The firelight flickered across the rough-hewn walls of the village hall, throwing shadows that stretched and twisted like restless spirits. Zeke leaned back in his chair, boots crossed at the ankles, eyes fixed on the flames. He wasn't used to nights this quiet—no distant trains, no coyotes yipping under the desert moon, no hum of life from a saloon. Only the crackle of wood and the occasional groan of timber as the wind pressed against the walls.
Seraphine sat across from him, armor stripped away for once. She wore only a simple tunic, the scarred leather straps of her scabbard hanging nearby. Without her steel carapace, she looked… human. Strong, still, but softened in the fire's glow. She hadn't spoken much since their discovery in the woods. Zeke could see the weight in her eyes—like she carried more than the sword at her hip.
Finally, he cleared his throat. "That dragon symbol spooked you more than you'd admit."
Her gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade, then softened slightly. "You see too much, cowboy."
"Or maybe you hide too much," he shot back, tilting his hat lower. "Care to enlighten me?"
For a long moment she said nothing. The fire popped, and the silence thickened. Then, slowly, she spoke, voice low and even.
"Years ago, before you ever stumbled into this cursed land, I served in the royal guard. Not just as some village knight, but as part of the king's own vanguard. We were the shield of the realm, sworn to protect the kingdom from anything—man, beast, or worse." She paused, her eyes distant. "We thought ourselves invincible. Steel, honor, unity… all the things knights are supposed to be."
Zeke leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What happened?"
Her jaw tightened. The firelight caught the faint scar running along her cheek, one Zeke hadn't noticed before. "The Black Dragon happened."
The words landed heavy between them.
"It descended on us without warning," Seraphine continued, voice brittle as old glass. "A storm of wings and fire. Whole battalions were scattered like leaves. I watched men I'd trained with, men I'd sworn brotherhood to, torn apart in a breath. My captain—my friend—stood against it so the rest of us could retreat. He never returned." She looked down at her hands, knuckles white. "That day, I learned that courage is not enough. That no oath, no banner, no sword… can stand against that monster."
The room was still. Zeke didn't know what to say. Back in the West, loss was common—friends shot down in ambushes, whole towns bled dry by raiders. But there was something in her voice, something raw, that cut deeper than a bullet wound.
"You've been chasing that thing ever since," he said quietly.
"Not chasing," she corrected, lifting her eyes to meet his. "Surviving. Preparing. Every battle I fight, every swing of my sword, is practice for the day it returns. Because it will return. And when it does, I won't be the same foolish girl who thought honor was enough."
Zeke studied her across the firelight. For the first time, he saw more than just a hard-edged knight. He saw the grief etched into her, the fire of someone who'd lost everything and still chose to stand. He understood her coldness now, her discipline. She wasn't heartless—she was haunted.
"You're tougher than you look," he muttered, almost to himself.
Seraphine's lips twitched into the faintest shadow of a smile. "And you're softer than you pretend."
He snorted. "Don't go spreadin' lies."
For a brief moment, the heaviness lifted. They sat together in silence, two souls from different worlds bound by the same shadow hanging over them. Zeke didn't trust easily, but something shifted inside him. For all her iron edges, Seraphine was flesh and blood. And for the first time, he felt the faint beginnings of trust—fragile, but real.
The door creaked open, breaking the moment. A villager stumbled in, face pale, clutching a rolled parchment in shaking hands. His eyes darted between them, fear plain on his features.
"Sir… Lady Seraphine… you must see this."
Seraphine rose at once, taking the parchment. She unrolled it, scanning the words by firelight. Zeke saw her expression harden, her jaw tightening like a drawn bowstring.
"What is it?" he asked, standing.
She didn't answer at first. Instead, she turned the parchment for him to read. The words were scrawled in jagged, uneven strokes, but the message was clear enough:
Your village will burn. The goblins march with the tide of night. Surrender or be slaughtered.
Zeke felt his gut tighten. There was a crude symbol at the bottom of the page, drawn in black ash—the same dragon etched on the altar stone.
"Son of a bitch," Zeke muttered.
Seraphine's eyes blazed with cold fire. "They're not waiting anymore," she said. "The horde is coming."
The flames crackled higher, throwing the shadow of the dragon symbol across the walls, as if the beast itself loomed over them already.