The roar of the waterfall filled the cavern, a ceaseless, thunderous crash that echoed through the darkened stone walls. A thick mist clung to the air, damp and heavy, making every breath feel like inhaling steam. Finnrick "Finn" Tumblepot wiped a drop of moisture from his brow and adjusted the leather straps of his pack. His gut twisted.

They shouldn't be here.

The cave mouth yawned open behind them, hidden behind the towering cascade of water that spilled from the cliffside above. The only way in or out. One entrance. One exit. No fallback. Finn had pulled off enough heists to know a bad setup when he saw one, but this wasn't his job to plan. It was Madame Vraska’s orders—get in, get the egg, get out. Simple.

Except nothing was ever that simple.

“Would you move your tiny arse, gnome?” Cazka Irontusk—a towering wall of green-skinned muscle—nudged Finn forward, her voice a low growl of irritation. “We ain't got all night.”

“If you wanted speed, you should've hired a sprinter, not a professional,” Finn muttered, keeping his voice level. He stepped carefully, his keen gnomish eyes scanning the cavern floor for traps, loose stones, anything that might betray their presence. The last thing they needed was to wake a sleeping dragon.

Torch Dain, their demolitionist, was already halfway inside, his fingers twitching with excitement. A thrill-seeker with a dangerous love for fire. His hand hovered near one of the small flasks strapped to his belt—alchemical bombs, probably. Bad habit.

"Place is empty," Veylin Skree whispered, voice tight. The wiry elf hunched near the center of the cavern, where a massive nest of gnarled, fused-together bones and molten rock cradled the object of their mission. The egg.

It was a thing of beauty, smooth and glistening, the color of ember-cooled lava, speckled with veins of gold. Easily worth a fortune. A fortune Finn had no intention of collecting.

One last job, then I'm done. That had been his promise. And he meant it.

Rollo Wicks, their bowman, had already unslung his longbow, his sharp eyes constantly flicking toward the cave’s ceiling, the shadows, the darkness beyond the nest. He felt it too. The wrongness.

Finn crouched next to Veylin, running a hand along the egg’s shell. Warm. Still warm.

The mother hadn’t been gone long.

A shiver ran down his spine. He turned to warn them—

The air pressure shifted.

A deep, resonant growl rumbled through the cavern. The waterfall’s constant roar masked the sound at first, but then—

A gust of hot wind. A smell like burning cedar and charred bone.

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Finn's blood ran cold.

"MOVE!"

The cavern exploded into chaos.

The mother dragon—a monstrous creature of onyx-black scales and molten eyes—approached through the waterfall that coated the outside world. A silent hunter. A nightmare given form. She had been here the whole time, waiting and scouting the land around them. How had they not seen her?

With a single, fluid motion, she struck.

Cazka had been closest. The orc barely had time to raise her club before jaws the size of a cart engulfed her whole. A sickening crunch, then silence.

Torch Dain screamed, lobbing a firebomb at the beast’s head. The explosion lit up the cavern, casting flickering light on the jagged stone walls. The dragon barely flinched.

Then she lunged again.

Torch tried to run. He didn't make it.

Her teeth clamped down, lifting him clean off the ground. His scream cut short as his body was snapped in half.

Blood splattered across Finn’s face.

His breath came in ragged gasps. His instincts screamed RUN—but where? The waterfall? The drop beyond it was a hundred feet down. Maybe more.

Veylin had already bolted toward the exit, but a sweep of the dragon’s massive claw sent him sprawling. His body slammed against the cavern wall, bones shattering on impact.

Rollo fired. One arrow, two, three—each bouncing harmlessly off the dragon’s obsidian hide. His face twisted in horror.

The dragon turned to him next.

Rollo met Finn’s eyes.

A silent understanding passed between them.

Then the dragon’s tail lashed out.

The sound of ribs breaking. Rollo crumpled to the floor, unmoving.

Finn’s heart hammered against his ribs. Only two of them left now.

He grabbed the egg. Stupid. Reckless. Instinct. He ran.

Veylin was wheezing, trying to crawl away. His fingers left streaks of blood on the stone. "Help me," he gasped.

Finn hesitated. Just a fraction of a second.

The dragon reared back, inhale deep and slow.

No time.

Finn bolted toward the waterfall, diving just as the dragon exhaled.

White-hot fire engulfed the cavern behind him.

Then—

A solid impact. A flash of blinding pain.

The dragon’s tail slammed into his side, launching him through the air.

Finn hit something hard. Then he was falling.

The roar of water.

The world spun.

Then—

Blackness.

#

Pain. That was the first thing he felt. A deep, gnawing ache, like his bones had been crushed and put back together the wrong way. He groaned, his throat raw, his body refusing to move.

Where…?

A ceiling of wooden beams. Candlelight flickered against stone walls. The scent of stew and damp earth.

Footsteps. A shadow loomed over him.

A gruff voice, tinged with amusement.

“By the six Hells. Thought you were dead for sure.”

Finn’s blurry vision focused on the figure beside the bed.

A half-orc. Big. Scarred. Eyes sharp but kind.

The stranger smirked.

“Welcome back to the living, little man. Name’s Grog.”