[warning, depiction of violence]

Thorvak

The morning light filters through the dense canopy, casting shifting shadows on the forest floor. The leaves tremble slightly under a warm wind, but the air is thick, humid. The scent of damp wood and rotting leaves mingles with the sharper, metallic tang of gunpowder and earth oil seeping from the barrels rattling behind us.

“It’s reassuring to have a royal contingent,” murmurs one of my scouts, a lad who often sticks close to Torlin, my best tracker.

“Pffa, I’d rather we killed this dragon ourselves, without them taking the credit,” Bran nearly barks, despite the royal guards marching right beside us. I shoot him a dark look, but the idiot is too busy ogling their firearms to notice.

Nimak, the scout, catches my glare and smacks Bran on the shoulder.

“Aye!” Bran grumbles, then quiets when he sees my face. “Sorry, boss.”

The man leading the royal contingent strikes again, verbally, of course:

“Mister Thorvak…”

I clench my teeth. This bastard is doing it on purpose. No matter how much I despise being called “Mister,” he keeps at it. That armored bureaucrat is playing with my nerves.

“It’s Thorvak Bloodrune,” I snap, exasperated. Is he intentionally provoking me?

He doesn’t even blink. This man must have been trained to withstand the worst tantrums from his superiors. I, on the other hand, am too exhausted to engage in a verbal duel. Besides, I have an army to drag behind me, a suicide mission to lead, and the looming presence of a dragon larger than a warship lying somewhere nearby.

For the first time in a long while, I almost wish I could crawl back into the tunnels, drink a cold beer, make love to my wife, Elda. But no—I have to deal with this insufferable prick.

“Yes, Mister Bloodrune…”

“THORVAK Bloodrune,” I mutter under my breath, just to piss him off.

Bran stifles a laugh, turning it into a cough when I glare at him.

This entire expedition is an ordeal. Worse, it’s giving me the runs. Our equipment is impressive—ropes, chains—the king’s artillery crews carefully hauling their weapons. Every barrel of powder or earth oil is strapped onto reinforced carts groaning under the weight. Further back, other dwarves manage the harpoons mounted on pivots—heavy-duty weapons meant to pierce even the toughest cave trolls. If everything goes according to plan, the dragon won’t be able to take off once it’s awake. I hope it doesn't even wake up.

“We need to slow the pace, Mister Thorvak Bloudrune!”

This asshole is butchering my name on purpose now!

“Wait for what?!” I growl, fists tightening.

The captain gestures toward the rear of the convoy, where the carts struggle to keep up.

“The artillery, the powder barrels, the earth oil tanks. The entire logistics line! Do you intend to fight a dragon without the necessary equipment?”

My jaw tightens. He’s not wrong—without those damn machines, our chances of containing the beast are slim if it decides to wake up. But slowing down again? We’re too close to the camp already.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Torlin, my best scout, appears suddenly, panting.

“Chief, we’re approaching the camp. Ten minutes’ march, maybe less.”

I let out a long sigh. Damn. I don’t want to wait for these damned carts.

“Fine,” I snap, throwing a glare at the royal captain. “But get your men moving! We’re not staying here any longer than necessary.”

The captain nods, pleased, and begins barking orders.

I signal a short halt at the head of the column, giving everyone a chance to catch up.

I take the moment to turn to Bran.

“Keep your damn comments to yourself, and stop drooling over their cannons.”

He grumbles something unintelligible but obeys.

Torlin, meanwhile, is staring ahead, bow already in hand.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

She hesitates before answering. Then, softly, she murmurs:

“This silence. It’s not normal.”

A shiver runs down my spine.

The carts creak as they approach. The artillerymen hustle. But something about this situation gnaws at me.

“You know, Torlin, the animals aren’t going to welcome us with a lullaby after the firestorm,” I reply, trying to ease her tension. We’re all on edge—it’s natural, considering what we’re about to do. Not fight a dragon—slaughter it.

“And it’s not the captain’s charm that’ll bring the deer back,” Nimak laughs. Bran doesn’t bother stifling his chuckle this time. Even I allow myself a small smirk.

Torlin doesn’t laugh. She remains fixated on the undergrowth, bow taut, and her silence unsettles me. She’s the best scout in my guild—if she says something’s wrong, I should listen.

But what?

I scan the forest. The gnarled trunks of towering pines and beeches loom, their bark darkened by age. The ground is blanketed in moss and decaying leaves, sprinkled with remnants of the firestorm—twisted metal shards, small craters, broken branches hanging like shattered bones.

And that silence…

Even after a wildfire or rockslide, there’s something—a rodent scurrying, an insect buzzing, a damn magpie squawking over carrion. But here? Nothing. Just the creaking carts and the rhythmic stomp of dwarven boots.

Bran stops laughing when he notices my expression. Nimak straightens slightly, uneasy. Torlin remains frozen, her eyes scanning the shadows between the trunks.

The royal captain returns, smug that his carts have caught up.

“We may proceed, Mister Thorvak Bloudrune.”

That’s it. I’m going to throw this bastard into the dragon’s mouth.

“Then get moving,” I growl, turning away.

But Torlin grips my arm, firm.

“Wait.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument. Instinctively, Bran and Nimak rest their hands on their weapons. The other scouts freeze. I stay still, listening.

Nothing. Just the wind in the branches and the groaning of leather harnesses.

“Torlin, you’re wasting my time with your—”

She raises a hand to silence me, her body tense.

Then, in a single motion, she draws her bow and looses an arrow.

A sharp whistle cuts the air.

The sound of flesh being pierced.

A strangled, inhuman groan.

No—too human.

A body crashes into the undergrowth, barely ten meters away.

The silence is shattered.

----------------------------------------

?

SHIT!

How the hell did they spot me?! That damn bitch!

The pain seizes me like fire—it’s unbearable. That dwarven whore got me good! Right in the shin. The bone is shattered into countless fragments.

Shit, shit, shit! I don’t want to end up in the labs, chained up in iron clamps, drained of my blood until I’m drier than desert sand, have my leg sawed off with some crude blade only to wake up with some grotesque limb, probably not even human!

I collapse against the trunk of a pine tree. The bark is softer than expected, but I still smash my face into it. That’s the least of my worries. Fuck! I can’t even think straight anymore. All I see is my ruined leg, the arrow embedded deep in my flesh, the splintered shaft piercing through my skin.

I clutch at the fabric around the wound—I’m on the ground now, I hear shouting around me, but I shut it all out. I tear the cloth apart, nearly vomiting as a sickening wave of nausea floods through me.

Tears well up. The wound is hideous. A jagged piece of bone sticks out from behind my leg, and the arrowhead must have snapped off inside. Blood is soaking everything—I can feel it between my toes, coating my hands in a sticky, hot mess.

"FUCK!"

"Yeah, no shit, buddy!" a voice yells back at me.

A damn dwarf—short, stocky, yet towering over me while I’m sprawled on the ground.

"Please!" I sob. I never wanted this. They ordered me to do it.

They told me "You know these woods, don’t you? You’re from Benamire right? Go spy the dwarves then."

I’m just a lowly apprentice. The Inquisitor never gave me a choice.

I want to tell this tiny guy.

"Jee »er tefv"

My tongue twists strangely in my mouth as the axe comes down, splitting my skull. My brain must not be functioning properly anymore. Either way, I can’t speak. I can’t even think.

The weapon buries itself so deep I can see its blade instead of my nose. Red, hot red liquid cover my eyes.

I think I’m dead.