The red light of a rising sun glinted off the layered, ever-reaching spires of the Dragorial Palace. The city still smelled like shit.

  A shopkeeper swept her floors before opening. A baker rolled dough. A dragoneer saddled their mount on the roof of their tenant building. A governess struggled in vain to control her wards. A newcomer, a student from Harbinger’s Well, argued with a well-respected wizard about the merits of magic versus science. The poor soul would have a heart attack if he ever had to visit Dodge.

  The Dragomarch rose with the sun. He donned his robes - fire dragon scales lined with the soft fur of an ice wyvern - and strode from his chambers, jewelry glinting in the early morning light. He descended the stairs with graceful steps, passing courtiers and servants who nodded or bowed as he passed. His throne room shone with gold: gold dragon scales on the knights’ armor, gold tiles on the floor, gold mesh encasing the throne, shimmering with enchantments. He brushed it aside and settled into the seat’s soft red cushions, ready for the day’s events.

  Diplomats from the other cities arrived, bearing gifts from their homelands: gadgets from Talso, crackling with lighting; elegant masses of clicking gears and hissing steam from Granlock and Harbinger’s Well; trinkets from Dodge, much the same as the prior two, although magic glinted along the edges of the gears; the distorted horrors of Sanguinopolis, a deeply unpleasant place; a box of (probably cursed) jewelry from Orpheum; an hourglass from Birdcage, filled with its sifting golden sands. A desperate plea, a gift of an Azarian priestess, begging aid for their floating city in return for her. Shirou, Monazite, Rockwell, and Jeopardy City sent nothing, as per usual. He accepted all gifts graciously, save the priestess, who he dismissed with a remark that he would consider it. Perhaps he would; she was gorgeous, dressed in humble pearls and gold jewelry lined with seastones, with soulful wide eyes he could almost imagine gazing up at him from his bed, but more likely he’d send her back from whence she came.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Citizenry trickled in through the double doors, bearing complaints his courtiers thought were worth his time. He listened patiently: a madman from Talso had blown up half a village trying to force Monazite technology and magic to get along. He gave the village leader a bag of golden dragon scales, enough to rebuild the whole thing with manor homes and still feed the village with the spares. A mechanist and a warlock tried to persuade him to give them the materials to pursue an eternal engine. He sent a messenger to fetch them tickets to Dodge instead. Two noblewomen were fighting over a dragon egg. He had it smashed. The ceiling rumbled overhead; the royal dragons had returned to sleep until the next moonlight.

  The city of Eregol reigned another day.