The sun hung low over the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, casting long shadows across the field as Loki stood at the center, his figure striking against the darkening sky. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his usual confident smirk curling up at the corners of his lips. His posture was one of effortless elegance, as though he had nothing to prove—though deep down, he knew this moment had less to do with fairness and more to do with a little personal satisfaction. His sister Eirlys had insisted on this little display of "fair play," and while Loki wasn't one to back down from a challenge, he could still be graciously devious when it suited him. He was Loki, after all.
"You know," Loki muttered to himself, glancing at the three headmasters approaching, "I could be doing anything right now. But no, instead, I'm standing here, playing Santa Claus for a bunch of pompous wizards. Oh, well. At least I'll make it interesting."
As Dumbledore, Karkaroff, and Maxime approached, their eyes gleamed with curiosity and suspicion. Dumbledore, as always, was the calm, reassuring figure in the group, though his sharp blue eyes missed nothing. He gave Loki a warm smile, the kind that seemed to flicker with secret amusement. Maxime, with her imposing figure and aristocratic air, looked slightly exasperated, though she always held herself with grace. Karkaroff, ever the skeptic, had a frown etched across his face, his eyes narrowing as if suspecting foul play at every turn.
Loki stood poised, the perfect picture of mischief, holding out a series of broomsticks. They were sleek, finely crafted, the wood a rich, polished black, with veins of silver running along the edges. Each one hummed with subtle enchantments, the runes etched on the handles glowing faintly in the growing twilight. They looked like something out of Asgardian mythology, crafted with a blend of magic and artistry that would make any broom in the wizarding world seem like a cheap imitation.
"Seven broomsticks for each of your schools," Loki announced with a grand flourish, his voice carrying across the field, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his emerald eyes. "A little gift from me, to ensure fairness in the tournament. I've gone to the trouble of making these myself, just for you." He tossed the first broomstick to Dumbledore with an easy flick of his wrist, the broom spinning elegantly before landing perfectly in the Headmaster's hands.
Dumbledore caught the broom with a practiced air, his fingers brushing against the smooth wood. His eyes twinkled with a knowing glint as he raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Loki," he said in a tone that was both amused and filled with understanding, "how thoughtful. I must admit, I am intrigued."
"Intrigued?" Loki said, his smile growing even more sly. "I do hope you'll enjoy it, Albus. After all, these brooms are more than just a pretty sight. They'll give your team the edge they deserve. No more complaints about poor handling or ill-timed swerves."
Maxime, inspecting her broom with raised brows, muttered in her thick French accent, "You're too kind, Loki." She glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "But I don't trust you. You always have an agenda."
Loki feigned shock, placing a hand over his heart. "Olympe, you wound me!" He gave her a playful wink, clearly enjoying her skepticism. "I assure you, I'm simply giving these brooms out of the goodness of my heart." He paused, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "And perhaps a little because I enjoy seeing you all squirm."
Maxime rolled her eyes, her expression unamused. "I suppose we shall see if these brooms are as magical as you claim."
Karkaroff, standing a little to the side, looked on with suspicion, his eyes flicking from the broom to Loki. His fingers clenched around the broomstick he had reluctantly taken. "You never do anything without expecting something in return," Karkaroff growled, his voice low and filled with mistrust. "What is it you want, Loki?"
Loki's grin widened, and he gave a slow, almost predatory laugh. "What I want, Igor, is simply for you to enjoy the game. To revel in the fairness I've provided. What's the harm in a little sport, hmm?" He took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with something darker, more dangerous. "Or perhaps you're not as confident in your team's ability as I am?"
Karkaroff's jaw tightened, and he glared at Loki, but there was no response. It was clear to everyone that Karkaroff suspected Loki's games went beyond simple broomsticks, but Loki had mastered the art of plausible deniability.
Dumbledore, ever the peacekeeper, cleared his throat and gave Loki a knowing look. "I'm sure we all appreciate your generosity, Loki. But, might I ask—what's this about tomorrow?" His voice was still gentle, but there was a certain sharpness there, as though Dumbledore was no stranger to Loki's ways.
Loki gave him a sly smile. "Ah, you're a perceptive one, Albus. Tomorrow, I've arranged a little... exhibition match. A practice, if you will, for the teams to test their new brooms. I thought, since you'll all be so eager to put these lovely creations to good use, we might as well see how well they perform under a bit of pressure."
Maxime sighed, rubbing her temples. "You are incorrigible, Loki."
"Ah, but I'm delightful," Loki replied airily, his grin widening. "Don't worry, Olympe. I'll make sure the match is... entertaining." He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice so only the three headmasters could hear. "After all, what's Quidditch without a little chaos?"
Karkaroff's eyes flashed with suspicion. "And how do you propose to make this 'exhibition' interesting, hmm?"
Loki's smirk was his answer. "Trust me, Igor. There's more than one way to make things... unpredictable."
Dumbledore's smile deepened, twinkling with amusement. "I do believe we shall see just how interesting it can get."
With that, Loki stepped back, giving the broomsticks another sweeping gesture. "Enjoy the ride, my friends. Tomorrow's match will be... unforgettable." He made a dramatic bow, as if this entire moment were a play, and he, of course, the star.
Maxime and Karkaroff exchanged glances, both uncertain of what lay ahead, but neither willing to back down.
"Until tomorrow, then," Dumbledore said softly, still eyeing Loki with amusement. "We shall see how fair your fairness really is."
As the headmasters took their broomsticks and made their way back towards their respective teams, Loki stood at the center of the pitch, his grin still wide and dangerous. He had set the stage for something thrilling, something unpredictable. And he couldn't wait to see how far his game would go.
As for Eirlys, well, Loki was certain she would never know how much he enjoyed these little moments of mischief. But if she did happen to show up to ensure he didn't go too far... well, Loki would be ready for her, as always.
—
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a fiery orange hue that bathed the Forbidden Forest in an eerie, twilight glow. The air was thick with the hum of magical creatures, their sounds lost to the rustling of leaves in the wind. The clearing where Haraldr stood was tense, the ground beneath his boots firm and cold as he braced himself for the next assault.
Thor's deep voice thundered across the clearing, making the very trees seem to shake. "Haraldr, you are far from the safe halls of Asgard now! The dragon you will face cares nothing for your noble blood or your lineage. It only understands fire and fury! So, focus!" His eyes gleamed with pride, though his tone was no less stern. He swung Mjolnir in his hand like it was an extension of himself, the hammer crackling with the faintest traces of lightning.
Haraldr nodded, his brow furrowed with concentration as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The sword he held shimmered with enchanted runes, its hilt firm in his grip. He could feel his pulse quicken with each breath, but his resolve held steady. This wasn't just a lesson—this was preparation for something far more dangerous. "I'm ready. Show me what I must do," he replied, his voice unwavering, though the weight of the task ahead threatened to steal his confidence.
Sif stood at Thor's side, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp as daggers. She studied Haraldr, her lips curling into a slight smirk. "Loki's tricks will not help you here, young prince," she said, her voice smooth but tinged with challenge. "True combat is not about deceit or finesse—it's about surviving the fire. Do you have the mettle?"
Haraldr felt a slight edge of irritation, but he knew better than to rise to her bait. He wasn't here to prove anything to Sif. He was here to learn.
The Warriors Three—Fandral, Volstagg, and Hogun—stood nearby, waiting. Fandral, ever the flamboyant one, leaned against a tree, his posture lazy but his eyes sharp with amusement. "I shall let Thor go first," he said, his voice light with mock sweetness. "After all, he is the one who always insists that thunder is the loudest. I can be patient." He gave Haraldr a playful wink. "Don't worry, boy. We'll let you catch your breath before the real fun begins."
Volstagg, the ever-vocal giant of a warrior, gave Haraldr a hearty slap on the back. "Aye, Fandral speaks true! Thor's strength is unparalleled, but it is not the strength of the dragon you must worry about. It is the speed, the cunning, the agility! You'll need to dance with the flames, lad. Can you do that?"
Hogun, ever silent, stood at the far end of the clearing, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His eyes flicked to Haraldr only briefly, but his gaze was piercing, like a hawk watching its prey. Unlike the others, Hogun offered no playful banter. He merely waited, the calm in his presence a silent reminder that not all battles were won with words.
Haraldr inhaled deeply, his mind racing. Loki said: prepare for anything. Outlast. Survive. That wasn't just some cryptic nonsense. It was a lesson in itself. His father's teachings echoed in his mind—battle wasn't about brute strength alone. It was about the mind. And right now, his mind had to be sharp, not distracted by his surroundings or his nerves.
Thor's voice broke through the silence once again. "Stay light on your feet, boy. A warrior in Asgard moves like the storm itself. Quick and unpredictable!" Thor raised Mjolnir above his head, the hammer crackling with raw energy. He lifted it as if it weighed nothing. "This dragon will not wait for you to be ready. You must meet its fury head-on."
Before Haraldr could even react, Thor hurled Mjolnir straight at him, the air itself screaming in protest as the hammer sped toward him with the force of a mountain. Haraldr's instincts took over as he dove to the side, barely escaping the collision as Mjolnir struck the earth with a deafening BOOM, sending a shockwave that rattled the trees and scattered dirt in all directions. Haraldr rolled onto his feet, eyes wide with determination, his heart racing in his chest.
"Not bad," Sif remarked, raising an eyebrow. "But remember, Haraldr, you cannot rely solely on evasion. The battle will come at you from every direction. Anticipate. React."
Fandral grinned, tossing a quick wink at Haraldr. "You're quick, I'll give you that. But don't forget, Thor isn't the only one here who can teach you a thing or two."
Volstagg, his laugh booming in the clearing, hefted his massive axe. "Don't let the swashbuckler fool you, lad. In battle, you need more than just speed. You need raw power." He swung his axe downward in a slow but deliberate arc, aiming directly for Haraldr's midsection.
Haraldr reacted instinctively, ducking under the blow, the wind from the axe's blade stirring the air around him. He rolled forward, coming up just in time to narrowly avoid another strike. He could feel the weight of the axe's presence just behind him, its momentum a deadly force that, had it connected, would have split him in two.
Volstagg let out a delighted bellow. "That's it, lad! Use the terrain! Use what's around you! A warrior can only be as strong as his surroundings!"
Haraldr took a step back, eyeing the boulders scattered near the edge of the clearing. His heart raced, but he refused to let his nerves take hold. His mind was clear. He needed to be more than just quick. He needed to outthink them.
Sif's voice rang out, cutting through his thoughts. "And now, young prince, the real test begins." With a flick of her wrist, she summoned a handful of small, enchanted blades that zipped toward Haraldr's exposed side, their movement almost too quick to track.
Haraldr's eyes narrowed, his hand rising to meet the first blade. His sword flashed in a blur of motion, cutting down one, then another, then another. The last one grazed his cheek, but he barely felt the sting as he twisted his body, deflecting the final strike with a flourish. His breath was heavy, but his eyes were sharper than ever.
"Nice work," Fandral called out, his grin widening. "But can you handle this?"
Thor let out a laugh that boomed like thunder, raising Mjolnir high above his head. "Let's see how well you dance when lightning strikes!"
The air crackled with static, and before Haraldr could react, a bolt of lightning shot from the sky, streaking down toward him like a spear of raw energy. Haraldr's heart skipped a beat, his instincts screaming at him to move. He dropped to the ground, rolling to the side, feeling the searing heat of the bolt as it passed mere inches from his back, scorching the earth in its wake.
Thor's thunderous laugh filled the clearing. "Aye! You've got speed. Let's see how well you survive the next wave, my boy."
Haraldr, panting, rolled onto his knees and shot to his feet. "Again."
Sif raised an eyebrow, impressed despite herself. "I like this one. He's got spirit, I'll give him that. But let's see how long it lasts." She stepped forward, uncrossing her arms as she advanced, her eyes alight with challenge. "Now comes the real test. No more games."
Fandral's voice, light as always, echoed in the background. "Let's see if you're ready to dance with dragons."
The practice intensified. They pushed him to his limits—testing not just his strength but his ability to adapt. His sword, his mind, his body—all needed to work in perfect harmony if he was to survive what awaited him in the First Task. Every move, every strike, every dodge, was more than just a drill. It was a lesson in survival.
As the sun dipped further, casting long shadows across the clearing, Haraldr knew one thing for certain: this was only the beginning. The dragon awaited, and with it, a battle that would test him in ways he could not yet comprehend. But he was ready. He had to be.
—
Cedric Diggory was deep in the heart of the Hogwarts Library, surrounded by towering shelves of dusty books. The late afternoon light filtered in through the high windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Cedric's usually easygoing expression had been replaced by a look of intense concentration. He was hunched over a massive tome titled A History of Dragons in the Wizarding World, the pages turning with a rapid flick of his fingers as his mind raced through the possible scenarios ahead of him.
"Dragons," he muttered under his breath, staring at a particularly gnarly illustration of a Hungarian Horntail. He rubbed his eyes in frustration. He'd known that the Triwizard Tournament would push him to his limits, but this? A fire-breathing monster the size of a house? It was a whole new level.
A few seconds passed, and Cedric turned the page, landing on a chapter titled The Five Most Dangerous Dragons in Europe. He sighed, scanning the text quickly. The words blurred in front of his eyes, but he kept reading, hoping for something that could give him an edge—anything that might help him outthink the beast.
"Come on, Cedric. Think. You're good at this. You can do this," he muttered to himself, trying to will away the unease creeping up his spine.
The library was mostly empty, save for the occasional hushed rustle of parchment. Cedric's mind was racing, but his body stayed still, moving only when it was absolutely necessary. The sound of footsteps caught his attention, and he looked up, expecting to see another student passing by. Instead, Viktor Krum emerged from behind a row of bookshelves, a thick volume clutched in his large hands. Viktor's usual brooding demeanor was still present, but there was something more intense about him today—something that said he was taking this seriously.
"Still at it, Diggory?" Viktor's low, gravelly voice filled the quiet space as he walked over to Cedric's table, his heavy Bulgarian accent making his words sound even more determined.
Cedric looked up, trying to shake off the tension in his shoulders. "Yeah," he said, letting out a slow breath. "Trying to find some angle on these dragons. But it's like they're invincible or something."
Viktor cracked a faint half-smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "They are strong, but not invincible," he said, his tone grave. "What are you looking for?"
Cedric glanced at the book in his hands. "I've been going through this one, A History of Dragons in the Wizarding World. There's a lot of detail here, but it's all general stuff—temperament, feeding habits, how they react to things… not really what I need."
Viktor gave a short nod. "I see. I'm looking for weaknesses. I've got this one." He slapped a heavy, worn book on the table with a thud. The cover read Magical Creatures and Their Weaknesses. "It has a few things on dragons. Some plants, some potions. Not much, but maybe something we can use."
Cedric leaned in, curious, as Viktor flipped the book open to a page on Fire-Breathing Dragons. The illustration was detailed—depicting a dragon with glowing red eyes and a gaping maw of flames. Cedric couldn't help but stare for a moment, feeling a shiver run down his spine.
Viktor's finger tapped a line in the text. "This potion, Breath Bane, it slows down their fire, weakens it for a short time. Might give us a chance to make a move."
Cedric let out a low whistle. "That's good. Definitely useful." But a shadow crossed his face. "But we can't rely on just one thing. The dragon will be all over us. We need a plan that doesn't depend on just slowing its fire."
Viktor nodded, his expression serious. "We need speed. And we need the right moment."
As if on cue, a voice broke through the silence, causing both boys to look up sharply.
"Gentlemen," came a melodic, confident voice, thick with a French accent. Cedric immediately recognized it—Fleur Delacour. Her golden hair shimmered as she glided into view, carrying herself with the same grace that had made her a favorite among the crowd. But today, there was something different about her—a focus, a sharpness, as though she had already begun to prepare herself for the task ahead.
Cedric gave a small, surprised smile. "Fleur! Didn't see you there."
She gave him a knowing smile in return, one that was equal parts playful and thoughtful. "You are both looking for secrets, non?" she said, stepping closer to their table. "I can see it in your eyes. You want to survive the task, yes? But surviving is not enough."
Cedric blinked, momentarily thrown off by the intensity in her gaze. "I… I mean, yeah, that's the goal, right?" He ran a hand through his hair, trying to focus. "But if we're being honest, I don't think anyone can just survive a dragon. You've got to be smart."
Fleur's smile curled upward at the corners of her lips. "Exactly. But more than that, you must defeat it. You must think beyond survival."
Viktor gave a low grunt, his usual scowl deepening. "You think it's that simple?"
Fleur's eyes flashed with a fierceness that caught both boys off guard. "Nothing is simple when facing a dragon. But do you not understand? The dragon is not just fire and fury. It is air, it is flight, it is speed." She leaned in, her tone dropping to something more serious. "You need to ground it."
Cedric's brow furrowed as he processed her words. "Ground it?"
"Oui," Fleur said, her eyes gleaming with quiet confidence. "A dragon on the ground is vulnerable. A dragon in the sky is a different beast entirely. If you do not control its movement, it will control you."
Viktor shifted in his seat, considering this for a long moment. "You mean we need to take it down from the sky?"
Fleur nodded. "Exactly. You will need speed and control. And do not hesitate, Cedric." Her voice softened, but there was no mistaking the urgency in her words. "A hesitation will be your downfall."
Cedric absorbed her advice, the weight of it settling on him. Ground the dragon. Speed and control. He hadn't thought about the aerial advantage of the beast before. It made perfect sense, but it was going to be difficult to manage.
"Thanks, Fleur," he said, his voice steady but filled with determination. "I think I've got a clearer picture now."
Fleur smiled, a mix of pride and mischief in her expression. "Good. And remember, Cedric, victory is not just about fighting the dragon. It is about defeating it." She gave both of them a small wink, then turned to leave, her confident stride making it clear that she was already thinking ahead.
Viktor and Cedric exchanged a glance, both of them deep in thought. The task ahead was formidable, but they weren't alone. They had the wisdom of each other, and, for the moment, that was enough.
"Alright," Cedric said, his voice firm with resolve. "Let's work with what we've got. No matter what happens, we're going to face those dragons head-on."
Viktor nodded, closing his book with a decisive motion. "We will."
—
Loki led Haraldr down the winding stone corridors of Hogwarts, his steps as light and effortless as a breeze through the trees. The air between them was heavy with silence, save for the occasional faint creak of the old castle. Haraldr, however, was struggling to keep up. His muscles, sore from the brutal dodging drills Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three had put him through, screamed in protest with every step.
"How do you do it?" Haraldr muttered between labored breaths, trying not to sound too winded. "You keep up with them all... and you're—well, you're not exactly built like Thor."
Loki threw him a sly smile over his shoulder, his voice smooth, laced with mischief. "Ah, yes. A much finer build, if I may say so myself." He paused, glancing at Haraldr with a raised brow. "But it's not about muscle, Haraldr. It's about finesse, wit, and the ability to manipulate everything around you—your enemies, the environment, and yes, even yourself. Something I imagine you'll be quite good at with a little practice."
Haraldr snorted in disbelief. "You know, I would rather have muscle over finesse right about now."
Loki's chuckle was light and knowing, the sound like wind chimes in a storm. "Ah, but if you only had muscle, dear nephew, you'd have no idea how to use it. How boring that would be." He flashed a smirk as they turned a corner. "Muscle without purpose is just... well, muscle. Useless in the grand scheme of things."
The corridor ended at a large tapestry that seemed absurd in its portrayal. Haraldr blinked, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten as his gaze locked on the scene. A wizard stood in the center of it, waving his wand desperately at a group of trolls. They, in turn, were awkwardly flailing their limbs in a grotesque attempt at ballet. Their movements were comically clumsy, one even tripping over its own foot.
Haraldr frowned, his confusion written all over his face. "Who in their right mind would try to teach trolls to dance?"
Loki let out a rich, amused laugh, his eyes gleaming with something that was part fondness, part mischief. "Ah, my dear, that would be Barnabas the Barmy. A rather... misguided wizard who thought it'd be quite the charming idea to teach trolls ballet for a—how do I put this?—cultural enrichment program. It didn't exactly go as planned."
Haraldr snorted, his mind temporarily diverted by the absurdity. "I'm guessing he's no longer around?"
Loki's lips curled into a smile, but there was a touch of darkness behind it. "Not unless you count his... remains. But we all have our dreams, don't we?" He nodded toward the tapestry as if the tale were not just amusing but a lesson in itself. "Folly often leads to untimely ends."
"Right," Haraldr muttered, still chuckling. "Well, I'd prefer to avoid being eaten by a troll. So what's next?"
Loki's face shifted, becoming more serious. His eyes narrowed slightly, and the mischievous smile slipped into something colder, calculating. "Speaking of avoidance, there's something much worse than trolls you need to face."
Haraldr raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Loki's smirk was back, but it was laced with a dangerous edge. "I'm going to show you the key to surviving the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament. It's not dragons or simple challenges, no. It's something far more cunning, far more dangerous." He gestured toward the tapestry. "You'll find it through here."
Haraldr's brows furrowed as Loki waved his hand at the tapestry. A ripple seemed to pass through the fabric, and, like magic, the scene twisted. The trolls, the wizard, and the entire tapestry melted away, revealing a door framed in stone, its surface glowing faintly.
"This is the Room of Requirement," Loki announced with a flourish. "Step inside, and you will find everything you need to succeed. Or, at least, survive."
Haraldr hesitated. His exhaustion had flared up again, and he wasn't sure what he was walking into. He gave Loki a wary glance. "And what exactly am I supposed to do in there?"
Loki leaned in closer, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Oh, it's simple, Haraldr. You need to survive. Survive against Nidhogg."
Haraldr blinked. "Nidhogg? The dragon of Norse myth? Are you out of your mind? That thing is—"
Loki's laugh cut him off, smooth and silken. "Indeed, it is a creature of immense power. A serpent of pure chaos, capable of undoing entire worlds with but a flick of its tail. But no, this isn't the real Nidhogg, merely a simulated version." He leaned in closer, his voice now a whisper laced with dark delight. "And unlike your previous drills, Haraldr, you can't just muscle your way through this. You'll have to outwit it, outmaneuver it, and maybe even... outlast it."
Haraldr shook his head, feeling the weight of exhaustion press down on him like a physical thing. "Wait a second. You want me to fight that thing? And survive?"
Loki's grin was devilish. "Survive, outsmart, and adapt. You'll learn the most important lesson for the First Task." His eyes glittered as if he were savoring a private joke. "And, of course, you won't be able to leave until you do."
Haraldr's blood ran cold. "Wait, what do you mean, I can't leave?"
Loki's voice was light now, teasing. "Oh, it's simple. The Room of Requirement will trap you until you've completed the task. Think of it as... a hands-on learning experience. An immersive one, if you will."
Haraldr gulped, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no going back now. He stepped toward the door, his legs feeling like lead as he reached for the handle. "This is a terrible idea."
Loki gave him one last, cheerful smile. "Ah, but it's your idea now. Enjoy."
With a reluctant exhale, Haraldr stepped through the door.
The landscape that greeted him was far worse than he had imagined. The ground beneath him was cracked, as if the earth itself had been torn apart by something enormous. Jagged rocks jutted from the floor, and the air smelled faintly of sulfur, thick with the scent of ancient decay. A shadow loomed in the distance, growing larger as Haraldr squinted.
He wasn't alone.
A sudden, bone-rattling hiss cut through the air, and Haraldr spun around, his eyes wide in disbelief. Nidhogg, the serpent of legend, rose up from the earth like a creature of nightmares. Its enormous, coiling body slithered across the ground, its red eyes locked on him with unrelenting focus.
Before Haraldr could even react, the beast lunged, its massive fangs gleaming in the dim light, aimed directly at him. He barely managed to dodge, rolling to the side just in time to avoid being impaled by the serpent's deadly bite.
"Not good," Haraldr muttered, scrambling to his feet, adrenaline flooding his system. His mind raced. Think, think, think!
Loki's voice echoed in his head, as sharp and clear as if the trickster were standing next to him. Outwit it. Outmaneuver it. The serpent is cunning, but it's not invincible.
Haraldr's heart was pounding, but a flash of realization struck him. He couldn't overpower Nidhogg, not with his muscles alone. He needed to think like Loki—clever, unpredictable.
Nidhogg lunged again, and Haraldr dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the sharp, snapping jaws. He was on the move now, his eyes scanning the landscape for any advantage.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, "time to outsmart a dragon."
---
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