Chapter 10
Rumour
A harsh gale howled through the Greyroar Mountains, carrying with it the stench of blood and death. The crimson fog from the west consumed everything in its path, a vile plague that corrupted all it touched. Near the mountain peaks, a thick cloud of grey mist churned like a living tempest, its icy tendrils creeping down toward the valleys below.
At the heart of the frozen storm stood a lone figure. Snow lay stained red around him, littered with severed limbs and mangled corpses. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, the only sound in the eerie stillness. His eyes held an unrelenting fury, like an explosive device about to explode.
Not far away, a beast loomed. A monster of unfathomable size, cloaked in grey scales that gleamed like iron in the dim light. Its massive eyes were pits of endless black, an ancient void that seemed to swallow even the dim glow of the mist.
Their eyes met. Then, the mist thickened, swirling faster, swallowing the man and the beast in a suffocating haze. The clash began, unseen, unheard, yet it was surely to be terrifying and
monstrous nonetheless.
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At the eastern foot of the Greyroar Mountains, an encampment of considerable size bustled with life. Soldiers moved between rows of tents, their faces weary but alert. Fires crackled in makeshift pits, casting flickering shadows across the frost-covered ground. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the air as blacksmiths worked tirelessly to repair weapons and armour.
The camp’s atmosphere was tense, laced with unease. Word of the crimson fog’s sudden surge had spread like wildfire, and the sentries posted along the perimeter watched the treeline with wary eyes.
Near the western edge of the camp stood two armoured guards, each holding a long, steel spear. The larger of the two turned to the other guard, a smaller, and shifty-looking man.
"Have you heard?" the larger guard suddenly asked. "The scouts earlier said that Greyroar had vanished."
The shifty guard turned and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Vanished?" he scoffed. "The ancient dragon, Greyroar, that terrorised the entire region disappeared, just like that?"
"Yeah." the other replied confidently with crossed arms. "Well, that's what the scouts said anyway."
The smaller guard snorted, his grip tightening on his spear as he leaned against the wooden post beside him.
"Scouts get spooked easily. They're probably just uneasy because of the damned mist," he said as he examined the edge of his spear. "Not like there is any reason for it to suddenly disappear."
"Heard it had something to do with the grey cloud at the peaks this morning," the large guard replied, unwilling to let the rumour be disproved.
The small guard looked up toward the mountain peaks, his eyes narrowing as the crimson mist, thick and foreboding, lingered in the distance. "Probably just a coincidence, you dolt."
"Hey!" the other responded in outrage. "I'm not a-"
Before the larger guard could finish his sentence, a loud crack echoed through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of crunching snow. Both guards stiffened, their eyes snapping to the treeline where the sound had come from.
The smaller guard instinctively gripped his spear tighter. “What was that?”
Another step. Heavy and deliberate. Something—or someone—was moving through the forest. The air felt suddenly colder, like a warning, suffocating and persistent.
The larger guard’s grip tightened on his weapon, his voice barely above a whisper. “Stay sharp.”
The steps continued, drawing nearer. The smaller guard’s breath caught in his throat as he glanced nervously at the trees. “I don’t like this…”
Then, through the trees, a figure emerged.
At first, it was just a silhouette—a shape lurching forward with laboured movements, shrouded in bloodstained rags. The shadows from the firelight danced on its outline, revealing glimpses of a face—half-masked in grime and blood, its eyes wide with terror or fury. The figure seemed to struggle with each step, as if whatever it had seen—or fought—had broken something inside of it.
The guards exchanged a glance, their spears raised instinctively. The larger guard called out in a firm voice, “Who goes there?”
The figure stumbled closer, its breath ragged, the snow beneath its feet now stained with dark splotches. It wasn’t moving fast—its progress was slow, dragging, almost unnatural.
"Who are you?" the larger guard demanded again, stepping forward, but the figure did not respond.
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The smaller guard squinted at the shape. “Looks like someone from the mountain… or what’s left of them.” He swallowed hard. “You think it’s a scout?”
The larger guard didn’t answer immediately, his eyes scanning the figure for any signs of threat. His pulse quickened, the icy cold biting through the cracks in his armour, his breath hanging in the air like smoke. The wind howled again, but all he could focus on was the blood-soaked figure, struggling forward like a shadow of death itself.
Then, slowly, with evident hesitation, he moved closer. His heart hammered louder now, an odd mixture of dread and duty stirring in his chest. As he closed the distance, his hand trembled slightly, the weight of the situation sinking in. The figure’s ragged breath was the only sound in the stillness, the air thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and something far worse—death.
“Stay behind me,” he muttered without turning, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince—the smaller guard or himself.
Before the bloodied figure could get any closer, its legs suddenly faltered. The figure then collapsed against the ground with a crunchy thud, its limbs sprawling unnaturally
The duo of guards looked each other in the eyes, confusion evident in their movements. The smaller guard spoke first;
"Dibs not checking on it."
"What?!" the large guard shouted. "That's not fair!"
"Shut up and go check on it, you dolt," the shifty guard replied, moving behind the other and pushing him toward the figure.
The larger guard huffed in frustration but reluctantly moved forward. His breath came in shallow bursts as he crouched beside the bloodied figure, his hand hovering near what seemed to be a man's neck to check for a pulse. The snow beneath the man’s body was stained dark red, and his clothes were torn, as though he’d been through a brutal ordeal. Ripped flesh and bruised skin were visible where the cloth had been shredded, the wounds raw and jagged. The air around them was thick with tension, the distant rumble of wind the only sound to break the unnerving silence.
The smaller guard stood a few paces back, still clutching his spear, his eyes darting nervously from the figure to the shadows around them. His voice was low and tense. “Well, what is it? Alive?”
The larger guard hesitantly pressed his fingers against the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse. For a moment, there was nothing—just the chill of the air seeping through his gloves, making the stillness even more pronounced. His fingers brushed over the man’s throat, finding torn skin and blood beneath. The harsh wind seemed to freeze him in place for an agonizing moment. But then, a faint pulse, weak but steady, throbbed beneath his touch.
“He’s alive,” the larger guard muttered, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. “Barely.”
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Lark's eyes snapped open. His breath was shallow, and his chest felt as though it had been crushed under a heavy weight. He blinked, struggling to focus, but the world around him was a blur—whirling, spinning.
A jolt shook his body the rhythmic creak of wheels over uneven ground rumbling beneath him. Lark instinctively gripped the hard wooden floor as the motion continued, though he had no idea where he was, how he got there, or why his head felt like it was splitting in two.
He let out a low groan and shifted, the cold air biting through his tattered clothes. The faint sound of horse hooves drummed steadily in the background. The smell of dust, leather, and horses filled his nostrils, but it did nothing to help him place his surroundings.
Gradually, Lark's senses and reasoning came back to him. Carriage... I'm in a carriage? he thought to himself, confused beyond belief. How did I get here?
His mind was still hazy but he tried to remember. Eventually, everything came back to him like being rammed by a tri-horned rhino. He suddenly sat up, sweat beginning to drip from his body.
Lark’s chest tightened as the memories flooded in. His heart began to race, and a wave of nausea hit him, threatening to pull him back into unconsciousness.
Rudd… the group... Greyroar… I lost…
The thought lingered, gnawing at him, suffocating him with its weight. The faces of his fallen comrades, their screams, their final breaths, flashed before his eyes. His throat tightened as he tried to swallow down the lump that had formed there, but it didn’t go away.
Why? His mind screamed. Why am I still alive?
Lark curled his fingers into his palm, digging his nails into the skin until it stung. The physical pain helped ground him, if only for a moment. He needed it—anything to distract from the overwhelming emptiness that was beginning to consume him.
Why didn't I just die with them? He felt so weak, so small compared to the monster that had torn through his group. Greyroar had slaughtered them all, and he had... been able to do nothing. He only managed to barely injure the beast, sending it into a frenzy. He took the chance to escape... he knew his limits. Even with the sudden burst of strength, he had... he had no chance.
Lark’s breathing grew more erratic, and the weight of his own failure pressed in on him like an iron vice. His hand still trembled, curled tightly against the hard floor of the carriage. The memory of Rudd, his voice full of pain and disbelief, rang in his ears.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the guilt, but it was impossible. His thoughts swirled, pulling him deeper into the abyss of regret. He had left them. Rudd, the others... They had trusted him, followed him, and he’d left them... He couldn’t even remember their last words. It all blurred into a haze of terror, blood, and death. How could I let this happen? The question spun relentlessly in his mind.
His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else. Pathetic... The word echoed, louder and louder until it became the only truth he could grasp onto. He was weak. He always had been. What kind of leader couldn't at least avenge the fallen? What kind of man was he to not even die, to keep living despite his failure?
I’m nothing.
Before Lark could drown himself in his thoughts any longer, a sound snapped him back to reality.
"Is it awake?" a nasally voice asked.
"We already confirmed it was a man," a gruff voice replied. "And yeah. Seems he is."
Lark swivelled his head toward the voices. At the front of what Lark had concluded was a carriage, sat two armoured men. One was a larger build, only slightly smaller than Rudd's, the other was a smaller, shifty-looking fellow, much smaller and skinnier than Lark.
The larger man was turned looking at Lark through a silky curtain, while the smaller man just next to him was holding the reigns of the horses that pulled the carriage.
"Hey there..." the guard said sheepishly. "How are you doing?"
Lark looked at the man with furrowed brows. How had he gotten here? Who were these people? Did they want something from him?
The best course of action is to play along, he thought to himself. Hopefully, they don't have ill intent toward me... or I'm fucked.