"What have you brought before me?"
"Dragon spawn, my liege, as ordered."
King Demetrius Gray, known across the realm as the Fat King, slouched upon his enormous throne of gold and velvet. The chair groaned under his bulk. Almost fifteen times the size of an ordinary man, his arms and legs were as thick as oaken trunks, and his belly sagged like a mound of pale dough, spilling below his knees. Grease slicked his beard, and he slobbered as though the very word dragon had set his hunger aflame.
Before the Fat King, kneeling upon the royal carpet, was a young man swathed in wolf hide. Arthur Redmane, the famed hunter and beast butcher, bowed low. Behind him rattled a great iron cage, its bars smeared with soot and claw marks. Within, four infant red dragons crouched, their scales glimmered like blood-rubies under torchlight. They were as large as horses, yet too young to breathe more than a hiss of ash.
"Delicious," King Gray remarked, lips glistening. "Tell me, Redmane, where did you find them?"
"From the Yellow Mountains, my liege," Arthur said, his voice steady though his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. "Their mother had left the nest to go hunting, so my party and I struck quickly. Even as whelps, they are savages. Two of my men were torn apart like kindling."
The court murmured at this, but the Fat King only licked his lips.
"You should have captured their mother, too," King Gray sniggered, his belly quaking like curdled milk. "I'd have tripled your pay. Her fatty underside is a delicacy worth more than a banquet of griffins."
Arthur kept his head low, jaw clenched beneath the wolf pelt hood. He knew the Fat King's temperament was legendary. It fueled the nightmares whispered around every tavern fire and taught unruly children to behave. To speak out of turn would be to tempt death.
"Still..." the Fat King continued. "These whelps have good meat on their bones. Issue this man his payment. Four hundred gold."
With a flick of his sausage-thick fingers, the Esquire of the Body stepped forward. He carried a burlap sack, heavy yet meager, and dropped it at Arthur's knees. The dull chink of coins rattled through the hall.
Arthur stayed bowed, jaw aching from the pressure of his teeth grinding against one another.
You bastard. You cheapskate bastard! The agreement was a thousand gold. Two hundred and fifty for each!
His hands twitched at his sides, itching for a blade, but he forced them still. Around him, the King's knights watched with flat eyes, daring him to falter.
"Bring them to me," the Fat King demanded, a greedy smile splitting his face.
At once, the servants hurried forward, seizing the cage by its handles. Their hands shook as they braced against the weight, wooden wheels groaning as the prison creaked closer to the throne. Inside, the beasts hissed and pressed back against the bars, eyes glowing like embers. The Fat King leaned forward, his belly sloshing, drool pattering onto the velvet as the scent of dragon musk reached his nose.
Arthur snatched up the burlap sack, the weight of it a mockery of the fortune he had earned. He stood, anger masked, forcing the words past clenched teeth.
"Thank you, my liege."
Without another glance, he turned on his heel and strode toward the towering doors.
There came the rending shriek of splintering wood and twisted iron behind him. The Fat King had torn the roof off with a single gargantuan hand. Drool dangled from his lip and his eyes glazed with gluttony. He reached into the cage with an open palm, fingers flexing, and the whelps huddled tighter, pressed like cornered prey.
"Yum, yum, yum..." he crooned.
As Arthur left, guards clad in silver swung the doors shut with a hollow boom, their halberds crossing over the entrance. Arthur did not look back, but even through the doors, he heard the shrill cries of the infant dragons, followed by a chorus of gasps from within the court, sharp and horrified.
"The king likes them raw and whole," one guard muttered. "Gobbles them up in one go."
"Aye," the other replied with a dry chuckle. "I once heard him say they've got better texture when they're alive, still kicking and struggling on the way down."
Arthur pressed on through the palace gates. Beyond the walls, his cart waited in the shadow of the courtyard, a sturdy wooden frame streaked with mud and worn iron-banded wheels.
Hitched to a weathered post stood his draft horses -- two black steeds, Tempest and Bramblefoot. Tempest stamped and tossed his mane, nostrils flaring, while Bramblefoot snorted and pawed at the cobblestones.
Arthur passed a knot of peasants gathered by the roadside, drab in shabby brown garments, patched and frayed.
"I once saw his majesty eat an entire cow!" one boasted.
"His appetite is astounding," another agreed, shaking his head in wonder. "They say he can't ever be full and satiated!"
"Blimey!" a ragged peasant exclaimed, stumbling into Arthur's path with wide eyes and a gap-toothed grin. "You're the fella who brought in the big lizards, ain't cha?"
Arthur stopped, his cloak brushing against the man's filthy tunic. He cast him a cold glance as the chatter behind them hushed - the others leaning in to see if the hunter would answer.
"That's right," he said, voice low.
"Goodness me!" the peasant remarked, eyeing up the sack of coins in Arthur's hand. "I bet the king paid you rather handsomely."
Enough to get me through the week, Arthur thought, but nowhere near enough for the hassle I went through to capture them.
"Say… I don't suppose you'd be willing to part with a coin or two?" the peasant asked, scratching at his grime-caked cheek.
"Afraid not," Arthur replied, pushing past him as he made for his cart.
"Oh, come on, fella!" the peasant called after him, voice rising. "Us humble folk need to eat too!"
"You best start learning to catch big lizards, then," Arthur shot back, not once breaking stride.
Unhitching his steeds, Arthur clambered into the cart seat and took up the reins. With a quick swat of leather, Tempest and Bramblefoot started trotting down the cobbles, the clatter of hooves drowning out the peasants' lingering chatter.
The realm of Dunwynn, once a land where Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Nerevin existed side by side, is now but a shadow of its former glory. Driven by their greedy desires for land and power, the Kingdom of Man set upon their neighbors. The dwarves were driven deeper into the stone halls below the mountains. The elves retreated into the dim heart of their forests. And the nerevin sank into the blackest depths of the lakes and seas.
What remains is a realm scarred by battle, overrun with monsters. At its head sits the Fat King, a tyrant who rules with an iron fist and an endless appetite. He hoards the kingdom's food, gold, and magic, while poverty and disease fester unchecked.
It's a dog-eat-dog world -- or more accurately, man-eat-man.
Ambling along the rocky trail through the old farm fields, Stormwatch - the capital of Dunwynn - dwindled into the distance behind Arthur. Its marble spires and towering ramparts faded from sight, swallowed one by one as his cart crested the rolling hills.
Farmers used to grow wheat here, he thought. They made porridge, bread… fed families for generations. Now look at it.
The fields lay dry and fallow, their ground cracked and gray. Save for a few stubborn weeds, nothing stirred in the earth anymore.
I miss the taste of porridge… a big dollop of fresh honey in it. That's how Mother used to make it.
Arthur's stomach growled. In his mind, he saw a steaming bowl of porridge, a wooden spoon waiting, honey swirled across the surface. His mother, pale and beautiful, her hazel hair tucked beneath a white bonnet, handed it to him with a gentle smile.
The vision lingered only a heartbeat before the chill wind carried him back to the barren fields.
I miss you so much, Mother.
"I see him, keep it down!"
A hundred yards ahead, a crumbled stone wall bending right hid a small band of highwaymen. Four figures crouched in its shadow, riding coats hanging loose over their frames, black half-masks concealing their faces. Daggers glinted in their hands as they whispered together, eyes fixed on the lone cart rolling steadily closer.
"You three deal with the rider, I'll snag the horses," the leader ordered. "Be careful."
"Be careful?" one of them scoffed. "Careful of what? We've got the numbers."
"Yeah!" another chimed in, brandishing his blade. "I'll pin him down, you two slit him open. I want to feel his hot blood running over my face."
"Stabby, stabby!" the fourth cackled, stabbing at the air with childish glee.
I've recruited utter maniacs, the leader thought. No matter. Once this job's done, I'll gut the lot of them and take their spoils for myself.
"Fine," he spat. "Don't be careful, do be careful - do whatever the fuck you like. Just kill the rider."
Tempest and Bramblefoot neared the crumbled wall, the cart veering slightly to the right. Arthur drew a steady breath, gaze fixed on the road ahead.
"Don't bother," he said flatly, his voice carrying across the stones. "You won't win."
To the highwaymen's surprise, he was talking to them.
Lucius Thatcher, leader of the ragtag crew of criminals, froze in place. The rider's calm words hit him like a thrown blade, stopping him cold.
How did he know? Lucius wondered, sweat prickling his brow. We were quiet as foxes...
"Oh yeah?!" Theobald barked, springing up from behind the wall. "There's six of us and only one of you!"
"Stabby, stabby!" Eadric howled, vaulting up beside him, his dagger flashing. "I want to stab him!"
"Bleed him!" Bertram roared, also clambering into view. "Let it pour, I'll smear it all over my chest and nipples!"
"Firstly, there's four of you," Arthur said with a smirk. "And secondly... well, you won't get the chance to touch me."
Remaining out of sight, Lucius swallowed hard. There was something in the rider's tone - confident, edged with danger - that made his gut twist. The man's face was young, unblemished, not so different in age from Lucius. But the scars running his forearms, the wolf pelt draped across his shoulders, spoke of battles fought and survived. This was no simple cart rider.
Who... is he?
The trio glanced down at Lucius, still crouched low, and sneered at their leader's cowardice.
"Whatever!" Theobald snapped, puffing up his chest. "I'll take the horses. You two, kill the fucker!"
In unison, the three highwaymen vaulted the wall and charged, blades ready to taste flesh. As they closed on the cart, they split like hounds on a chase. Theobald and Bertram sweeping to the left, Eadric flanking the right.
Idiots, Arthur thought.
Nestled on the seat beside Arthur lay a whip. Not the braided leather of drovers and herdsmen, but something thicker. Its length was pitch black, its knots bristling with needle-like barbs. The cord gleamed with a damp sheen, as though it had never fully dried. Fashioned from the severed tentacle of a kraken, it reeked faintly of seawater.
With one hand on the reins, Arthur took up the handle and let the weapon breathe. The black cord uncoiled, hissing as it slithered into the air a few feet above Tempest and Bramblefoot's ears. A flick of his wrist, a turn to the left.
CRACK!
The whip split the air and split flesh. Theobald and Bertram toppled backwards, hands to their masked faces, howling. Arthur spun the handle again, this time to the right.
SNAP!
Eadric didn't even cry out. The blow landed square across his brow, dropping him limp to the dirt, eyes rolling white.
The hunter drew the whip back, folding the cord into neat loops against his ribs and under his arm. He calmly set it down on the seat beside him, as if nothing had happened.
Theobald and Bertram writhed in the dirt, clutching their bloodied faces. From behind the crumbled wall, Lucius watched discreetly, his stomach knotting tighter.
Why can't I move? Is this... fear?
"You made a wise decision!" Arthur's voice rang out, aimed squarely at him. The cart seemed to stretch farther with every second. "Don't be having second thoughts now."
Lucius's mind scrambled, searching for some scrap of strategy. His fingers twitched uselessly on the stones. Every thought felt sluggish, weighed down by fear gnawing at his chest. He watched the cart trundle steadily along the dirt path, finally disappearing over the hill.
"There goes our fucking supper!" Theobald shouted blindly, still squirming on the ground. "Those horses looked so meaty… so tender!"
Lucius pushed himself to his feet and approached the three recruits. Fear had drained away, replaced by a sharper, more painful sense of failure.
"You three are useless," he snapped.
"I can't see out of my left eye!" Bertram screamed.
"Complete, total idiots," Lucius continued, voice rising. "What in God's name was I thinking?"
Off to the side, Eadric began to stir from his unconscious haze. Slowly, he pushed himself upright and peeled off his black half-mask, revealing a balding man with fewer than six teeth. Across his forehead, a series of adjacent puncture marks still oozed blood.
"Consider yourselves fired," Lucius said. "Be glad I don't just kill you all right now."
The three recruits groaned, muttering and clutching their injuries, but Lucius didn't look back. He marched past them, following the cart's path with single-minded purpose. Each step carried a mix of frustration and anticipation; days of waiting, lying in the forests and fields for a traveller unprotected by guards, would have been wasted if Arthur escaped.
That man…He's fast, skilled, dangerous. But no one is invincible.
He scanned the trail ahead, plotting the likely spots where Arthur might rest.
Eventually he'll stop. He'll need food. Water. Shelter. And when he does… when he falls asleep… that's when I'll strike.