Flames roared through the village, consuming wooden homes and fields of wheat in a hungry blaze. The air was thick with smoke, choking his lungs and stinging his eyes. Above it all, the Famine Dragon loomed, its gargantuan wings blotting out the stars. Its scales shimmered like molten obsidian, reflecting the destruction below. Each beat of its wings sent a gust that fanned the inferno, turning the night into a hellish tableau of crimson and gold.

Screams filled the air—panicked cries for help, desperate shouts for loved ones, and the wails of those who had already lost everything. Arion saw villagers running, their faces twisted in terror, but there was no escape. The dragon's maw opened, and another torrent of fire cascaded down, swallowing them whole.

In the chaos, he felt his parents' arms around him. His mother whispered soothing words, her voice trembling but steady. His father stood before them, gripping a crude spear, his silhouette outlined by the flames. "Stay behind me," his father commanded, his voice firm despite the fear in his eyes.

The dragon descended.

Arion's memory blurred here, the details hazy and fragmented as the dream spiraled into its darkest moments. His father charged, a futile gesture, before the dragon's claws swept him aside. His mother pushed him into the shadows, shielding him with her body. A flash of heat. A final scream. Darkness.

When Arion opened his eyes, the village was gone. He wandered through the ashes, his small feet kicking up soot with every step. The once-bustling village square was unrecognizable—a wasteland of blackened wood and scattered bones. He scavenged what little he could find, his stomach gnawing with hunger, his throat parched. Days passed. Maybe weeks. Time lost meaning in the endless gray.

Then came Darius.

Arion first saw the man as a silhouette against the rising sun, a tall figure draped in a cloak that billowed in the wind. The stranger approached, his eyes scanning the ruins with sorrow. Arion clutched a shard of glass, his small hands trembling but determined to defend himself.

"Easy, boy," Darius said. He crouched down, making himself smaller, less threatening. "I’m not here to hurt you."

Arion didn’t trust him. Not at first. He lashed out, his makeshift weapon a feeble threat. But Darius didn’t flinch. Instead, he offered food—bread and a flask of water. Arion hesitated, his hunger warring with his mistrust, before snatching the bread and devouring it in seconds.

"You’re a fighter," Darius said, watching him with a faint smile. "Good. You’ll need that."

The memories flickered like scenes in a fading lantern's glow—a montage of lessons, struggles, and fleeting moments of joy.

Darius stood tall in the clearing as he guided Arion through the intricate patterns of a sealing rune. "Steady your hand," he instructed, his eyes sharp yet kind. "Feel the flow of mana. Don’t force it—let it guide you."

Arion’s brow furrowed in concentration as he traced the rune into the dirt, the glow of his mana timid at first. But then it surged, illuminating the lines with a soft blue light. A triumphant grin spread across his face as the rune pulsed, alive with energy. Darius nodded approvingly, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Not bad,” he said, ruffling Arion’s hair. “But don’t let it go to your head. That’s just the first step.”

Days bled into weeks, the lessons growing more complex. Magic. Survival. The art of reading the land, of finding water in barren places, of crafting tools from scraps. Darius’s guidances became the compass of Arion’s world, grounding him in a reality that had once seemed aimless and cruel.

But it wasn’t all discipline and rigor. In the evenings, after the day’s training, they’d find moments of solace. One night, Arion cooked a stew from foraged herbs and a small rabbit they’d managed to trap. It wasn’t much, but the aroma was comforting.

“Did you use salt this time?” Darius teased, poking at the meal with his spoon.

“Maybe,” Arion shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re the one who keeps forgetting to pack it.”

Darius chuckled, a deep, warm sound that seemed to fill the otherwise silent night. They ate by the fire, their laughter mingling with the crackle of flames.

But the dream didn’t let him linger there. The warmth of the fire faded, and the laughter dissolved into silence. Shadows crept in, swallowing the light. The image of Darius blurred, his comforting presence slipping away like sand through Arion’s fingers.

Darkness closed in. The faint echo of Darius’s voice remained, but the words were lost to the void. Arion’s chest tightened as the dream shifted, dragging him toward the moment he feared most.

Arion woke with a jolt as the cart beneath him lurched, the wheels rattling over a deep bump in the dirt road. Blinking groggily, he sat up, brushing bits of stray hay from his tunic. The air was heavy with the earthy scent of hay mingling with the musky odor of livestock. Nearby, a pair of goats bleated softly, their curious eyes watching him as they nibbled at the dry straw lining the cart.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The cart itself was a patchwork of rustic craftsmanship, its wooden boards weathered and scarred from years of use. Ferren, the farmer guiding the cart, sat up front, whistling a cheerful tune as he flicked the reins to keep the donkey moving.

“Morning, lad!” Ferren greeted, his voice as warm and hearty as fresh-baked bread. He turned slightly, revealing a broad grin beneath his scruffy beard. “Didn’t mean to wake you with that bump, but this old road’s full of surprises, just like life, eh?”

Arion rubbed the sleep from his eyes, offering a small smile. “No harm done.”

Ferren chuckled. “Ain’t no harm at all, not after what you did for me. That beast would’ve made a meal of me and the goats if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“It wasn’t much,” Arion replied, shaking his head. His voice was quiet, humble. “Just a lesser immortal monster. The least I could do was to seal it.”

“Least you could do?” Ferren scoffed, his grin widening. “Boy, you made it look easy, but that tiger-thing had fangs like knives! Fast as lightning, too. I thought I was done for, but you—you’ve got a gift, lad.”

Arion shrugged, his gaze drifting to the horizon. “It’s nothing special,” he murmured.

Ferren raised a brow but let the matter drop, sensing Arion’s discomfort. Instead, he shifted the conversation. “We’re nearin’ Glintstone Town now. You’ll see its gates soon enough—big things, all iron and stone. They keep ‘em shut tight most of the time. Lots of inspections, too. Guards’ll want to know your business before they let you in.”

Arion nodded, filing the information away. “Strict security?”

“Strict as a nun with a ruler,” Ferren said with a laugh. “But can’t blame ‘em. Between the immortals roamin’ the wilds and the smugglers lookin’ to make a quick coin, they’ve got their hands full.”

The cart creaked as it rolled on, the rhythmic sound of the wheels blending with Ferren’s chatter and the occasional bleat of the goats. Arion leaned back against the hay, letting the farmer’s words wash over him as he prepared for whatever awaited in Glintstone Town.

The cart jerked to a stop. Two guards approached them from the gates. They moved blocked the path, their eyes sharp. Their swords rested at their sides, but their stance was ready.

Ferren didn’t flinch. "Morning, lads," he said, voice loud and easy, as if this was just another day on the road. He grinned, wide and warm. "This here’s my nephew, Arion. Just helpin’ me with farm duties. No trouble here."

The younger guard’s eyes narrowed. His gaze flicked to Arion, then back to Ferren. "Nephew, huh?" he muttered, voice skeptical, cold. He stepped closer, hands running over the hay, checking for anything out of place.

The older guard stayed still, watching Arion. His eyes were piercing. Every inch of Arion’s posture, every breath, was being weighed. The silence stretched between them.

"What’s your name?" The older guard’s voice cut through the stillness.

"Arion," he answered calmly despite the tension.

The guard didn’t respond. Just watched, as if waiting for a crack.

Ferren let out a huff, half-laughing. "He’s no more than a farmer’s son, lads. We’re simple folk. No reason for all this fuss." His words were light, but his patience was wearing thin.

The younger guard stepped back, but the older one was slower. He exchanged a brief look with his partner before asking, "Pass card?"

Ferren reached into his coat, pulled it out with a flourish—a small card stamped with Glintstone’s seal. The older guard took it, scrutinizing it carefully. Every line of his face seemed to deepen.

Time hung in the air.

Finally, the older guard handed the card back, his eyes briefly flicking to Arion one last time. "Clear," he muttered.

Ferren nodded, a relieved grin spreading across his face. "See? Told ya." He slapped the reins, and the cart creaked forward.

The guards didn’t move. Their eyes tracked the cart, watching as they passed. It was done, but the tension lingered. A warning. Glintstone’s gates were wide, but its scrutiny was tighter.

Arion glanced at Ferren. "Thank you... for everything. I'll repay you one day."

Ferren waved a hand dismissively, his grin wide and carefree. "No need for that, lad. Just keep your head down and stay out of trouble." He clucked to his donkey and pulled the cart forward, disappearing into the busy street.

Arion watched him go, his heart heavy. Once Ferren was out of sight, he turned, slipping into a narrow alley. The shadows felt like old friends, wrapping around him as he walked deeper into the quiet space.

He leaned against the cool stone wall, his thoughts racing. Every step he took, every decision, was a risk. The kingdom was always hunting for him, always watching. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes—not when his every move could be the one that betrayed him.

He couldn’t let his guard down. Not here. Not ever. Not while there were still monsters to seal and a kingdom that would stop at nothing to erase him.

The streets of Glintstone were alive with noise and movement. Merchants shouted their wares. Colorful stalls lined the roads, brimming with fabrics, spices, and trinkets. Street performers danced, juggled, and played music, drawing small crowds who clapped and laughed. It was a place of energy, of life, but beneath the surface, something darker stirred.

Arion moved through the crowd, his senses sharp. The guards, with their heavy armor and watchful eyes, patrolled the streets like vultures. Their presence turned the air cold, their every glance scrutinizing the passersby. Every time Arion’s footfalls echoed too loudly or his gaze lingered too long on something, he felt their eyes on him, ready to pounce.

But it wasn’t just the guards he noticed. There was something else—a faint disturbance in the air, like the quiet hum of a string pulled too tight. Mana. It buzzed beneath his skin, an unsettling current that cut through the bustling noise. He knew it well. The presence of magic, not in its natural state, but disturbed, twisted. Something was off.

He pushed forward, the growing sense of unease driving him towards the tavern at the corner of the street. Its crooked sign swayed gently in the wind, the faint smell of stale ale drifting out as the door creaked open. Inside, the warmth of the dimly lit room offered a brief reprieve.

Arion stepped into the quiet, his eyes scanning the patrons. Most were lost in their mugs, too tired or drunk to notice him. But his instincts prickled. There, at the far end of the room, a shadow seemed to move with purpose. A figure, seated just outside the flickering light, watching him. The figure’s gaze was cold. It felt like a warning.

He took a deep breath and approached the bar, keeping his back to the wall. But that sense of being watched never left.