The forest was quiet, too quiet for Zeke's taste. Each step he and Seraphine took sank into damp earth, muffled by a carpet of pine needles. The moon, swollen and pale, cast broken shafts of light between the branches, making the woods glow with an eerie silver. Zeke tugged at his duster, the weight of his revolver oddly comforting even though bullets weren't worth much in this strange world. His free hand brushed against the hilt of the short sword Seraphine had insisted he carry. It still felt like a borrowed tool, awkward and foreign.
Seraphine walked ahead, her armor muted by a layer of dirt and scratches from the goblin raid days before. Her sword rested on her shoulder, casual but ready. "The tracks lead north," she said, crouching low to touch the ground. "See here—their claw marks are deeper. They were carrying something heavy."
Zeke squatted down beside her. Even in the dim light he could see what she meant. The goblins' three-toed prints dug deeper into the mud, dragged out and uneven. "Prisoners?" he asked, voice low.
"Or offerings," Seraphine replied grimly.
They followed the trail deeper, the trees closing in until it felt like the night itself was breathing around them. The smell hit first—rot, smoke, and iron. Then the signs appeared: scraps of cloth snagged on branches, bones gnawed clean, blackened stumps of torches jammed into the soil. Zeke's gut tightened. He'd seen camps like this before back home—outlaws squatting in the desert, stringing up unlucky travelers. The cruelty was the same, only the tools were different.
A growl broke the silence. From the shadows, three goblins scuttled out, their yellow eyes glinting. They carried jagged blades that looked hammered together from scraps of metal, their bodies hunched and twitching. One hissed, and the others fanned out, trying to circle.
Zeke drew his revolver on instinct. "Stay sharp," he muttered.
Seraphine was already moving, steel flashing as she cut the first goblin down in a single, practiced strike. Zeke fired at the second. The crack of his gun split the night, the muzzle flash painting the trees in a burst of orange. The goblin staggered, shrieked, then collapsed in the dirt. The third one leapt at him, too fast and too close. Zeke barely had time to holster his revolver before slamming his shoulder into the creature. They tumbled hard, rolling across the ground.
The goblin clawed at his face, fetid breath washing over him. Zeke gritted his teeth, pulled his knife, and drove it upward into the thing's chest. The goblin spasmed, then went limp, twitching once before falling still. Zeke shoved the corpse aside and staggered to his feet, chest heaving.
Seraphine stood a few paces away, blade dripping green blood. She gave him a sharp nod. "Better," she said.
"Better? Damn thing almost clawed my eye out." Zeke wiped sweat from his brow, sliding his knife back into its sheath.
"You survived. That's the measure," she replied flatly, already turning to follow the trail again.
They pressed on, the signs of goblin activity growing denser. Skulls dangled from tree branches, feathers tied in clumps, crude idols lashed together from bones and mud. At last, the forest opened into a clearing.
In the center stood a stone altar, jagged and blackened, surrounded by a circle of runes carved deep into the soil. Around it lay the remnants of a ritual—burnt wood, streaks of dried blood, feathers scattered like ash. Zeke felt his stomach churn. He'd seen men do terrible things in the West, but this was something darker, something older.
Seraphine moved forward slowly, torchlight flickering over the carvings. She traced her fingers across one of the symbols. "These aren't goblin markings," she murmured. "They're too precise. Too deliberate."
"What the hell are they then?" Zeke asked.
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she pointed to the altar. The stone surface bore a single carving, etched so deep it seemed to drink the torchlight. Zeke squinted, then felt a chill run down his spine.
It was a dragon. Wings outstretched, fangs bared, eyes wide. But not just any dragon—its scales were carved dark, obsidian-like, and its eyes were filled in with streaks of crimson pigment. Even as a symbol, the thing radiated menace.
Seraphine's jaw tightened. "The Black Dragon," she whispered. "The beast of Hollow Peaks. The one they say holds the Key."
Zeke stared at the carving, a weight settling in his chest. The lines of the dragon almost seemed to shift under the flickering light, as if the stone itself wanted to move. He touched the grip of his revolver unconsciously, though he knew bullets meant nothing against legends.
"Looks like we've found our trail," he muttered.
Above them, a gust of wind rattled the trees. Zeke glanced skyward—and froze.
There, just beyond the canopy, something vast passed across the moonlight. The trees shook with the force of its wings, and for the briefest instant, the night split with a pair of eyes glowing red as embers, watching from the dark.
Zeke's mouth went dry. His gun felt impossibly small at his side.
The Black Dragon was real.
And it was already watching them.