The alarm came too late. Not because no one had triggered it, but because it had not yet been defined.

  I was standing in the village, bent over a plan on which lines marked intended assembly points, when the sky darkened—at first gradually, then unmistakably. A shadow passed over the damaged houses.

  “That’s him,” someone said.

  There was no scream, no immediate panic. Just that one word.

  The dragon came from the north, lower than before, slower. Not attacking—assessing.

  I looked around. The assembly points were marked. The paths to them partially cleared. The messengers improvised. Responsibilities assigned—but not rehearsed.

  “Give the signal!” someone shouted.

  “Which one?” someone shouted back.

  I closed my eyes briefly. Then I opened them again.

  “Everyone west!” I called out loudly. “To the open field! Don’t stop! Don’t gather! Keep moving!”

  Some obeyed immediately. Others hesitated.

  The dragon roared. The air vibrated; heat rolled across the ground like a pressure wave.

  “Now!” I shouted. “No discussion!”

  The village elder ran forward, calling names, orders, curses. He knew whom he had to drive.

  Good.

  The first fire was not precise. A sweep. A test. One roof caught fire, then another.

  “Water!” someone shouted.

  I saw the barrels. Too few. Too far apart.

  Partial implementation.

  The mage stood beside me, his hands already raised. “I can distract him,” he said.

  “Not without cover,” I replied.

  “There’s no time!”

  I looked at him. Saw the fear. The resolve.

  “Then keep your distance,” I said. “And retreat as soon as he reacts.”

  He hesitated.

  “That is not a recommendation,” I said sharply. “That is an order.”

  He nodded—and acted.

  The dragon lowered its head.

  Fire.

  The mage pulled back. Too late. A shockwave hurled him to the ground.

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  I ran. Not heroically or fast.

  Purposefully.

  The ground was hot, the smoke burned my eyes. I dragged the mage behind a low stone wall. Insufficient—but better than nothing.

  The dragon circled.

  “He’s coming back,” the mage gasped.

  I looked up at the sky. “Yes,” I said. “But now we know how.”

  The next attack came at an angle, lower. Most of the people were out of range.

  Mostly.

  A scream.

  I turned. A man had fallen, his leg twisted, smoke around him. I ran, grabbed him under the arms. The ground trembled.

  The dragon dove.

  I pulled the man behind the wall—just in time. Fire swept overhead. Heat. Pressure. Pain.

  I felt it.

  But it was… muted. As though something were assessing.

  The mage stared at me. “You… you’re alive.”

  I nodded. “State of emergency,” I said briefly. “Proportional.”

  The dragon withdrew. Not defeated. Confused.

  There was only silence, smoke, and me coughing.

  I stood up slowly. The man beside me was alive. Injured—but alive.

  I looked around.

  No mass panic.

  No blind flight.

  No total chaos.

  Incomplete.

  But effective.

  The village elder approached, his face blackened with soot. “It… worked,” he said incredulously.

  I nodded. “Partially. But partial is sometimes enough.”

  In the distance, a horn sounded, clearer than before. Late—but clear.

  I took out my notebook.

  Test run under real conditions.

  System incomplete, but resilient.

  Improvements mandatory.

  I crossed nothing out.

  Then I looked up at the sky.

  “Now,” I said quietly, “we can talk about the dragon.”

  The smoke had not yet cleared when the narrative began. Not loudly. Not openly. But purposefully.

  When we returned to court, the atmosphere was not relieved, not grateful, but tense—watchful, as if searching for something tangible.

  And I was tangible.

  They made me wait. Not officially, but long enough.

  When I was finally led into the council chamber, everyone was already there: the king, his advisors, the mage—and the man to his right, who looked at me as though he had been waiting for exactly this moment.

  “There were damages,” he began without preamble. “Injuries. Panic.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “A village burned again.”

  “Partially,” I said. “On a smaller scale than before.”

  “You are minimizing,” he hissed.

  “I am contextualizing.”

  The king looked at me. Tired. Alert.

  “They say,” he began slowly, “that the dragon never came this close to settlements before.”

  I raised an eyebrow slightly. “That is not documented.”

  The man smiled thinly. “And yet he attacked precisely when you were there.”

  Silence.

  “Correlation is not causation,” I said at last.

  “Wordplay,” he scoffed.

  “Analysis,” I corrected.

  The mage cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, the attack was unusual, but not provoked. The pattern—”

  “Enough,” the man cut him off. “This man has altered procedures. He has interfered.”

  I looked at the king.

  “If I had changed nothing,” I said calmly, “people would be dead today.”

  No one contradicted me.

  The king leaned back. “Perhaps,” he said. “But perhaps not.”

  I nodded. “Perhaps.”

  He did not like the word.

  “You promised me order,” he said. “Instead, my realm is once again under fire.”

  “It already was under fire,” I said. “I have merely begun to name it.”

  The man stepped forward.

  “Your Majesty,” he said with feigned concern, “this outsider destabilizes your rule. He sows doubt. He imposes conditions.”

  I remained silent.

  The king studied me for a long moment.

  “By this evening,” he said at last, “I want everything you know about the dragon.”

  The man smiled.

  “In writing,” the king continued. “Complete. Without omissions. In your quarters. No later than dinner.”

  Silence.

  “And after that,” he added, “we will decide whether you remain part of the solution—or whether you have become part of the problem.”

  I inclined my head slightly.

  “That is sufficient,” I said.

  In my room, I closed the door, sat down, and exhaled.

  I opened my notebook.

  Allegation: provocation.

  Objective: discrediting.

  Time window: a few hours.

  I placed a blank sheet beside it. Clean. Unmarked.

  “Good,” I murmured.

  Then I began to write. Not defensively. Not justificatory.

  Factually.

  Chronologically.

  Unassailable.

  If they intended to remove me, it would not be on the basis of truth.

  And that was precisely my advantage.

  Feel free to share any ideas for scenarios you would like to see him thrown into — especially situations where the German controller is pushed to his limits, or moments where he might despise this barbaric world and try to turn it into something different.