=92nd Year of the Eighth Era= Vi'nto
The forge’s glow flickered unevenly, casting jagged shadows along the worn canvas walls of the armory tent. The mingling scents of charred steel, oil, and earth made the air feel heavy, almost suffocating. Outside, the faint hum of activity—clinking metal, muted conversations, and the occasional rustle of wings—was a reminder of the bustling camp just beyond their small corner.
Inside, the rhythmic scrape of a whetstone against steel cut through the stillness. Laphisto sat on a sturdy bench, his focus on the battered sword in his hands. Each stroke of the stone sent sparks cascading into the dim light, a measured rhythm that spoke of patience and experience. Across from him, Elantrie worked on a scarred chest plate, her golden eyes narrowed in frustration as her clawed fingers struggled to smooth out the worst of the dents.
“This is ridiculous,” Elantrie muttered, tossing the polishing cloth aside with a flick of her wrist. “Three days of this. If they wanted to punish us, why not just throw us on the front lines? At least there’s some action there.”
Laphisto didn’t look up, his attention unwavering as he continued sharpening the blade. “Because punishment isn’t about action. It’s about endurance.”
Elantrie rolled her eyes, her horns catching the forge’s light as she leaned back on her bench. “Sounds like something Bra’vas would say,” she grumbled. Her tail flicked restlessly against the edge of the bench. “Let me guess, you’re going to start preaching about discipline next?”
Laphisto’s lips quirked in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Only if you keep complaining.”
That earned a snort from Elantrie, her irritation tempered by a reluctant smirk. She picked up the chest plate again, muttering under her breath as she resumed her work. “Just trying to keep things interesting.”
Silence fell between them for a moment, broken only by the scrape of the whetstone and the faint clang of her polishing tool against metal. Elantrie’s tail stilled, her gaze shifting toward the tent’s entrance. “You know,” she began, her tone lighter but edged with curiosity, “I haven’t seen Nes’ver today. Did he skip out on us, or is he just avoiding this torture?”
Laphisto paused mid-stroke, the faint green glow of his eyes catching the light as he glanced up. “He took a longer shift in the medical tent yesterday,” he said after a moment, his voice calm but thoughtful. “They were short on hands.”
“Yesterday,” Elantrie repeated, setting the chest plate aside. She leaned forward, her horns casting sharp shadows against the tent’s walls. “But not today? He’s usually here by now, making sure we’re not messing things up.”
Laphisto set the sword down carefully, brushing metal shavings from his hands as he stood. The straps of his armor creaked faintly as he adjusted them, his movements deliberate. “I haven’t seen him all day,” he admitted, his tone neutral but laced with quiet concern. “I’ll go check on him.”
Elantrie tilted her head, her tail curling lazily around one of the bench’s legs. “You sure? He’s probably just swamped with patients. You know how he gets—always putting others first.”
“Maybe,” Laphisto said, his gaze steady. “But I’d rather be sure.”
For a moment, she studied him, her golden eyes flickering with something unspoken. Then she leaned back with a faint sigh, picking up the polishing cloth again. “Fair enough,” she said lightly, though her voice carried an undercurrent of worry. “Tell him I said to stop working himself into an early grave.”
Laphisto gave a brief nod, turning toward the tent’s entrance. The forge’s light caught the spiral ridges of his horns and the worn surface of his armor as he moved, his silhouette sharp and commanding. The tent flap rustled as he stepped outside, the murmur of the camp growing louder—clinking metal, distant voices, and the occasional crackle of a distant fire.
As the flap fell closed, Elantrie sighed, her gaze drifting to the chest plate in her lap. “Always the responsible one,” she muttered to herself, her voice tinged with both exasperation and admiration. With a resigned shake of her head, she returned to her work, her tail flicking against the bench in restless rhythm.
Leaving Elantrie with a final nod, Laphisto strode away from the workbench, the clang of metal and hiss of whetstones fading as he moved toward the heart of the camp. The evening air was cool but carried the unmistakable scent of smoke and damp earth, mingling with the sharper tang of blood that seemed to linger no matter how much the medics scrubbed.
The camp was alive with activity. Dragons clad in mismatched armor moved between tents, their voices hushed but purposeful. A group near the central fire passed around bowls of stew, their laughter strained, as if trying to mask the weight of the day’s battles. In the distance, the steady rhythm of hammers echoed from the blacksmith’s forge, the sparks of molten steel illuminating the darkening sky like fleeting stars.
As he neared the medical tent, the sounds shifted. The low groans of the wounded replaced the clamor of the camp, and the sharp scent of antiseptics grew stronger. Laphisto’s steps slowed. He thought of Nes'ver’s absence, the exhaustion that had been evident even in fleeting glimpses the past few days. He hadn’t seen his friend smile since their arrival at Vi’nto.
Drawing back the flap of the tent, Laphisto stepped into a world apart—dim and heavy with the weight of too many struggles fought and lost.
The acrid smell of blood and antiseptics hung heavy in the air as Laphisto pushed aside the flap of the medical tent. Pale, flickering light from enchanted lanterns cast uneven shadows across the rows of cots. Some were occupied by soldiers whose bandaged limbs and dull scales bore the weight of battle; others stood empty, their stained linens silent witnesses to lives lost. The hum of low murmurs mingled with muffled groans, and the occasional clatter of equipment outside seeped through the canvas walls.
Toward the far corner, Laphisto’s eyes found him. Nes’ver sat slumped on a stool beside a bloodied cot, his shoulders hunched and his head cradled in his hands. The healer’s silver scales, dulled and muted, caught the faint light with a ghostly sheen. His blue tunic, usually immaculate, was streaked with smears of dried blood, his hands trembling faintly where they pressed against his temples. The cot beside him told a silent story—its deep, rust-colored stains and crumpled sheets a stark reminder of failure.
Laphisto stopped just inside the entrance, the weight of the scene pressing against him like an invisible hand. He let his claws flex against the straps of his armor, grounding himself in the motion before stepping forward. The packed earthen floor muffled his boots, but the tension in the air seemed to notice him, thickening with every step.
“Nes’ver?” His voice, calm but edged with concern, cut through the low hum of the tent. “Are you alright?”
Nes’ver didn’t respond immediately. His hands slid down slowly, revealing bloodshot eyes set in a face lined with exhaustion. For a moment, he didn’t look at Laphisto, his gaze fixed instead on the stained cot. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw, fractured.
“Does it look like I’m alright, Div’atori?” His lips twitched into a bitter smile, but it faded just as quickly. He gestured weakly toward the cot. “He trusted me.”
Laphisto crouched beside him, his movement deliberate and quiet. The armor creaked faintly as he lowered himself to one knee, placing him at eye level with Nes’ver. He followed his gaze to the cot but said nothing, giving him the space to continue.
“The recruit,” Nes’ver said at last, his voice trembling. “The one we brought in. He’s gone. I... I told him he’d make it. That I’d take care of him. And he...” His hands clenched into fists, his claws digging into his palms. “He believed me.”
The memory struck Laphisto as sharply as the first time. The young recruit’s weight as they carried him into Vi’nto, his breathing shallow, his words halting. “Am I going to make it?” he had asked, his eyes full of terror as he gripped Laphisto’s forearm. “I can’t die here... my mom’s waiting for me back home.”
Laphisto had promised him. Promised that he would live to see his home again, that they would fight together another day. His grip had eased then, a flicker of hope easing the panic in his gaze. That flicker now felt like an unbearable burden.
“You did everything you could,” Laphisto said, his voice steady but soft. He rested a clawed hand on Nes’ver’s shoulder, the gesture firm but not forceful. “You know that.”
Nes’ver shook his head, his seafoam green eyes glinting with unshed tears. “It wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. Div’atori, he was just a kid. Barely out of training. He shouldn’t have been here in the first place.”
Laphisto’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm. “You’re right. He shouldn’t have. None of us should be. But this is war. It doesn’t care about what’s fair or what’s right.”
“I thought I was ready for this,” Nes’ver said, his voice barely above a whisper. He stared down at his bloodstained hands as though searching for answers. “I thought... I’d save lives, not watch them slip away. Since the battle, it’s been non-stop. Every cot I tend to... it’s just more blood, more pain. And this one—” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “This one, I can’t stop seeing his face.”
The quiet stretched between them, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric and the muffled cries of a patient across the tent. Laphisto’s hand tightened slightly on Nes’ver’s shoulder, his voice low and resolute. “You’re not alone in this, Nes. We’re all carrying pieces of this war, every single one of us. And every life you save, every wound you close—it matters. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
Nes’ver exhaled shakily, his claws loosening as his shoulders sagged. “I know you’re right,” he said after a long pause. “But it doesn’t make it easier.”
“No,” Laphisto admitted, his voice dropping to a somber note. “It never does.”
The mournful blast of a horn shattered the fragile quiet, its echo cutting through the tent like a blade. Both dragons snapped their heads toward the entrance, their instincts sharpening as the faint clamor of distant shouts reached their ears.
Laphisto was on his feet in an instant, his claws flexing against the hilt of his blade. “The eastern wall.”
Nes’ver hesitated for only a moment before rising, his exhaustion momentarily pushed aside. He grabbed his satchel, slinging it over one shoulder, his movements jerky but determined. “Another attack?”
“Looks like it,” Laphisto said, already moving toward the exit. The first traces of dusk painted the sky outside, the horizon glowing with hues of amber and violet. The camp was coming alive with the din of preparation—soldiers rushing past, armor clinking, claws scraping against stone. Wings stretched in readiness, catching the fading light like silhouettes against the dying sun.
The horns' haunting cry still reverberated as Laphisto and Nes’ver stepped into the frantic chaos of the camp. The air buzzed with urgency; dragons darted between tents, some strapping on armor while others hefted weapons. The warm hues of dusk bathed the camp in an eerie glow, the orange and violet sky casting long shadows that danced with the frenzied movement.
Soldiers shouted orders, and the sharp clang of metal filled the air as preparations surged. Laphisto’s green eyes scanned the bustling camp, his mind racing to assess the situation. It was then he spotted Hazori—her crimson scales shimmering like embers in the fading light. She stood at the edge of a gathering group of soldiers, her molten gold eyes fixed intently on the horizon.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Hazori!” Laphisto called out, weaving through the crowd to reach her.
She turned sharply, her jagged obsidian-black horns catching the last rays of the setting sun. Her tail flicked impatiently, sending a faint spark into the air as she stepped toward him. “Div’atori!” she greeted, her voice sharp with anticipation. “Have you seen it yet?”
“Seen what?” Laphisto asked, narrowing his eyes.
Hazori pointed a clawed hand toward the eastern horizon, where faint wisps of smoke rose like ghostly fingers into the dimming sky. “Campfire smoke,” she said, her tone almost eager. “The Lycans are on the move. Six, maybe seven hours away at best.”
Laphisto’s brows furrowed as he followed her gaze. The ominous sight sent a chill through him, even as his expression remained stoic. “Mobilizing for an attack?”
“Most likely,” Hazori replied, her tail lashing. “We’ve been waiting for this. It’s about time they showed themselves.”
Nes’ver, standing slightly behind Laphisto, shifted uncomfortably. His seafoam green eyes reflected a mixture of concern and resolve as he glanced between the others. “That gives us some time to prepare, right? We can’t afford to rush this.”
“We have time,” Laphisto said firmly, clapping a reassuring claw on Nes’ver’s shoulder. “But we need to move quickly.”
Hazori’s wings flared slightly, the fiery hues of her membranes glowing faintly in the twilight. “I’ll gather my element and prepare for positioning,” she said with a curt nod. “See you at the wall.”
With that, she turned sharply, her commanding presence slicing through the chaos as she began barking orders to those nearby. Laphisto turned back to Nes’ver, his expression softening slightly as he caught the unease in his companion’s posture.
“Nes, get your armor and prepare,” Laphisto instructed. “I’ll find Ray’vera and I’gra. Meet us at the rally point when you’re ready.”
Nes’ver hesitated, his fins quivering faintly before he straightened his posture. “Got it,” he said with a nod, his voice steady despite the tension in his expression. He turned and hurried off, his smaller frame weaving through the crowd with practiced agility.
Laphisto took a steadying breath before moving toward the center of the camp. The din of activity swelled around him—wings beating, claws scraping against stone, and the sharp bark of commands from squad leaders. The glow of lanterns flickered against the gathering gloom, casting shifting patterns across the well-trodden dirt paths.
He finally spotted Ray’vera and I’gra near the command tent, their distinctive forms immediately recognizable. Ray’vera’s pale beige scales glowed faintly in the fading light, while I’gra’s golden scales gleamed with a fiery intensity. They were standing close—too close—engaged in what seemed to be a quiet but intense conversation.
As Laphisto approached, clearing his throat to announce his presence, both dragons flinched and stepped apart abruptly, their expressions guarded. Ray’vera’s piercing pale blue eyes met Laphisto’s steadily, though there was an undercurrent of unease in his otherwise calm demeanor. I’gra’s fiery orange gaze narrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing her features.
“Div’atori,” Ray’vera greeted smoothly, his tone even. “What’s the situation?”
“Campfire smoke on the eastern horizon,” Laphisto reported without preamble. “Lycans are likely mobilizing for an attack. Six or seven hours at most.”
Ray’vera’s expression darkened as he processed the information, his horns gleaming faintly in the dim light. “Then we have no time to waste. I’gra,” he said sharply, his commanding tone leaving no room for argument, “assemble the other element leads. We need to coordinate and secure defensive positions.”
I’gra gave a curt nod, her wings flaring as she prepared to take flight. Her powerful limbs launched her skyward with a burst of wind, her form cutting an imposing silhouette against the twilight sky.
Ray’vera turned back to Laphisto, his posture calm but radiating urgency. “We’ll regroup at the eastern wall. Bring Nes’ver and ensure everyone is battle-ready.”
Laphisto inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Understood.”
As Ray’vera strode away, Laphisto took a moment to steady himself. The camp’s commotion continued to swell, the tension palpable as the first stars began to pierce the darkening sky. The Lycans were coming, and the battalion would be ready.
Laphisto’s gaze lingered on the faint plumes of smoke curling into the darkening sky, but his thoughts drifted to the others—those who would stand beside him when the time came. He could picture Nes’ver, likely in a corner somewhere struggling with the straps of his light armor, muttering to himself about how it wasn’t designed for someone with a healer’s frame. The image brought a fleeting smile to Laphisto’s lips, but it faded almost as quickly as it came.
Nes’ver had been through too much already. The memory of him slumped by that bloodied cot, his seafoam-green eyes clouded with grief, was still fresh in Laphisto’s mind. The healer was a calming presence for the others, always quick with a reassuring word or a joke to cut through the tension, but even Nes’ver had limits. And Laphisto feared those limits had been tested too many times.
He’ll pull through, Laphisto told himself, though the certainty he wanted to feel wasn’t there. He has to.
Then there was Hazori. She would already be rallying her element, her fiery crimson scales glowing in the torchlight like embers ready to ignite. He could almost hear her commanding voice cutting through the commotion below, sharp and unwavering, bringing order to chaos. Hazori was a force of nature, a wildfire personified, and her defiant confidence always seemed to burn brightest in moments like this. Yet even she wasn’t invincible. The scar across her wing was proof of that—a reminder that even the fiercest flame could falter.
His thoughts shifted to I’gra and Ray’vera. The quiet but undeniable bond they shared often went unnoticed by others, but Laphisto had seen it—the way their movements in battle mirrored each other’s as if choreographed by instinct, the unspoken understanding that passed between them with just a glance. Together, they were a formidable pair, their synergy a strength the battalion relied on. But bonds like that could be both a blessing and a vulnerability. What would happen if one of them fell?
And then, inevitably, his thoughts returned to Elantrie. Her muted green scales, worn and dulled from mana overuse, haunted his memory. She had nearly lost her life during their last encounter with the Lycans. He could still see her trembling frame, her dimmed eyes filled with exhaustion and pain, yet defiant as ever. She had pushed herself too far, tapped into magicks she wasn’t ready to wield in the desperate hope of saving others.
And it nearly cost her everything.
Bra’vas had been clear—no magick. She was ordered to fight with her physical strength alone, to conserve what little mana she had left. But Laphisto knew Elantrie’s heart. Stubborn, loyal to a fault, she would sacrifice herself in an instant if it meant protecting those around her. The thought twisted in his chest like a blade.
She won’t listen, he thought bitterly. Not when the stakes are high. She’ll see someone in need, and she’ll push herself again.
He flexed his claws against the cold stone, grounding himself against the rising tide of worry. She had to listen. She had to survive.
Please, Elantrie, he thought, his claws pressing lightly into the stone beneath him. Just this once... listen.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his focus back to the present. The air around him was alive with motion—dragons moving into position, wings stretching in preparation, voices barking orders as the fortress readied itself for the fight. Somewhere below, he caught a glimpse of Nes’ver’s teal scales as the healer weaved through the crowd, his satchel slung over one shoulder. He looked focused, determined, but Laphisto couldn’t shake the worry that clawed at the edges of his thoughts.
The sky above darkened further, the stars faint against the smoke-streaked horizon. The distant glow of campfires dotted the treeline like ghostly beacons, their presence a taunting reminder of the enemy gathering beyond the barren expanse.
Laphisto frowned, his emerald eyes fixed on the plumes of smoke curling faintly on the horizon. He leaned forward against the cold, rough stone of the wall, his claws lightly brushing its surface. The sounds of the bustling camp below—the clamor of soldiers, the scrape of weapons being prepared, the distant hum of orders shouted—faded into a muted background as he fell into his thoughts. His shoulders sagged slightly, burdened by the weight of his worries, both spoken and unspoken.
The faint scent of smoke and damp earth lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp coolness of the approaching night. The tension in the atmosphere was thick, palpable, as though the fortress itself was bracing for the coming storm. Laphisto’s mind swirled with concerns for his companions: Nes’ver, Elantrie, Ray’vera, I’gra. He wanted to believe they would all make it through the battle, but doubt clawed at the edges of his “Div’atori,” a sharp, teasing voice cut through the quiet, pulling him from his thoughts. “Brooding again, are we?”
Laphisto glanced up sharply to find Hazori leaning casually against the wall beside him. Her crimson scales shimmered in the flickering torchlight, catching the warm hues like embers stirred by the wind. She crossed her arms over her chest, her molten-gold eyes locking onto his with a blend of curiosity and faint amusement. Her smirk widened slightly as she nodded toward the horizon. “Or is staring at smoke your new strategy?”
he was struck by how the torchlight played across her scales, the fiery hues making her seem larger than life—a force of nature barely contained. She carried herself with an ease that bordered on regal, her molten-gold eyes flicking to his with that same intensity she brought to every battlefield.
“You’re supposed to be helping down there,” she said, nodding toward the camp below. “Or did you decide staring at smoke was more productive?”
Laphisto let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, straightening his posture slightly. “Just... thinking,” he replied, his tone subdued.
Hazori rolled her eyes, pushing off the wall with a flick of her tail. “You’re always thinking,” she said, her voice edged with exasperation. “But it doesn’t actually change anything. Preparation, action—that’s what wins battles, not staring holes into the horizon.”
Laphisto’s jaw tightened slightly, but he sighed and shifted his gaze back to the distant smoke. “It’s not the battle I’m worried about,” he admitted. “It’s... the others. Nes’ver, Elantrie.”
Hazori turned her full attention to him, her smirk fading as curiosity softened her gaze. “What about them?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. Her wings shifted faintly, catching the light as if to mirror her thoughts.
Her words carried that unshakable confidence he envied, the kind of certainty that cut through doubt and pushed others forward. It was part of what made her so formidable—not just her strength but the fire in her spirit. He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the faint glow of her wings. He wondered if she knew how much steadier she made him feel, even when she was chiding him.
Laphisto hesitated, then began, “Nes’ver’s been pushing himself too hard. I’ve seen it. He’s always the one taking the weight of everyone else’s pain, trying to heal what can’t always be fixed. I don’t know how much more he can take.”
Hazori nodded slowly, her golden gaze thoughtful. “Nes’ver’s tough. He has to be, or he wouldn’t still be standing. But you’re right—he puts too much on himself. That’s why he has us. We keep him steady, just like he keeps us steady.”
Laphisto exhaled quietly, then continued, “And Elantrie... she’s reckless. Stubborn. Bra’vas told her to stop using magick, but you know her. If things get desperate, she won’t hold back. She’ll push herself too far again, and this time, she might not make it.”
Hazori arched an eyebrow, a faint flicker of amusement curling her lips. “This is about the fight, isn’t it?” She straightened, brushing an imaginary speck from her crimson scales. “You and Elantrie, locking horns like a pair of stubborn hatchlings.”
Laphisto stiffened, his tail flicking behind him. “It’s not about the fight,” he said, his voice more defensive than he intended. “I was trying to get her to see reason.”
“By butting heads with her?” Hazori smirked, though her gaze held a hint of understanding. “You Earth Dragons really know how to communicate.” She gestured lightly to the camp below, her tone shifting. “But you’re both still here, which means she must’ve heard something. Or decided not to crush you, at least.”
“She doesn’t listen,” Laphisto said, frustration edging his tone. “She’s going to get herself killed.”
“Maybe,” Hazori said, her voice calm but firm. “But she’s not an idiot. Elantrie knows what’s at stake, and she knows what Bra’vas ordered. She’ll fight smart, even if she doesn’t always act like it.”
Laphisto shook his head. “I just... I don’t want to lose anyone else.”
Hazori’s smirk softened as she stepped closer, resting a clawed hand firmly on his shoulder. “Listen,” she said, her voice low but steady, “we’re all worried. Nes’ver, Elantrie, the rest of us. But sitting here and letting it eat at you? That doesn’t stop what’s coming. What stops it is us doing our job. That’s how we keep everyone alive.”
Laphisto’s gaze met hers, her molten-gold eyes burning with conviction. For a moment, the chaos of the camp seemed distant, muted. He felt the tension in his chest ease just slightly, though the warmth of her touch lingered longer than it should have.
He looked at her, his green eyes meeting her molten gold ones. The warmth of her hand was comforting, her presence as steady as the earth beneath him. He knew she meant every word she said, and in that moment, he felt a fleeting pang of something he couldn’t name—something that made his chest tighten and his thoughts blur. But he pushed it aside, as he always did, focusing instead on her unwavering gaze.
“Thanks, Hazori,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a sincerity that didn’t need to be explained.
She smiled faintly, stepping back with a flick of her tail. “Don’t thank me yet. Save it for after we survive this.”” With that, she turned, her commanding presence cutting through the tension in the air as she descended the wall.
Laphisto lingered for a moment, his gaze returning to the distant plumes of smoke. He straightened, his claws lightly brushing the cold stone once more. Whatever came next, he would face it alongside the others—together, as they always had.
With a final glance toward the horizon, he pushed away from the wall and made his way back to the camp below. There was no time to falter. The others needed him ready, as they always were for him.