Moonlight fractured through the canopy in thin silver blades, barely enough to light the way. Yiva ran like prey that had already been caught once tonight—bare feet flying over moss and gnarled roots, the stolen dagger clenched so tight her knuckles ached. The last rope around her wrist fell away with a final desperate slice.
Dot crashed through the undergrowth behind her, branches whipping his face and drawing blood.
"Wait!" His voice cracked with exhaustion. "We're not here to hurt you!"
She didn't slow. She vaulted a fallen log, cloak flaring like broken wings.
"Stop, damn it!"
Yiva threw a wild glance over her shoulder. Her eyes burned with feral defiance. Then her foot snagged on a raised root.
The world flipped.
She tumbled, rolled across damp earth, and came up slashing in a vicious arc. The dagger hissed past Dot's throat, close enough that he felt the cold kiss of steel.
He lunged, catching her wrist in a grip that was iron but not cruel. "Enough—"
The ground groaned beneath them.
A deep, sickening *crack* split the night.
The cliff edge gave way without warning.
Yiva's eyes flew wide as she pitched backward into nothing, arms windmilling. Dot didn't hesitate. He threw himself after her.
Wind roared. Branches tore at them like angry claws. Yiva's scream cut sharp and short.
Dot twisted mid-fall, slamming her against his chest and spinning so his back faced the merciless ground. Impact after impact hammered through his body as they smashed through layer after layer of foliage. Every jolt drove the air from his lungs in raw grunts.
Then everything went black.
Dren's Mind
Dren stood in an endless void lit by a single flickering candle.
Mage Vespers coalesced from the darkness like smoke taking malice. Her robes stirred though no wind existed. Her eyes glowed with cold, ancient light.
"Bring the boy to me," she said, voice smooth as poisoned honey. "Surrender him, and I will be… generous."
Dren's lip curled. "Go rot."
She tilted her head, studying him the way a collector studies a flawed specimen. "Name your price. Respect? Purpose? The life you threw away?" Her smile was thin and pitying. "I can give it back. All of it."
"Fuck off."
Vespers stepped closer. Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Still hiding behind crude words and cheap wine. Do you really think dragging that boy across the world will wash her blood from your hands? Your stubbornness killed her. It will kill more."
Dren's face twisted with raw fury. His fists clenched until his nails bit into his palms. "Watch. Your. Mouth."
He took one threatening step forward.
Vespers' smile only widened, triumphant. "If you want the boy so badly… come and get him yourself."
Roadside Town – Night
Prince Garon staggered into the sleepy hamlet, hood low, cloak torn and crusted with dirt. Hunger clawed at his stomach. Thirst burned his throat like fire.
He approached a bread seller's stall on shaking legs.
The man looked him up and down with open disgust.
"Please," Garon rasped, voice barely human. "One loaf. I have coin… somewhere."
"No coin, no bread."
Desperation won. Garon lunged, snatched a warm loaf, and tore into it like a starving animal.
"Thief!" the seller roared.
The street filled in seconds—angry faces, raised fists, hands grabbing at his clothes.
Garon backed away, crumbs on his lips, eyes wide with panic.
A calm voice cut through the noise.
"My prince. Allow me."
The royal servant stepped between Garon and the mob, bowing low with perfect grace. He tossed a heavy pouch of coins to the seller—more than enough.
The crowd grumbled but melted away.
The servant guided the trembling prince to the nearest inn, paid for the best room, and helped him collapse onto the bed. Garon devoured the rest of the stolen bread with shaking fingers.
"You… you left me," he mumbled between bites, tears cutting tracks through the filth on his face. "They robbed me. Took Charlotte. My favorite horse. They didn't even want my sword… said it was worthless junk."
The servant bowed his head. "Forgive me, my prince."
He closed the door. The lock clicked like a death sentence.
Garon turned at the sound—just in time to see the dagger flashing toward his throat.
The blade sank into Garon's shoulder instead. Pain exploded. He screamed and kicked wildly, catching the servant in the gut.
The man staggered but came again.
Garon's fingers closed around Skógrimr's hilt. The moment the sword cleared its sheath, blinding white light erupted.
When Garon could see again, four corpses lay sprawled across the room, throats opened in clean, lethal lines. Blood pooled on the floorboards. The servant's dead eyes stared at the ceiling in permanent surprise.
Garon stood over them, chest heaving, the glowing blade still in his trembling grip.
He didn't remember swinging it.
He didn't remember the other three men bursting into the room.
He only remembered the light.
---
**Forest Floor – Dawn**
Yiva woke to the smell of smoke and pine.
Her head throbbed. Every muscle screamed. She pushed herself up on soft moss and blinked against the pale morning light.
Across the small clearing, Dot crouched shirtless beside a freshly kindled fire. Old scars—ugly, brutal things—crisscrossed his back and chest like a brutal map of every war he'd survived. Firelight played across hard muscle as he fed the flames.
Yiva's mouth went dry. Heat crawled up her neck. She looked away fast, scowling to hide the flush.
"I… survived that fall," she muttered.
"Yeah," Dot answered without turning. "We both did."
She forced her gaze back to him, trying to sound irritated. "Put a shirt on. You look like a savage."
Dot caught the bloodied tunic she hurled at him and pulled it on silently.
A twig snapped.
Both froze.
Figures melted out of the trees—dozens of them. Short, broad, heavily bearded, axes and hammers glinting. Dwarves.
One seized Yiva from behind, pressing cold steel to her throat before she could scream.
Dot rose slowly, hands empty.
The leader, crowned with iron thorns, studied Dot with narrowed eyes and spoke in a guttural tongue that somehow made perfect sense in Dot's ears.
"You speak the Deep Speech, boy?"
Dot answered before he could stop himself, the ancient words rolling off his tongue naturally. "Let her go."
The dwarves went still.
The leader's laugh was low and cruel. "Interesting. You carry the scent of the old dark." He jerked his chin. "Cage him. Put the girl with the others. Let's see what the beast makes of this one."
Underground Kingdom
They marched down endless tunnels worn smooth by centuries of feet. Glowing veins of blue, amber, and crimson pulsed in the walls like living arteries. The air thickened with sulfur, iron, and something far older that made Dot's skin crawl.
The kingdom opened beneath them like a cathedral carved from the bones of the world—tiered streets of black stone, bridges spanning impossible drops, massive glowing fungi bathing everything in soft sapphire light. The constant ring of hammers echoed like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant.
Dot was dragged through the main avenue inside a heavy iron cage. Dwarves lined the path, spitting, cursing, or making warding signs.
At the end waited the Pit.
They shoved him down the ramp. The gate boomed shut.
He stood alone in the center of the blood-stained arena while thousands watched from above.
High on the ledge, the iron-crowned leader stood with Yiva restrained beside him. Her face was pale, but her eyes still burned with defiance. She met Dot's gaze and gave him one sharp, fierce nod.
Across the pit, a massive door groaned open.
Heat and the stench of old blood rolled out.
The beast emerged.
Twice Dot's height. Stone-like hide. Six burning amber eyes. Scythe claws. Curling horns. A tail that could shatter bone.
It looked at him, and something ancient and hungry recognized him.
Dot stood his ground, empty-handed, body still aching from the fall. He glanced once more at Yiva.
Then he looked back at the demon and smiled with nothing but teeth.
The creature roared. The entire cavern shook.
Dot didn't flinch.
Somewhere Deep Below – Black Throne Chamber
In absolute darkness, an ancient figure sat motionless on a throne of black stone, watching through borrowed eyes.
A deep, amused voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"Interesting…"
A long pause.
"Show me how much you've grown, little shard."
The Abandoned Camp – Nighttime
Dren's eyes snapped open.
The fire was dead. The horses were gone. The camp reeked of wrongness.
Then the howling started—dozens of voices rising, multiplying, closing in fast. Red eyes glowed between the trees.
Demon dogs.
They weren't hunting. They were coming for the boy.
Dren grabbed his sword and ran into the darkness, toward the howling, toward the bottom of the world.
To be continued.