The cavern reeked of ash and iron, the scent of man and beast burned beyond recognition.
Black smoke coiled in the cave like serpents—twisted and choking.
What remained of Beowulf's great hunting party now littered in twitching heaps.
Siege crawled behind the shattered carcass of a wyvern—one of Fafnir's grotesque offspring. Its eyes still glowed faintly, its ribs torn open by something far stronger than arrows or blades.
He pressed his back to its belly, his bloodied sword across his lap. His breathing sharp and uneven. He had been running, stumbling, clawing for cover. This wasn't a battle. It was a slaughter.
Somewhere within the cavern, Beowulf roared. Not in pain. Not yet. But in a voice like thunder, shattering adding a little courage that clung to the men around him.
"FAFNIR! You serpentine wretch! Come! Let the gods see which beast endures!"
Siege winced. The very name felt cursed on the tongue.
Fafnir.
The dragon of Norse myth—the cursed son of Hreidmar, who bathed in his own father's blood and devoured gold until his veins ran molten.
No simple beast. A wyrm twisted by greed, by vengeance, born of sin. The locals whispered that Fafnir had no true form anymore, only hatred.
And today, Beowulf had chosen to challenge it.
Or perhaps, Siege thought grimly, the king had simply wanted to die gloriously.
The first clash had been glorious, in that old, ruinous way.
Beowulf charged with a blade forged from meteorite and madness, cleaving through waves of lesser drakes as though sweeping aside fog.
Siege had seen the man tear through a wyvern with his bare hands—crushing the beast's jaw with one fist and stabbing its skull with a dagger in the other.
His presence alone made mortals believe they could conquer anything.
But belief wasn't reality.
Siege moved from behind the wyvern's corpse, scanning for survivors. His left arm throbbed—what was left of it.
He had bound it tight days ago, but the wound now wept beneath the cloth. Infection brewed. It didn't matter. He just needed to keep moving.
Then came the laughter.
Not Beowulf's. Not a man's.
It was high and broken, like glass rattling in a storm—delighted and cruel.
From the high ridge, Fafnir watched. Coiled across a massive ledge in the cavern, its body shimmered with gold-encrusted scales, each the size of a shield.
Its eyes were suns gone mad, burning orbs of molten copper. The wyrm toyed with its prey—letting them believe they could win. It had done this for ages.
Heroes, champions, armies—they all died screaming. Fafnir had no need for haste.
But Siege had no plans to fight the dragon anymore.
He had other business.
Gallan.
That traitorous bastard.
And now he saw Gallan, limping through the chaos, dragging a wounded leg and clutching a half-shattered shield. He moved like a rat searching for another hole.
Siege followed.
The battlefield was a graveyard of steel and fire. He passed a soldier clutching his own entrails, whispering a hymn to a god that had never answered. Another burned alive, cursing between screams. Siege kept walking.
Gallan ducked behind a broken stone altar, one of the many ancient ruins that dotted the cavern—forgotten relics dead predecessors. Siege approached in silence, blade held low.
"You're alive?" Gallan croaked when he saw him, face pale. "I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Siege muttered, stepping closer.
Gallan raised his hands. "Look, I—look, we're all dead anyway, Siege. Let's just—let's just run. We can make it. You and me."
"Like before? Push me into hell and run?"
Gallan's eyes widened. "That wasn't—"
Siege struck.
Not with grace. Not with skill.
Just hate.
The blade sank into Gallan's gut, again, and again, and again. Siege pinned him to the altar, steel grinding against bone. Gallan wheezed, choking on blood, fingers twitching.
"You should've made sure the beast ate me," Siege whispered.
He twisted the blade once more, then left it in.
Thunder cracked above them. Siege turned. On a far ridge, Beowulf stood alone—bloodied, armor torn, but still standing. In one hand, he held a broken blade. In the other, a horn of some colossal beast. He had lost his helm. His hair was matted with blood and his mouth curved in a wide, wolfish grin.
"Come then!" Beowulf bellowed at the wyrm. "Show me what a godless worm is made of!"
Fafnir obliged.
The dragon descended with a terrible grace—wings folding like cathedral doors, each beat shaking the earth. It landed with a sound like mountains collapsing. Beowulf rushed forward, the last of his men long dead or fled.
Siege watched from afar, breath held. It was like watching two titans from some forgotten scripture, colliding in a storm of fury.
Beowulf leapt, swung, dodged—an animal in a man's skin. He carved deep into Fafnir's side, gouging out chunks of golden flesh. The dragon screeched—a sound that shook teeth loose from skulls—and whipped its tail like a hammer, throwing Beowulf through a tree.
He rose again.
And again.
And again.
But Fafnir was patient. It played with him. Dodging when it didn't need to, baiting strikes, letting the king tire himself. And when the moment came, it was swift.
Fafnir struck with its jaw—clamping down on Beowulf's arm and shoulder, lifting him like a broken doll. It tossed him through a stone pillar, and the king did not rise.
Not immediately.
But then, from the dust, Beowulf laughed. A deep, gravelled bark of a madman.
"You'll need more teeth than that, worm!"
The wyrm did not laugh. It only pressed its foot on Beowulf's chest and began to push.
Bones cracked.
Siege turned away. There was no victory here. Only a reminder.
Gods died. Kings fell. Heroes lied.
And monsters endured.
He slipped away, silent among the ruin, steps marked by ash and blood. Behind him, Beowulf screamed again.
But this time, there was no laughter.
Only the sound of a man being crushed.