The sun crested over the fields of golden grain, casting a warm, honeyed glow upon the village of Vaelridge. Nestled between the riverbanks and the distant view of Greimdall's high walls, the village was modest—rows of thatched rooftops, sun-bleached fences, and tilled soil that bore the weight of generations. Here, the air was filled with the scent of dew and wildflowers, and laughter often echoed across the valley long before the morning bell.
Edran ran barefoot along the packed earth path between rows of swaying wheat, his copper-brown hair catching the wind. He was ten, lean, and quick-footed, a boy full of dreams too large for the tiny village he called home. In his hand he clutched a wooden sword, one he had carved with his father in the forge before they abandoned it for the fields.
"You swing too high! You'll cut the clouds before the dragons!" shouted a girl's voice from the tall grass.
Edran grinned and spun around. His little sister, Daina stood behind him—seven years old, small and barefoot like him, her brown hair pulled into two uneven braids. She clutched a wildflower in one hand, a woven bracelet on her wrist, and her cheeks dimpled with every smile.
"I wasn't aiming at dragons," Edran said proudly. "I was aiming at the sky itself. If I hit it just right, maybe I'll break through and see Shiruba U'windo."
Daina laughed—a sound as clear as the wind chimes that hung from their porch. "You always say strange things like that."
He shrugged. "It's not strange if you believe it."
A sudden horn echoed from the nearby road.
"The soldiers!" Edran cried, grabbing Daina's hand.
Down the dusty road came a line of mounted knights, glinting in sunlight, their cloaks trailing behind like banners of glory. The villagers came out to watch as the armored warriors of Greimdall rode past. Some waved. Others simply stared in silence.
Edran's eyes sparkled. "Look at them, Daina! One day, I'll wear that armor. I'll protect Firya from the dragons, from the Sylvankin... from everything."
She looked up at him, not quite understanding, but nodded anyway. "And I'll sing for you when you come home."
They stayed until the soldiers disappeared down the road, then returned home with heads full of dreams.
Later that evening, the family gathered by the hearth. The smell of stewed herbs and roasted root vegetables filled the small cottage. Their mother hummed softly while stirring the pot, her voice soft and low. She always sang the same melody—Daina's favorite.
Daina climbed up onto a stool near the window and looked out to the stars. "Can I sing now?"
Her father, a sturdy man with soot-stained hands and tired eyes, nodded with a small smile. "Of course, my little songbird. The stars are waiting."
Daina stood, clasped her hands to her chest, and closed her eyes.
Her voice rose, gentle at first, like the wind over the grass:
"O stars above the endless sky,
Whisper where the rivers lie,
Carry dreams through silver air,
And guard the ones I hold most fair."
"In fields of gold and forest deep,
Where children laugh and flowers sleep,
I'll sing until the darkness fades,
And light shall bloom in shadow's shade."
The room stilled with every note. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to hush to listen. When she finished, Daina looked down shyly, her cheeks warm.
"I want to sing like that forever," she said.
Their mother smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter's face. "Then sing, my love. As long as your voice lives, peace lives too."
—
That night, Edran couldn't sleep. He lay awake staring at the wooden beams above him, listening to Daina's quiet breaths from the other side of the room. A soft breeze drifted in through the window, and in it he swore he could still hear her song, lingering like a promise.
Then came the sound—a low, unnatural thud.
Another.
Then a scream.
Edran shot upright. The smell hit him next—smoke. He ran across the room, shaking Daina awake.
"Daina! Wake up, something's wrong!"
She stirred groggily, then sat up with wide, frightened eyes as another scream tore through the night. "What's happening?"
"I don't know. Come on—we need to find mama and papa!"
He grabbed her hand and rushed downstairs. Their home was filled with thick smoke. The door to the kitchen was already engulfed in flames.
Thundering footsteps echoed outside. Shadows—twisted, tall, unnatural—moved past their windows. Not men. Not beasts. Shapes that flickered like smoke, eyes glowing faint and cruel.
"Here!" Edran pulled Daina toward the cellar.
They stumbled inside, coughing, huddling beneath the old apple crates.
Daina shook, clutching his arm. "I'm scared, Edran…"
"I know," he whispered, trying to smile despite his pounding heart. "Hey, remember your song? Sing it. Just the first part. I'll hum with you."
Her voice trembled as she sang the first note. Edran hummed along, trying to drown out the screams and roar of flames.
Then the door burst open.
"Edran! Daina!"
It was their father's voice.
"Papa!" Edran shouted.
"Come here! Quickly, take my hand!" their father called, reaching toward them.
Edran grabbed Daina's wrist and surged forward. The heat was unbearable. As they reached for their father's hand—
A beam crashed from above.
Daina screamed as she slipped from Edran's grip.
"No! Daina!"
Edran reached back, his fingers brushing hers—just enough to pull the bracelet from her wrist before smoke swallowed her completely.
"Papa—she's still in there! Let me go back!"
"No!" His father yanked him out as the ceiling collapsed behind them.
"Daina!!" Edran screamed, his voice cracking with heartbreak.
Outside, the village was ablaze. The sky glowed red, the fields devoured by flame. The shadows melted into the night, their purpose complete. Villagers wept. Some screamed. Others were simply gone.
Edran clutched the bracelet in his hand, his heart hollow.
Daina's song was no longer in the wind.
He stood there until the flames died and dawn painted the sky in muted gray. The cries of survivors echoed faintly through the scorched remains of Vaelridge.
Eventually, the soldiers came—but it was too late. The village lay in ashes, and their presence served only to inspect what little remained. Their captain dismounted near the ruins and began speaking with the few elders and survivors who had managed to cling to life through the night.
"We don't know if it was dragons or shadows," one elder muttered.
"It was shadows!" Edran stepped forward, his voice hoarse. "I saw them. Black, tall, with glowing red eyes."
The captain turned, barely sparing him a glance. "And who are you, boy?"
"I'm Edran. I want to join the soldiers. I want to avenge my sister."
"You're too young," the captain said with a faint, knowing smirk—not mocking, but like someone who'd seen many eager eyes before. "Boy, keep surviving. Grow stronger—and then come find me."
"What's your name?" Edran asked, his voice cracking, tears still in his eyes.
The captain paused. "Captain Halric," he said. "Remember it."
Before leaving, the soldiers addressed the remaining villagers. "Gather your dead," one said. "Those of you with strength, come to Greimdall. You'll be placed in refugee camps or considered for reassignment. If you want protection, you must earn it."
The survivors obeyed without protest. They had no fight left.
But Edran did.
He watched as the soldiers mounted their horses and disappeared beyond the trees, leaving the broken village behind.
Edran held the bracelet tight in his hand. He would not let Daina's song be forgotten. He would return to Greimdall—not as a beggar, but as someone who would rise beyond fire and ruin.
—
Twelve years had passed since the fire swallowed Vaelridge. The seasons had turned, kingdoms rebuilt, and the world carried on—leaving only whispers of a forgotten village in Firya's hills.
But for Edran, the flames never truly died. They still burned quietly beneath his skin. Time had weathered his face, broadened his shoulders, but the weight of that night lingered in his gait—every step a silent echo of loss.
The bracelet his sister once wore clung to his wrist, frayed but cherished. Each morning, he tied it tight before buckling his father's sword to his hip. It wasn't ornate—just a balanced, reliable blade—but it carried weight. Memory. Duty.
Greimdall rose before him, just as it had when he was a child. The banners still flew above the walls, and the guards still stood proud in gleaming armor. His heart beat faster at the sight. A boyhood spark flickered again. Even after all he'd seen, all he'd lost, this place still called to him. He still believed in the strength of its soldiers.
The recruitment square was loud with eager voices and clanking armor. Young men and women crowded the line beneath white-stone arches. At the front, a pair of soldiers sat behind a wooden desk, recording names beside the monument of Greimdall's fallen.
When his turn came, he stepped forward to a table where two soldiers recorded names.
"Name?"
"Edran."
"Previous service?"
Edran nodded. "Monsters. Daenoboars. Thornbacks. Things near the southern ridge."
The second soldier glanced up. "And dragons?"
Edran hesitated. "Not yet."
The first soldier smirked. "Well then, you've got a long road ahead. New policy. To apply for soldierhood, you'll need proof of strength. A hundred dragonkin kills, minimum."
Edran blinked. "A hundred...?"
"That's right," the first replied, less mockingly now. "The Guild's your best shot. Prove yourself there, and you might stand a chance."
Edran stepped back, stunned. He had expected challenges—but not this. The uniform, the order, the honor… it was no longer earned through loyalty or skill. Now, it had to be bought in blood.
Still, he clenched his fists and nodded. He would do it. Whatever it took.
—
The Hunter's Guild sat along the crumbling edge of Greimdall's outer district—less a barracks of glory and more like a tavern that had grown armor over the years. Cracked stone walls, faded banners bearing fractured sigils of past conquests, wooden beams darkened by time and smoke with skulls of dragonkin lined as trophies, and a pair of broken swords hung above the entrance like forgotten relics.
As Edran stepped inside, he was greeted by the scent of sweat, old ale, fire oil, and blood. The air was thick with voices, laughter, curses. Zcyrt'eks whispered in their guttural tongue, cloaked in swamp-soaked leathers. Lycans laughed and arm-wrestled over mugs of frothy ale, their boisterous voices rising above the din. Adanels sharpened blades in practiced silence, while Goblins weighed bags of gold, boasting of their latest hauls. At the far corner, a pair of Turocs compared their battle scars, pounding the table with pride. This was no disciplined military hall Edran had once imagined. It was chaos, barely contained.
Ranks in the Guild were clear: Copper at the bottom, followed by Iron, Silver, Myr, Keslite, Orocalcum, and finally, Dragon—the rarest rank, only awarded to those who slew an elder dragon alone. Most never climbed past Iron. Those who did usually didn't live long.
Edran walked to the front desk where a woman sat—a sharp-eyed Adanel with streaks of gray in her braid. Her uniform was faded, her expression bored but knowing. She raised an eyebrow.
"New blood?" she asked without looking up from her parchment.
Edran gave a short nod. "I want to register."
She slid a form across the desk, where Edran wrote his name. Then stamped a bronze-colored badge with a seal. "Copper rank. Means you're green. Small contracts only until you prove yourself."
Edran examined the badge, its edges worn smooth by countless hands.
"What about climbing ranks?" Edran asked
"Slay enough dragonkin, take harder quests, or get invited by a higher-ranked party. You want to go fast? Find someone reckless." Then She leaned back, eyeing him again. "You're not the first wide-eyed kid with a sword. Most last a week."
Edran didn't answer. He simply nodded, pocketed the badge, and turned toward the quest board.
The wall was cluttered—parchments overlapping, some so old the ink had bled. Bounties, escort missions, beast hunts. One poster featured a wyvern sighted near the Drakelands Bridge. Another warned of a Grok migration outside Firya. Edran scanned them, uncertain where to begin.
"Hey, copper! Looking lost." A voice called to Edran from the distance.
He turned. A tall Lycan with a silver earring and a scar across his muzzle grinned down at him. His leather armor was scratched and scorched. His eyes were sharp and amused.
Edran stood straighter. "Just reading."
The Lycan chuckled. "You read like you fight? Slow and cautious?"
Another voice joined in—an Adanel woman with long red hair and a smirk that could cut. She crossed her arms, twin daggers at her hips.
"We're looking for someone to join a hunt," she said, eyeing him up and down. "Extra muscle. You interested?"
Edran hesitated. "Depends. What rank are you?"
The Lycan grinned wider. "Myr. She's Keslite."
That made Edran blink. "Then… why do you need a Copper?"
"Because we're not looking for a hero," the woman replied. "We need someone cheap who can carry few things for us. And maybe take a few hits while we do the hard part."
Edran frowned. "What's the contract?"
"Big one," the Lycan said. "Elder dragon. Gorthrax."
His blood froze. "Gorthax the hoarder? That's… that's a high-ranking quest."
"you're right," the woman added, gesturing toward the front desk. "But our captain is… persuasive. The clerk likes him."
"Still," Edran said, narrowing his eyes. "Seems risky for someone like me."
"You'll get your share," the Lycan said, then tapped the hilt of Edran's sword. "Besides… you look like you can handle yourself."
The woman studied him for a moment. "You want to join or not?"
"Yes—if you'll have me," Edran replied quickly, thinking this could be his chance to quickly climb to his goal.
The Lycan snorted. "Feisty. I like him."
The woman rolled her eyes. "Our captain makes the calls. He likes trying out new recruits. We'll take you outside. See what you've got."
She turned and started walking. The Lycan nodded toward the door.
"Come on, Copper. Time to prove that pretty blade isn't just for show."
Edran followed them toward the exit, tightening his grip around his father's sword.
—
The afternoon sun bathed the guild yard in golden light, but one corner remained cloaked in shadow—beneath a crooked tree, where a man leaned against the trunk with arms folded. His armor was dull, marked with dried scorch lines and shallow cuts. A black goatee framed a mouth set in a tired half-grin. A short cloak draped over one shoulder, its edge frayed.
His eyes locked onto Edran the moment he stepped into the yard.
"So," the man said. "This is the Copper you picked?"
The Lycan shrugged. "Looks like he might last more than a week."
Edran tilted his head. "What's the test?"
The man stepped away from the tree and into the light. His presence was quiet, but the air around him tensed. Without a word, he drew his sword—and lunged.
Edran barely had time to react.
Steel met steel.
The first strike came fast—too fast for a casual test—but Edran's reflexes kicked in. He shifted his stance, parried cleanly, and slid to the side. Another strike came low—he blocked, then countered with a precise arc of his blade.
They circled. Blades sang.
Then, in the middle of the motion, the man's eyes caught on something—just along the hilt of Edran's weapon.
Worn etchings. Balanced steel. A single name, carved with quiet care: Daina.
The man paused, stepping back with a raised brow.
"Fine blade," he muttered.
Edran, still catching his breath, gave a small nod. "My father made it."
The man gave no further comment. Just a slow nod. He sheathed his sword and stepped forward, holding out a hand.
"Corven. Keslite rank. I lead this band of misfits. You're in."
Edran blinked, still slightly tense, and slowly lowered his weapon. The weight of the moment settled in—this had been the test.
Corven continued, "Had to be sure. We leave for the Drakelands at dawn. You ready?"
Edran nodded. "I'm ready."
Corven turned back toward the others. "Right then. Time to meet the rest of your fine company."
He pointed to the Lycan, who puffed up with pride.
"Vex. Myr rank. Tracker, scout, and big mouth."
The Lycan gave a sharp grin, revealing a fang. "Don't forget charming."
Corven gestured to the red-haired Adanel woman.
"Kaela. Keslite. Daggers, poisons, and attitude."
Kaela gave a mock bow, her smirk never fading. "You forget 'beautiful,' captain."
Next was the hulking figure behind them.
"Tharn. Turoc. Keslite rank. He smashes."
The massive Turoc grunted and cracked his knuckles. "Words waste breath."
"And last," Corven said, pointing to a squat figure inspecting a trap contraption. "Nibbs. Goblin. Myr rank. Knows traps. Just don't trust him with your gold."
"Hey! That was one time," Nibbs grumbled.
Corven chuckled. "Get some rest. We head out at first light."
The group dispersed with casual chatter. Edran remained a moment longer, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword.
Tomorrow, the hunt would begin.
—
At dawn, before departing, Edran stepped into the crisp morning air behind the guild. In the quiet alley near the back entrance, he caught sight of Corven discreetly handing a small heavy pouch to the front-desk clerk from the day before. She glanced cautiously around, quickly hiding the pouch in her robes. Edran narrowed his eyes but kept silent.
The party departed soon after. They left Firya through the eastern stone bridge—one of only two known crossings into the Drakelands. Mist clung to the base of the stone arches, and the bridge itself was carved with faded runes, long forgotten.
As they crossed, a shift in the atmosphere was palpable. The air grew denser, the sky dimmer despite the morning sun. Hills once green with life now turned to deep rust and amber tones. The terrain held a brutal kind of beauty—vibrant forests blanketing valleys, glimmering mineral pools, and distant mountains that tower into the skies like ancient guardians. Though storm clouds often loomed at their peaks, they only enhanced the awe-inspiring grandeur of the land.
Something watched them. It was a feeling Edran couldn't shake.
On their third day in, a shriek tore through the sky.
"Above!" Vex shouted.
A red wyvern dove from the clouds, its wings slicing the air, claws extended.
Corven turned to Edran. "Your turn, Copper. Let's see what you're made of. Don't worry—we'll step in if you get cooked."
The wyvern came fast.
Edran rolled aside as talons tore the ground where he had stood. The beast wheeled around midair, then came back, maw glowing orange.
"He's gonna get roasted," Vex muttered with a wince.
The wyvern let loose a ball of fire—blazing, direct.
But in that instant, Edran's sword flared with light.
The blade morphed, shimmering as it formed a radiant shield. Edran braced himself, feet digging into the blackened dirt.
Kaela gasped. "That's not just iron. That's… Keslite."
Flames slammed into him like a wall. Heat rippled outward.
But he stood firm.
The shield held.
As the fire cleared, the wyvern dove to finish him off. Edran dropped onto his back, letting the beast pass above him. He swung upward—shield shifting back into a blade—and struck.
The blade pierced the creature's throat. The wyvern shrieked once before crashing into the ground.
Corven approached, slow and impressed. "Well done," he said. "First dragonkin kill. Not bad."
The others, still staring at the sword, exchanged looks. Vex gave a low whistle. "Keslite... disguised as iron? That's rare."
Edran caught his breath, eyes flicking between them.
But no one spoke more.
They moved on.
Hours passed, and the land grew quieter. The jagged path led them between cracked stones and steaming crevices.
Eventually, they reached a large outcrop, behind which stood a cliff-face opening carved with massive claw marks and faded glyphs.
"Mida's Grotto," Corven announced. "Home of Gorthrax."
Kaela smirked, eyes gleaming with greed. "Now the real fun begins."
Tharn grunted. "Gold smells close."
Edran swallowed hard, his wrist brushing against the bracelet he always wore—Daina's. His grip tightened around his blade. He'd never seen Gorthrax, only heard stories—of wings that darkened skies and flames that could melt stone.
And yet, here he was.
Ahead, the cave yawned open, waiting.
And his heart thundered.
—
As Edran stepped cautiously into the cavern, the air grew thick and heavy. Darkness stretched endlessly before them, illuminated only by the faint flicker of torchlight carried by Vex. The walls narrowed, and the sounds of their footsteps echoed, making it difficult to gauge the depth of the cave.
They moved in silence, each step amplifying Edran's unease. As they turned a bend, Edran noticed a message crudely carved into the stone wall—its edges sharp, as if etched by a blade:
"Touch not gold and live."
A chill ran down his spine.
The tunnel opened into an expansive chamber glittering brightly. Edran's breath caught. Mountains of gold, silver, jewels, and artifacts shimmered brilliantly in the cavern's heart, piles stretching upward into the darkness. Even the very walls of the cave were coated with molten gold—rivulets and streaks hardened into strange, unnatural patterns from previous incursions.
Corven turned to the group, voice hushed but commanding. "Bags out. Gloves on—remember the sigils. No bare skin touches the gold."
Edran frowned, puzzled, as Vex tossed him a pair of gloves marked with glowing sigils and a burlap sack.
"What's going on?" Edran questioned, confusion mingling with suspicion. "We're here to hunt Gorthrax."
Vex chuckled darkly, eyes glinting with excitement. "Did you really believe that, Copper? This was the real quest all along."
Edran hesitated. "But... slaying Gorthrax would grant ranks. That's why I came! To climb higher—to enlist."
Nibbs snickered, rubbing his clawed fingers together greedily. "Slay Gorthrax? Only Myr, Keslite, even Orocalcum try something like that."
Kaela swiftly silenced the goblin with a glare, but the damage was done.
"Enough," Corven sighed. "Truth is, we're just Iron. I was only recently ranked Silver. No one sane attempts to kill Gorthrax."
Kaela drew a dagger, stepping close to Edran. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Pick up the gold, Copper, or we take your fancy sword as payment."
Edran took a wary step back, bumping into Tharn, who grabbed his shoulders roughly. He struggled briefly, trying to break free. In the scuffle, a gold coin slipped from Nibbs's grasp, bouncing once and brushing lightly against the goblin's elbow.
"Krash'nak!" Nibbs cursed sharply in goblin tongue.
The cavern's air instantly grew hotter. Kaela's eyes widened in terror. "He knows! Run!"
"Grab what you can and move!" Corven shouted, shoving Edran toward the cave wall. Edran staggered, hitting the stone but avoiding the gold piles.
A blinding surge of flame roared past, blistering hot and deafeningly loud. Edran shielded his eyes, feeling the scorching air rush by. When he dared to look again, he saw only smoldering heaps of ash—the remains of the entire party—and pools of molten gold now dripping down the cavern walls, merging into streaks already there from previous unfortunate thieves.
"Who dares disturb my hoard?" a thunderous voice roared from the shadows, echoing through the cave. Edran froze, eyes fixed on a colossal shadow emerging through billowing smoke—tall, monstrous, eyes glowing crimson.
Memories flooded back—the flames, the shadows that destroyed Vaelridge. Rage surged through Edran, eclipsing fear. Gorthrax inhaled deeply, unleashing another torrent of fire.
Instinctively, Edran raised his sword, the blade transforming swiftly into a shimmering shield. The flames crashed against it fiercely, a thousand times stronger than the wyvern's blast. His arms trembled, muscles screaming, but as the heat intensified, the soft melody of Daina's song echoed softly in his memory. Gritting his teeth, he yelled defiantly, voice raw:
"I don't care about your stupid gold! All I want is revenge!"
The flames ceased abruptly. Gorthrax's deep, resonating laughter filled the cavern. Smoke dispersed, revealing the massive dragon in full—red scales shining brilliantly, eyes sharp and cunning.
"Revenge?" Gorthrax's voice was amused yet curious. "And what slight could I possibly have inflicted upon such a young pup?"
Edran's voice trembled with fury. "Vaelridge! Twelve years ago, you burned my village! I saw you—black shadow, red eyes—I know it was you!"
Gorthrax leaned forward, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Vaelridge? I know no such name, nor recall any flames of mine touching it."
"Liar!" Edran spat.
The dragon's head snapped upward, voice booming. "How dare you accuse me, boy! Dragonkin pride forbids lies—only Drako is capable of such a mortal sin. Do not mistake my kind for him!"
Edran faltered, breathing heavily, his anger mingling with confusion.
Gorthrax's gaze softened slightly. "Your heart burns fiercely, and I sense no greed in you. For this, I'll spare you. Grow strong, pup, and when you have reached your true potential, return and challenge me properly. As you are now, but just a fly in my presence."
He turned, scales shimmering, voice lowering to a rumble. "Find your truth, but heed my words—revenge is never a noble path."
Edran stumbled backward from the cavern, mind racing, heart aching. Now alone, he journeyed back through the Drakelands in silence. He crossed the stone bridge into Firya, sword heavy in hand. Along the way, three dragonkin fell beneath his blade, each kill leaving his weapon bloodied but his heart hollow.
By the time he reached the green fields of Firya again, Edran's spirit felt battered. The memories still burned, unresolved, and the truth he had long held crumbled beneath uncertainty.
But as the sun dipped low, staining the sky red, he tightened his grip on his blade and Daina's bracelet, promising silently that he would uncover the truth—and that until then, he would never stop fighting.
—
Far from the clean white towers of Greimdall and the battered halls of the Hunter's Guild, in the southern reaches of Firya where the land turned wilder and the roads fewer, there stood a crooked tavern known as The Dragon Fang - popular among travelers and adventurers from the region and beyond.
Built into the side of a moss-covered bluff, it slouched like a tired beast, its roof sagging beneath age and weather. Smoke rose from its crooked chimney, curling into the twilight air. Carved into the wooden beam above the entrance was the image of a dragon's open maw—jagged teeth worn smooth by time.
Edran pushed the door open, stepping into the heat and noise. The scent of spilt ale, damp wood, and smoked meat hit him like a wave. Laughter spilled from drunken mouths, dice clattered across wooden tables, and a bard played a broken-tuned fiddle in the corner with more heart than skill.
He kept his hood low and found a quiet spot near the wall, slipping onto a bench by himself. His blade rested at his side, his sister's bracelet wrapped tight around his wrist. No one paid him any mind.
He wasn't looking for attention. He was looking for clarity.
"Hey there, stranger. You look like you've been chasing shadows."
A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up.
A young waitress stood beside him—barely older than he was, with sun-kissed skin and a splash of freckles across her nose. Her dark hair was tied in a loose braid, and she wore a simple blouse rolled at the sleeves, her apron stained with flour and splashes of ale. Her smile was warm, but her eyes carried the tiredness of someone who'd seen too many long nights.
"Fancy a drink to lift whatever's weighing on you?"
"Aye," Edran murmured.
She thudded a heavy mug beside him with a wink and walked off.
Since his return from the Drakelands, victory had tasted like ash. He had slain dragonkin, touched ancient gold, survived fire and betrayal—and it had brought him no closer to truth. Gorthrax's words echoed still. Now only ale washed down the bitterness in his mouth.
He stared into his mug, eyes heavy. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe vengeance had no target. Maybe the fire that took Daina was just the world's cruelty, uncaring and cold.
"...I'm telling you, I saw it. Knights. Dozens. Rode through the valley disguised like shadows, like monsters... Burned that place clean."
Another man replied with a groan. "Oh, you again with this tale? When was this supposed to be, old man?"
The first voice answered, firm and low. "I remember it like it was yesterday. Twelve years back. I saw them move through the fog, their armor hidden beneath cloaks, shimmerin' under the moon like phantoms."
Edran's head turned.
The voice belonged to a ragged older man hunched near the hearth—gray-bearded, cloaked in a patched traveler's shawl, a heavy pack at his feet. He clutched a mug, eyes wild but focused.
A few drunkards around him laughed. "Ah yeah, knights from where? You been drinking swamp gas again, old man?"
He slammed his mug down. "I know what I saw! And I wasn't the only one—ask the woodcutters in Delmar Hollow. Ask the folk by Dead Man's Fork!"
Someone tossed a crust of bread at him. "Go sleep it off! Knights disguised as shadows—this old fool's probably lost it."
Edran rose slowly, heart hammering.
He moved toward the man.
The others watched in amusement. One muttered, "Another one buying into the madman's tales."
Edran ignored them and sat across from the old traveler. "What village?" he asked.
The man blinked. Then, as if studying him through the fog of memory, leaned closer. "Don't know the name. Just saw it from the ridge. Fire already rising. But I heard things—metal boots, and orders barked. Burn it down. Not a dragon in sight."
Edran's voice came low. "Twelve years ago?"
"Aye."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with meaning. Edran's breath caught.
"They wore illusions," the man added. "Not perfect, but enough. Shimmered wrong under moonlight. Like someone tried to make 'em look like monsters."
The bard in the corner struck a louder chord, and the room roared with a new cheer, breaking the moment. Edran stood abruptly, hands clenched.
"Wait," the man called after him, voice cracking. "I tried to tell them. No one listens. They want dragons to blame. Dragons don't talk back."
Two Greimdall soldiers who had been lingering by the bar approached. Their tone was polite, but firm.
"Evening, gentlemen. Let's not disturb the peace, eh?" one said with a forced smile. "Tavern's for drinks and stories, not scary talk about burning villages."
The old man scoffed. "Right. Scary truths, more like."
"Just enjoy your night," the other said, before turning back to their seats.
Edran left the man behind, the murmured warnings and bitter truths echoing in his head. He stepped out into the night.
The sky was deep indigo, stars blinking behind heavy clouds. His heart thudded.
And though Edran had wanted to deny every word the elder dragon spoke, the memory of its fireless gaze and unwavering tone stayed with him. A small, stubborn voice in the back of his mind whispered—what if it was true?
The breeze passed softly over him. The stars glimmered—just like that night.
He looked down at his hand—at the bracelet. Then, upward to the north, toward the refugee camp where his father still lived.
He had a new question burning in his mind.
Who really lit the fire that night?
—
The path north was colder than he remembered.
Edran walked alone beneath a sky of gray, his hood pulled low against the wind. The wild roads of Firya twisted between fields of burnt heather and skeletal trees, the land quiet save for the soft crunch of boots on frost-hardened soil. The Dragon Fang tavern faded behind him, but the old man's words clung to him like smoke.
Twelve years.
Twelve years of training, hunting, fighting—of chasing a truth painted in fire. And now, all that fury felt like a sword with no edge.
The refugee camp lay just beyond the hills outside Greimdall. Rows of patched tents, makeshift shelters, and the hum of tired lives. Smoke from small fires coiled into the afternoon sky. Children darted between crates and old barrels. Men and women sat wrapped in heavy cloaks, whispering stories, or watching the horizon as if waiting for something better to finally come.
Edran's eyes searched until he saw him.
A thin, gray-haired man hunched near a stack of firewood, mumbling under his breath as he tried to split kindling with a dull blade. His back was more bent than Edran remembered, his hands unsteady.
His father.
Edran's breath caught. He hadn't seen him since the guild accepted him. He'd always said he'd return after earning a real title. But now he didn't know what he was chasing anymore.
He stepped forward, quietly.
"Papa," Edran said softly.
The old man looked up slowly, eyes squinting as if seeing through mist. Then a smile tugged at the corners of his face.
"...Elaine? My love, you've come back."
Edran's voice caught. He gently placed a hand on the old man's shoulder. "It's me. Edran."
The smile faded. His father blinked, lost in some distant fog, then slowly nodded. "Ah… of course. Of course."
He looked past Edran toward the sky, voice quieter. "Your mother… poor Elaine. She couldn't bear it. After we lost our little songbird... it broke something in her."
Edran looked down, heart tight. "I know."
The old man turned back to the firewood, hands still shaking. "They said it was routine. Just a controlled burn to clear land. Empty. Nothing left inside, they said."
He dropped the kindling. His voice wavered.
"But I remember… I remember that night. The sound of boots. Dozens. Like they were marching." His eyes narrowed, as if the memory grew clearer. "Heavy… the clatter of real armor. I spent half my life at the forge—I know the sound of soldiers. Not beasts. Soldiers."
Edran knelt beside him, silent.
His father's voice drifted again. "Then… nothing but fire. Shadows running… not crawling, not snarling. Running. Fast. Galloping. Not the sound of monsters. No… hooves. Orders. Metal. And then everything burning."
He stared into the firewood pile, as if waiting for it to reply.
Edran placed a hand gently over his father's.
It was enough.
It wasn't just the words—but the timing. The old man in the tavern, muttering about knights with illusion. Now this—slivers of memory from a broken mind that mirrored a truth too terrible to be coincidence.
Edran turned from the camp, the wind biting harder than before.
He had to know more. If no one in the camps remembered clearly, maybe the city did. Vendors, quartermasters… someone had to have seen the soldiers that night.
He would go to Greimdall—not as a hunter, not as a soldier—but as a ghost chasing the embers of a fire no one wanted to remember.
—
The streets of Greimdall bustled with life, but Edran moved through them like a ghost. Cloaked and silent, he walked past merchants haggling over wares, guards pacing in polished armor, and children laughing with sticky hands full of roasted fruit. None of it touched him.
He stopped first at the market.
Old vendors lined the cobbled square, their stalls stuffed with trinkets, food, and tools. Edran approached a stand of aged cloth and herbs, run by a hunched woman with a faded shawl.
"Twelve years ago," he said quietly. "Do you remember a village that burned? Vaelridge. South of here."
The woman squinted up at him. "So long ago... Fires come and go, boy. Shadows too."
He moved on.
A blacksmith, a leatherworker, even an old stablehand. None could tell him anything he didn't already know. Some shook their heads. Others stared at him like he was chasing ghosts.
But then, deeper in the southern quarter, Edran passed beneath a narrow stone arch etched with runes.
The air changed.
This was the Arcanist's Way.
Sigil-vendors and ether-touched merchants lined the alley, glowing wares displayed behind glass and shimmering thread. Ether shimmered faintly in the air.
He found a stall of simple runes and sigil stones, and behind it, a man with hollow eyes and bronze rings in both ears.
As Edran passed the stall, the vendor leaned forward, his voice sly and smooth. "Looking to vanish something? Illusions are the solution, my friend. Hide a scar, a name… a past? I've sold lies for less."
Edran stopped, interest catching in his eyes. "You deal in illusion?"
The vendor smirked. "Among other things. Faces, voices, even your gait. I've sold lies wrapped in runes since before your first blade."
"Could a man use one of these... to look like something else entirely? A monster? A shadow?"
The merchant tilted his head. "Depends on the sigil. We have ones that change faces, voices, even posture. Stronger ones, if you can afford them, can alter your entire shape. But there's limits."
"Like what?"
"Size, for one. You can't turn a goblin into a dragon. But a man on a horse? That could pass for a beast under the right sigil, right lighting. Why do you ask?"
Edran nodded in silence. "Thanks," he muttered.
As he turned to leave, the vendor called out, "So, will you buy something or not?"
Edran didn't look back.
The barracks stood tall near the heart of Greimdall, its spires flanked by banners and silver-armored guards. He waited until the changing of the watch, then approached the side gate.
A soldier stopped him. "State your business."
"I need to speak with Captain Halric."
"Captain's busy. What's it about?"
"Vaelridge. The night it burned."
That caught the soldier's attention. He narrowed his eyes. "Wait here."
Minutes dragged. Eventually, another guard arrived and motioned him through. "You can wait in his chamber. He'll return soon."
They left him in a wide stone room lit by lanterns. Armor lined one wall. A map of Firya hung on another. Edran paced.
Then he saw it.
A drawer left slightly ajar.
Inside—parchments. Letters. One bore the seal of a noble house. The name: Duke Ardrin of Greimdall. Another line caught his eye—his village's name: Vaelridge.
His heart hammered. Eyes scanned the first line—but before he could fully read the contents, footsteps echoed down the corridor.
He shoved the letter into his cloak just as the door creaked open.
Captain Halric stepped in, removing his gloves, sharp eyes landing instantly on him.
"You," the man said. "What's your name, and what business do you have here?"
Edran turned calmly. "Edran. I came because of something you once said—to find you when I was older. To enlist."
Halric raised an eyebrow. "Did I?"
"Yes sir,," he said, steady. "I am from Vaelridge. Twelve years ago, you told me to find you when I was older."
Halric blinked, then let out a low chuckle. "Ah, yes... I remember now. Look at you—grown into a fine man."
Edran's expression didn't change. "I want to serve," he said firmly. "But… I believe something's been overlooked. I think my village—Vaelridge—wasn't destroyed by dragons or shadows. It may have been attacked… by men. From another nation."
That caught Halric's attention. "And what makes you think that?"
"I don't have all the proof yet," Edran said. "But if I join—if I serve Greimdall—I'll dedicate every effort to exposing whoever was behind it. And if it was another power… I'll bring the truth to light. For Greimdall's glory."
Halric breathed slowly, then chuckled. "You've got fire in you. Greimdall needs more patriots like that. But if you want to serve, start by cleaning the land of dragonkin."
"I've already joined the Guild," Edran said.
"Good," Halric replied. "Then climb. Rise. Earn your place. And one day you'll be one of us. Dismissed."
Edran left the barracks, his steps careful but his chest hollow.
Through the murmuring streets and crooked alleys, the words played again and again.
He stopped in the middle of the road.
He pulled the letter from his cloak.
He read it.
His breath froze. His fingers curled tightly around the parchment.
The first thought in his mind—above rage, above fear—was to run.
Back to the camp.
Back to his people. His father.
—
The streets of Greimdall blurred past as Edran ran, shoving through the evening crowd. Market stalls, cloaked travelers, city guards—all became a wall of bodies he had to push through. His heart pounded louder than the footsteps behind him. The letter burned in his pocket like a curse.
He didn't care about the stares. He didn't slow when someone cursed at him. He had to get out. Had to reach the hills.
The hills finally broke open into the makeshift sprawl of the refugee camp.
But something was wrong.
The camp wasn't the home of crackling fires and quiet laughter he remembered. It was too quiet. Movement stirred, but it was cautious—heads turned, voices hushed. Eyes darted away as he passed.
Then he saw them.
Three soldiers stood at the center of camp near the gathering post, armed and alert. One of them held a scroll and was speaking loudly, reading out accusations.
"Under order of Duke Ardrin, Davan of Vaelridge is charged with treason against the kingdom—"
Edran's breath caught in his throat. His father was on his knees beside them, wrists bound, face bruised but defiant.
Edran stepped forward, rage flooding his chest—but a hand yanked him back.
He turned. An older woman, eyes wide with fear, pulled him behind a stack of crates.
"Don't, Edran," she whispered harshly. "They're still here. If they see you, they'll take you too."
"But he—"
"You can't help him now. You'll only be next."
Edran's hands shook. His body screamed to move, to fight, to do something—but his legs wouldn't respond.
He peeked around the crates again as the soldiers finished reading. Without ceremony, they pulled his father to his feet and began leading him westward, toward the city's outer road.
He stared at the firewood pile beside the main tent. That's where his father had been the night before, humming quietly as he split logs. Now, the space was empty.
Edran's hand reached into his pocket, trembling as he clutched Daina's bracelet. The tiny silver band pressed into his skin like a brand.
He didn't move.
He couldn't. The truth had shattered something.
—
The road back toward the city felt longer this time. Edran didn't run. He walked—stiff, cold, broken. The bracelet still rested in his hand, his fingers clenched around it like a lifeline. He didn't know where to go. Home wasn't safe. The camp wasn't safe. The truth had poisoned everything.
He wandered south, down the older streets that wrapped around the city's edge. His feet dragged more than stepped. He wasn't sure where he was heading—just away. Anywhere. As long as it wasn't Greimdall.
That's when he saw it in the distance. The crooked outline of the Dragon Fang tavern stood up ahead, tucked in the bend of a quiet lane. He hadn't meant to come this way. Hadn't even thought of it. But there it was—as if the wind had guided him.
The sign swayed in the wind, its familiar creak now oddly eerie in the quiet. The lanterns were out, and the tavern stood shuttered in the late hour—an empty shell of the laughter and chaos it usually held. The stillness felt wrong, like a song cut off mid-verse.
He moved past the front, intending to keep walking—but something pulled his eye to the back.
A slumped figure sat there, tucked near the rear entrance, where the alley met the tavern's kitchen door.
He took a cautious step closer. The figure slumped near the back door became clearer in the moonlight.
It was the old man from before.
"Hey," Edran called softly. "Old man… it's me."
He knelt beside him, eyes adjusting to the dark. The old man's face was turned slightly away, his hat drooped low over his brow.
Edran, crying, spoke in a firm voice. "You were right. Everything you said… you were right.
He let out a shaky breath, his voice trembling. "I should've listened. I thought you were just—just bitter or drunk or…"
Still no answer. Edran reached out, his hand resting gently on the man's shoulder. "Hey… say something."
He gave a light shake. The man tilted. Limp. Cold.
The silence hit him first. Then the smell—the faint iron edge in the air.
Edran leaned closer and saw it, a small stain just below the ribs, dried into the fabric. Clean. Careful.
A dagger wound.
His breath caught. He recoiled slightly, hands trembling.
Edran stood up, heart pounding anew.
From the darkness near the back of the tavern, a voice came—calm, deliberate.
"You should've left shadows where they sleep."
Edran turned.
Halric emerged from the shadows, composed as ever, boots silent on the wooden floor. His cloak shifted slightly with each step, the firelight catching on the edge of his blade's sheath.
"But you couldn't just let it go, could you?" Halric said, eyes fixed on him. "You were always so fixated on justice."
Halric extended a gloved hand. "Return what you took."
Edran hesitated, then pulled the crumpled letter from his coat. He tossed it at Halric's feet. "Why?" he asked, voice cracking. "Why Vaelridge? Why my father?"
Halric shrugged lightly. "Following orders. Duke Ardrin's own. Villages like Vaelridge were considered… inefficient. Resource drains."
Edran's voice cut through, trembling but furious. "So you used illusion sigils to trick others into thinking it was Shadows or Dragons.""
Halric's expression didn't shift. "Of course we did. The duke provided them. It made things easier for everyone. People sleep better when they think monsters are the problem. It keeps Greimdall secure, and the people focused. Keeps the anger where it belongs—on the Dragonkin, the Shadows, the real threat."
"Yeah, but you lied. You let us believe it was monsters. You let everyone believe in some noble lie—while dressing your slaughter in the colors of glory and protection. Just for what?"
Halric's tone didn't change. "It was never about truth, glory, or protection. It was about coin. Resources. Stability. Order. You think kingdoms run on honor? No—they run on gold and what it buys."
Edran's voice cracked, laced with disgust. "It's always the same with you people. Greed behind every mask or shiny armor. You talk about order, protection—but it's just profit. Just blood turned into coin."
Edran's legs buckled beneath him. He fell to his knees, the weight of everything finally pressing him to the ground.
A flash of steel.
Pain.
Halric's blade slashed across his face, leaving a thin, burning line that bled freely down his cheek.
Halric crouched beside him, voice like ice.
"Now you wear your truth. But it won't matter." He rose and turned. "Go. Crawl back to the mud you came from. Or don't. No one will care either way, just like that old man beside you—do yourself a favor and finish it, so our land doesn't waste another coin on filth like you."
Edran didn't respond. He just fell on the ground.
Halric's footsteps faded into the night.
Edran stayed where he was, blood warm on his skin, heart hollow.
His fingers curled around the dirt beneath him. It felt like ash. Like the remnants of something once alive.
He wanted to scream. To curse Halric's name. To cry out for his father. For Daina. For the ones who would never see justice.
Instead, he lay there, half-curled on the cold ground behind a forgotten tavern, like something discarded. He wondered why Halric hadn't just ended it. Why he hadn't driven the blade deeper and let Edran fall beside the old man—beside Daina—into the soil.
Maybe that was the real punishment.
To be left breathing.
To carry the weight.
To rot slowly in the truth.
He stared up at the sky, at stars too distant to care.
The stars blinked, distant and cold.
No comfort came. No answer. Just the same silence that had haunted the camp, that choked the back of his throat.
Edran closed his eyes and breathed the dust.
Above, the wind moved through the empty sky—cold and restless.
Somewhere in the distance, the faintest trace of a melody stirred. Daina's song, or maybe just the wind pretending.
He didn't move.
He didn't speak.
The wind blew across Skyland, stirring the dust around his still form.
And there he remained, with blood on his face and silence in his chest.
while the last of Daina's song faded into the dark.