Chapter 17

As the last echoes of the assault party's footsteps faded into the distance, Lermullo let out a low, rumbling chuckle. The sound reverberated through the cavern, mingling with the clinking of gold coins as he shifted his massive form. His glowing blue eyes narrowed with amusement, and his lips curled into a sly, toothy grin.

"Humans," he muttered to himself, his voice dripping with mockery. "So easy to deceive. So eager to believe in their own importance."

He stretched his wings, the motion sending a cascade of treasures sliding down the mountain of gold he lounged upon. The spear Arthur now carried—the so-called "artifact of the first king"—was nothing more than a trinket he'd scavenged centuries ago. A relic from an ancient dwarven kingdom, one of many treasures he'd claimed after they'd foolishly tried to pissed him off. The dwarves had been skilled craftsmen, but their pride had been their downfall. 

"Let them think it's some legendary weapon," he said, his laughter growing louder. "It'll keep them off my back for a while. Maybe even long enough for me to get a proper nap."

He yawned, his massive jaws stretching wide as he settled deeper into his hoard. The mountain of gold shifted around him, coins and jewels spilling over his scales as he buried himself beneath the glittering pile. The weight of his treasures pressed against him, a comforting reminder of his power and dominance.

As he closed his eyes, his mind drifted back to a memory from a century ago. A young man, barely more than a brat, had come to his lair seeking a weapon. Arthesia, he'd called himself. The name had meant nothing to Lermullo at the time, but the boy's determination had been amusing. He'd handed over the same spear, more out of curiosity than anything else. To his surprise, the brat had actually used it to fend off an invasion from a neighboring kingdom.

"Arthesia," Lermullo murmured, his voice tinged with a rare note of respect. "Now there was a human worth sparring with. Shame he didn't live longer."

The dragon's smile widened as he recalled their brief but intense battles. Arthesia had been strong, clever, and just arrogant enough to be entertaining. A worthy opponent, if only for a short time.

"Ah, well," Lermullo said, his voice growing drowsy. "Maybe this Arthur brat will be just as fun. If he survives long enough to come back, that is."

With that, the dragon closed his eyes, his massive form sinking deeper into the mountain of gold. The cavern fell silent, save for the occasional clink of coins as Lermullo's breathing slowed. Soon, the only sound was the steady rhythm of his snores, echoing through the darkness.

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The young nobleman's chamber was a scene of chaos. Fine furniture lay overturned, shattered glass and broken wood scattered across the floor. The nobleman himself stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving with rage, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. His face, usually composed and calculating, was twisted with fury.

"The spear was supposed to be mine!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "It was supposed to secure my position as the next successor! How dare that upstart commander claim it for himself!"

A messenger cowered near the door, his face pale and his hands trembling as he clutched a crumpled piece of parchment. "M-my lord," he stammered, "the cities and towns… they've already begun siding with him. They're calling him the true king, the descendant of Arthesia. The ruling nobles… many of them have been killed."

The nobleman's eyes burned with a dangerous intensity. He strode over to the messenger, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him off the ground. "And what of the king? What is that old fool doing about this?"

The messenger choked out a reply. "H-he's rallying the troops, my lord. But the rebellion is spreading too quickly. The people… they believe in Arthur."

The nobleman threw the messenger to the ground, his mind racing. He paced the room, his thoughts a whirlwind of anger and desperation. "This cannot stand," he muttered to himself. "I will not let some lowborn knight steal what is rightfully mine. If the king cannot handle this, then perhaps it's time for a new ruler to take the throne."

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In the grand hall of the royal palace, the air was thick with tension. The king sat on his ornate throne, his face a mask of frustration and barely contained rage. Before him, a knight knelt, his armor dented and his cloak torn. The knight's voice was steady, but his words carried the weight of impending disaster.

"Your Majesty," the knight began, "the knight commander, Arthur, has rebelled. He proclaims himself the true king, the descendant of Arthesia, and wields the first king's spear as proof of his lineage. Cities and towns across the kingdom have already chosen his side. The ruling nobles… dukes, counts, earls… many have been killed by the people. The rebellion is spreading like wildfire."

The king's hands tightened on the arms of his throne, his knuckles white. "And what of the dragon?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "Did they slay it? Did they retrieve the spear as I commanded?"

The knight hesitated, then shook his head. "No, Your Majesty. The dragon remains unharmed. It seems… it seems Arthur made some kind of deal with the beast."

The king slammed his fist against the throne, the sound echoing through the hall. "That damned dragon!" he roared. "It's always meddling in human affairs. Curse that wretched lizard!"

He stood abruptly, his robes swirling around him as he began to pace. "Rally the troops," he ordered, his voice sharp and commanding. "Subdue the rebelling cities. Hunt down this Arthur and bring me his head. I will not let some pretender tear my kingdom apart!"

The knight bowed and hurried out of the hall, leaving the king alone with his thoughts. The king's mind raced as he muttered to himself, his voice a venomous whisper. "That dragon… it's always been a thorn in my side. They think they can challenge me, but I will not be undone by some relic of the past."

He clenched his fists, his eyes burning with determination. "This kingdom is mine. And I will crush anyone who dares to take it from me."

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Luke knelt by the riverbank, his hands caked with wet clay as he dug into the soft earth. The goblins worked around him, some helping to gather the clay while others fished in the shallow waters. The human prisoner, Solus, stood nearby, his brow furrowed in confusion as he watched Luke pile the sticky material into a makeshift basket.

"Why do you need this… weird soil?" Solus asked, his voice hesitant. He still seemed wary of Luke, though the goblins had grown somewhat accustomed to his presence.

Luke glanced up, wiping his hands on his loincloth. "This 'weird soil' is called clay," he explained. "It's what pots and vases are made of. Once it's dried and fired, it becomes hard and durable. Perfect for building things like furnaces."

Solus blinked, clearly surprised. "You're going to build a furnace? Out of… dirt?"

Luke smirked. "Not just dirt. Clay. And yes, a furnace. We need it to smelt iron and make better tools. Right now, all we have are scavenged weapons and sticks. Not exactly ideal for defending the village."

Solus nodded slowly, though he still looked skeptical. "I suppose that makes sense. But… how do you know all this? You're a goblin."

Luke paused, his expression unreadable for a moment. "Let's just say I've picked up a few things," he said evasively. "Now, stop asking questions and start digging. The sooner we get enough clay, the sooner we can get back to the village."

As Luke and Solus continued their work, the goblins nearby grew restless. Zog and Rok, two of the younger goblins, had started tossing small clumps of clay at each other, their laughter echoing across the riverbank. What began as a playful exchange quickly escalated into a full-blown clay fight.

Grut, the older and more serious goblin, watched the chaos unfold with growing irritation. "Stop!" he barked, his voice sharp. "We working!"

But Zog and Rok were too caught up in their game to listen. Rok hurled a large clump of clay at Zog, hitting him square in the face. Zog retaliated with a handful of mud, splattering Rok's chest. The two goblins cackled, their antics drawing the attention of the others.

Grut's patience snapped. With a growl, he stomped over to the pair, grabbed them by the scruffs of their necks, and tossed them into the river. The splash was enormous, and the two goblins emerged sputtering and laughing even harder.

But Grut's intervention didn't stop the chaos. Instead, it seemed to ignite it. A stray clump of clay hit one of the fishing goblins, who retaliated by flinging a fish at the offender. Within moments, the entire riverbank had descended into a full-scale clay fight. Goblins ran in every direction, hurling mud and clay at each other, their laughter and shouts filling the air.

Luke sighed, shaking his head as a glob of clay splattered against his shoulder. "Unbelievable," he muttered, though he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. For all their quirks, the goblins had a way of turning even the simplest tasks into chaos.

Solus, meanwhile, ducked behind a rock to avoid the flying mud. "Is it always like this?" he asked, his voice tinged with both amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty much," Luke replied, dodging a clay projectile. "You get used to it."

Luke was crouched by the riverbank, carefully putting a mound of clay into the sturdy makeshift baskets, when a wet splat interrupted his focus. He froze, feeling the cold, sticky substance slide down his face. Slowly, he reached up and wiped the clay from his eyes, his expression darkening as he turned to see Grut standing a few feet away, grinning from ear to ear.

The older goblin slapped his own butt in a mocking gesture, his laughter echoing across the riverbank. "Lok hit face! Lok hit face!" he taunted, clearly pleased with himself.

Luke's eye twitched. He stood up, brushing the clay off his hands. "Alright," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Now you've done it."

Grut's grin faltered for a moment, but before he could react, Luke bent down and scooped up a massive ball of clay. The goblins nearby stopped their own antics, their eyes widening as they realized what was about to happen.

"Uh-oh," Zog muttered, ducking behind Rok.

Luke hurled the clay ball with all his strength. It flew through the air like a cannonball, smacking Grut square in the chest with a satisfying thud. The force of the impact sent the older goblin stumbling backward, his arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance. He landed flat on his back in the river, sending a huge splash of water into the air.

The riverbank erupted in laughter. Even Solus, who had been watching from a safe distance, couldn't help but chuckle. Grut sat up, sputtering and covered in mud, his expression a mix of shock and indignation.

Luke crossed his arms, a smug grin spreading across his face. "How's that for a hit, huh?"

Grut glared at him for a moment, then a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. He scooped up a handful of mud from the riverbed and hurled it at Luke. The mud hit its mark, splattering across Luke's chest.

"Oh, it's on," Luke said, his grin widening.