Back at his bastion, Fip Goldscale reveled in the quiet solitude of his personal domain, a stark contrast to the chaos of adventuring life. The lingering exhaustion from his latest mission weighed on him, but he was not one to let idle time slip away unproductively. There were spells to scribe, gold to amass, and power to cultivate.   On the first morning, as the sun barely crested the horizon, Fip stretched his wings and cracked his knuckles, already setting his plans into motion. With a flick of his fingers, he dismissed yesterday’s copy of himself and conjured a new one—Flap, ever dutiful, stepped forward in a perfect mirror image of his creator. Without need for instruction, the simulacrum wasted no time in weaving the powerful strands of magic necessary for Wish, summoning into existence yet another flawless diamond, glittering with the weight of unimaginable wealth.   Each day followed a similar rhythm. Fip would wake, replace Flap, and gain another invaluable diamond, their collection growing like a hoard worthy of a dragon’s envy. But power was not found in wealth alone. It was in knowledge, in the sharp edge of magic refined through ink and parchment.   For three days, he meticulously worked on a single spell scroll—Misty Step. The delicate balance of arcane sigils and precise inkwork demanded his full focus. His fingers, deft and deliberate, traced the flowing script upon enchanted parchment, ensuring each rune held the right potency. The process was methodical, but Fip found a meditative comfort in it. There was something deeply satisfying about transcribing power into something tangible, something others could only dream of grasping.   Once Misty Step was complete, Fip turned his attention to a more immediate and practical spell—Silvery Barbs. It was a trick he had come to rely on, a spell that turned fate itself against his enemies. Scribing each scroll took a full day of work, but with each finished parchment, Fip felt his arsenal growing stronger. By the week’s end, he had crafted four such scrolls, each imbued with the ability to twist fortune in his favor.   Yet, beneath the steady rhythm of creation, a nagging unease tugged at the back of his mind. It had been too long since he had last made contact with his great-great-great-grandfather—Goldscale. While they were not in constant communication, the elder dragon always had a way of making his presence known. Whether through a cryptic message carried by the wind, a stirring in Fip’s dreams, or the mere pulse of knowing that his ancestor was out there, somewhere, watching. But now—nothing. Silence.   At first, Fip dismissed it as mere impatience. Ancient dragons had their own affairs, after all. But as the days stretched on, his unease grew. He reached out in the ways he knew—sending a carefully worded magical message, offering a tribute of gold and arcane energy in the hopes it would draw a response. Still, nothing. It wasn’t like Goldscale to ignore him.   Fip tried not to let it distract him, but the absence gnawed at him. He told himself he would seek answers soon. Perhaps he was overthinking things. Perhaps Goldscale was merely preoccupied with matters beyond Fip’s understanding. That had to be it.   By the time the seventh day came to a close, Fip leaned back in his chair, stretching as he surveyed his handiwork. The scrolls lay neatly arranged, waiting for the moment they would tip the scales of battle in his favor. The diamonds—seven in total—were a testament to his patience and cunning, a growing fortune that could shape the world to his desires.   Power was not given. It was built, earned, and hoarded like the treasure of his ancestors. And Fip Goldscale was nothing if not a dragon at heart. But even dragons were not invincible. A truth he would soon be forced to face.