The village gates groaned open at dawn, wood still scorched from the siege days earlier. Mist clung to the ground like pale smoke, and the road ahead wound east toward the Hollow Peaks—jagged spires of black stone looming on the horizon.
Seraphine rode at the head of the column, armor polished, banner strapped to her saddle. Around her marched a dozen men and women—knights hardened by battle, and volunteers with more courage than training. Some bore scars from goblin blades, others still carried the smell of fear on their clothes.
And somewhere in the middle, hat pulled low, sat Zeke Graves on his restless horse.
The revolver at his hip was familiar, but heavier now, as if the words in the cellar had changed its weight. Beside it hung a short sword, newly sharpened, and across his back a bow and quiver that still felt like a cruel joke.
He tugged the reins, muttering under his breath. "Cowboy with a damn bow. What's next? Maybe I'll churn butter while I'm at it."
The freckled recruit from training—Tomas, he'd finally learned—grinned as he walked beside the horse. "Better with a bow than dead without one, sir."
Zeke shot him a look. "If you call me 'sir' again, I'll make you carry my boots."
The boy laughed, nerves hidden behind bravado. For all their differences, the recruits had begun to look at Zeke differently. Not as a demon, not yet as a hero, but as someone walking beside them, bruised and mortal.
Seraphine raised a hand, and the column slowed. "Stay sharp. The forest ahead is crawling with scouts." Her voice carried like steel through the mist.
---
The forest swallowed them whole by midmorning.
Branches clawed at armor. Roots tripped careless boots. Crows shrieked overhead, their calls echoing like warnings. The deeper they went, the darker it grew, sunlight broken into shards through the canopy.
Zeke's horse snorted nervously, ears twitching. He stroked its neck, whispering like he would back home on the plains. The words were nonsense to this world, but tone was universal.
Behind him, two knights muttered. "Why bring the outsider? He's a liability."
"He carries the mark," the other replied. "The priest said that makes him fate's choice."
"Fate kills as easily as saves."
Zeke pretended not to hear, though his jaw clenched. He was used to whispers. He'd grown up with them in Texas—about his father's drinking, his mother's leaving. Folks always whispered until you shut them up with deeds.
A rustle snapped his focus. The freckled boy froze, pointing.
From the brush, three goblins leapt—thin, green-skinned, blades flashing.
Zeke's revolver was in his hand before the horse had time to rear. He fired once. The crack of thunder split the forest, the nearest goblin dropping with a hole clean through its chest.
The other two rushed. Zeke kicked free of the saddle, sword scraping from its sheath. The blade felt clumsy, but instinct screamed. He sidestepped, swung hard, steel biting through shoulder to spine.
The last goblin lunged low. Zeke didn't think—he just brought his knee up, slammed it into the creature's jaw, and drove his knife home under its ribs.
The fight was over in seconds. The forest stank of blood.
The recruits stared wide-eyed. One whispered, "He fights like a wolf."
Seraphine dismounted calmly, cleaning her blade. "Not bad," she said, voice cool. "Still reckless. But not bad."
Zeke flicked blood from his knife. "I'll take that as a compliment."
---
By midday, the forest thinned into marshland. The ground sucked at their boots, water black with decay. Mosquitoes swarmed, biting through cloth.
Zeke cursed under his breath, bow clumsy in his hands as he tried to keep it dry. He pulled the string experimentally, only to have it snap back and sting his wrist.
Tomas laughed until Zeke glared. "Bow hates me," Zeke muttered. "Gun loves me, sword tolerates me, bow hates me."
Seraphine shook her head. "You'll need it before this march is done. Distance matters when you're outnumbered."
Zeke grumbled, but he kept trying. His arrows flew wide, some vanishing into the swamp, others bouncing off trees. By the tenth shot, he managed to hit a rotting log.
The recruits clapped half-heartedly. Zeke tipped his hat in mock pride. "Told ya. Natural talent."
Despite the stink and the bites, laughter eased the tension. For a few hours, they weren't just soldiers marching to doom—they were people, alive, sharing breath.
---
The peaks rose higher as evening approached, jagged against the blood-red sky. The air grew colder, thinner, carrying a metallic tang that stung Zeke's nose. He could feel eyes on them—watchers in the shadows.
Camp was set in a narrow ravine, fires burning low to avoid attention.
Zeke sat sharpening his blade when Seraphine approached. She crouched across from him, firelight dancing on her scarred face.
"You're adapting," she said.
Zeke snorted. "I'm surviving. Barely."
"That's more than most."
They sat in silence a moment. The recruits murmured nearby, telling stories, voices soft with fatigue. Knights polished armor. Somewhere, an owl hooted.
Seraphine finally spoke again. "Do you regret coming?"
Zeke looked into the flames. "Lady, I didn't exactly buy a ticket for this trip. But regret? No. I regret the whiskey I didn't drink before I left Texas. I regret the cards I didn't play. But bein' here? No. If fate dealt me this hand, I'll play it. Just hope I don't get shot in the back by one of your people before I reach the end."
For the first time, Seraphine's lips curved. Not a full smile, but close. "You remind me of someone I knew. He never quit either."
Before Zeke could ask, a sound carried through the night.
A low rumble.
Not thunder. Not wind.
Something deeper, older.
The horses shrieked, stamping in panic. Fires hissed as sparks flew. Every soldier froze, eyes wide, breath caught in their throats.
The rumble grew into a roar—so vast it seemed the mountains themselves shook. The sound rolled down from the peaks, rattling bones, clawing at hearts.
Zeke's hat nearly fell as he stood, hand instinctively going to his revolver. The mark on his chest seared like fire, the scar glowing faintly beneath his shirt.
Overhead, the sky trembled. Clouds scattered as if fleeing. And though the night was clear, a shadow swept across the camp—immense, wing-shaped, blotting out the stars.
Every head tilted skyward.
The roar came again, deafening, endless, as if the heavens themselves had split.
The Black Dragon had spoken.