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By now, dear reader, you’ve probably decided that Lord Whimsitt is our villain.

But let’s not be so hasty to judgment.

He

has, after all, rather a lot on his mind, and you’ve been swept up in the charisma and charm of his ward and her champion.

Perfectly understandable.

She’s very charming.

The Tournament of Dragonslayers takes place once every four years, but for generations, the tiny county of Darkhaven never

had a chance at successfully bidding to host. Wealthy counties could always double or even triple the amount of Darkhaven’s

bid, not to mention the absolute fortunes spent on bribing the TODS executive committee.

Darkhaven’s only real source of wealth is a gold mine that hadn’t been used in centuries for the superstitious fear of waking

that which ought to be left alone.

Until a great man named Whimsitt had a dream.

The lord of Darkhaven is, in fact, ahead of his time.

Doing away with silly old superstitions and campaigning tirelessly to

bring fame and fortune into his land, even devising a way to offer the largest prize pot in tournament history by tapping

into his ward’s dowry.

Even now, the whole world is descending on Darkhaven.

And Whimsitt would much rather be rushing around, muttering about infrastructure, than dealing with a spoiled, willful teenaged girl with more money than sense.

He never asked to be her guardian.

He was, in actuality, a saint for agreeing with the king’s order to watch over Avington’s

only child.

Someday they will write about him in the history texts as a great leader, daring to defy custom and usher in a modern, enlightened

age.

A man universally loved by the little people and admired by his peers.

Respected by all.

I ought to pause here and ask you, reader: Are you familiar with the term “unreliable narrator”?