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.
—BREAK—
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?
—BREAK—
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.