of a dragon in flight, its wings spread so wide that they almost seemed to extend beyond the edges of the wood. Its eyes, set deep within its wooden face, appeared to watch every movement in the room.
To the left of the bed was a small dresser—more modest than the rest of the furniture, yet just as richly decorated. Its front panels bore an engraving of a young dragon climbing a rocky mountain, as if symbolizing the pursuit of strength and dominance. Even the drawer handles were unique—designed as dragon heads, their open maws appearing to spew invisible flames.
Interestingly, despite the technological backwardness, all the furniture was coated in a dark stain that gave the wood a deep, almost dreamlike sheen. Under one's fingers, it felt both smooth from the perfect polish and subtly textured from the carved details, emphasizing the craftsmanship. The recurring dragon motif imbued the interior with an aura of mysticism and raw power.
The best explanation for such remarkable craftsmanship was magic. The carpenters of this world clearly employed spells that significantly contributed to the creation of such masterful works of art. The wood seemed almost alive, as if every carving, every detail, was the result not only of talent but also of carefully applied magic—enhancing durability and adding elegance to the furniture.
Yet, one question remained—how could such luxury exist in a small village? How could a mere village chief afford such an extravagant room? At that moment, Samael felt a surge of jealousy, fueled by countless speculations about Roger's wealth. How had this man acquired such riches?
Summarizing all the information so far, he concluded that Roger was most likely exploiting the village to its last drop—a rather obvious deduction. However, understanding the exact source of his income remained a challenge.
During his brief walk along the village's main street leading to the chief's estate, Samael recalled a figure that had caught his attention earlier—a gnome. A small man, if he could even be called that. Gnomes were short creatures with rather peculiar appearances—their ears were disproportionately large, almost grotesque, and their eyes seemed too big for their small, childlike skulls, resembling the heads of ten-year-old children.
The particular gnome he had seen was covered in dark dust, as if he had just emerged from the earth's depths. A heavy iron pickaxe rested on his back, his hands were layered with grime, and his clothes bore signs of wear—numerous scuffs and tiny holes, clear marks of hard physical labor.
All signs pointed to the village's main source of income being a mine. That much was almost certain. The gnome he encountered must have been one of the miners. However, Samael had no idea what exactly was being extracted from the mine—gold, silver, or perhaps something far more valuable?
Maybe this very resource, whatever it was, fueled Roger's wealth, allowing him to live in such opulence while the rest of the village had to settle for meager comforts.
The second possibility that came to Samael's mind was the herbalist's hut. The memory of the strong, intense scent of herbs still lingered in his mind. This aroma emanated from one specific hut—a building that stood out among the other impoverished dwellings. This home was one of the few structures that, by the meager standards of the village, could be classified as middle class. That is, as much as such a thing could exist in a poor village where the prospect of a large meal was considered a treasure.
The herbalist's hut was located unusually close to the mayor's residence, which meant that Samael didn't have much time to examine it closely. However, what he did manage to see was enough to pique his curiosity.
Around the hut stood numerous pots filled with herbs of extraordinary appearance. Each plant seemed unique—some had long, narrow leaves with a silvery sheen, while others had twisting stems wrapped in tiny, pulsating flowers that, in daylight, looked almost like living gemstones. There was something mystical about these herbs, as if their very presence suggested they held secrets of powerful magic or rare medicinal properties.
However, what stuck in his memory the most was not the hut itself but the figure sitting on a wooden bench by the entrance. It was unmistakably a woman, though her age was difficult to determine—both due to her unusual appearance and her unknown race.
She looked like a half-dragon. Her face had something almost hypnotic about it—an elongated snout adorned with delicately outlined, small dark red scales that shimmered in the sunlight, resembling a work of art, perfect in its menacing elegance. Her eyes—golden with vertical pupils—seemed to pierce through everything. Samael remembered that gaze well. It was the same look of fear and curiosity he had seen in the other villagers.
The horns that emerged from her head added to her allure. They were slender, perfectly curved, resembling sculptures carved from the finest marble. Samael wondered what it would feel like to brush them with his fingers, to trace their smooth, cool surface. A thought quickly flashed through his mind—a rather indecent one—of grasping them in a more intimate manner.
Her body, though mostly human in shape, radiated a primal strength. She appeared slender but carried an aura of concealed power—her movements were fluid, almost predatory, as if each gesture held the essence of a hunting beast. At least until she noticed him in the company of the mayor. Still, the intensity with which she ground some peculiar plant in her mortar made it clear that she knew exactly what she was doing.
Her attire only deepened his fascination. A greenish dress, lightly clinging to her form, accentuated her perfectly shaped waist, while a white apron added a hint of innocence—a stark contrast to her draconic features. Samael couldn't help but dwell on how contradictory these traits were—the raw, almost wild nature juxtaposed with the delicate refinement of her clothing.
"Damn…" A peculiar thought passed through his mind.
Though there was no doubt that this dragon-woman could play a significant role in his future endeavors, Samael knew that the key to success was expanding his knowledge on his own. If he truly intended to dabble in the art of alchemy—and eventually become one of them—he needed sources of information. She seemed like the perfect starting point.
For a moment, he imagined approaching her, attempting to strike up a conversation. Would her voice be a deep, melodic purr, or would it carry the growl of a dragon? He couldn't stop himself from thinking that her mere presence would undoubtedly stir more than just fascination in him—it would awaken desire. However, instead of indulging in those cravings, he focused on more pragmatic aspects.
Perhaps her hut contained books on the local flora, detailing their properties and uses. In his mind, he could already picture dusty tomes filled with meticulous sketches of plants and notes written in precise, tiny script. Such works would be invaluable, but another question arose: Did she even possess the ability to read and write?
Considering the state of the village, he had to assume that many of its inhabitants were illiterate. A lack of such skills wouldn't surprise him in the slightest, especially under such primitive conditions. But her… she seemed different. Her posture, confidence, and attire suggested that she might possess greater awareness and knowledge than the rest of the village.
"Maybe she knows secrets even I don't understand…" he thought, picturing her in his mind—leaning over a book of herbs, her golden eyes scanning the text with unwavering focus.
If there were no books, Samael would have to prepare for a different approach—extracting knowledge directly from the woman herself. Her experience could prove just as valuable as the oldest tomes. After all, as a half-draconic being, she might possess hereditary memory or instincts beyond the reach of ordinary humans.
Samael was aware that speaking with her would require caution. Such a being did not seem like someone who would easily trust a stranger, especially someone like him—a newcomer with unclear intentions. However, he knew that her knowledge could be crucial for his future actions and perhaps even for the development of his alchemical skills.
He also noticed that while her dragon-like features, majestic golden eyes, and natural aura of dominance suggested a strong and independent personality, the fear in her gaze when she looked at him and the village chief told a different story. That fear betrayed her true nature. Like the rest of the villagers, she was more submissive than one might expect from a being with such an exotic and powerful appearance.
This submissiveness could be both a blessing and an obstacle. On one hand, he had an advantage—his own status, built on manipulating the village chief's perception of his knowledge and abilities, gave him a position he could use to intimidate the woman. It was a card he could play if necessary. However, he also understood that fear could work against him.
Even if he managed to scare her enough to force information out of her, stress and anxiety could impair her ability to think clearly. In such circumstances, she might overlook something or provide incomplete data. Samael couldn't afford such a risk, especially when it came to something as crucial as acquiring knowledge about local plants and their potential applications.
But for now, this was not his priority. Instead, he had to focus on more immediate goals—securing his stay in the village and solidifying his position. At this moment, he had to be not just an alchemist but also a player in this small, provincial political theater. It was clear that Chief Roger was exploiting the village, and his wealth was not merely the result of good fortune. Samael was aware that if he wasn't careful, he could fall into the same web of dependency as the rest of the villagers.
That was why he needed to establish himself in this village as quickly as possible, increase his strength, and assess what steps to take next to secure his future. Everything indicated that time was on his side—at least for now.
For the moment, however, he could only wait. The village chief, clearly pleased with their earlier conversation, had invited Samael to make himself comfortable, adding that in about half an hour, one of the servants would come to lead him to a meal. Samael guessed that during this feast, Roger would reveal at least part of his motives—perhaps the reason why he was so eager to take in a stranger under his roof.
The situation did not yet allow him to act, at least not in the way he wanted. He lacked the proper tools and resources to attempt creating any kind of potion or salve from the herbs he had gathered earlier. For now, he could only relax, though in reality, it was merely an excuse to occupy his mind with something concrete. Various plans raced through his thoughts, but one thing was most important: he had to carefully think through the story he intended to present to Roger.
He didn't even know the name of the kingdom he had found himself in. This lack of knowledge was troubling—dangerous, even—especially in a place where a lie, even a well-crafted one, could cause more harm than good. He had to construct a narrative that not only seemed logical but also allowed him some flexibility. He didn't have all the information yet, and every word he spoke could cost him more than he was willing to pay.
He sank into one of the massive, ornate chairs, which, despite appearances, were quite comfortable. He stared for a moment at the intricate carvings on the backrest—small scenes depicting mythological battles—and allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. He needed to fully understand whom he was dealing with. Roger seemed cunning but also somewhat overconfident. Such people, if played correctly, could be easy to manipulate.
"The story must be credible, but not too detailed. Too many details raise questions. And questions raise suspicions." Samael knew that every moment spent in this village would be a test of his ability to adapt and improvise. However, if he could establish himself here, he would gain a valuable base of operations that could prove crucial to the further realization of his goals.
The clock in his mind counted down until the maid appeared, and Samael smiled slightly to himself. Against all odds, he felt that he was slowly beginning to take control of the situation. Even if he still had many unknowns to solve, the first moves on this chessboard were his.
When the sound of knocking echoed through the room, Samael took a deep breath, knowing it was time to start the show. The last moments spent planning and analyzing had given him confidence—he felt ready for the challenges waiting beyond the door.
"Come in..." he said in a calm tone, both an invitation and a signal that he was in control of the situation.
The door opened slowly, and a maid entered the room. Her appearance momentarily threw him off. It wasn't about her beauty, though she was undeniably stunning. It was the thought of the village itself and its inhabitants that dominated his mind. How many races live in this settlement? he wondered. Why are there so many different species here? The question burned in his head like a hot coal.
Samael glanced at the woman, his gaze immediately analyzing every detail. She was a dark elf—that was undeniable. Long, unkempt white hair fell over her shoulders, speckled with dirt, dust, and small clumps of something that looked like old cobwebs. It was as if she had just returned from cleaning an ancient attic armed with nothing but a brush and dustpan.
Her face, despite the obvious signs of malnutrition and years of abuse, still bore traces of flawless beauty. Her pale violet skin contrasted beautifully with her intensely purple, pupil-less eyes, giving her an almost ethereal appearance. Beneath the layer of neglect, there was a natural elegance, though it was clearly being crushed by her harsh circumstances.
"I wouldn't be surprised if Roger throws in 'night services' as a bonus to her duties..." Samael thought cynically, trying to piece together the story that had led the elf to such a state.
Her attire seemed to confirm his suspicions. A thin, gray shirt barely covered her emaciated body, which, despite its frailty, still carried a subtle allure. On top of that, she wore a kitchen apron—originally white, now stained and worn, evidence of her countless tasks—tightly tied around her waist, further emphasizing her figure.
"Lord Greenboost... is waiting for you." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet Samael detected pure fear in it.
As he stood up, he noticed how she flinched, as if his movement alone posed a threat to her life. It was obvious—the dark elf was a victim of abuse, likely systematic. However, Samael felt no sympathy. That was something he could possibly use later. Instead, her presence and reactions gave him an idea—one that could help him win favor with Roger, the slimy tyrant who undoubtedly reveled in displaying his power over the weak.
"I see. Thank you for the message." He nodded at her with a cold smile—one that could just as easily be mistaken for kindness as for a threat.
The elf quickly turned away, as if she wanted to disappear from his sight as fast as possible. Meanwhile, Samael, preparing for the upcoming conversation, approached the door. It was time to start the game—and he intended to play his role flawlessly.
Samael shut the door to his room and walked down the corridor. From the first step, the sheer opulence struck him—completely out of place in a village surrounded by forests and inhabited by diverse races. Luxurious embroidered carpets lined the floors, while the walls were draped with heavy velvet curtains in deep shades of burgundy and gold. But what stood out the most were the paintings.
Dragons. Dragons everywhere.
Every inch of the walls seemed filled with grand depictions of these legendary beasts. In one painting, a massive black dragon engulfed a village in flames; in another, a golden dragon battled an army of knights, triumphing in a spectacular fashion. There were dragons of all colors, shapes, and sizes—fighting, resting atop hoards of treasure, and even, to his amusement, depicted as guardians of children.
Samael stopped before one particular painting, showing a colossal purple dragon wearing a crown, towering over a crowd of kneeling people. I wonder if Roger sees himself as the dragon in this, or if he imagines the kneeling peasants as his subjects? he thought with a cynical smirk.
He cast another glance down the corridor. The decor was grotesque in its extravagance—gilded stair railings, crystal chandeliers that looked like they were worth more than the entire village, and an overabundance of ornaments, as if Roger was desperately trying to compensate for something.
"Looks like our mayor has a god complex—or at least a dragon one. Wouldn't be surprised if he had a throne somewhere around here covered in fake scales. Pathetic."
It wasn't long before he spotted the dark elf again, waiting at the end of the corridor, right by the doors leading to the lower floor. She stood motionless, head lowered, as if afraid that any word or movement could provoke anger.
"Please follow me..." she said softly, almost in a whisper, before leading the way forward.
Samael followed her, watching her move gracefully despite her obvious fatigue. His thoughts involuntarily returned to his earlier speculations about her story, but he quickly dismissed them. "This is not the time to feel sorry for someone else's fate. Everything will be explained soon."
They descended the wide, spiral staircase, and Samael noticed that as they approached the dining room, the decorations became more ornate and over the top. Eventually, they entered a large room - a dining room that looked more like a banquet hall.
A long, dark wooden table was set with impeccably clean dishes. A large crystal chandelier hung above the table, casting a warm light over the room. More paintings of dragons decorated the walls - this time in scenes of triumph, as if to remind us of power and dominance. At the end of the table sat Roger Greenboost.
The man rose slightly from his chair, greeting Samael with a wide, overly warm smile that seemed almost grotesque in its artificiality.
— Ah, Mr. Blackthorn! Please, please, sit down! I have done everything to make this meal worthy of our special guest! — he said, gesturing to one of the seats closer to him.
Samael approached with a calm step, mentally preparing himself for the conversation that was about to come. "Let's see what this self-proclaimed dragon lover has to say..."
The dining hall was filled with the scent of exotic spices and roasted meat, a fragrance so rich it almost stung Samael's nostrils. On the long table, draped with a velvet cloth embroidered with golden thread, lay dishes straight out of legend. Gigantic haunches, likely from some magical beasts, were roasted to a golden brown and drenched in a thick, ruby-red sauce that shimmered like gemstones in the candlelight. Bowls filled with pickled vegetables in unreal, vivid hues—oranges fading into deep purples, greens that almost glowed—stood beside them. At the center of the table was a plate of creamy stew, its pieces of blue-tinged meat faintly luminescent, as if they came from some mystical sea creature. There were also desserts—pyramids of fruits with iridescent peels resembling precious stones, and delicate cakes layered with golden honey and dusted with silvery sugar powder.
Though Samael maintained a stony expression, he felt a pang of jealousy. It was all excessive. Roger doesn't just want everyone to know he's the richest man in this village. He wants every person who steps into this hall to feel like the poorest wretch alive. And it's working... even on me. But that will change.
Around the table, servants moved with an almost ethereal submissiveness. Each of them was from a different race, as if Roger had deliberately chosen them to showcase his power and influence. One, in particular, caught Samael's eye—a half-human, half-rabbit girl. She had delicate, porcelain skin that contrasted with her long, white ears, which twitched with every step she took. Her small, pink nose quivered slightly, as if she could sense every scent in the room. A strange mix of fear and obedience was painted on her face, only making her presence more striking. Her thin, one-piece nightgown, nearly transparent in the candlelight, clung to her slender frame, the only addition being a simple white kitchen apron, a symbol of her role.
Roger noticed Samael's gaze and smirked, gesturing toward the rabbit-girl.
— Come here, little one.
The girl hesitated but stepped forward. Her movements were nearly silent, but Samael could sense the tension in her posture. Roger grabbed her wrist without ceremony and, with a self-satisfied grin, pulled her onto his lap.
— Don't be afraid, little thing. You're here to entertain us.
As he ate, his free hand wandered shamelessly over her body, stopping on her chest. Samael, though pretending not to notice, felt a growing irritation. Yet his face remained impassive, his gaze cold.
Roger, reading his reaction, grinned wider, almost triumphantly.
— Jealous, aren't you? Don't be shy, boy. Pick one for yourself. They're here to please us. — He gestured toward a group of servants arranging more dishes on the table.
Samael lifted his eyes, barely glancing at the women standing in the corner. After a moment of silence, he responded coolly:
— The dark elf.
Roger raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised, then let out a chuckle.
— Oh, you've got taste. Girl! Come here. — He beckoned to the elf standing in the shadows.
She moved with a grace that seemed almost inhuman. Her sleek, black hair shimmered under the candlelight, cascading over her shoulders, while her ice-blue eyes remained emotionless. Without a word, she approached Samael and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, sat on his lap. Her long, pale fingers barely grazed his arm, a touch both provocative and subtle.
Samael felt her warmth but didn't react. His face remained like stone, though he could tell Roger was watching him closely.
Clearly pleased, Roger leaned back in his chair, swirling a goblet of wine in his hand.
— I knew we were alike, Lord Darkhold. Men like us know what we want, and we take it. — His voice carried a tone of smug satisfaction.
Samael gave him a cold smile, saying nothing.
Roger leaned forward slightly, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
— But I must admit, Lord Blackthorn, I've been wondering... where exactly do you come from? Who were you before you arrived in our village? — he asked, lifting his goblet to his lips, waiting for an answer.
Samael lazily leaned against the comfortable backrest of the chair, feeling the pleasant weight of the dark elf on his lap. Her body perfectly nestled into his torso, and almost instinctively, he ran his hand across her exposed breast, grazing her skin with his fingertip. He felt her warmth, the shiver with each delicate touch. The elf, though seemingly unmoved, lightly bit her lip, as if struggling to hold back a sigh.
Roger tried to ignore the sight, but Samael noticed a slight furrow in his brow and a brief look of embarrassment that crossed his face. Despite this, the nobleman remained calm, his gaze fixed on Samael with intensity.
— It's quite a long story, — Samael began lazily, not stopping his subtle caresses. — I was planning to head out of the village today to gather some herbs. So… when I was young, my parents signed a contract with a little-known alchemist.
Roger raised an eyebrow, casting a scrutinizing glance at Samael, whose fingers were now lazily moving across the Dark Elf's torso.
— I didn't think masters in their fields so easily take on apprentices, especially those from wealthy families, — muttered Roger, folding his hands across the rabbit slave's belly and adjusting his posture slightly as he fidgeted in the chair.
Samael smirked, as if the nobleman had said something incredibly naïve. A mischievous spark lit in his eyes, though his fingers still lazily wandered across the elf's body.
— My master wasn't a patient man, — he continued, his voice darkening. — He believed a true alchemist must know the limits of the human body – both their own and others. He believed that only through the experience of pain could one understand the nature of alchemy.
Roger furrowed his brow, and his fingers nervously tapped the armrest of the chair.
— Pain? My dear sir, alchemy is science, not barbarism!
The nobleman's face twisted in disgust, and his eyes widened slightly, as if Samael had said something absurd. At the same time, Roger nervously adjusted the cuff of his silk shirt, as if that small action could chase away the unpleasant image that had appeared in his mind.
Samael snorted softly, and the elf smiled predatorily, brushing her lips against his neck.
— That's what they say, those who've never watched their own hands burn from a poorly prepared potion… — he retorted, then turned his face toward the elf and lightly touched her skin with his tongue, savoring her reaction. — My master believed that if the student survived their mistakes, it meant they were worthy of further learning. For the first ten years, I lived in his laboratory, where every day could've been my last.
Roger opened his mouth but quickly closed it. He swallowed hard, averting his gaze.
— My God… That's monstrous! Why didn't you report this to the Royal Council or write a letter to your parents?!
His voice trembled slightly, and Samael noticed the nobleman's hands clenching the armrests. It was clear the story had begun to affect his imagination.
Samael smirked.
— Who said I didn't try? — His fingers tightened around the elf's breast, making her let out a soft sigh. — One day, I managed to lower his guard. I was able to open a certain door… a door I thought led to an exit. That's when I discovered my master kept more than just me in the dungeons.
Roger stiffened. He nervously ran his hand over his neck, and his face became a little paler.
— What was in there? — he asked in a lowered voice, as if he didn't want to hear the answer but couldn't help himself.
Samael looked at him through narrowed eyes.
— Creatures… Failed experiments. Bodies that should have died but instead survived. They screamed, begged for death, but their bodies could no longer die. My master called it "the price of knowledge."
Roger leaned back slightly, as if the very tale made him want to increase the distance between himself and the speaker.
— I don't know if I should be listening to this… It's disgusting!
— Maybe so, — Samael replied, shrugging. His hand slid lower down the elf's body, and she smiled predatorily. — But that's the reality of alchemy, Lord Roger. Knowledge isn't just healing potions and transmuting gold. It's also the mistakes that live longer than they should.
Roger wiped sweat from his forehead, unconsciously licking his lips.
— I understand… But you're here. Are you saying your master let you go?
Caution laced his voice, as if his mind couldn't reconcile the image of this "master" with the fact that Samael sat before him, looking entirely composed.
Samael raised the corner of his mouth.
— Let's just say: I completed his training… or rather, its initial part. Not long ago, he gave me a carriage with basic tools, some coins, and the instruction to go out into the world. I was supposed to achieve enough success to catch his attention… and earn a book containing recipes for potions of unmatched power.
Roger exhaled through his nose, as if trying to calm his frazzled nerves.
— That… really is an interesting story, Mr. Blackthorn.
Samael looked at him for a moment, then smirked lazily and returned to playing with the elf, as if the whole conversation had been nothing more than a pleasant interruption. After a moment, he turned his gaze back to the plump nobleman and said:
— You probably already know the end of this story: the carriage, the undead wolves, and I made my way to your interesting village. But now I'm curious: where did it all begin, what's the story?