It lived and breathed frenetic energy and a sort of organized chaos that was always hanging from the line that prevented it from descending into anarchy and violence. By the time he’d asked the third person out of a hundred who seemed to even notice his existence what the fastest way to the palace was, he assumed he’d be outright ignored. Thus was his surprise when the old man had smiled a yellow-toothed smile and pointed one craggy finger toward the west. “Head that way. Can’t miss it no more than you can miss the sun in the sky.”

The man was gone before Orum could so much as consider offering a word of gratitude.

The next hour was spent fighting upstream in what he expected was a similar manner to a salmon during spawning season. Everything and everybody seemed intent on stepping directly in his path, except when he expected them to, then they would step into where even he hadn’t planned to go until that exact moment. It was annoying, frustrating as void, and utterly maddening. Still, step by halting step, he eventually reached the palace gates and presented his writ of petition to the guard, who looked it over wordlessly, and then turned and took it through a side door that opened to provide a brief view of a broad courtyard before being slammed shut once more.

Orum felt like he’d waited a dozen hours before the guard finally returned and handed the writ back to him. “Well?” Orum said, throwing politeness and decorum to the wind in his impatience for an answer—any answer.

“No,” the guard said simply.

“No?” Orum said, flabbergasted by the simplicity and finality inherent in that single word.

“Correct. His Majesty, King Artemus Vedran, First of His Name, has refused your petition for an audience.”

“But there’s a-a godsdamned dragon in the middle of Lostwood!” he spluttered.

“No, there’s not.”

“Of course there is. I saw it with my own eyes. It attacked me. It burned me. I was almost killed.”

“In the eyes of the crown, none of that ever happened.”

Orum clenched his fist so tightly the parchment crinkled and crumpled in his grasp. “May I ask why?” he said through clenched teeth, barely restraining a growl from entering his tone.

At this, the guard leaned in conspiratorially. “Normally, I would reject such an insolent question out of hand, but in your case, I’ll make an exception. You see, I’ve always loved stories about dragons. I always thought it was a shame Finfalla didn’t have any. Look, your story may or may not be true, but the problem is that the matter of dragons has already been discussed a week ago at length and His Majesty has decreed that Finfalla has never been home to a dragon, and, as far as he’s concerned, never will be.”

“He can’t just decree that and make it true!”