Kostchtchie was very calm—calmer than expected.
But only those who truly knew him understood that he was utterly furious. There were many kinds of anger. Some people shouted and raged when they were angry, venting everywhere. Others remained calm, but that did not mean they were not angry; it meant they were waiting to erupt.
Generally speaking, the latter kind was more frightening, because no one could tell what would happen once that calm finally exploded.
"Do you know how many years Svafnir has been with me?" Kostchtchie abandoned his usual irascible manner. His voice was calm, even sorrowful.
Solam said nothing, because he knew the man did not want an answer. He merely wanted to talk.
"In truth, even I can't remember. Seven or eight thousand years? Who knows? When I first met her, she was only a muddleheaded adult female dragon. I remember she was nursing three hatchlings at the time. Back then, I led members of my tribe out hunting and happened to encounter one of those hatchlings on a snowy mountain. I killed it. That was the tribe's rule then—we did not allow dangerous creatures like White Dragons to appear in our hunting grounds. As a result, Svafnir went mad with vengeance and came after us."
As he spoke, Kostchtchie revealed a faint, nostalgic smile. Memories were always the most wonderful things. Even demon lords, beings embodying all evil, were no exception. They were demons, but that did not mean they lacked emotions. It was simply that emotions were especially precious to them.
"Half the tribe died by her hand. As the tribe's chief, I had to avenge my people. Burning with rage, I found her lair and charged in. There were two hatchlings in the nest, and I killed them. Then Svafnir returned. I had