"Dawn had barely broken, and the smell of soil clung to the backs of the merchants and the boys from Davra. They'd rested overnight and set off again with the morning sun."
Isgram walked at the head of the caravan, his figure imposing yet small.
The fire mage's reputation preceded him like a shadow.
The merchants were on edge, glancing nervously at him whenever they thought he wasn't looking.
They'd heard the stories, of course—the tales of the Davran Blacksmiths who once taught Isgram their secrets.
Isgram, the fire-wielder, whose temper was as swift as the firestorms he conjured.
To the merchants, he was both an enigma and a warning.
The boys from Davra, eager but cautious, followed in his wake. They had heard the stories too, but they had seen a different side of him. The side that protected them, that helped them build and farm. They were learning that Isgram's fire wasn't just something to be feared; it was a tool, a part of the dwarf himself—a means to both defend and create.
The merchants, however, couldn't forget the rumors. "He's a man of honor, they say," one of the older merchants whispered to another, trying to mask the nervous tremor in his voice. "But he'll burn down a village if someone crosses him. They say he did it over a few bad words."
Another merchant, more cautious, added, "I heard it was over a fight about gold. A hundred men were caught in the flames."
A younger merchant's eyes widened, his voice shaky. "A hundred? Just like that?"
"It's true," the first merchant replied. "But that's the thing. As long as you don't provoke him, you'll be fine. He doesn't waste his fire on those who aren't worth it."
Isgram, of course, had heard their murmurs, but he never let it show. His gaze, sharp and direct, cut through the caravan as he gave his instructions. "Stay close. Keep your wits about you. If trouble comes, don't hesitate. We need to reach Davra without any distractions."
The group moved forward, the wheels of the wagons creaking in time with the horses' hooves.
The path to Davra was long and often treacherous, but Isgram's steady pace and unyielding focus kept everyone on track. He wasn't here to make friends, but to ensure that the trade went smoothly. There was far too much riding on this trip to let anything derail it—both for the merchants and for the boys who depended on the goods to return home.
With every step, the merchants stayed silent, aware that as long as they respected Isgram's presence and kept their distance, they would make it through the journey unscathed. No need to tempt fate.
But Fate does not require temptations to come knocking on their doors.
The road ahead was quiet, the soft hum of the wagons rolling on the earth broken only by the occasional chirp of morning birds. That was until a small group of figures appeared ahead, lounging around the felled tree blocking the path.
They were elves, wearing old clothes that had multiple tears and several weapons were holstered on them. They were too sure of themselves, too comfortable, like they owned the very road they stood on.
Isgram slowed his pace as they saw him approach. The men lounged lazily, their eyes narrowing at the sight of him. They had been waiting, and they had no intention of letting the caravan pass without extracting something in return.
One of them, an elven man with a scar running down his face, stepped forward. His eyes flicked from the caravan to Isgram, sizing him up. He was tall, lithe, his movements calculated, but there was an air of arrogance to him. Without a word, the elf approached Isgram, his fingers lightly grazing the handle of a sword at his side.
"You the leader of this caravan?" the elf asked, his tone casual but with a bite. "We've got a bit of a roadblock up ahead. You could use some help moving this tree out of the way, don't you think? For the right price, of course."
Isgram paused, his gaze unwavering as the elf placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. "We've got this," he replied gruffly, his voice as rough as a hammer's blow, eyes cold. "No need for help."
The bandit leader, clearly undeterred by the dismissal, leaned in a little closer, trying to play his hand. "Are you sure, now? A little payment might make things go smoother. We're here to make sure you don't run into any trouble, after all."
He pressed his hand firmly onto Isgram's shoulder, trying to assert dominance, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was dealing with.
Isgram's gaze hardened, his face a mask of stone as he slowly turned his head to the elf, then down at the hand on his shoulder. "Take your hand off me," he said, the words dripping with cold finality.
The elf was frightened, and he finally noticed it is an actual dwarf which only seemed a tad more suspicious.
'Could it be? he is a dwarf merchant. I heard they're very rich. Now I must take his valuables.
It is a bit weird he leads a caravan of elves, but it looks like they got a lot of food there...'
Isgram was eyeing the elf and he saw a smile creeping onto his face, and he repeated himself.
"I said, hand. Off. Now."
The elf hesitated for a moment, eyes narrowing, but his pride wasn't so easily dismissed.
His fingers curled, and he reached for his scabbard. "You lowly dwarf, don't tell me what to—"
Before he could finish, Isgram spoke again, his voice a low growl, barely audible under his breath: "Begone."
The words barely left his lips before the elf's world was consumed by fire. Flames spiraled around him with a suddenness that caught the bandits off guard. In an instant, the elf was engulfed in fire, his screams swallowed by the crackling blaze.
His comrades, slower to react, drew their weapons in panic, but the scene unfolded too quickly for them to stop it.
Within seconds, the elf who had dared challenge Isgram was nothing but ashes, his sword still clutched in his charred hands, and the air smelled with the stench of burning flesh.
The caravan of merchants stood frozen, their eyes wide, mouths agape. Some shrieked in terror, others were too stunned to make a sound.
The boys from Davra, their stomachs churning, were doing their best to hold themselves together—some nearly doubling over in disgust, while others stared wide-eyed, horror-stricken.
But Hugo... Hugo watched with no reaction at all. His eyes remained blank, his face unreadable.
His indifference was like a stone, unshaken by the violence that had just unfolded before them.
Isgram's gaze briefly flicked to Hugo, catching the detachment in his expression. Something about the lack of emotion in the boy felt oddly familiar, but he didn't approach him.
There was no time for that now. The remaining bandits, their weapons drawn and eyes wide with fear, looked at each other and then at Isgram, who stood calm and unmoving in the wake of the firestorm he had summoned.
"You'll move that log now," Isgram said coldly, his voice like ice, as he stepped forward, his boots crunching on the earth. "Or I'll make you."
The bandits hesitated, clearly shaken by the display, their bravado drained. No one dared move. They knew better. With the elf's ashes still floating in the air, it was clear: they had chosen the wrong man to provoke.
One by one, the bandits scrambled to clear the road, eyes wide with fear as they did their best to avoid meeting the dwarf's gaze. Isgram turned without a word, walking back toward the caravan with a measured, purposeful stride, indifferent to the shocked gasps and murmurs from the merchants behind him.
The boys were still rattled, doing their best to regain composure. But Hugo remained unmoved. He stood silent, an emotionless statue, as the others around him processed the sudden brutality.
Isgram's eyes flicked briefly to the boy—an unreadable glance—and then he looked away. There were more battles ahead, but this one wasn't his to fight. Not yet.
The road cleared. The wagons were free to pass, and Isgram was already stepping forward, unbothered. The bandits, drenched in sweat from both fear and the strain of moving the log, stood rigid as statues, unable to look at him. They watched silently as the caravan rolled past them, the road now open, and a smell of burnt flesh was trailing in the air.
Hugo, his voice low but laced with confusion, couldn't help but ask: "Why let them live? They'll just harass others. Killing their leader isn't enough."
Isgram's lips curled into a brief, cold smirk. He raised a hand to the sky, as though reaching for something beyond them. "Who said I was done?"
With a flick of his fingers, a fire arrow shot into the air, moving faster than any of them could track. It found its mark in the minds of four bandits, silent and clean. They fell without a sound.
The merchants didn't notice—too caught up in their own shock—but Hugo did. His eyes flickered, recognizing the deadly precision, the second wave of death.
Isgram walked on, the fire in his veins cooling down.
'Such arrogant bastards should be taken care of by the chiefs... This can't be a coincidence, but I will report this to Fujin and ask him for a sum on defending the merchants.'
The caravan soon reached the clearing, and the trees revealed the plains of dying wheat dominating the fields of Davra.