The night was colder than usual when the company of villagers and knights made camp at the edge of Hollow Peaks. The mountains towered like jagged teeth against the sky, shadows cutting across the silver light of two suns sinking into dusk. Every crack of the fire sounded too loud, every distant howl of the forest reminded them that they weren't welcome here.
Zeke sat apart from the others, polishing the edge of the short sword Seraphine had pressed into his hands weeks ago. He still hated how clumsy it felt—nothing like the iron grip of a Colt revolver—but he had stopped complaining. Complaints didn't stop goblins. Complaints didn't stop cultists. And complaints damn sure wouldn't stop the thing that waited somewhere in those mountains.
The villagers whispered in low voices, passing bread and strips of smoked venison between them. Most had never left their farmland before, never even seen combat until goblins raided their homes. Now they marched into the heart of enemy territory because their knight commanded it—and because if they didn't, their world might burn.
The unease rippled like smoke through the camp.
Then it came.
A sound that was not thunder, not wind, not anything natural. It rolled from the mountains in a long, unbroken bellow that shook the ground beneath them. Pots rattled. Horses screamed and tried to tear free of their tethers. The villagers froze, faces pale, every head turning toward the Peaks.
The roar.
The sound of something impossibly vast, ancient, and furious announcing its dominion.
Zeke's chest tightened as if the air itself had turned to iron. He dropped the whetstone, clutching his shirt. Underneath, the scar burned—the strange mark the shaman had seared into his skin weeks earlier. It pulsed now, a rhythm in perfect time with the echoes of the roar, like his body itself answered to that monstrous voice.
"What in God's name was that?" one of the younger men cried. His eyes were wide, his hands shaking as he clutched a spear too heavy for him.
Another villager dropped his pack altogether. "We can't fight that. We shouldn't even be here. If the dragon's awake—if that was it—we're walking into death!"
The murmurs swelled into shouts. Panic spread, sharp and quick.
Seraphine rose from where she sat sharpening her blade. The firelight etched steel across her armor, her posture commanding silence even before she spoke. "Quiet!"
The voices fell, though their fear didn't.
Her gaze swept across them—farmers, hunters, tradesmen turned soldiers. "Do you think fear will keep the dragon from coming? Do you think running will protect your homes? Your families?" Her voice was iron. "Every step we take forward is one more chance to stop that thing before it devours everything we know. If you falter here, you condemn not just yourselves, but everyone you love."
A silence hung, heavy, broken only by the crackling fire.
Zeke watched her, struck again by how absolute her certainty was. She believed, down to her marrow, that this fight was worth dying for. He wished he could claim the same. For him, it wasn't noble duty or honor. For him, it was survival—and, maybe, the sliver of hope that somewhere in these mountains lay the key to going home.
The scar on his chest pulsed again, harder this time, like it wanted to claw through his ribs. He winced and tugged his shirt down, trying to mask it.
Seraphine noticed. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
One of the older men broke the silence. "And if we march on? If we meet it face to face? What then, Lady Seraphine? Do you promise we can kill it?"
Her jaw tightened. She didn't lie. "I promise nothing. Only that if we do not try, there will be no one left to fight at all."
The man swallowed hard. Others exchanged uneasy looks. But no one packed their gear. No one fled. Her words had planted something more resilient than hope—duty.
Zeke stood, tossing the short sword onto his shoulder. "Hell," he muttered, "where I come from, folks say the only way out is through. Guess it applies here, too."
A few of the villagers managed weak smiles at his strange drawl. The tension loosened, if only slightly.
The roar had faded into memory, but its weight lingered. As the night stretched on, few slept. The fires were kept burning high, as though light alone could ward off what prowled the skies.
Zeke lay on his bedroll, staring up at the alien stars. Two suns had dipped beyond the horizon hours ago, yet the scar on his chest still glowed faintly beneath his shirt. Every time he closed his eyes, he swore he heard wings, vast and leathery, beating against the heavens.
By dawn, exhaustion painted every face gray. The company shouldered packs and weapons, moving out in silence along the mountain path. The Peaks loomed closer with every step, black stone cliffs clawing into the sky.
The air grew colder. The trees thinned. By midday, only stone and snow surrounded them.
Zeke trudged at the rear, his revolver holstered at his hip though he had only a handful of bullets left. He still drew comfort from its weight. It was the last tether to who he had been before this nightmare—before two suns, before goblins, before the roar of a dragon that seemed to know his name.
The path bent upward, steep and narrow. The company climbed in silence until the wind shifted.
And then it happened again.
The roar.
Closer this time, deafening, shaking pebbles loose from the cliffs. The villagers collapsed to their knees, covering their ears. Horses bucked and screamed. Even the knights staggered, their armor clattering.
Zeke fell to one knee, gripping his chest. The scar flared so hot he swore it seared through fabric and flesh alike. His vision swam red, a phantom blaze rising in the corners of his eyes.
And then he saw it.
Atop the highest peak, fire bloomed. Not the gold of a forge, not the red of any mortal flame—black fire, oily and unnatural, burning against the sky. It licked the clouds themselves, staining the heavens.
The dragon was awake.
And it was waiting.