“I’m sorry, but nothing you see here is of any use to me.” The Guardian took a few deep breaths to calm down.

Seeing the lair of his lost son just like he remembered it from 40,000 years ago tore the old wounds in Leegaain’s heart open. He would have taken it as an indication that something of Azith was still alive, that his son might be worthy of redemption like Zoreth, if not for the implications that building such a place carried.

Azith had refused to move on, both in soul and mind. He hadn’t recreated a few pieces out of nostalgia. Azith had built a copy of his old lair and its contents because he still considered them his own.

The entire place oozed with greed, and Leegaain read in the various pieces a silent promise that one day the First Patriarch of the Mist Dragons would take the originals back.

“These things are just trinkets. Taking them would only hurt Azith’s pride. I need something much more important than this, and luckily for us, I know exactly where to find it. Fair warning, lag behind me and you’ll get lost.”

Owl/Leegaain walked briskly, the layout of his son’s lair still clear in his mind like on the day of Azith’s funeral, when the new Patriarch of the Mist Dragon’s bloodline had invited the Guardian to officiate the vigil.

“Why should we lag- Good gods!” Aryk stumbled on his feet and needed help not to land face-first on the ground.