Dragonscale mage, p.1
Dragonscale Mage, page 1
Dragonscale Mage
Secrets of the Lost Dragons
Book 1
Isaac Keyes
Copyright © 2025 by Royal Guard Publishing LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
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Chapter One
I’d never witnessed anyone amass power for a good reason. Not a single time in my life had it ever happened.
It looked like I’d have to be the first.
I sat alone in the secret basement underneath my manor house, a prismatic dragonscale resting on the table in front of me. The soft light from the lamps around me danced across its surface, a rainbow of shifting colors reflecting back.
I’d been preparing it, and myself, for months now.
Ingesting powdered flakes from the scale turned out to be simplicity itself. They tasted of nothing and easily garnished a steak, giving it a sparkling, otherworldly quality.
Finding something that could actually damage the scale and produce said flakes? Well now. That had been nothing short of maddening. In the end, I procured an ensorceled dagger said to have been quenched in boiling draconic blood, whetted on wyvern teeth, and containing a fragment of an ancient dragon’s very soul.
Of course, I couldn’t very well test those claims before buying it. Luckily, no one else gave such claims the time of day, even in black market dealings. The seller seemed elated to be able to offload the piece and recoup some of what must have been a massive expense for them.
I wouldn’t say it came cheap, but I had the means to take a chance on it.
Imagine my surprise when the damn thing actually worked.
When I wasn’t using it to scrape the flakes from the scale, I kept it locked away under all the safeguards I could, right beside the scale itself. Neither were anywhere near replaceable.
Ingesting the flakes had, at the start, felt like nothing. But as the days passed and I kept the ritual up, I began to feel a change deep in my core. The stirrings of subtle power, the creeping desire to bend the world around me to my will, to act. To take.
These bouts of sensation lasted only seconds, often with days in between, and they were so strange and foreign that I often wondered if I had simply gone mad instead and imagined them.
But they were there, one way or another, so I had to take it as a good sign.
As I readied myself for the scale, I readied it for me as well.
Drawing the sigils — ancient patterns from dusty old tomes collected from across the land — had been simple, aside from the necessary addition of my own blood to the ink. It wasn’t that I minded the pain of cutting my chest and collecting the drops, it’s that it took so damn much in the end. I had, foolishly, thought a few vials would be enough before I started the process.
One of the many reasons all these preparations had taken as long as they did ended up being how much blood I could safely lose in a given amount of time. Not wanting to waste away, I kept the bloodletting to a very conservative minimum. I hardly wanted to consult a doctor about such things. They’d have questions for me.
Blood magic wasn’t exactly outlawed, but someone from my station would create a scandal if it came out.
Drawing attention to myself was the last thing I wanted to do.
I’d sent up so many prayers of thanks to the deaf and absent gods that the procurement of the scale had, in the end, gone well.
Despite all the calamity that had tried very hard to befall me.
Many Months Later
The valet opened the door of my coach. I stepped out, waving away his offered hand, and stood in front of the Duke’s grand estate. It loomed tall and large, adorned with all manner of decoration, architectural frippery, and a veritable jungle of plantlife, trimmed and maintained though it was. I did enjoy the colors. All manner of flowers and exotic trees with blue and purple leaves created a very pleasing aesthetic, and I could hardly blame the Duke for wanting it all.
If only I had the staff for my own manicured jungle back home.
As I made my way from the courtyard up to the front of the grand building, I couldn’t help but glance at the tall, menacing forms of the inhuman guards standing silent and still at their vigils. Their lifeless gemstone eyes looked out from the top of their thick bodies. They didn’t so much have heads as faces formed in their sloping upper torsos. Automatons, golems, or whatever name they went by, they’d always sent a chill up my spine.
These were made from brass, draped in rich red and gold cloth, and held gilded weapons. Despite their heavy ornamentation, they were capable of slaughtering scores of soldiers with little effort.
The worst, however, was what powered them.
With nothing less than a heroic force of will, I calmly walked by like they didn’t creep me out in the least.
I followed the very cliche red carpet into the Duke’s home, passing through the tall, carved doors and into the foyer, where an attendant appeared to take my coat. I slipped it off my shoulders and handed it over, keeping my polished, ebony cane with its carved, dragon-tooth handle. It wasn’t one-of-a-kind, but it was pretty close.
Not that I expected anyone to be able to tell.
I didn’t care if they could or not. It was just for me.
Either way, I wasn’t about to let it out of my sight.
I followed the laid-out path through the long halls and into the massive ballroom. When I entered, a bored-looking woman in a red and gold dress, the Duke’s symbol pinned to her chest, looked me up and down and, in a surprisingly bold voice, cried out, “Viscount Lysander Wraithswell!” At the end of my name, she awkwardly paused, where she normally would have announced my wife or guest, of which I had none.
A little gauche, to be honest, but I didn’t trust anyone with what I intended to do this evening. Also, I didn’t have a wife to begin with.
Hardly anyone looked up at the announcement of my name. A few drifting glances that instantly flicked back to their conversations.
House Wraithswell had never been a major player in the realm, for all that our lands held a few lucrative gem mines. But my family had never been interested in playing the game of politics, content to live lives of comfort as rich merchants more so than esteemed peers. And, if I was being completely honest, my family had always been regarded as a little… weird.
And I was no exception.
So the peerage seemed largely content to leave us alone, as long as we kept the gems flowing. And stayed home.
But now, as the only surviving member of House Wraithswell of any import, I had to make a handful of appearances, mostly to remind people that the House still existed and no one had any claim to our gem mines.
Like all the Wraithswells before me, I didn’t much care for such matters. Tonight, however, it provided the perfect cover for my plan.
As I wandered around the ballroom, enjoying the music and a small aperitif to calm my nerves, I idly wondered about the soulbinds that flowed through this room. If my plan worked, I would one day be able to see the links between people, the chains that held all of society — perhaps our entire species — in thrall to those at the top.
I could feel my own, of course. It led away to the east, towards somewhere else in this palace, I could only imagine, towards the Earl I had been bound to long ago. One of his many bindings. The one of least importance, since I myself had no bindings to anyone of status below me. Not a single Baron. Shameful, they said in whispers when they thought I couldn’t hear.
Fortuitous, in the end.
When my plans came to fruition and I severed my soulbindings, none of the peerage would even notice. The power the Earl gained from our binding paled in comparison to the other Viscounts, subsequent Barons, and all the common peopl e underneath them. Would he even notice when I cut the cord? Or would it be nothing more than a passing bit of weariness, akin to the effects of too much sugar wearing off, easily explained away by mundane things? Certainly not a severed binding, something that could only be done by the person in the position of power. And was never done anyway. Releasing a binding hadn’t been done in living memory, as far as I knew.
I made chitchat with people I didn’t like and who didn’t like me, but we all did the little dance, speaking of the weather (too rainy), the health of my gem mines (good), whatever trivialities that I could remember about them (spotty at best), and how lucky we were to be able to serve such a wondrous man such as the Duke.
Truth be told, the Duke wasn’t that bad in the hierarchy of assholes that compromised the peerage. I genuinely hoped I wouldn’t have to kill him one day in pursuit of my plans. I wouldn’t hesitate if necessary, but hopefully it could be avoided.
If I could just steal a priceless, powerful artifact from inside his very home to which I had been invited as a guest, I’d be pleased to leave it at that.
My plan tumbled in my mind, over and over again, rehearsed a thousand times before. But now that I stood here, my one chance in my hands, I found a second aperitif to be very much in order.
The fiery liquor slid down my throat, an exquisite burn that steeled my resolve. Or I told myself it did, which was more or less the same thing.
I waited until the Duke himself, the esteemed Fordric Quentarelle III, descended from the upper levels of the palace and made a grand speech, thanking us all for our tireless service to him and, much more importantly, the good of the realm itself.
When he finished and began to mingle among the crowd, everyone’s focus pivoted towards gaining whatever advantage they could by shoving themselves very nicely into his presence, desperately hoping to garner a little real attention.
No one noticed me slipping out into a side hallway. Not that they would have cared if they did. Viscount Wraithswell, let alone his odd proclivities — which involved interests besides constant grasping for higher station — wasn’t worth anyone’s time.
Absolutely perfect.
I’d been to the Duke’s palace many times before, always attending insufferable balls like the present one, and each time, I wandered around the building as much as I could. I sauntered down hallways and peeked into side rooms until someone, usually an overly dour guard, told me I wasn’t allowed to be there.
Fortunately, my love of wandering could hardly be called unique, and I often met others of the peerage slinking around places they very well knew they shouldn’t be. They were looking for political advantage, though. I just liked seeing what lay behind closed doors. Most often it ended up being boringly mundane things, but once in a while, something truly interesting presented itself to me.
That exact thing had happened a little over a year ago at a gathering for the Duke’s firstborn’s birthday, a thoroughly intolerable affair. I ended up a little too drunk for my own good, and my wanderings took me farther than I would have otherwise gone. In a bout of supremely inebriated idiocy, I picked the lock of a very fancy looking door. Such a thing might see me stripped of my titles and lands, if not outright beheaded.
But the door sported so damn much golden inlay that I just had to see what lay inside. I ended up in a cross between a trophy room and a museum, artifacts of all types on display in a huge, lavish space. Most of them were only curiosities with no practical value — not that I didn’t like seeing them — but one of the stars of the show lay in a glass display case in the center of the room.
A whole, pristine, prismatic dragonscale.
Dragons came in a variety of colors which, for the most part, denoted their lineage and abilities. Exceptions abounded, of course, but many correct assumptions could be made solely on their appearance, as the various magics they wielded shaped their bodies and colored their scales, either from their birthright, or throughout their lives as they practiced other arts.
Well, when dragons were still around, that is.
I had seen a handful in my early youth, all awe-inspiring events, to be sure.
And then, some twenty years ago, sightings and dealings started to dwindle and, before anyone really knew why, they vanished from the world, in an event that later became known as the Flight.
As far as I knew, no explanation had ever been found. No one even knew if any living ones still existed.
Only their relics remained.
There had never been prismatic dragons, per se. Only ancient, adept dragons that had spent centuries channeling all the magics of the world. After long enough they grew, on their chests, clusters of prismatic scales. Only a few such dragons had ever existed. And they, like most of their kind, weren’t known for being generous.
How the Duke had acquired the scale, I couldn’t fathom.
One thing I felt confident of, though, was the scale’s authenticity, because it sat in a secluded room, shown off to no one.
If it had been out for display, for the peerage to ooh and ahh at, I might have doubted it. Many of the upper classes were wont to have forgeries of all sorts of artifacts made, so they could show them off in a blatant attempt to appear wealthier or more connected than they were. And there were some very convincing forgeries out there.
I knew firsthand. Because I had one tucked away in my pocket.
My hand slipped in to clasp the thoroughly fake prismatic scale, just to make sure it hadn’t fallen out. I had been palming it constantly, only slowing down after that second aperitif took the edge off.
The woman who’d crafted the forgery for me had readily taken the job, but each time we dealt with each other, she hadn’t been able to hold back her thinly-veiled mirth about the situation. Someone of my moderate standing would never be able to obtain such an item. She knew it. I knew it. But she didn’t know I knew it.
A job was a job, though, and my money was good. She got her payday and I got my scale. For all that she barely stopped herself from laughing in my face, she did damn good work. I inspected the scale with her own magnifying lens, and the detail she’d worked into the piece floored me. She’d come highly recommended, but the quality of her work belonged in the royal jeweler’s guild, not making knock-offs for pampered nobles to feel better about themselves.
But she’d been born into the bottom castes, and that was that. Nothing to be done. Only a life of illicit artwork could raise her out of the gutter, and only so high at that.
I tipped her generously and gave her a conspiratorial little wink.
She didn’t know what to make of it, but when she saw the money and thanked me profusely, her smile crinkled her eyes.
I always found it refreshing to see. The peerage only favored me with tight, dishonest smiles, in the rare event that they even did that.
As I walked down the hallway, trying very hard not to creep down it, I could hear the crowd from the ballroom through another cracked door, all likely desperately trying to get the Duke’s attention.
Not for the first time, I wondered if being in the upper peerage was all it was cracked up to be. Surely that sort of thing got exhausting fast, right? Or maybe I was just projecting.
I didn’t meet a single person as I found a servant’s stairway and made my way up.
My plan, such as it was, hinged largely on not being spotted until after the crime had been committed. Then, I could employ any number of contingencies to extricate myself, depending on where I blundered into someone and who it turned out to be.
While that might have sounded foolish, my wanderings on earlier occasions had been surprisingly lonely for some time. I walked down long halls and peeked into many rooms before being discovered and told I should return to the ballroom.
This time, I only saw a few servants in passing, down the end of long hallways, and they either didn’t notice me, didn’t care, or didn’t want to be the ones to confront me. Either way, I swiftly made my way towards my goal, throwing a little caution to the wind.
I arrived at the gilded door in short order. I’d known the way and wasted no time taking a convoluted path. Bending down and slipping my lock picks into the door sent the adrenaline crashing through my system. As I tried valiantly to steady my trembling hands, I listened for any signs I could.
Sweat began to pour down my brow as I fumbled the lock again and again. If one of the Duke’s guards showed up and saw me doing this, it would be the end. No way out. No excuse I could make, and not a shadow of a chance I could overpower them. Being the Duke’s own, he surely would have shared his bountiful power with them, drawn in from the many soulbinds of his vassals and their vassals, all down the line. I’d once tried to do the math, and the Duke sat at the top of tens of thousands of people at the very least, all of their essences partially siphoned off to empower him. And the high royalty above him, of course. And I might have been underestimating that number.
