Dyjin wiped his brow, smearing a streak of dirt across his forehead as he hefted a wooden crate of goods onto the counter. The shop was dimly lit, its narrow aisles crammed with an assortment of wares that had no business being under one roof. After his mother passed away, Dyjin had begun working alongside his father and their employer, Martin. The shopkeeper was a shrewd man, dealing in goods that were not always obtained through the most legal means. But Martin had treated them fairly, offering a decent wage for their work.

“Lay out that lot for me to look over.” Martin grunted from behind the counter, where he was tallying up the day’s take. "It came with the last shipment from Taka-Hun. Should be assorted weapons, but I'm not sure what to expect."

Dyjin pried open the crate, the lid creaking as it gave way. Inside was an odd mix of knives, hatchets, and a sword, just as Martin had said. His eyes locked on a short stone dagger, its hilt bound in a strip of dark leather. The blade was made of obsidian, a stone so black it seemed to drink in the light around it. And though the blade was roughly carved, its knapped surface glinted in the afternoon sun.

He hesitated for a moment, then, with a glance at Martin, picked it up. The dagger was heavier than it looked, and the leather wrap felt soft against his calloused hands. Testing the edge for sharpness, the blade nicked his thumb, drawing a bead of blood.

“Ow!” He hissed, jerking his hand back. A dull throb began to spread from the cut, but he ignored it, his attention fixed on the dagger.

Martin looked up, squinting at the dagger. “Ah, a stone one? Not worth much, by the looks of it. You like it? Consider it payment for all the extra work today.”

Dyjin blinked, surprised by the unexpected gift. “Are you sure?”

Martin waved him off, already returning to his ledger. “Just don’t go cutting yourself again. Don’t need you bleeding all over my shop.”

Dyjin nodded, tucking the dagger into his belt. “Thanks,” he muttered, though Martin was no longer listening.

As he returned to his chores, Dyjin couldn’t shake the odd sensation in his head. It began as a dull ache, barely noticeable at first, but it grew with each passing moment. He tried to ignore it, focusing on sweeping the floor and organizing the shelves, but the headache persisted, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.

His father, Arin, entered the shop just as Dyjin was finishing up. The older man’s face was weathered and stern, but he smiled as he looked over at Dyjin. “You about done here, son?”

Dyjin nodded, rubbing his temples in a vain attempt to ease the pain. “Yeah, almost.”

“Good,” Arin said, his voice gruff. “We should head home before dark.”

Martin glanced up from his work. “You two get on now. I’ll lock up.”

Dyjin gave a brief nod, his thoughts too muddled by the headache to muster a proper farewell. He followed his father out of the shop, the weight of the dagger at his side an odd comfort. The village of Tara-Arn was quiet at this hour, the sun sinking low behind the trees, casting long shadows across the forest floor. Dyjin made his way down the narrow dirt path that led to their small cabin at the edge of the village. The dull ache in Dyjin’s head intensified, each step sending a jolt of pain through his skull.

“Something wrong?” Arin asked, noticing Dyjin’s discomfort.

Dyjin shook his head, though the movement made the headache flare up. “Just tired,” Arin nodded, accepting the excuse without question. They walked in silence, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of night birds. When they reached the cabin, Dyjin was eager to lie down and rest, but the moment he stepped inside, the headache spiked, blinding him with its intensity.

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He stumbled, clutching his head, but before he could cry out, the earth beneath them trembled. It was a deep, rumbling vibration, one that set the walls of their home shaking and knocked items from shelves. Arin grabbed Dyjin by the shoulders, steadying him.

“What’s happening?” Dyjin gasped, the pain in his head now secondary to the fear clawing at his chest.

Arin’s face was pale, his eyes wide with alarm. “Stay here,” he ordered, already moving toward the door. “I’ll check—”

Before he could finish, a deafening roar split the air, a sound so terrible it seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. Dyjin watched as a giant clawed foot, its scales gleaming red like fresh blood, smashed partway through the doorway as if the walls were made of dry leaves.

“A dragon!” Arin breathed, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Dyjin’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched his father race outside. He wanted to follow, to help, but his body felt frozen in place, the headache now a searing, unbearable pain. He could hear the chaos outside—screams, the crackling of fire, and the dragon’s roars—but it was all distant, muffled as if coming from underwater.

And then, in a single, horrifying moment, everything came crashing down.

The roof of their home splintered and caved in as a massive claw tore through it, sending beams and thatch raining down. Dyjin barely had time to dive to the side before the entire structure collapsed in a cloud of dust and debris.

He coughed, struggling to breathe through the thick haze, and crawled out from beneath the wreckage. His eyes watered, and his ears rang, but above it all, he heard his father’s voice, weak and strained.

“Dyjin… run…”

Through the smoke and flames, Dyjin saw his father lying on the ground, trapped beneath a fallen beam. Arin’s face was contorted with pain, blood seeping from a wound on his side.

Desperate, Dyjin stumbled toward his father, but before he could reach him, the dragon’s massive armored claws crashed down, crushing the beam—and his father—into the ground.

Dyjin froze, his heart shattering as he watched the life drain from his father’s eyes. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think—grief and terror overwhelming him.

But as the dragon roared again, the instinct to survive took over. With a sob, Dyjin tore himself away and fled, the roar of the dragon ringing in his ears as he ran through the burning village. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to escape. His vision blurred by tears, as he ran blindly into the forest.

As Dyjin staggered through the trees, a hand suddenly grabbed his arm, yanking him down into the brush. It was Martin, crouched low among the undergrowth, his face pale with fear.

“Stay low!” Martin hissed. “The dragon’s still close!”

Dyjin collapsed beside him, panting, his mind a whirl of grief and confusion. The headache, which had been unbearable moments ago, now seemed distant, overshadowed by the horror of what had just happened. For what felt like hours, they huddled there, hidden in the undergrowth, as the village of Tara-Arn burned.

When the sounds of destruction finally faded, Dyjin dared to lift his head. The village was a smoldering ruin, the once-proud trees reduced to blackened husks. But even as he took in the scene, something else caught his attention—a band of Grae, their scales glinting in the firelight, were moving through the ruins, looting whatever remained.

Dyjin’s blood boiled at the sight. The Grae—desert-dwelling lizardmen, known for their ruthlessness—were picking through the remains of his village, scavenging like vultures. He wanted to charge at them, to fight, but Martin held him back.

“No!” Martin whispered urgently. “We’d only get ourselves killed. We need to get out of here, before we are noticed. Where's your father?”

"He... he didn’t make it," Dyjin choked out, the words barely escaping his lips.

Martin hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking back toward the burning village. But then he nodded, his expression grim. "This way," he said, grabbing up a small pack lying beside him, and leading Dyjin into the forest.

They ran through the underbrush, the sound of the flames roaring behind them. Dyjin's mind was a whirlwind of pain and fear, the headache blurring his vision as they stumbled toward the Tivril River.

When they reached the riverbank, Martin collapsed onto the ground beneath an overhang in the bank, gasping for breath. "We should be safe here," he panted, looking around nervously.

Exhausted, Dyjin lay down in a patch of ferns. His body was numb, his mind foggy. Glancing down, he noticed the obsidian dagger was glowing with an eerie white light. Unsure if it was real, he turned to ask Martin, but the shopkeeper was already asleep, worn out from the day. Dyjin drifted into a fitful sleep, the dagger clutched tightly in his hand.