The throne room doors creaked open. Seven of Canada’s elite soldiers entered slowly, boots thudding softly against marble. Not one of them knew why they’d been summoned. No mission briefing.

They expected the grand fire dragon. They got… an old man… in a cape.

Ninety-seven, give or take. Wrinkled like parchment, hunched like a question mark. His crown sat crooked on his head, more tin than gold. He blinked slowly at the ceiling, mouth hanging open in total confusion. He waved halfheartedly at a sunbeam.

Beside the throne stood Mary—nervous as always. Clipboard clutched too tight to her chest. Shoulders stiff, smile forced. She looked like she was about to burst into a thousand apologies.

And beside her, leaning casually against a pillar, arms crossed, watching like he was at a comedy show. A man with fiery red hair…

Mary cleared her throat—twice. “U-Um… h-hi.”

The soldiers blinked confused. Mary straightened up and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Th-thank you for coming. So quickly. Sorry if it was sudden. Um. You were… all chosen because you’re the best, obviously. You already knew that. Probably. Right.”

Silence… She peeked at her clipboard, then looked back at them, cheeks slightly red.

“A-And… you are now standing in the p-presence of…” She took a deep breath. “The… fire dragon of Canada.”

The old man was now whispering something about pickles. Mary winced but kept going. “He’s very… powerful. Ancient. Um. Wise.” Mary shifted awkwardly on her feet. “P-please, uh… please salute the dragon.”

She raised her arm, pointing—gently, nervously—toward the confused old man on the throne.