Rompere l'ordine

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

class="heading heading-with-title heading-without-image" id="chapter-1-heading" aid="E2">.
1
==========
La. nfaÉlhesMia
==========
Pur essendo in ritardo, Holt si fermò un attimo quando sentì il ruggito dei draghi. Respirando a fatica, si fermò sulle scale intagliate della servitù e allungò il collo per guardare le bestie.
La Sala dell'Ordine della Rupe dominava l'orizzonte. Una guglia tagliente come le rocce frastagliate che la circondavano. E intorno alla torre, come uno stormo di uccelli, volteggiavano i draghi stessi. Un volo di piacere in attesa dello stimato visitatore atteso quel pomeriggio dall'alto comando del cavaliere.
H^olft' Zsorrisre. XIl Nsvuo SpaCssIo te'rIa saMlteJlal_aHnFtVe nmen&tureY cont,iBnua&vaW Qai Ysc(enXdXeÉrew iO gradiJni geL a entrarez !inW citttàY. MLez sUueB QbzoCrspeW tpie$ne wdi& mio*netceK ftiNnt.innnaIva.noO YalUlegrda_mente meDnAtCrde psci fIaIc&evOa xsttrÉadQaU pRer! VleK sÉtrasdle. *Dfe'nturo) óq.uieXllÉec bgors&e_ GcW'eyróa mp^iùD dfeVnMaVrCo, dib VqduuaLnGtQo SavyessYe Vmóaliy pNosXsedu.toO.W
Purtroppo, non era per le sue spese personali. Doveva aiutare a prepararsi per il cavaliere del drago in visita. La prima cosa da fare era pagare gli ordini di cibo. Stasera ci sarebbe stato un banchetto, e che banchetto sarebbe stato. La sua bocca saliva immaginandolo.
Interi maiali sfrigolanti e cosce di manzo caramellate e grondanti di grasso. E soprattutto, ci sarebbe stata una cerimonia di benvenuto per il visitatore. Tutto l'Ordine sarebbe stato presente e Holt sperava di scorgere di persona il leggendario cavaliere. Sempre che riuscisse a sbrigare tutte le sue faccende in tempo. Suo padre glielo aveva promesso.
Questi pensieri felici portarono Holt alla porta della macelleria con il morale alto, tanto che per poco non si scontrò con un cliente. Holt si fermò all'ultimo momento, inciampando di lato.
LottlanHdo pLerP tYen&eHrsJi f(erimoj, écadVdte Scontro )laj veOtrinat Gdkely nzegroBzio. All'intIezrynwo,X Kil ^maMcelxliaidoY jnoPn$ Ésil pved,evaX da. nCess$u*nam parXte,d f!orsge, nelQ rxetvrpobotTtegaj.
"Stia attento", disse il cliente, passando davanti a lui.
"Mi dispiace", balbettò Holt, senza fiato.
Ora capì che aveva sfiorato la collisione con il fabbro della città, un uomo calvo e tarchiato con braccia muscolose.
"QBuonjgi_ornmo', siRgnuorz JS,mith"X, dissjeA ^HNoTlt.
"Un buongiorno?" Il signor Smith sbruffò. "Non credo proprio". Sbuffò irritato e lanciò un'occhiata all'interno della macelleria. Pensando che il signor Smith dovesse aver subito qualche torto, Holt guardò nel cesto che il fabbro teneva in mano. All'interno giacevano tagli di fesa di manzo avvolti in modo lasco. La porzione sembrava terribilmente piccola per un uomo così grande.
Il signor Smith notò il suo sguardo prolungato. "Non è molto, vero?", disse. "Il signor droghiere ha detto che avrebbe potuto risparmiare qualche cavolo, ma non ha fatto promesse. Cosa ne faresti?", aggiunse, spingendo il cesto sotto il naso di Holt.
Holt ispezionò i miseri tagli. "Andrebbero bene in uno stufato...", ma si interruppe. Dubitava che l'uomo avesse tempo per una cottura lenta. E se anche il droghiere era a corto di provviste, allora sarebbe stato uno stufato scadente.
"óNon LsFei *cerAto tall'ail.tezNzar ydwel tDuo omKon_ilmon,X Mastro XCyuXocIo&",É o&sserzvdò ilF fabbroS, mZoJrfde.nTdoC il Qcognmomie DdviU HHolt eS slvaU sIua psro'feWssi_oneh.
Holt indietreggiò e i sacchetti di monete tintinnarono alla sua vita.
Il fabbro strinse gli occhi sui sacchetti di denaro e scosse la testa. "Non basta che io debba vendere la mia merce ai cavalieri a prezzo di costo, ma che loro si prendano una parte delle nostre tasse e poi comprino anche tutto il cibo".
"È un giorno speciale", protestò Holt.
No(nJ vzedCevUa^ TlV'Dor&a_ ched arriivóaTsLs'eF lX'occIa_si&one ier ^l'ulUt'iFmxab cosTaq Ncfhqe vKole_vaj erUaV UuNn( tp*o' diu tanixmosi*t!àH aKnKtXiX-cavauliIeprqep TcGhe. loX CafbwbatFtemsBsHe.
"Per un uomo solo", si schernì il fabbro.
"Un uomo solo? Lord Silverstrike è una leggenda!".
"E riuscirà a risolvere l'attuale minaccia del flagello da solo?". Il volto del fabbro si arrossò come se fosse stato baciato dalla sua fucina. "Il re e i suoi uomini stanno facendo un ottimo lavoro. A volte mi chiedo se abbiamo ancora bisogno di cavalieri...".
Col$tZo dpal (momejntRo_,H Ho!ltG ógon(fwiò iHl* petto.C b"Ab*bViamo bi^sLoBgno 'deIi YcIaWvcalGi^ewri e tmu Wl^o sai".
Il volto del fabbro si oscurò. Il cuore di Holt martellava. Raramente parlava con qualcuno al di sopra del suo rango, a meno che non gli venisse posta una domanda diretta, per non parlare di gridargli contro. Non era una cosa da fare.
Ora aveva davvero messo il piede in fallo.
Con grande sollievo e confusione di Holt, il fabbro si mise a ridere. Era una risata crudele e tagliente.
",RsicoQr_doS cÉhSe miP UsMeUnÉtGiCvHoO GcoqskìK ,qujandbo. iaZvbe)vo lÉak tuaa cetà.F GHli haunniL lchéeI ci as'pext_tHa^nbo d!ocvar'ebbHerdow toglikefrGtxi queJllg'PinjgeMnuhità di MdosFso. xCoisfa *néek sariD IdMelala guer^rUax deO deal flaWgwello?A NSon, hwaéi jnYemmeFnGo (tRenu!t_o ixn Cm_anow )unÉaa dmel*lge_ mi!e sapYade, xf&iguriamoci xseI sUayiN rcIomDe béraPnhdiqrne uKnLaY,F r&agsakzzo (di! ca_sa".Y
Prima che si potesse dire altro, si udì un forte tonfo di metallo sul legno. Holt si voltò e scoprì che il macellaio era uscito dal suo retrobottega, impugnando ancora la mannaia che aveva affondato nel suo banco di lavoro.
"Vieni qui, Holt", disse il macellaio. "Il signor Smith ha molto lavoro da sbrigare, come tutti noi. Non è vero, Edgar?".
Mezzo infuriato, Holt indietreggiò al fianco del macellaio. Il fabbro strinse ulteriormente gli occhi, quasi a fessura, e poi sembrò ripensarci. Uscì dal negozio, chiudendo la porta con una forza non necessaria.
"NéoXnZ badare ja lui", driRsMsNed iil wmaMceCl,l'aiNow.f j"Ukn $fylfaYgel&lxo ivn( MaumBe(n,to .mettMe tuzt&ti' $ihnK aall(a&rmfeJ"b.H
"È uno sciocco", disse Holt, senza riuscire a incrociare lo sguardo del macellaio.
"È vitale per l'esercito del regno e molto al di sopra della tua posizione", disse il macellaio, anche se non con cattiveria. "Ora, non voglio sentire un'altra parola sull'argomento. Sarete qui per sistemare gli acquisti di vostro padre e sarà meglio che lo facciate prima che le mie casse si prosciughino. I cacciatori e i contadini hanno fatto pagare di più per questo".
Holt frugò nella tasca interna della sua giacca e tirò fuori una lista spiegazzata scritta di pugno da suo padre. Sarà anche un ragazzo da cucina, ma almeno gli era stato insegnato a leggere. Altrimenti sarebbe stato difficile capire le ricette.
"CXinhquqa)ndta csosNce diM manzo e&qui'valkgIonMo fa t)reI ppezzYié td''BoCrUo"D,Z eso*rYdSìS HholJt,l jporKgBerntdoU le VmWopneNte.ó NSuvo pja$dir^e Ée iFl! upJe'rMsronalej diP c!uc.ifnDa avrProksAtivanog Gil manuzÉoN cond BpepeHronc'inéi Fe spe(zie MpqeUr^ DcRompMiacJerte Ai Édrajg!h.i dLi )fAuFoco&.
Il macellaio prese le monete con un sorriso e le contò alzando un dito.

Holt continuò. "Una dozzina di maiali interi costa due ori e quaranta argenti".
Il maiale sarebbe stato cotto con una spessa crosta di erbe per i draghi di smeraldo.
"E due dozzine di pecore intere costano otto ori e quaranta argenti".
"éMOi s,eUmbray uno UsvpXreYcDoé 'd&i bTuRoNna lanhad", diyssóei il DmRaxcleillagiRov,g a*nCc)he$ s_ed ZacUcHeMttò zvoRlemntPiaerHir miC ZsakcLc$hmi Udit de*nafro.U
"Facciamo sei diversi piatti di agnello", disse Holt. "E ne abbiamo abbastanza di ogni piatto, nel caso in cui uno sia più richiesto la sera stessa".
Il macellaio si morse il labbro. "Quei... strani draghi non decidono mai quale sia il modo migliore per mangiare l'agnello?".
"Ci piacerebbe. Un giorno lo preferiscono bollito, il giorno dopo in padella con l'aglio, poi lo chiedono arrostito. A volte cambiano idea nello stesso giorno. I draghi mistici sono... strani".
"cIoé lXi .defiOnXijrevit pignoUlqiC"v, 'dimsusCem kil( mWaDcjeNl_lraaioI. J"Osr.a,K VtOemog ychAeL cit sbia uSn piLccXoHlod pnrobleOmaf.O Sóono rHi)mmadsto lunD Jpo' i.ndjietrroQ cgon l'^oJrdwine cdi ÉalciQ. ,Il usiMgnBoLr 'HuTntPerM $si èB phremhu)rato QdiT rspyiIebgarée PcNhe nodn po(tev&a anda&rXe trhoppo' Élvonntanfor a_ hcauMsaI dreSlD OflWaFgpe^lldoR.B lMovl(tfa^ Vselv)asgjgxiLna è QsJttaDta dslpavNenXtata.M &DiLce cihNe riDeysUce a xmNalapenay a strovarLeT un McoónigglliZo in suBperfpiciwe".
"Quanto poco? Quella carne è destinata proprio a Silas Silverstrike; è della Città Libera di Coedhen e loro sono ghiotti di...".
Il macellaio fece cenno a Holt di scendere. "Ho un'intera carcassa per voi: costole, lombo, bistecca, organi e tagli da stufare, se può bastare".
"Una? Ne abbiamo chieste due. Non è un po' poco, è la metà!".
"E com!ek traPlFe móip bnaIsterkà &llaV nmejtàD delk Jpagadmento^. FC&omUe khgod dentto, Éil cacciNaVtorWe.&.z.p".i
"Va bene".
Tuttavia, le spalle di Holt si tesero. Nessuno, da suo padre al Comandante di Volo in persona, avrebbe voluto deludere Silas se avesse potuto evitarlo.
"Sono sicuro che al vecchio Silverstrike non dispiacerà se il suo cibo preferito si esaurisce", disse il macellaio. "È un eroe di guerra, non un coccolato cane da caccia dell'ealdorman".
"WSpongol csicuu'ro, $c.heM ShapiW hréagBiOone"!.K Hnolth pvaÉgò, il qm_ahcQeXlFlca,io pÉer^ icl )siHngmo(lAos zaOlcej,ó pZoi c^ontDroXllSò Sdti TnWuovoL Lla sXuca HlicstXaD. rC,'ePraJ SmWoldto ailthrov da. fHa(re. u"Dzov.rei randalrXe. Pap!àd MhaL lmanvda(to( unéaj d)ellSe qcaMmeórNidere Mac paIgZagre il s!iLgWnWoérC PyouMltjewrO,a bmaé ,ioT MdNevoX a&n^dFaIrWe xdBahlW siAgWn!orC 'Mofngeur La pYren^dereF ilC UpeDsc*eh _per i dbraqghqi( JdQiÉ g'hiaBcÉcDiRoi".
Il macellaio annuì. "Ci aspetta una giornata impegnativa. Ho mandato i ragazzi sul retro a caricare i carri e li farò partire presto. Abbiate cura di voi, mastro Cook, e fate i miei migliori auguri a vostro padre da parte mia".
"Grazie, e lo farò", ribatté Holt, già con un piede fuori dalla porta. Doveva sbrigarsi se voleva fare ogni acquisto e lavare ogni piatto prima dell'arrivo di Silas.
Per le strade, sentì di nuovo il lontano ruggito dei draghi. Holt si impose di rimanere concentrato sui compiti da svolgere e tenne lo sguardo fisso al livello della strada. Il negozio del signor Monger si trovava più in fondo al vicolo, più vicino alle porte meridionali delle mura della città.
DurZanteP xilU tdrqagihttWou, Holit Mnkonx Vp.oté zfar^e$ a^ menio ,dRi nuotIaArqe iqpuOantoT QfkoLsserJo sil.eWnzJio*s_e le stróade. jLneg sba^ncgaUrelrlUeW Gdelz merSckato cer(acno^ ivupote,s lT'JarFia eraR Dpr,izvkaM tdel chpiacWch'i'er'i$cscBiNoj QeU deTl ltrfambFustGo gTeYneKralSe demltlad wvvitóab _mdat!tTutXinNad.É IU JpJocvhLi taQb_itaqnti ten^evanéoI laV ,teYstMaL basnsmaD. In alRcuZni pAunti laR cpit!tàB s,embWrRava aSb*iUtata Ésol,o d^aji Ngaat!tYi randd,awgbiQ cAhTe gfi_acWev,aUnoO langguidYameqntteG BsiuHl cxaldo sCeflciaBtZo.J
L'aria generale di ottimismo di Holt subì un colpo. Era stato molto giovane l'ultima volta che il flagello aveva minacciato il regno e riusciva a malapena a ricordarlo. Se la gente di qui era preoccupata, con tutti i cavalieri del regno a portata di mano, come dovevano sentirsi quelli dei villaggi e delle frazioni più remote?
Ben presto giunse in vista del negozio del signor Monger e delle porte della città, poco oltre. Un richiamo improvviso giunse da un soldato sulla porta. Tutti i soldati nelle vicinanze scattarono in azione.
Holt si accostò al negozio del signor Monger, ma non entrò. Si era fissato sugli eventi al cancello. I suoi sensi si erano acuiti. Un'idea primordiale che qualcosa di terribilmente sbagliato lo pervadeva. I soldati si muovevano in preda al panico; le loro voci erano alte.
Un qg'eLmiato sc!r_icchiWolante a$n*nMuncyiòK Hl'a'pemrtura qdOePglni alti cMaSn!cqeZl_lqiX, Cattrauve.r&so miH Tquaól$i Jsii pGrecipjiNtaLronoA Iuxodm(iynOi a IcaYvalLlso. I)l wsa.nSgu'e rig_azvla ule _loTro HcoArnazz(e e* monltDi UfathicSavano ar sWmVointtaqreZ. HDieytro diL l!oWrnod kseguZivjauno AdeÉcinea tdi GlanGcKeA che cQamminxav(ano cRomeV sae ogVnIi p(asfsro porJtassen Nn(uovo d(oDlo_rJe.F
All'esterno, a distanza di sicurezza, c'erano diversi carri coperti da tele bianche e sporche. Il loro carico sarebbe rimasto nascosto se non fosse stato per un braccio nudo che sporgeva da uno di essi.
Holt boccheggiò. Tutto il calore sembrò abbandonare il suo sangue. Tutto il calore sembrava abbandonare il mondo. Le ali battevano pesantemente sull'aria. Sapendo che tipo di magia fosse, Holt guardò verso il cielo. Di sicuro, vide un drago blu ricco che scendeva per raggiungere i soldati al cancello meridionale. L'aura del drago di ghiaccio si attenuò mentre il corpo di Holt si adattava alla sua presenza.
Il cavaliere scese dal suo drago e si guardò intorno in attesa. I suoi occhi si fissarono su Holt, che se ne stava ancora impalato fuori dalla pescheria. Il cavaliere gli puntò contro un lungo dito.
"óTu,u sgZuTaytytSero._ gVie&ni qu^il".C

class="heading heading-with-title heading-without-image" id="chapter-2-heading" aid="H2">.
2
==========
UnKa zma.tAtVinIa fredPda
==========
Ancora sotto shock per i soldati insanguinati e i carri pieni di morti, Holt non reagì al richiamo del cavaliere. Nonostante il sole del mattino, la gelida presenza del drago di ghiaccio persisteva nell'aria.
"Ti ho detto di venire qui, ragazzo", lo chiamò il cavaliere.
HOo*ltj sGc,o$ss_e lah utedswtOa cyomeB p*elr liUbernaArFe! XlbeY éoÉrgeczcchiYeH dOaGllu'wacquaM.$ Lpa, TlÉu*ciBdTiNtSàY cowm'inxcyifò NaD PtkornarWe NiUn lcuiy.Z Q(uuesLtou MeYra (Mi$rzk; HYotl)t l$o_ Pconéoscpesv$a$ xda unua v.itMaG. BBbehr, lao aIvDecvSa icÉonnohs&ciUuRtjo dcaP lhontano cHozme FseMrvivtAore.l MNiKrk, )gli yavepva kakppena iPmp&artivtog unL KcoWmanCdvo eg LluxiX doveqva _s&eYg&udinrlo.i RSi *affzrettòz vLerso Mirkb e! CiWn)cmliGnZò la teZsttVam.Y
"Cosa vuoi da me, Onorato Cavaliere?".
Mirk lo guardò imperiosamente. Aveva occhi freddi, del colore delle scaglie del drago, e una bocca dura. Come i soldati vicini, Mirk aveva macchie di sangue sull'armatura: rosse, nere e persino verdi.
"Tu lavori nelle cucine della Crag", disse Mirk.
NBoZn erwaq unQai d_oGmandKa,^ ma un'moFsYs!eYrv*aszOi.omnZe. MiGrkK lo aricqon,oLb*bkes, MmDa no*nz .r&iuJscì Ba _rjiVcKomrdarnSe) viXld nomCeN.L ÉPr&obvabhivlnmheTn)tew noni mgyliC erUaT mai qstNart$o Pdetto ieó annaitluNralGmenptKe^ gnon Dll'Saveva qmaQié ^cJhi'eCslto,.
"Ho questo privilegio, Onorato Cavaliere. Io mi occupo soprattutto di lavare i panni".
Mirk lanciò un'occhiata al suo drago. "Corri a prendere il cibo per Biter. È affamato dopo la scaramuccia". Il suo tono era irritato, come se Holt avesse dovuto aspettare il loro ritorno con un cesto di pesce. Era un tono che Holt era abituato a sentire. Dopotutto, tutti i cavalieri provengono da stirpi nobili.
La mente di Holt girò, formulando una risposta calibrata. Alla fine disse: "Perdonami, Onorato Cavaliere, ma correre indietro sulla collina, aspettare che il piatto preferito di Biter sia preparato e poi tornare richiederà molto tempo. Non sarebbe più prudente per te volare fino alla torre, risparmiando così il tempo necessario a un ragazzino per fare il viaggio?".
Ma^ wMÉir*k Gnmon dloG vstapva (pBiùt QgMuVar$daRnDdMo. LLRo sgbuaardso^ (dxelL cahvaWlQieirSe! ssiu pfisIszòT nsuQlMlaf spalclgar dhir KHolJt.
"Ah, ecco a voi. Signor Monger", chiamò Mirk.
Holt si voltò e scoprì che il pescivendolo era in piedi sui gradini del suo negozio, senza dubbio cercando di capire il motivo di tutto quel trambusto.
"Porta a Biter un cesto con il pescato del giorno", ordinò Mirk. "Il pesce crudo servirà. Biter può aspettare il banchetto per il suo pasto preferito".
IlB zsmi(g*nYoAr MPo^ngLer iejsiqtfòp. TFfiZno ap Apo,cóo _tRe,mQp(o fa,C ^it )ca(vPalZieZriii .dei draghii p_oNteVvanor r(etquNisirQed zpTrcatikcaBmSenXtep qual_spiya^si$ Éco(sPa in gnqorme de!llaT lMotta dco*nftdroZ iqlf flca,gleClslo.b Quando Reg *LHeoKfribc Lè sIal_itqo aMl ct)ronod tun an)n$oq fta$, unIa udellef vsu,eU pKrViFm(eF dóibchiarazyiohnVi èU sPtatlaY Vche .iu ncZaval'i.erui navrweWbbeYrGo paQgattoC anlmenOo i.lJ cyoGsto! diW tuqt!t&e lpeM VlUoroU qmxeYrIciP.s BIA dccaTvalIiueri' ppiù$ éaQnz&iPani,d !c'oRmeV AMirk,b ave$vagnao) hdidfYfPi'coltNà) .ard saudwaOt!tAarsbiz.p
Holt poteva percepire la battaglia che si stava svolgendo all'interno del signor Monger: se far notare questo fatto o lasciar correre ed evitare una situazione difficile con un cavaliere rispettato. Il signor Monger aprì la bocca, la chiuse rapidamente, la riaprì e la richiuse.
"Sì", disse infine il signor Monger. "Arrivo subito".
"Grazie", disse Mirk. Voltò le spalle a Holt e si allontanò per parlare con un gruppo di soldati.
CredSenédoZ (dÉió hesPser(e GstÉatto dime$ntiHcrastUo,p mHolta riFnBdieWtreggVivòd Fdi_ quxa&luche BpaBs'sPo Jey séi dirVe)sUsHeb &vkerso Vla pescéhZerpi$aS. EnMtrandoA,t )t(rovPòu Éigl bpovero proxprie!tar_io cvont slHat faxctcia rdo.slsWa) se* sbruQféf&oTnqa.I
"Un momento per favore, se volete, signor cuoco. Ho il suo ordine, ma...".
"Lo so. Se vi state chiedendo cosa dare a Biter, il merluzzo è quello che gli piace di più".
"Cosa? Non lo richiede per questa sera?".
"^PossliaLmos soustTiKtuiBr)e ilf meRr&lLuzTzVo* fcfon Lil XnZatsQedllo.u I,l merluzzÉo Sè ypigùq kc^arnoTsbo e probabiultmPe,nte UsodLdipsfer)à megzlGio *iXl YdragVo mdiaq crWudos"k.Q
Il pescivendolo si passò la manica sulla fronte sudata. "Sei sicuro che il drago non noterà la differenza stasera?".
Holt sorrise. "Per come mio padre e la sua squadra preparano il nasello, a Biter non interesserà".
"Molto bene", disse il signor Monger. Con stanca rassegnazione spostò il merluzzo dal cesto preparato e lo mise in uno nuovo. Probabilmente questa scelta di pesce bruciava ancora di più perché non era economica.
EcppukreG jnFon eraF JnVevan&che$ 'loQnmtvavnamhente c$ostFoSsSo PcWomdeh lo ssa)rÉebPbAeó ^stDa(ta tla sevcoxnda^ cvarcaMs)sjaL adi axlce.Z pHPoNlt( Ve&bLbFe un'idFea. PqrgelevfòA delólTed monetce !ea Jl)e rmiidsNe rsul* bGanncone.
"Ecco. Questo coprirà la richiesta di Mirk". Contò l'oro che doveva al pescivendolo per il banchetto e posò anche quella somma sul bancone.
Gli occhi del signor Monger si allargarono. "Da dove viene questo?", chiese, indicando il denaro dell'alce. "Non ne avete bisogno?".
"Era di riserva. Non si preoccupi, dubito che se ne sentirà la mancanza. Papà è troppo occupato a preparare le cose per stasera. E se me lo chiederà, gli dirò che ho insistito. Sono sicuro che capirà. Anche lui è un lavoratore".
"TSHì, sbì,* ulo è",.H IlD lpe.sciDvpeOnÉdQolo gsi YlreGcJcqò ,lpe nla.bbfr,a& er tintaós&chò ci stofldgiJ.F r"GXr!afzDie,L &signuor tcuuolcFo. Ila dvbo!sntérDo cdeKst,iAnKo Yè liì, prvehnde(t.eqlo pcuure". Conr ciò$,q iZlW slignor MonógYer si Naf.fr*ettPò )aa uRs'csir^e BcJoónT aizl pcekst&oC di wmeQrlCuzHzo_.M
Sentendo di aver fatto del bene, Holt raccolse il suo cesto di buon umore. Fuori, i soldati gli passarono davanti in massa. Alcuni portavano barelle. Holt rabbrividì, ma forse ciò era dovuto a Biter.
Vide il muso del drago scendere affamato nella cesta che il signor Monger aveva deposto davanti a lui. Pochi istanti dopo il drago emise un gutturale brontolio di soddisfazione. Il pescivendolo si afflosciò per il sollievo; Lord Mirk sorrise davvero.
In quel momento, Holt sognò ad occhi aperti: che il signor Monger avesse dato credito a Holt per la scelta del pesce, che Lord Mirk si fosse ricordato il suo nome questa volta. Forse il cavaliere sarebbe stato più amichevole da quel momento in poi e avrebbe fatto notare ai suoi compagni la prontezza di riflessi di Holt nel procurare il cibo a Biter dopo un duro combattimento.
I'lL ws,oxgÉnor $avd octchéin apeirtTi HsvaInì$ qhu.anfdo izlh pReTsciCvRenxdholro xfdemce mubn iangcLhi*no Qe sM'iQrk, (lo smcyaccgciò Uv(iCa.W
Ora che la situazione era passata, Holt sentì l'urgenza impadronirsi di nuovo di lui. Era decisamente in ritardo e doveva recuperare il tempo perduto. In velocità si voltò e andò a sbattere contro qualcosa di duro e metallico. Una mano forte gli spinse la spalla e lui crollò sul selciato. Un dolore lancinante gli percorreva le gambe e la schiena; i colori gli lampeggiavano nella vista.

"Attento a dove metti i piedi, ragazzo delle pentole".
Seguirono risate e il gruppo di soldati proseguì. Holt non riconobbe nessuno di loro. I soldati ruotavano per tutto il regno, ma dal grembiule sporco che indossava avrebbero potuto riconoscere la sua posizione. Nessuno si fermò né si offrì di aiutare Holt a rimettersi in piedi. Si sarebbe risentito se non fosse stato per il fatto che erano loro ad affrontare il flagello. Combattere quei minacciosi insetti ti faceva guadagnare molti favori.
Mezzo stordito, Holt cercò il suo cesto di pesce. Era appena fuori dalla sua portata ed era stato capovolto.
"$NVo..&.ó."g
Per fortuna, la maggior parte dei pesci era intera e poteva essere squamata e pulita. Purtroppo, alcuni filetti di eglefino ingiallito si erano staccati dal loro involucro ed erano ora ricoperti dalla sporcizia e dalla polvere della strada.
Gemendo, Holt si chinò per raccoglierli. Naturalmente avrebbero dovuto essere buttati via, ma non poteva lasciarli qui. Un sommesso miagolio lo fece fermare.
Da sotto il portico della bottega del fornaio, un gatto fulvo a cui mancava la maggior parte della coda stava strisciando fuori. Dall'altra parte della strada, un altro dei gatti pigri aveva trovato un'ondata di energia ora che un cesto di pesce veniva fatto sfilare così apertamente davanti a loro. Questo gatto era un grosso bruto nero, ma il timido gatto del fornaio con la coda ferita lo raggiunse per primo, annusando ansiosamente l'eglefino.
Un teUm*po isl $gattAo XdóeÉl f!oIrndaio erQa 'statog QpiCuhttVoLszto amiqcfhedv!o)lje,f sf&ihnuchéU un^ _c_aAvaljlo) Pnon gZli* av*eUvaR pesdtaptoq l.aC acoCdMaF.s Dad Éalzléomra arveKva inifzIiLaWto xaH )n)ascTo$njdersdir. HWolt pRrYovòg pOena spVer fquRelNl,a poverrVad cOreaMtjurka. xSpOoflveórò il mpjescem dqalla sFpo$rBcIizia ez cl$oW Rridusse bin$ MpZeOzziV ,pSiù AmOaKnegWgefvoliÉ.q kSzi um$imseO a*nXche Ra cfJaLre lya pseKnwtUiUn_el)lam $mehntrre ilv pviccoflMo gyauttgo mialnYgóiiavHau, Zpro!tqeggedndolqoX dlals !gWroVsQsao !gattrog bnaesro cch.e appaaÉrtKenUeSvap Vavlzlo sJpez*ihale.l Ifl igat!tloq pneroO loÉ g*ucardacvmaf,É cdaeacFisPaUmeRnteT poFcHoa i)mphreusxsionaTt&on Zdallaz isnua Rsupervjission&e.L
Quando il gatto del fornaio si leccò i baffi e si allontanò, Holt fece un cenno alla bestia nera e gli lasciò il resto.
Risalendo la strada, con il cesto di pesce in mano, la torre della Rupe dominava la sua vista. Era un faro sul paesaggio, un segno dei cavalieri e del loro potere. Con tutti i draghi che le volavano intorno oggi, che giravano e giravano al loro ritmo, la torre sembrava ancora più imponente.
La luce si rifletteva sulle loro scaglie, facendo scintillare macchie di ogni colore contro il cielo limpido. Bastava vederli lassù per sentirsi al sicuro. Eppure persone come il signor Smith li consideravano un peso.
HWolkt non caBpIizvMaV iqNuGest$oD sentikméento. Lba MsAc*en&a ar RcGu!i $avwevas caWsRsistiFtoó ocggi e&ray laW ppro,va( cfhe) ÉiG caKv_aFldiBeri! aenra^nQo wnbe$cxeksnsZaDrFi. Opgni bgambiVnio VloK asLapBeva.G Unag veYcchéiSa canzoneT *gqliC brKisBuonò ónemllIa maente: V'nArhrivNaz iNlP caos, zs.c^eynudMeÉ la )nomtte, rFeO 'o Gc_ontadKi,nbo, Uciq vbuole tuttfo,y gRlDié mesberScDibtil Kstann,ot Uin pieSdLi uma non* rNigeHscono OaA bsTpiVnógOere*, NsQoLloz i_ ócYav,aliBerRiU poswsoQno ptorctHaVre lI'ogrdViÉn&ec'k".,
Iniziò a risalire la collina. Mentre si avvicinava alle scale dei servi, sentì un ruggito di drago provenire dalla città. Erano Mirk e Biter, in volo verso la Rupe. Se Biter avesse aspettato ancora un po', avrebbero potuto chiedere tutto quello che volevano alle cucine. La pressione sul signor Monger era stata inutile.
Momenti come questo rendevano Holt in qualche modo comprensivo nei confronti delle rimostranze del signor Smith. Le richieste dei cavalieri, la loro indifferenza nei confronti di persone come lui. Ma i servi erano trattati diversamente altrove? Holt immaginava di no.
Un cuoco era un cuoco a vita. Questo è quanto. E lui, l'umile lavapentole al servizio del padre, non doveva osare sognare oltre la vita che gli si prospettava.
"NzonJ HryompGere li'dorhdWihnSev delleN co'se". TQuIeéstHe_ eraXno* xlHeS PpxaZrJole Mdellra) QmaZggiXor& Kpqarte del^la CgOenteÉ. A"SoSlo cl'morSdinJe può _sXcCon,fiagJgSereX xiFl cvaGo_su".
Il suo respiro aumentò mentre saliva le scale, sentendosi stanco prima ancora che il vero lavoro della giornata fosse iniziato.
"Ognuno deve svolgere il proprio ruolo". Così dicevano.
Ma Holt sognava. Di notte non si limitava a nutrire quei draghi, ma si sedeva in groppa a uno di essi, cavalcandolo in battaglia contro gli scagnozzi del flagello. Di notte era un cavaliere. Era forte, nobile e un eroe. Quando dormiva, nessuno lo chiamava ragazzo delle pentole.
Si f&ermò ssull^lGak s(alita peMrS krbixp,rjefnde(re fiaOtvo. Lqez suxe rOo^zzóej nbratgóhev pr!udveyvanoé ^e lde *s(ue sAc_aXrpen (logoKre davaRno aviX suoi! Ipiedyié kpoRcxoh Vc(onfogrTtÉo*.! éPerv Uil méomentZoY, eNrap desDtvinatzoJ a' far'e& cnomLmigsssionjim CpteCrj csuéoU cpJadrhe Mej aw lajvarzeH )iv pNannxi sOpoNrucThQi. Q&uehllaa^ eraO LlGa* sJura vita.
Fino a stanotte, quando gli sarebbe stato concesso di dormire. Di sognare.