The forest burned with emerald fire.
Trees split and toppled as the scaled beast tore through the clearing, each thunderous step shaking the ground. Its body was bloated, warped—once a Lesser Wyrm, now corrupted by the shard of dragon scale embedded deep in its flesh. Its veins glowed with toxic light, leaking trails of green flame.
"Hold it steady!" a voice roared from behind Drake.
He tightened his grip on his worn spear, lungs aching with smoke, and lunged forward with the others. Five hunters in leather and chainmail circled the creature, weapons glinting under the moon. The contract was simple: kill the beast, claim the scale. But as Drake closed in, he realized the truth—this was no ordinary hunt.
The creature snapped its jaws, and a wall of emerald fire erupted. Two hunters rolled aside, cursing. Drake charged straight through the smoke. His spear found its mark in the creature's shoulder, the steel shattering against corrupted flesh. The backlash threw him across the clearing.
"Drake, you idiot!" snarled Rovan, the squad's leader, his scarred face lit by the wyrm's fire. "Do you have a death wish?"
Drake spat blood and forced himself up. His dark hair clung to his face, sweat dripping into his crimson eyes. "Better me than you hiding behind orders."
That earned a round of cruel laughter from the squad. They were veterans, seasoned hunters. Drake was the youngest among them, and they never let him forget it.
The wyrm roared, shaking the earth again.
"Form the line!" Rovan barked. "Blades ready!"
They surged forward in unison. Drake steadied his breath, muscles screaming, and joined the push. For a moment, their steel and fire clashed as one. The air filled with sparks, the stench of burning scales, the howl of dying beasts.
But then—something shifted.
Out of the corner of his eye, Drake saw it: one of the hunters, Jareth, lowering his blade just as the wyrm reared back. A heartbeat of hesitation. A betrayal.
The wyrm's tail lashed, slamming into Drake's chest. He flew back into the dirt, pain exploding in his ribs. Gasping, he looked up to see Jareth smirk at him before diving safely behind cover.
They wanted him to fall.
The thought burned hotter than the wyrm's fire.
Drake staggered upright, coughing blood, fury simmering in his veins. "You bastards…"
The wyrm lunged. Drake grabbed a broken spearhead from the dirt, spun aside at the last second, and drove it into the beast's eye. It shrieked, staggering, blood and green fire pouring from the wound.
"Now!" Rovan barked.
The hunters swarmed. Blades cut deep, arrows pierced soft flesh, and in moments the wyrm collapsed, its body trembling as it dissolved into steaming ash. Left behind, pulsing with a sinister glow, was the scale—an obsidian fragment veined with green fire.
Every hunter's eyes fixed on it. Hunger. Greed. Fear.
Drake stumbled closer, chest heaving. His hands shook. That scale… it was calling to him. He felt its weight in his bones, the whisper of power tugging at his mind.
"Stay back, boy," Rovan snapped, stepping between him and the scale. His hand tightened around his sword. "This one's not for you."
Drake glared, breathing ragged. "I nearly died killing it. That shard should be mine."
The others closed ranks around Rovan, their eyes cold, calculating.
Jareth smirked. "Didn't anyone tell you, Drake? Scales don't go to weaklings. They go to survivors."
The forest was silent, save for the crackle of embers. Drake could feel the noose tightening—five hunters against one, all armed, all ready to strike if he reached for the shard.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he wiped the blood from his mouth and forced a crooked grin.
"Survivors, huh? Then maybe you should've let the wyrm finish me."
Something shifted in Rovan's eyes—annoyance, maybe fear. But before he could respond, the ground trembled again.
The ash of the wyrm stirred.
From the remains, a skeletal claw tore free, dragging with it the half-formed shadow of the beast. The corrupted shard pulsed violently, spewing green fire as the wyrm's corpse began to rise again.
"No… that's impossible—" one hunter stammered.
Drake's grin widened, madness flickering in his gaze. "Looks like we're not done."
The corrupted wyrm's corpse thrashed violently before collapsing once more into a heap of embers and bone dust. The pulsing shard rolled across the dirt, its glow dimming, but the air still hummed with menace.
Rovan was the first to move. He snapped his fingers, and Jareth scooped up the shard with gloved hands. The others tightened their formation, making sure Drake stood alone outside their circle.
Drake wiped the blood from his lips, eyes narrowing.
"You're just going to walk away with it?"
Rovan's scarred face twisted into a mocking grin. "You're still alive, aren't you? Be grateful."
Drake's fists clenched. "I took the wyrm's eye. If I hadn't, half of you would be ash by now."
"That's the thing about scales, boy," Jareth sneered. "They don't belong to effort. They belong to power. And you don't have any."
The others chuckled, their laughter sharp as blades.
For a moment, Drake thought about lunging at them—grabbing the shard, forcing the claim. His instincts screamed at him to fight. But his ribs throbbed with every breath, his blood still dripping into the dirt. If he moved now, they'd cut him down without hesitation.
He forced himself to stand tall, even as pain shot through his body. His voice came out low, steady.
"Take it, then. But remember this—scales twist more than flesh. They twist loyalty too."
The laughter faltered. A few eyes flicked uneasily to the shard's glow.
Rovan's smile thinned. "Careful, boy. You speak like that again, you won't make it back to town."
They turned and left, leaving Drake in the smoking ruins of the clearing.
---
The Walk Back
By the time he staggered into the outskirts of Veyrun City, night had fallen. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, casting long shadows across crooked alleyways. Merchants packed away their wares, drunks stumbled from taverns, and the occasional Hunter trudged by with blood on their armor.
Drake pulled his hood low, avoiding the main streets. His body screamed for rest, but his mind burned hotter with every step. Betrayal wasn't new—but tonight had been different. Jareth's smirk. Rovan's tone. It was almost as if they'd wanted him to die.
Why?
He found his answer—or at least a clue—in the stench of incense wafting from a shuttered stall. A hunched figure beckoned him inside, their voice rasping like rusted steel.
"Hunter. You smell of ash."
Drake stepped into the gloom. Shelves lined with strange relics and bones pressed in on all sides. Behind the counter, an old trader with one clouded eye grinned through yellowed teeth.
"You're late," the man croaked.
Drake frowned. "Late for what?"
The trader chuckled. "For your grave. The streets whisper, boy. A wyrm's shard was claimed tonight—but not by you. Funny, isn't it? How fast news travels when knives are pointed at your back."
Drake's stomach tightened. "You knew."
"I know many things. I know scales don't vanish into thin air. I know Rovan and his pack have ties to buyers far higher than you can reach. And I know…" The trader leaned closer, his breath sour, "…that you carry a shadow heavier than the wyrm you slew."
Drake's hand instinctively went to the knife at his belt. "Talk straight."
The trader's cloudy eye gleamed. "There are scales, and then there are Scales. Shards that don't just burn flesh—they mark destinies. And you, boy, you reek of one."
A chill crawled down Drake's spine. "You're insane."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you'll find the truth when you look in the mirror long enough." The trader slid a small vial of black dust across the counter. "Take this. It'll keep the dreams at bay… for a night or two."
Drake didn't touch it. "What's the price?"
The grin widened. "You've already paid."
Before Drake could respond, the door creaked open behind him. Boots clicked on the wooden floor. A cold voice sliced through the air.
"Still wasting time with gutter prophets, Drake?"
---
❄️ The Rival
Drake turned, and his breath caught.
A young man stood in the doorway, silver hair glinting under the lantern light, green eyes sharp as a blade. His coat was crimson, his rapier polished to perfection. He radiated authority, menace, and something worse—recognition.
"Kael," Drake muttered, his grip tightening on his knife.
Kael's smirk was faint, cruel. "You still look like a beggar in a hunter's skin. Tell me—did Rovan leave you scraps again?"
Drake bared his teeth. "Better scraps than selling yourself to every noble who dangles coin."
"Coin," Kael said softly, stepping forward, "isn't what matters. Power is. And power comes from scales." His gaze flicked to the trader, then back to Drake. "But you already know that, don't you? Otherwise you wouldn't be trembling every time someone says the word."
"I'm not trembling," Drake snapped.
Kael's smirk widened. "Then prove it." He tossed something onto the counter—it clattered like metal. A broken mask, painted white with crimson streaks.
The trader stiffened, his grin finally fading. "Where… did you get that?"
Kael didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked on Drake, cold and merciless. "Hunt carefully, Drake. Because the scales aren't the only things that bite."
With that, he turned and walked out into the night, leaving silence behind.
---
Drake stood frozen, his pulse pounding in his ears.
The trader whispered hoarsely. "That mask… it doesn't belong in mortal hands. Boy… what kind of storm are you standing in the center of?"
Drake couldn't answer. All he knew was that Kael's words had cut deeper than the wyrm's claws.
And somewhere in the shadows of Veyrun City, the whispers of betrayal grew louder.