Dream of Dragons

Loren chuckled. “Arion? That’s a lovely name, but strange. Are you from Aldoran?”
Arion shook his head. He looked nervous, and rubbed at his wrist. It was bandaged with a cloth. “My apologies, my lady, I am not. I hail from the east. The far east.”
“The Eastern Shores, perhaps?” Loren said after a while. It was the farthest eastern point on the map she had studied.
Arion breathed a sigh of relief and finally smiled. “Yes, my lady. Are you sure you don’t need help with your horse?”
Wind nickered and playfully chomped at Arion’s short black hair. The stable hand reeled back in surprise while Loren chuckled. “I’m fine, Arion. Thank you for the offer.” The princess smiled and mounted Wind easily, swinging a leg over and putting her feet in the stirrups. She flicked the reins and waved at Arion as she led Wind past the castle gates and down the path to Markholme.
Arion watched the princess go, his small smile fading. The dark markings hidden under his bandage began to burn his skin.
The ride down to Markholme was short, as the castle was not very far from the city proper. Loren easily galloped down streets paved with flagstones in the Gold District, where the nobility and rich merchants lived. She passed hat shops and boutiques, artisanal bakeries, jewelry stores, and well-kept taverns. Nobles wearing velvet and furs smiled and nodded as the princess passed them, a blaze of royal blue and gold down the streets.
The Steel District held craftsmen and men of industry. The metal on metal clang of blacksmith’s hammers on steel rang all throughout the day, and the air was heated from the glow of their forges. The best blacksmiths were commissioned by the King for weapons and armor, and they found it a great honor for their steel to be chosen. Occasionally, a creative apprentice would ride up to the castle and present his or her latest work, usually a helm shaped like a beast or a shield emblazoned with the royal sigil, and compete for the praise of the royal family alongside a woodcarver and leatherworker.
Past the Steel District was the Stone District, that housed majority of the population of Markholme. The streets were less tidy compared to the Gold District, but Queen Katarina had been focusing on renovating the area over the past years.
Loren had to slow Wind down to a trot, then to a fast walk the closer she got to the marketplace. The crowd was thick towards noon, and Loren saw the masts of trade ships were moving into the dock from the other side of the high walls. Commoners clambered out of the way of the princess’s horse, muttering curses under their breath at having to move. Stammered apologies floated up once they saw who sat atop the colt.
Merchants began to call loudly, waving at Loren, once the news began to spread that their princess had come down to the market place. Tanned men wrapped in the silk garments of Kespia offered bales of silk, ten gold coins a bale but half off for the princess. A lion Beastman waved a chicken at Loren, stating it was five gold coins only and comes with two free eggs. And for only two extra coins, he would throw in a rasher of bacon.
Loren dismounted from her horse and walked through the crowded marketplace, carefully leading Wind by the reins. She smiled, nodded, and gently refused the merchant's offers as they came. There were a variety of different stalls, all propped up together till there was little elbow room. Makeshift tents of scrap fabric and sail cloth held up by wooden sticks shielded freshly butchered meats from the sun. Merchants hawked their fresh produce from open topped crates, some of them still in the wagon.
Traders from all over the world came to market at Markholme, and it showed. Men and women bundled in several layers of Kespian silk showed off cases of sand-smoothed jewels. The Beastmen from Rhodia nearby offered produce, hand-woven baskets and pottery, and traditional Beastman trinkets. Loren smiled, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling marketplace, and was about to explore the market closer to the city gates to look for more representatives of other countries, when she froze.
Towards the far end of the market was a covered wagon. It bore the red and black colors of Sagna. The rearing twin lionesses of the Sagnian sigil were burned into the wood. A single man, wrinkled with age, sat alone behind a rug laid out on the ground. Resting on the rug were an assortment of weapons: everything from long swords to tridents and spiked maces.
Loren approached the man. “Excuse me sir. Are these what you’ve brought to market?”
“Yes, girl.” The old man coughed. “Sagnian steel, best of the best, forged with fire from Mount Volknar itself.”
Loren picked up a longsword and angled the blade to the light. There was a sheen to it, and a strange but beautiful curve along its back. It was perfect, save for the craftsman’s mark etched into the hilt. It was scored away as if to erase it from the steel. “Good sir, what happened to this blade?” Loren asked.
“Ah, you have a good eye girl, to have spotted that.” The man coughed again. He shifted his arm underneath the black sheet he wore as a cloak. “I’ll tell you something girl, come closer.”
Loren hesitated a beat, keeping in mind what a certain Sagnian had done just recently. She put the sword back on the rug and leaned closer, making sure the other weapons were out of the man’s reach.
“I’ve been banished from Sagna, did you know?” the man started, rasping slightly. “I was a court blacksmith, pounded away at iron and steel in a chamber within the volcano itself, in a cavern that glowed with the fire from below. I worked the hammer and anvil