There was something methodical and calming about the rhythmic thud of hooves on a dirt road and the creak of wagon wheels as the caravan carriages trailed behind the horses. At least, Clifford Sventon thought so. It was the perfect background noise for an avid reader like him—almost enough to make him forget the quiet comfort of his bedroom back home. In his scrawny hands, he held what he considered a philosophical masterpiece, a book exploring the myriad ways magic had shaped history. It covered everything from curing diseases and advancing civilizations to its darker uses in war and torture. Thankfully, the author spared readers the gory details of the latter, as Clifford’s weak stomach would likely rebel at the vivid descriptions of human suffering. After all, Clifford was no warrior; he was a businessman—a trader of fine goods and a caravan leader. A profession, passed down through generations of the Sventon family, had been taught to him by his father.
For decades, the Sventons had called the merchant city of Kagos their home. The family traveled vast distances to trade rare goods across the many kingdoms of Strathos, proudly playing their part in maintaining Kagos’s reputation as “the city where anything can be bought.” Of course, the nickname carried a double meaning. Despite the city’s bustling trade, it was notorious for its crime. No amount of patrolling guards could stamp out the sprawling black market hidden somewhere within its walls. Although the black market’s existence was common knowledge, few knew how to locate it. Clifford, for his part, avoided such dealings—not out of principle but out of fear.
Above all, Clifford feared the Syndicate, the shadowy criminal empire said to orchestrate much of the underworld’s activity. Even the rumors about how the Syndicate operated were enough to send shivers down his spine. The stories painted them as ruthless, their punishments so horrifying they could break even the bravest of men. For traders like Clifford, the Syndicate was a nightmare made real, as many of the larger bandit groups reportedly sold stolen goods—and kidnapped people—directly to Syndicate agents.
Fortunately, Clifford’s father’s extensive network of contacts allowed him to hire skilled mercenaries to guard his caravans. Knowing that twenty-four armed men were currently protecting him, his goods, and the horses brought him some comfort. The rest of his nerves were calmed by the large glass of Sunset Red wine in his hand. He took a sip, savoring the rich aroma of blackberries and raspberries. The wine’s sweetness was balanced by earthy undertones, evoking a wave of nostalgia. It reminded him of the evenings he had spent as a boy, sitting in caravans with his father before he had grown to appreciate the family trade.
Clifford had never been someone with a strong desire to see the world. In truth, there wasn’t much he truly sought after in life. His life was full of opportunities either left untaken or quietly failed, and that suited him just fine. As a child, he had been privileged—his father had even paid a small fortune for him to study magic at The Arcanium Index. But those studies had been short-lived, as Clifford quickly proved unsuited to the craft. Giving up when things got hard had become something of a pattern for him, but he didn’t mind. There were always books to read, wine to drink, and food to eat; and that was enough for Clifford.
The only reason he now found himself reclining on silk cushions in the back of a caravan was because his father had issued an ultimatum: run six long-distance caravans a year or find another place to live. While Clifford resented the obligation, he admitted there were worse ways to spend his time. The long journeys gave him ample opportunity to read and ponder life’s many questions.
He carefully placed his wine glass atop a stack of books that served as a makeshift table and pulled a map from his purse. According to his calculations, it would take at least another month to reach Ravia. The thought was both a frustration and a relief. The distance gave him a welcome reprieve from his father, with whom relations had been strained lately. Still, he missed his bed and regretted having to miss his thirtieth birthday celebration. He’d have to request a second cake upon his return to make up for the missed festivities.
Suddenly, the caravan jolted to an abrupt halt. The stack of books toppled into Clifford’s lap, and the glass of wine spilled across his clothes before shattering on the carriage floor. Shards of glass scattered over his leather shoes, while crimson wine soaked into the silk shirt that covered his sizable belly.
“You incompetent fool!” he bellowed at the driver, his voice thick with frustration. His anger was cut short by the sound of distant screams—shrieks of terror that pierced through the walls of the carriage.
Clifford yanked the curtain aside and peered through the small window. Outside, several of his hired mercenaries were unsheathing their blades. Moments later, the ground quaked, and Clifford quickly dropped the curtain. His fingers fumbled with the lock on the carriage door.
“What sort of bandit gang dares to attack twenty-four armed guards?” he muttered, his voice rising in hysteria. His head was filled with grim possibilities as the carriage walls started closing in on him. Thoughts of being burned alive in his carriage, sold to the Syndicate as a slave, or brutally murdered and harvested for dark magic raced through his mind. Panic gripped him like a vice, and the only thought that made sense was the need to assess the threat before deciding whether to run or hide.
At last, the lock gave way, and the door burst open. Clifford tumbled forward, landing face-first on the dirt road. Scrambling to his knees, he dusted himself off and took in his surroundings. What he saw made his blood run cold.
A mangled corpse lay beside him, as though it had been hurled there by a catapult. The victim’s femur jutted grotesquely from a shattered thigh, and his crushed chest plate suggested his ribs were little more than splinters. His helmet was missing, and his disfigured face bore the unmistakable marks of some immense, brutal force.
Clifford screamed in terror, the high-pitched shriek escaping his lips seeming unnatural for a man of his size. His wide eyes remained fixed on the mangled corpse beside him. Never in his life had he been this close to death—real, raw, and horrifying. And now, here he was, crawling away from the lifeless body of a man he’d spoken to just hours earlier. The badge strapped to the armor identified him: Cedric, the mercenary captain.
Before Clifford could fully process the scene, a panicked neigh shattered the air. He instinctively looked up, just in time to see a horse hurtling through the sky. Its trajectory ended in a bone-shattering crash as it slammed into a nearby tree, the impact so fierce it toppled the trunk with a deafening snap. The horse’s body hit the ground with an earth-shaking boom, while the tree groaned and collapsed under its weight. Clifford stared, frozen in place, as if trapped in a surreal nightmare. Only the bloodcurdling screams of his hired mercenaries snapped him out of his daze.
Scrambling to his feet, Clifford spun around—and immediately wished he hadn’t. His blood turned to ice at the sight before him: an enormous, armored giant, swinging a blade taller than the average man. The ground trembled with each of its steps, and as Clifford’s eyes darted around, he spotted two more giants wreaking havoc on what remained of his guards.
He stood paralyzed, watching in horror as one mercenary was thrown off his feet by the sheer force of the giant’s swing. A sickening crunch filled the air as the massive foot came down, crushing another man beneath it. Clifford’s stomach churned violently at the sight of the giant lifting its foot, revealing the mercenary’s mashed innards clinging to the metal sole like a grotesque smear of paint.
The bile rose swiftly in his throat. Wine, cheese, and stomach acid erupted in a bitter torrent as he vomited into the roadside ditch. He heaved, his body trembling with terror. How could this be happening? Giants hadn’t existed on Strathos for over seven thousand years. And even in ancient tales, they were described as primitive, too dim-witted to craft weapons or armor. The sight before him defied everything he thought he knew.
For most of his life, Clifford had believed the world to be relatively safe. His privileged, sheltered existence had shielded him from true danger. But now, that illusion had shattered. For the first time in his life, he felt a fear more visceral than anything he had ever known—a fear of his own imminent death.
Without a second thought, he turned and bolted toward the cover of the trees. His stubby legs propelled his plump body as fast as they could, panic fueling each frantic step. He paid no mind to the men he had left behind, or the belongings now abandoned to the giants. Survival was all that mattered. The forest of Arvendon loomed ahead, offering the faint hope of concealment. Yet, deep down, Clifford knew other dangers could very well await him there.
The uneven ground soon betrayed him. Roots and jagged rocks littered the forest floor, and his clumsy sprint came to an abrupt end as his foot caught on the protruding roots of a nearby tree. He stumbled forward, crashing heavily onto the ground. Pain erupted in his ankle—a sprain, perhaps worse—as his full weight landed on it. His anguished cries echoed through the desolate woods, but no reply came. Only silence surrounded him.
Bloodied and bruised, Clifford began to crawl, dragging his aching body forward and thoroughly ruining his expense silks while his purse strap threatened to strangle him. Sweat poured from his brow, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. His limbs trembled under the strain of muscles unused to such exertion. Each breath burned, as if molten iron seared its way down his throat.
Finally, his strength gave out. His arms collapsed beneath him, and he lay there, sprawled and broken on the forest floor. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps as exhaustion overwhelmed him. The pain, the terror, the chaos—it was all too much. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision, and before he could think another panicked thought, unconsciousness claimed him.
*
One by one, the mercenaries fell to the overwhelming power of the three armored giants. Most were swiftly crushed or cleaved in two, their blood and viscera staining the dirt road northwest of Padsbury. Within moments, the once-bustling caravan was reduced to a scene of carnage: scattered corpses of twenty-four armed men and a handful of carriage drivers, surrounded by broken wagons and terrified horses.
Following their orders, the giants methodically gathered the weapons left behind, their massive hands making the swords and axes look like little more than toothpicks. They tossed the collected blades onto the wagons without care, the sound of metal clanging against wood echoing in the stillness. The surviving horses, wild-eyed and panicked, struggled desperately against their restraints, pulling at the carriages with all their might. Yet with the carcasses of their fellow horses weighing them down, they could barely move the wagons forward. Making them easy for the giants to catch.
With ease, the giants hauled the carriages and their remaining contents, dragging both the wagons and the surviving horses back toward the caverns that Erica now called home. Their immense strength rendered the burden trivial, their progress uninterrupted by the weight of their spoils.
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At the back of the large, empty chamber Dror’Khanik and her had assigned as a storage room, a torch sat mounted on the wall. Dror’Khanik had instructed Erica to pull it downward with her full body weight, and as she did, the ground trembled slightly beneath her feet. She plugged her ears with her fingers as the massive stone wall began to move, grinding open as though animated by its own will. Beyond the newly revealed passage lay the shadowy woods of the Deadlands, and among the gnarled trees stood a sight she had not expected.
The three giants emerged, their armor slick with blood and bits of flesh, each carrying horses under their arms and dragging carriages behind them. Many of the horses were already dead, their lifeless bodies dangling limply from the straps and wooden beams that tethered them to the carriages. One horse was missing half its body, and others lacked heads entirely. A few appeared undamaged yet hung eerily still, their legs swaying slightly above the ground. The few that still showed signs of life were utterly defeated, their terrified eyes darting about as their movements slowed to near nothingness. It was as if they had long since surrendered, realizing resistance was futile.
“What in the nine hells...?” Erica muttered under her breath, her voice trembling as the giants dragged the carriages into the chamber, dumping them unceremoniously onto the cold stone floor. “Where did they get all this?” she asked aloud, her tone sharp as she directed the question toward the dragon.
“As I told you earlier, an opportunity presented itself, and I instructed them to take advantage of it,” Dror’Khanik replied, his voice calm and measured.
“What does that even mean? Did they rob a caravan?” Erica demanded, the obvious conclusion leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Precisely.”
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“Why? What’s wrong with you?” Her anger overrode any fear of Drok’Khanik in the heat of the moment.
“Such harsh words, Erica,” Dror’Khanik chided dismissively. “I had them take an insignificantly small fraction of the merchant's wealth. His life will not be affected in the slightest by the loss of these goods.”
“And the blood?” She snapped, gesturing toward the giants, who stood like grotesque statues. “They look like they rolled around in a lake of minced meat.”
“There were a few... casualties,” Dror’Khanik admitted with a nonchalant tone. “Some of the guards didn’t know when to flee, and as such, they met an unfortunate fate. But I assure you, the merchant himself was not harmed.”
“What do we even need all this for? People died for this, and for what?” she spat, her voice shaking with equal parts frustration and despair.
“We are in dire need of disposable resources,” The dragon replied.
“Such as?” she interrupted, her words dripping with frustration.
“We need wealth to purchase supplies: to clean this hideout, to provide food for you and those who will follow you, and to replace the rags you’ve been wearing for nearly a week. I assume you would also appreciate soap and clean water? Beyond that, we require books to teach you how to read and cast spells so that you may begin to understand the rituals I must pass on to you. Weapons are necessary—not only for you but for those who will stand with you. And that is just the beginning. There is also furniture for your personal quarters and the rest of these caverns. Every item here will serve a purpose.” Dror’Khanik’s words carried the clipped precision of a frustrated parent, slow and deliberate to ensure they sank in.
“I—” Erica began, but the words caught in her throat. She wanted to argue, but Dror’Khanik was right. Still, the thought of stealing—and worse, the deaths that had accompanied this theft—did not sit right with her. Her gaze fell to the floor, shame and anger warring within her.
“You chose to fight, Erica,” Dror’Khanik said, his voice softer but no less firm. “And we cannot afford to fight fair.”
“They didn’t have to die,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions.
“Do you remember what I told you after your confrontation with the doctors who murdered your child? When you asked me for my name?” the dragon asked, his tone measured and heavy with meaning.
“You told me the story of your father...” she replied hesitantly, her uncertainty clear.
“I told you a tale of a war older than the gods themselves. Tell me, Erica—how many lives do you think have been lost in this fruitless conflict?”
“I... I don’t know,” she stammered. Her voice faltered as an orange light began to glow faintly from the cracks in her right arm. Panic surged within her as a familiar darkness began creeping upward from the edges of her vision. Like black slugs crawling from her eye sockets, threatening to consume her sight entirely.
“More than you can ever imagine,” Dror’Khanik’s voice echoed, deep and resonant. “Before that foolish sun boy trapped me in this prison, the last thing I saw was endless fields of corpses.”
Erica shuddered as the darkness overtook her completely. But just as her vision was swallowed, the blackness gave way to a vivid scene: a blazing sunset on a distant horizon. The light was almost too bright, a hazy blend of orange, red, and yellow that overwhelmed her senses. Yet as her eyes adjusted, the sight before her turned from breathtaking to horrifying.
What she had mistaken for a glorious sunset was, in reality, a mountain of burning corpses. The flames licked skyward, consuming the bodies of humans, elves, and dwarves alike. The air reeked of death and ash. She turned away, desperate to escape the sickening sight, but everywhere she looked was the same—endless carnage stretching as far as her eyes could see.
Suddenly, a deafening crash shook the ground in front of her, forcing her attention back to the scene. A massive shape hit the earth with incredible force, kicking up clouds of dust and debris. As the haze cleared, she saw the lifeless body of a colossal dragon sprawled before her. Its dull blue scales were streaked with blood, and its neck had been savagely torn open, the wound clearly made by teeth the size of her head.
“Fire and death rained from the skies as dragonkind tore each other apart,” Dror’Khanik’s voice continued, rumbling through the air like distant thunder. “Those who worshipped the greater dragons joined the slaughter, their bloodlust fueling the chaos. That night, I lost countless kin… My legacy was extinguished in an instant by one mortal, a man blessed by the Lady of Destruction.”
Erica looked skyward, drawn by the dragon’s words, and saw more dragons than clouds filling the heavens. The creatures fought with savage intensity, their roars reverberating like thunderclaps. Orbs of fire plummeted from the skies like deadly rain, scorching the earth below. Lightning flashed, striking the ground with blinding intensity, illuminating the apocalyptic battlefield in fleeting bursts.
“What you see, little one,” Dror’Khanik intoned, “is the fate that awaits this world. This unending conflict lurks just beneath the surface, waiting to erupt again. The temporary peace that has blessed this land is fragile, always hunting for an excuse to shatter. I seek to stop it. As long as the dragon mother lives, the curse plaguing dragonkind will persist, and the war will rage on.”
Erica’s eyes were drawn to the distant mountains. She watched as a gigantic dragon fell from the sky, its immense body colliding with the earth and crushing several smaller dragons beneath it. The sheer scale of destruction sent a shiver down her spine, and every hair on her body stood on end as though saluting the apocalyptic vision before her.
“The men who died today mean nothing in the grand scheme of things,” Dror’Khanik continued, his voice heavy with conviction. “Lives will always be lost; it is inevitable. But the lives of the few are inconsequential compared to the countless lives I can save. I can end this war, Erica. I can stop the cycle of death from repeating itself.”
As he spoke, the world around her began to crumble. The gruesome scene of death and destruction shattered like glass, the shards falling into a bottomless abyss. She was left suspended in the same suffocating darkness that had first consumed her. Then, without warning, her vision returned, thrusting her back into the chamber with the blood-soaked giants. The grotesque sight of their gore-streaked bodies overwhelmed her senses, making the decapitated horses and mangled corpses on the stone floor seem almost trivial in comparison. Stumbling backward, she pressed herself against the cold wall, her head spinning as she tried to make sense of everything she had seen.
“This war is my story,” Dror’Khanik said, his tone softer but no less commanding. “A fate thrust upon me against my will. It tore apart everything I held dear. I was raised in bloodshed and forged in rage—this is my curse. Without a purpose to fight for, we are nothing. So I made this war my own. But it is not your burden to bear. If I am freed, you will never have to fight it yourself… Yet you have your own reasons to fight, Erica. You chose to bring back your daughter at the cost of setting me free. That choice ties you to something far greater than yourself. You must come to terms with the deaths of others if you wish to save what truly matters to you. Whether that is your daughter or this world, I care not. What matters is that you find the resolve to move forward.”
For a long moment, Erica stood in stunned silence. She felt like a child being lectured by a parent, but this “parent” was a monstrous being larger than buildings, capable of annihilating civilizations. The crushing pressure of his words made her want to break down and cry, yet all she could think about was her daughter. She longed to hold her tightly, to feel her warmth again. Loneliness crept over her like an army of spiders, sinking its fangs into her. Yet deep in her heart, she knew there was only one path forward. Any other choice would leave her drowning in guilt far worse than what she already felt for the people who had died today.
“I want to fight,” she said at last, her voice trembling but resolute. She repeated the same words she had spoken days ago, and immediately, she felt the comforting warmth of Dror’Khanik’s magic wrap around her.
“Then I shall fight with you,” Dror’Khanik replied as the giants moved deeper into the chamber.
Erica took a deep breath, steeling herself, and reached for the torch. With a swift motion, she pushed it upward, closing the massive stone doorway behind them. The heavy grinding of stone echoed through the chamber.
“So, what happens next?” she asked, her voice steadier now.
“There is a bath with running water down the hall,” Dror’Khanik said. “It needs filtering to be truly clean, but it will suffice for now. I suggest we bring the giants some water to wash off the blood. After that, they can clean out the ritual chamber for you.”
“And then?” she prompted.
“And then you should inventory what’s in the carriages. Empty one of them and fill it with valuables—we’ll need gold and goods. We’ll make sure to have them sold, as some supplies are easier to purchase than to steal.”
*
A few hours later, Erica found herself wrapped in one of the robes she had pulled from the carriages. It was a luxurious blue robe, adorned with golden threads woven intricately into the fabric to give it a faint glow. Despite its beauty, it was far too large for her, making her feel as though she were draped in a tent rather than a proper piece of clothing.
The giants had been sent into the ritual chamber to purge it of whatever evil remained, but Erica’s gut told her the room would never truly be rid of its filth without a small army armed with soap and mops. Meanwhile, the carriages had been emptied, and she had done her best to take stock of the supplies. It was a daunting task; she quickly realized the quantities far exceeded anything she’d worked with before. There was plenty of food, horse feed, a small arsenal of well-maintained weapons, and an abundance of fine silks and high-quality threads.
Dror’Khanik had urged her to sell the fabrics and threads, but Erica insisted on keeping some for herself. Sewing had been a favorite hobby of hers, though she hadn’t been able to afford materials in years. Her mother had taught her both sewing and knitting long ago, and the calming act of working with her hands, seeing fabric take shape into something beautiful, had always brought her joy. Now, as her fingers brushed over the exquisitely soft cloth and vibrant threads, she felt small bursts of excitement. These were the finest materials she’d ever touched, and something deep within her yearned to create something with them.
But the fabrics weren’t the only treasures she found in the carriages. There were bottles of fine wine from distant lands, their labels inscribed in unfamiliar languages. There was also wealth beyond anything she’d ever dreamed of: pouches overflowing with gold and several small chests packed with precious gemstones. Among them was a diamond larger than the dice the regulars at the Drunken Duckling used for gambling. She held it between her fingertips, its flawless facets catching the dim light. The sight was both awe-inspiring and infuriating. She had spent her entire life struggling just to survive, yet here lay more wealth than she could imagine. Dror’Khanik had mentioned this fortune was only a tiny fraction of the merchant’s total riches. Trying to fathom just how much wealth the man must have possessed made her grit her teeth in frustration.
“Have you packed the items you’re willing to part with?” Dror’Khanik’s voice resounded in her mind, interrupting her thoughts.
“I think so. I hope it’s okay if I leave some of the fabrics here after all,” she replied, glancing at the neatly folded silks.
“If they bring you joy in these troubled times, I have no qualms about you keeping them,” the dragon replied.
“Thank you.” Erica smiled softly as she returned the diamond to the ornate chest before her.
“I believe the best place to purchase the supplies you need is Laverne,” Dror’Khanik continued. “There, you will find goods of the highest quality.”
“Won’t it take forever to get there?” she asked, a hint of apprehension in her voice.
“It will take a few days. The horses will greatly speed up your journey.”
“Are they even fit to run? They looked pretty rough when... well, when the giants brought them back.” Her gaze shifted to the horses now harnessed to the carriage. The remaining animals had been locked in the remnants of an old stable adjoining the chamber, while those that had perished had been harvested for any edible parts.
“They will manage. If not, I will ensure they do,” Dror’Khanik assured her.
As he spoke, Erica’s right arm flared with heat, an orange glow shining through the cracks in her skin. A sharp, stinging pain spread through her arm, causing her to wince.
“What did you do this time?” she asked warily once the pain subsided.
“Consider it... protection,” the dragon replied. “The giants will remain here, so I have provided you with additional safeguards. I will explain the spells while you are on the road.”
“Right… the giants have to stay behind because it would be a huge problem if anyone spotted them,” she said, repeating what Dror’Khanik had told her earlier.
“Precisely.”
Erica let out a slow breath, trying to steady herself. “Then… I guess I’m ready to go.” There was a trace of anxiety in her voice as she climbed onto the carriage seat. She knew how dangerous the roads could be, especially for someone traveling alone. Robbery, kidnapping—she was practically inviting disaster. Yet here she was, doing exactly that.
One of the giants stepped forward and effortlessly pulled the torch lever, opening the massive stone doorway. A pleasant gust of fresh air swept into the chamber, carrying with it the earthy scent of the forest beyond.
“Do not worry,” Dror’Khanik said reassuringly. “I will ensure the roads are safe.”
“Alright,” Erica replied, her voice soft but resolute. “I’ll trust you.” She gathered the reins in her hands and gently urged the horses forward. The carriage creaked into motion, carrying her into the dense, shadowy forests of the Deadlands.