Chapter 2: Runaway Slave

Roran Voltrix stumbled through the dense forest, his legs aching, his breath ragged. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His vision blurred from exhaustion, and his heart pounded as if trying to escape his chest. Behind him, the guttural growl of the Veilbear sent shivers racing down his spine.

A loose branch, hidden under a blanket of fallen leaves, snagged his boot. His arms flailed as he lost his footing, tumbling down a steep incline. Sharp stones and protruding roots bruised his arms and ribs as he rolled, his dagger nearly slipping from his grasp. When he finally landed at the bottom, the impact forced the air from his lungs in a painful wheeze. For a moment, he lay there, chest heaving, tasting dirt and blood.

The rustling in the undergrowth grew louder. The Veilbear was relentless.

Roran pushed himself to his knees, clutching his dagger tightly. The blade, though dulled from overuse, was his only defense. He braced himself, every nerve in his body screaming for him to run. But he was too slow, and the Veilbear was too fast. Its massive form loomed closer, its shadow flickering in the pale moonlight. The beast was hungry, and Roran was the only meal in sight.

His grip on the dagger tightened. If he was going to die, he would die fighting.

The bushes in front of him rustled violently. Roran held his breath, ready for the creature to lunge—

And out stepped a short figure, barely reaching his chest. The dwarf’s broad shoulders and stocky frame were smeared with dirt and streaks of blood. In one hand, he carried the severed head of the Veilbear, its lifeless eyes still glinting faintly in the moonlight. In the other, a battle axe dripped crimson, its blade dented from heavy use.

The dwarf grinned, his teeth stark white against the coarse brown of his beard. “What’d ya do to rile up a Veilbear, eh?” His voice was a low rumble, far too deep for his small stature. With a grunt, he tossed the head at Roran’s feet. It landed with a sickening thud, splattering blood across the ground.

Roran stared at the head, then back at the dwarf. Relief washed over him, though his pride refused to let it show. The danger had passed, but humiliation replaced it. “No answer, huh?” the dwarf said, his grin widening. “Figures. Come on, lad. You look like you could use a meal.”

Roran hesitated. He didn’t trust dwarves. Their kind was brash, greedy, and altogether unbearable. But the growl of his stomach overpowered his disdain. With a reluctant nod, he sheathed his dagger and followed the dwarf through the woods.

The forest gradually thinned, giving way to the outskirts of a village. A crooked wooden sign swayed in the wind, its faded paint spelling out “Sablewine.” The village sprawled before them like a hastily built puzzle, its mismatched buildings leaning against one another for support. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the faint buzz of activity drifted through the air.

Despite its humble appearance, the village bustled with life. Merchants lined the dirt roads with their carts and stalls, hawking everything from dried herbs to gleaming gemstones. Children darted between the carts, their laughter mingling with the clatter of hooves and wheels. Villagers bartered loudly, their voices rising over the clinking of coins and the occasional bark of a stray dog.

Roran’s eyes flicked to the horizon, where the spires of Aurengarde glistened like shards of crystal. The sight filled him with a pang of bitterness. Aurengarde was no longer his home—it was a reminder of everything he had lost. He quickly averted his gaze, focusing instead on the uneven cobblestones beneath his feet.

The dwarf led him to a large tavern near the village center. Its wooden sign, painted with the name “The Gilded Tankard,” hung askew. The building itself looked sturdier than most, with smoke billowing from its chimney and the sound of boisterous laughter spilling out from within.

Roran pushed open the heavy wooden door of the tavern, and a wave of warmth and noise enveloped him like a crashing tide. The scent of roasted meat, spiced ale, and the faint tang of sweat clung to the air, mixing with the crackle of the large hearth at the center of the room. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the firelight that flickered against the warped wooden beams supporting the ceiling.

The place was alive. Dwarves, elves, humans, and even a few half-elves crowded the tables and bar. Raucous laughter erupted from one corner as a group of merchants exchanged bawdy jokes over mugs of frothing ale. In the center of the room, a troupe of elven dancers twirled atop a table, their voices rising in a haunting melody that seemed to clash with the chaotic energy around them. Wine splashed from their bottles as they spun, the liquid catching the light in glowing arcs.

Roran hesitated at the threshold, his eyes scanning the room for a quiet corner. His tattered and mud-caked appearance earned him a few glances—some curious, others dismissive. He ignored them, his shoulders tensing as he moved through the room, his boots sticking slightly to the ale-stained floorboards.

The dwarf had already made his way to the bar, his stout figure perched on a stool as he barked his order at the grizzled barkeep. Roran watched him for a moment before retreating to the farthest corner of the room, where the shadows were deepest. He slid onto a bench, leaning his back against the wall and letting out a quiet sigh. His hand rested instinctively on the hilt of his dagger, the familiar weight a small comfort in this foreign place.

Stolen novel; please report.

The tavern’s energy was infectious, even as Roran tried to distance himself from it. He couldn’t help but watch the elves dancing in the center of the room. Their movements were graceful yet wild, their voices harmonizing in a language he didn’t understand. Their song was sharp and guttural, reminiscent of the jagged peaks they called home. Though their beauty was undeniable, their presence irritated him. Elves always seemed too carefree, too removed from the harsh realities of the world.

A group of dwarves at a nearby table roared with laughter, slapping their knees as they recounted some tale of conquest or mischief. One of them slammed a fistful of coins onto the table, gesturing wildly as his companions jeered and cheered in equal measure.

Roran’s gaze swept over the room, taking in the other patrons. A pair of orcish traders sat near the hearth, their low voices carrying hints of a guttural dialect as they haggled over a set of intricately carved bone daggers. A hooded figure, likely a rogue or mercenary, sat alone at the bar, nursing a dark brew that shimmered faintly in the firelight.

This place was unlike any he had been to before. It wasn’t the lavish halls of Aurengarde, where nobles dined on delicacies beneath golden chandeliers. Nor was it the harsh encampments of his former life, where survival came before comfort. This was something else entirely—a melting pot of cultures and classes, a place where everyone seemed to belong, if only for a night.

Roran hated it.

The dwarf returned, balancing a tray piled high with food and drink. He approached the table with a wide grin, the light of the hearth catching the silver threads in his beard.

“Hope you’re hungry, lad,” he said, setting the tray down with a thud. The smell hit Roran immediately—savory and rich, with a hint of sweetness from the stew. There was Luminwheat bread, its golden crust glistening with butter, and a steaming bowl of Aurelight stew, its thick broth studded with chunks of tender meat and root vegetables. Beside it was a keg of glowing blue liquid, its light casting eerie shadows on the table.

“Cost me a fair few crystals, this did,” the dwarf said, plopping onto the stool across from him. “A thank you wouldn’t kill ya.”

Roran didn’t respond. He tore a chunk of bread from the loaf, dunking it into the stew. The broth clung to his fingers, its warmth seeping into his skin. He shoved it into his mouth, chewing with a ferocity born of days without proper food. The flavors burst across his tongue—earthy and hearty, with a subtle sweetness that reminded him of better days.

The dwarf watched him eat, his expression a mixture of amusement and disgust. “What are ya, some kind of animal? Use a spoon, for the gods’ sake.”

Roran ignored him, grabbing the keg of wine. He poured a measure into a flask and took a cautious sip. The wine burned his throat, its flavor cloyingly sweet with an aftertaste of bitter herbs. He spat it out, coughing violently.

“What in the nova is this?” he demanded, glaring at the dwarf.

“Moonlight Wine,” the dwarf said with a laugh. “Specialty here in Sablewine. Too strong for ya, eh?”

Roran grimaced, wiping his mouth. “I hate wine.”

The dwarf chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Figures”

As they ate, the dwarf finally broke the silence. “So, lad. What’s your story? What’s a man like you doing in the woods, getting chased by a Veilbear?”

Roran tensed. He hadn’t thought of a convincing story yet, and he didn’t trust the dwarf enough to tell the truth. “I don’t do introductions,” he said, his voice low. “You first.”

The dwarf raised a bushy brow but didn’t press. “Fair enough. Name’s Vander. Was out hunting Lightdeer when I heard a shout. Thought it might be the bear, but turns out it was you.”

Roran narrowed his eyes. “What’s a dwarf like you doing all the way out here? Shouldn’t you be holed up in a mine somewhere?”

Vander snorted, setting his mug down with a thud. “Not all dwarves are miners, lad. Some of us have broader horizons. This here’s a trade village—best place to make a bit of coin before the Festival of Light kicks off. Once that starts, I’m heading east to Aurengarde. Plenty of travelers with fat purses heading that way.”

Aurengarde. The name stirred something in Roran—a mix of longing and dread. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the dwarf’s belt. A pouch of Celestial Sigils hung there, its glittering contents worth more than anything else in the room.

“Enough about me, more about you. What were ya doing out there?” Roran dropped his bread on the plate, clearing his throat. This was a remote town, with people from all across Aurelith present. The chance of someone recognizing him was scarce. However when he tried to say his own name, his throat clogged up. “Ror…” He stopped, stopping to clear his throat again. ‘R-Roran.”

Vander nodded, as if to signal for Roran to keep going. He took a shard exhale, a sigh of relief and gratitude. He had to be careful with his words, as he didn’t trust this dwarf one bit. Telling him he’s a runaway slave and an exiled warlord? He’d for sure spend the next day in the slammer, the dwarf capitalizing off the bounty on Rorans head.

“Can’t remember how I ended up here. One minute I’m slugging a cart full of goods, the next I’m running for my life.” He wasn't the best liar. Though dwarves weren’t known for being the most intelligent, so Roran would have to hope he didn’t see the subtle sweat gathering near his eyes, and the constant twitching of his hands beneath the table.

“So yer a merchant? Who got amnesia? Odd case. Well, yer lucky I was their lad. If not, you would been a dead merchant with amnesia.” Roran chuckled. Immediately realizing he did so, he stopped and straightened his face.

Soon after, Vander finished his keg of wine, and Roran finished his plate of food.

Vander stood, stretching his short but muscular frame. “Well, lad, it’s been a pleasure, but I’d best be off. Got a busy day ahead.”

Roran stood as well, his mind racing. He needed those crystals. They were his ticket out of this forsaken village, his first step toward reclaiming his freedom. As much as the dwarf surprised him with witty lines and humor, he had no care for him. He cared more about the mission he had to accomplish.

As Vander turned to leave, Roran moved quickly. Grabbing the back of the dwarf’s head, he slammed it into the edge of the table. Vander crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Roran knelt next to Vander, tugging at the pouch. The strap wouldn’t give, and frustration bubbled in his chest. With a sharp yank, he tore it free, the sound of leather snapping loud enough to draw a few glances. He stood, slipping the pouch into his belt as he stepped over Vander's limp form. A few patrons muttered, others laughed, but none dared intervene. Taverns like this didn’t care about the why—only the who and how much it would cost to clean up.

The weight of the pouch felt satisfying in his hand—a symbol of his survival and his defiance. Without looking back, he strode toward the door, the murmurs of the tavern fading behind him.

His next stop was Aurengarde, where his real journey began.