ALBION, HUMAN
I am Albion Krone, an A-rank adventurer, and I must admit this expedition leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. With every step we take toward the Fissure Forest, I feel the weight of uncertainty and danger pressing on my shoulders. There are many of us—around two hundred adventurers have joined the king’s small army. They don’t want to call it that, but to me, a mix of soldiers, mages, adventurers, and now, with the surprise arrival of the inquisitors, it’s nothing less than a small army.
They arrived in Benamire before noon. We waited for over an hour in the central square, about sixty of us conscripted. Lower-ranked adventurers are free to do as they please, to go wherever they want, but not us. I should never have ranked up.
Around me, murmurs ripple among the adventurers. Some claim we’ve been assembled to kill the dragon, the immense guardian of this forest. Others, more cynical, say we are nothing more than sacrificial scouts, sent to assess the area before the real forces are deployed.
But I don’t believe it. Kill a dragon? That’s not a mission for humans, even armed and organized as we are.
I saw the rain of fire from my room at the inn in Benamire. Even at a distance, it left me speechless. The blood-red sky, the brilliant flashes of light, and the sense that the entire world shook under the impact. It even knocked over a potted plant, scattering dirt all over the floorboards and forcing me to clean it up. I’m sure even such a cataclysm wouldn’t be enough to kill a creature as ancient and powerful as this. Dragons, especially those of this size and reputation, are not merely beasts. They are forces of nature, living incarnations of raw power.
I know that in the eastern lands, they killed a dragon a few years ago. A smaller one, obviously—a youngling only a few centuries old. It wasn’t within our kingdom’s territory, so I can understand why the king is furious. He wants his relics, his weapons, his dragon-made artifacts. But I’m not a bloody slayer of mythical creatures!
With my friend Groboln, an old mage, we talk as we march. We can’t help but notice this is a ragtag but well-equipped expedition, especially given how quickly it was assembled.
We march in tight formation, led by Captain Eldan Rochefer, a veteran renowned for his mastery of battles in hostile terrain. Beside him is Dornal the Tracker, a rugged man with a wild look about him, guiding us through the safest paths into the forest. I know ol'Dornal—he’s a character in Benamire, and it amuses me that he’s leading the way. His knowledge of the terrain is invaluable, even if his face betrays an unease he doesn’t try to hide. No wonder—he spends more time telling tales of his “adventures” than venturing into the forest.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
My group and I were conscripted, lured by promises of enticing rewards, not really given a choice anyway. Most of us are well-armed, and some possess rare magical skills. That said, we’re a disparate group, and unity does not come naturally. Most adventurers make their careers in groups of four or five, sometimes fewer, sometimes more, but we’re not soldiers. Working in such large numbers, each with unique abilities, is rarely a good idea.
As we approach the Fissure Forest, conversations grow darker. Groboln remains as relaxed as ever, but I can’t help overhearing the chatter around me.
“Do they really think we can kill that monster?” one adventurer behind me murmurs.
“It’s madness. Even wounded, that dragon could wipe us out in an instant.”
Another, younger one adds with a trembling voice, “And what if it’s not about killing the dragon? What if it’s something worse? Who knows what we’ll find in this forest. That rain of fire… it wasn’t natural… it came from somewhere else.”
I turn to them, trying to calm their nerves. “Listen, we don’t know why we’re here yet. Maybe we won’t even have to face the dragon. But if we do, think of the fat purse they promised.”
I don’t entirely believe it myself, but the words are enough to give them a semblance of courage—or at least to shut them up. I’d rather hear Groboln’s nonsense about the elf’s chest further up the line.
Minutes of marching pass. We finally reach the forest’s edge. The trees are massive, their canopies intertwining to create a dark, oppressive ceiling.
Groboln comments, “She must feel right at home, that little elf.”
The air carries the scent of damp earth and ash, a reminder of the hunters’ tales about the fires extinguished by the dragon. I didn’t see it myself, but it’s not just Dornal who claims the dragon put out the flames. Speaking of the devil, he stops, placing a hand on a tree trunk to survey the horizon. His deep voice breaks the silence.
“This is where the forest truly begins. We’re on its land now.”
A chill runs down my spine. Even we are unaccustomed to venturing this far; usually, the forest’s edge suffices as our hunting ground. While the dragon is wounded, it doesn’t mean it’s powerless. It survived a rain of fire and fragments from the sky… or maybe it’s dead? That would be ideal! My joy is short-lived.
As we venture into the undergrowth, tension grips the small army. The forest is eerily quiet. No birdsong, no rustling animals. Just the crunch of boots on dead leaves and the ragged breaths of the men and women around me.
The soldiers scan the shadows, weapons ready. The mages murmur protective incantations. Even the inquisitor escort, usually so stoic, appears on edge.
Then, a cry rings out from the rear of our column.
“What was that?!”
We turn, weapons drawn, but nothing moves. Only the wind whistles through the trees, a mocking whisper. The group resumes its march, and the answer comes a few minutes later.
“One of the men thought he saw someone in the distance. He’s jumpy… just the tension,” a soldier reports as he moves up the column toward the commander.