The air was thicker, heavier, and tinged with the smell of damp stone and old ash as Edran entered the cavern. The flicker of torchlight swaying in Vex's hand was the only thing to break the darkness that pressed in from all sides. The uneven shape of the cave caused the footsteps to reverberate and the shadows to dance along the narrowing walls.
Nobody said anything. Every sound seemed too harsh, too loud. The silence seemed to push back more and more as they descended, as though the cave itself was listening.
Then Edran slowed as he rounded a bend. Something carved into the stone, rough and uneven, as if clawed or chiseled in haste, was visible on the wall, just ahead. He took a step forward.
-Touch not gold and live.
The warning pierced his mind. He stopped. The message seemed too current, too real, for some reason.
The tunnel led to a large, brilliantly glittering room. Edran gasped. In the center of the cavern, mountains of gold, silver, jewels, and artifacts glistened brilliantly, towering piles that reached into the night. Molten gold covered even the cave's walls, where streaks and rivers had solidified into odd, unnatural designs.
With a quiet but firm voice, Corven turned to the group. "Gloves up you lot. Remember the sigils, no bare skin touches the gold. Bags out."
Vex tossed to Endra a burlap sack and a pair of gloves emblazoned with glowing sigils, while Edran grinned, perplexed.
Edran asked, puzzled and suspicious at the same time, "What's going on?" "Arent' we here for Gorthrax?"
Vex's eyes sparkled with anticipation as he laughed darkly. "Copper, did you really think that? This was the true mission all along."
Edran paused. "But... I came to climb higher, to enlist, because killing Gorthrax would grant us ranks."
Nibbs rubbed his clawed fingers together avariciously and snickered. "Slay Gorthrax? Only Keslite, Myr, and even Orocalcum attempt such a thing."
Kaela glared at the goblin to silence it, but the damage was already done.
"Enough," Corven said, pausing in the middle of his stride. His eyes were shadowed by the torchlight as he glanced up at Edran, his face unreadable. In actuality, we are merely Iron rank. Only last month was I promoted to Silver. Gorthrax is hunted by no sane person.
Edran stepped back. The moment weighed heavily on his chest.
With her dagger glinting in the cavern's golden reflection, Kaela took a step closer. Her tone was mocking and lethal as her voice fell to a sharp whisper. "Copper, pick up the gold, or we'll take your fancy sword in exchange."
Edran stepped back cautiously and collided with Tharn, who seized him roughly by the shoulders. For a moment he struggled, trying to escape. A gold coin slipped out of Nibbs's hand during the altercation, bounced once, and lightly brushed the goblin's elbow.
Nibbs swore harshly in goblin tongue, "Krash'nak!"
The air in the cavern immediately became hotter. Kaela's eyes went wide with fear. "Run!" "He knows!"
Corven shoved Edran toward the cave wall and yelled, "Grab what you can and move!" Edran stumbled and struck the stone, avoiding the gold heaps.
Blazing hot, deafening, and absolute, a blinding surge of flame roared past. The heat was intense even through Edran's sleeves, so he raised his arms to shield himself from the glaring light. The chamber was different when he ventured to look again. No people. Not a blade. Not wearing boots. Nothing. Just quiet. The others had been erased. No glint of steel, no scrap of cloth. Only rivers of molten gold and scorched stone trickled down the walls, folding into hardened streaks from those who had gone before them.
The voice, deep, ancient, and full of rage, boomed like a storm sweeping over mountains, "Who dares disturb my hoard?" Dust fell in curtains from the cavern ceiling as the walls themselves trembled.
Smoke curled like living shadows across the chamber floor, and Edran stumbled back, heart pounding. Horned, scaled, wreathed in smoldering heat, it was a shape too big to take in all at once. With a sound like stone breaking, its wings spread out. The gold shook with every step. Searing through bone and armor, eyes like molten coals stared at him.
And time broke in that moment. Once more, he saw Vaelridge in flames, shadows with crimson eyes scuttling through the smoke, and the fire consuming his sister's cries. The memory struck the ribs like a blade. Fear was eclipsed by a surge of rage.
Gorthrax took a breath, his chest opening up like a raging furnace. Then came the roaring, blinding, unrelenting fire.
Just in time, Edran raised his sword. The blade changed into a glowing shield and shimmered. It was struck by flames that were much more intense than the wyvern's breath. He held despite the violent shaking of his arms, which caused his muscles to lock and the heat to peel at his skin.
And he heard her voice over the roar and the fire.
The song by Daina. Gentle. Far away. Uncompromising.
Edran's voice cracked with rage as he screamed through the fire, clenching his teeth.
"I don't care about your stupid gold! All I want is revenge!"
The fire went out. The only sound in the chamber was the hiss of cooling stone as silence fell.
And then there was laughter, deep and resonant and ancient. The smoke dissipated, revealing the dragon's entire body. With his wings folding in with thunderous grace, Gorthrax loomed above, a mountain of sinew and red scales. His molten, sharp eyes examined Edran with a fresh curiosity.
Gorthrax growled, "Revenge?" in a smooth but humorous voice. "And what slight could I possibly have inflicted upon such a young pup?"
"Vaelridge," he said, his voice hoarse with anger, "twelve years ago." Edran's knuckles whitened around his sword, and his breath shook, but his gaze remained fixed. "It was reduced to ash by your fire. I saw your eyes, your shadow. I recall.
Gorthrax remained motionless for a moment before his enormous head leaned forward, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing dangerously. "Vaelridge? I know no such name, nor recall any flames of mine ever touching it."
"Liar!" Edran yelled, his voice breaking with rage.
Gorthrax's head snapped back, his eyes blazed, and his voice thundered back, causing the cavern to tremble.
"Boy, how dare you accuse me! Lies are forbidden by dragonkin pride. Drako is the only one who has the courage to tell lies. Do not mistake my kin for him!"
The weight of that roar caused Edran to stumble a little, his chest heaving as his rage became entangled with uncertainty.
"Your heart burns brightly," the dragon said, holding him in its smoldering gaze before suddenly softening it. "and I smell no greed on you, that is rare nowadays." "I will spare you," Gorthrax said, his voice lowered from a growl to something akin to respect.
His breath was hot with strength as he leaned closer.
"Return when you have shed your weakness. When your flame is worthy. Only then will you earn the right to challenge me if you wish to try."
There was a beat of silence, and then Gorthrax turned as though he were ignoring a gust of wind.
"You are nothing more than a fly in my presence right now."
His voice echoed again, soft but strong, as he withdrew into the depths of his lair, the gleam of his red scales disappearing into the mist.
"Discover your truth, but take note—retaliation is never a noble course."
Edran awoke in a daze, the heat of Gorthrax's presence still pressing against his skin, and the drive back through the Drakelands went by in silence, his mind a haze of fire, rage, and unsolved questions. As he crossed the stone bridge into Firya, he held fast to the sword, which felt heavier than before, and three dragonkin fell in front of him on the road; each blow was clean, each kill exact, but none calmed the storm within him; his blade dripped blood, but his heart was still hollow.
As the sun sank, illuminating the sky with blood-red light, Edran firmly grasped his blade and Daina's frayed bracelet, determined to find the truth no matter what the cost, and he would continue fighting until that day arrived. By the time he arrived in the verdant fields of Firya, his spirit was exhausted, the past still burned behind his eyes, unresolved, and the truth he had clung to now cracked under doubt.
-break-
Back in Firya, Edran wallked past the pristine white towers of Greimdall and the beaten halls of the Hunter's Guild. In the southern part of Firya, where the terrain became more untamed and there were fewer roads, there was a shabby tavern called The Dragon Fang, which was well-liked by tourists and adventurers from the area and beyond.
It slouched like a weary beast, built into the side of a bluff covered in moss, its roof drooping under weather and age. Its chimney was crooked, and smoke curled into the dusk air. The image of a dragon's open maw, its jagged teeth worn smooth by time, was carved into the wooden beam above the entrance.
Edran shoved the door of the tavern open and entered a roar of heat. Like a second skin, the aroma of smoked meat, damp wood, and spilled ale permeated the air. Dice clattered across warped tables, drunken mouths rolled their laughs, and a bard in the corner played a crooked-tuned fiddle with more passion than skill.
He drifted toward a peaceful bench close to the rear wall, keeping his hood down. Daina's bracelet, worn but unwavering, clung to his wrist as his sword hung at his side. Nobody gave him any attention.
He was not looking for attention. He was looking for answers.
"Hi there, stranger. It appears that you have been pursuing shadows."
His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet voice. He raised his head.
Beside him was a young waitress, perhaps his age, with sun-kissed skin and a line of freckles running down her nose. Her flour-stained apron betrayed long hours and little sleep, and her dark hair was pulled back in a loose braid. Her eyes showed the strain of too many late nights, but her smile was kind.
"Fancy a drink to lift whatever's weighing on you?"
a "yes," Edran muttered.
With a wink and a well-practiced thud, she put down a heavy mug and disappeared into the commotion.
Victory had tasted like ash ever since the Drakelands had returned. He had faced betrayal, stood before ancient gold, slain dragonkin, and survived an elder dragon's fire, but none of it had brought him any closer to the truth. He could still hear Gorthrax's words. Ale was the only thing that made his tongue less bitter now. His doubt-shadowed eyes gazed into the mug. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps there was no real target for vengeance. Perhaps the fire that killed Daina was simply the cold, ruthless, and senseless cruelty of the world.
A grizzled man from a nearby table spoke louder than the noise of the tavern merited.
" I saw it, I'm telling you. Knights. dozens of them. rode through the valley in disguise, resembling monsters or shadows. burned that location clean."
A second man groaned. "Oh, you're telling this story again? Old man, when was this supposed to happen?
The first voice was unwavering. "Twelve years ago. I can still clearly recall it. I saw them move through the fog, their armor concealed by cloaks, glimmering like ghosts in the moonlight."
Edran's head turned, and he gripped the mug more tightly.
The voice came from a scruffy old traveler crouched close to the fireplace, wearing a patched shawl, a heavy pack slumped at his feet, and a gray beard. His eyes were sharp and wild as he held a drink.
Some of the local drunks chuckled. "Knights from where? You been breathin' swamp gas again, old man?"
He slammed his mug. "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!"
A bread crust was thrown at him by someone. "Go sleep it off! Knights disguised as shadows, this old fool's probably lost it."
Edran stood staring at the elderly man at the table. His surroundings dimmed, including the tavern itself, the commotion, and the jeering. The words were all that were left.
The others laughed as they watched. "Another one buying into the madman's tales," someone murmured.
Ignoring them, Edran took a seat across from the elderly traveler. He inquired, "Which village?"
The man blinked. Then leaned closer, as though examining him through the mist of memory. "I'm not familiar with the name. I caught a glimpse of it from the ridge. The fire is already growing. However, I heard orders barking, metal boots, and other sounds. Set it on fire. No dragon to be seen."
"Twelve years ago?" Edran spoke in a tight, low voice.
The man nodded and said, "Aye."
Between them, there was a heavy, meaningful silence. Edran gasped.
The man went on to say, "They wore illusions." "Enough, but not flawless."
A louder chord was struck by the bard in the corner, and new laughter and clinking mugs filled the room. The silence between them was broken by the sound. Edran snapped out of the daze the old man's words had put him in, clenching his hands and looking toward the chaos.
The man called after him, his voice cracking, "Wait." "I tried to tell them. No one listens. They want dragonkin to blame, but Dragons don't talk back."
Two Greimdall soldiers who had been lingering near the bar came over. They spoke in a courteous but firm tone. "Good evening, gentlemen. One smiled artificially and said, "Let's not disturb the peace, eh?" "Taverns are for stories and drinks, not spooky discussions about villages on fire."
The elderly man sneered. "Right. Scary truths, more like."
The other soilder turned back to their seats after saying, "Just enjoy your night."
Edran left the old man's words behind, but not the burden they held, and went out into the night. The noise from the tavern subsided as the door shut behind him. Above, stars flickered behind heavy clouds as the sky stretched in a rich shade of indigo. His chest grew constricted. Questions he wasn't prepared to answer throbbed with every heartbeat.
Even though Edran had made an effort to ignore everything the elder dragon said, the image of that calm, unflinching, fireless gaze lingered. At the corner of his mind, a tiny, unyielding voice murmured: What if it were true?
The wind brushed his skin. The stars glistened above, as they had that night, which he was still troubled by. He glanced down at his hand, where the bracelet was still securely fastened. Then he looked north, toward the camp for refugees where his father was still living. A new question began to grow in his mind there, under the silent sky: Who started the fire that evening?