The moonlight poured like liquid silver over the Shattered Wastes, bathing the immense crater in a cold, unforgiving glow. There, amid the skeletal remains of Hidenheim, the once-proud city lay broken and scattered like the discarded playthings of an angry god. Jagged towers leaned drunkenly, their spires resembling shattered teeth gnawing at the night sky. Cracked stone and twisted metal clawed upward from the scarred earth, half-swallowed by drifting dunes of dust. Thin threads of smoke still rose lazily from scattered embers, carrying the acrid scent of ruin on the wind.
Hoofbeats shattered the heavy silence. A small company of riders clad in flowing golden cloaks—knights of the realm—emerged from the darkness and approached the crater's jagged rim. Their horses slowed to a nervous halt, snorting plumes of steam into the chill air, ears flicking at unseen threats.
The lead rider swung down first, his cloak billowing like a banner in the breeze. He turned and extended a gloved hand to the lady mounted beside him. She descended with quiet, determined grace, her fine silk dress whispering over the reinforced mage-weave armor hidden beneath. Even in grief, her posture spoke of unyielding resolve.
Together they descended into the devastation. She moved through the wreckage until she stopped abruptly, sinking to her knees amid the rubble. With trembling fingers she brushed the scarred earth, as though searching for a pulse that had long since faded. Silent rivers of tears traced glittering paths down her cheeks, catching the moonlight like liquid diamonds.
"Find him," she commanded, her voice sharp as shattered glass, cutting through the night.
The knight beside her spoke gently, though sorrow weighted every word. "No one could have survived this, my lady. Hidenheim has fallen. Let yourself grieve."
She lifted her gaze, eyes blazing with a fire that refused to die. "Do not tell me what to do. Find him… and bring him to me."
Some whispered that a boy named Dot had caused the catastrophe.
**Three years later…**
Inside a smoky tavern on the ragged outskirts of Greenwood, rough wooden tables gleamed dully beneath the flickering light of oil lanterns. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of spilled ale, sweat-soaked leather, and the raucous laughter of men trying to forget the crumbling world outside.
In a shadowed corner sat a young blind man and a boy. The boy attacked a plate of roasted meat with youthful hunger, pausing only to sip from the mug the tavern owner's daughter had just set before him.
"Here you go," she said, offering a small, warm smile.
The boy thanked her and took a cautious sip. His brow furrowed. "This isn't ale."
The girl chuckled softly. "You're too young for that, lad."
He frowned, indignant. "The world's at the brink of ending. Can't I at least have ale like him?"
The blind man beside him let out a low, amused chuckle.
At the central table, two grizzled mercenaries sat deep in their cups. One slammed his tankard down, grinning broadly.
"The world ending, you say?" he called across the room. "Where'd you hear that, damn brat?"
The boy stood.
"Julius, sit," the blind man said quietly.
Julius ignored him and rose taller, voice ringing with conviction. "Hidenheim has fallen. The mage realm is gone. Demons grow stronger by the day. Cities crumble. People die in the streets."
The second mercenary snorted. "You actually believe in demons, boy?"
Julius's eyes widened. "Yes—because they are real."
Laughter erupted across the tavern like a sudden storm.
"Fools," Julius muttered. "You won't recognize the truth until it slaps you across the face."
"What did you say, brat?" one of the mercenaries growled.
Before blood could spill, the blind man rose, seized Julius by the collar, and dragged him toward the door. As they pushed through, the boy offered a hasty, heartfelt apology to the room.
They brushed past two hooded figures waiting just outside in the night.
The first mercenary raised his tankard in a mocking toast. "Let's celebrate!"
"Me and my partner took the head clean off," he boasted. "Big-shot's daughter—pretty little thing. Pity."
The bar roared its drunken approval. Tankards crashed together.
"Big fat bag of coins for little necks!" someone shouted.
Laughter rolled through the room like thunder.
The two mercenaries stood. The second one grinned ear to ear. "Drinks on us tonight!"
The crowd cheered even louder.
The tavern owner's daughter wove through the chaos with fresh tankards and set two on their table. The first mercenary's hand shot out, seizing her wrist. She yanked back, eyes wide with fear.
"Leave me, please."
"Chill out," he sneered. "I just want to get to know you. Let's go outside and talk."
The bar owner stepped forward, voice trembling with anger. "Leave my daughter alone."
"Shut up, old man," the mercenary snapped. "I'll gladly take your worthless head too."
The second mercenary shifted uncomfortably. "Leave the girl."
"Don't tell me what to do."
In one brutal motion, the first mercenary yanked her onto his lap. She struggled wildly as he tore at her clothes.
The tavern door slammed open with a violent crack. A cold wind rushed in, snuffing half the lanterns for a single, breathless heartbeat. Two figures in black cloaks stepped inside—hooded, silent, and impossibly still.
The room fell deathly quiet. All eyes turned.
The second mercenary whispered, "Who the hell…?"
One figure reached up and slowly drew back his hood, revealing a scarred face, hard eyes, and a short beard. A massive blade rested across his back.
*Dren.*
A drunk at the bar dropped his mug. It shattered on the floorboards.
"That's… the Drought," he breathed.
The second figure lowered his hood. Younger, perhaps seventeen now, with a face calm yet edged with quiet, dangerous promise.
*Dot.*
Dren strode straight to the mercenaries' table, his boots deliberate on the creaking floorboards.
The second mercenary's thoughts raced, sweat beading on his brow: *That's the Drought… What's he doing here? So the rumors are true—he has a partner now. Don't tell me… are they here for us?*
The first mercenary still held the girl pinned. Dren's voice cut through the silence, low and even.
"Go," he told her.
She started to move—until the mercenary tightened his grip.
"Who do you think you are, telling her that?"
In a blur too fast for the eye to follow, Dren's second blade flashed. The mercenary's hand opened in a hot spray of blood. The girl broke free and fled sobbing into her father's arms.
The man screamed.
Dren sighed. "Ahh. Didn't plan to use my sword just yet, but you made me." He sheathed the blade at his waist with a soft metallic whisper.
He seized the mercenary by the hair, dragging him across the floorboards like a broken doll. Casually, he snatched one of their tankards and drained it in a single, long gulp.
The second mercenary bolted for the door—only to slam straight into Dot, who didn't budge an inch. Spotting Dren's horse tethered outside, the man scrambled onto it and galloped desperately into the night.
"My horse!!" Dren roared.
He glanced at Dot. "Boy, go get him."
Dot walked toward the door, voice flat. "Stop calling me that."
The bar owner and his daughter huddled in terror. The remaining patrons rose slowly, hands drifting toward weapons.
Dren kept drinking, then poured the rest of the ale over the screaming mercenary's wounded stump. Fresh agony tore through the man.
In desperation, the mercenary shouted to the room, "I promise anyone who brings me this man's head will be rewarded with five million quibes!"
Dren laughed, a low, dangerous sound. "For real?"
He slammed the mercenary down onto a table.
The tavern exploded into chaos. Swords rasped free. Chairs toppled. Men charged.
Dren didn't even fully draw his blade at first. He kicked a table into one attacker, spun, and cracked his tankard into another's temple. The man dropped like a stone.
Another swung wildly—Dren ducked, seized the wrist, and twisted. Bone snapped with a sickening crack. A scream split the air.
Finally, Dren drew the great sword from his back in one smooth, lethal motion. A single, powerful slash opened two men's chests. Blood sprayed in crimson arcs. They collapsed without a sound.
Dren stood over the last fighter, the tip of his blade resting lightly at the man's throat.
"You were celebrating a beheading earlier," he said calmly. "Funny how things turn."
At that moment, Dot dragged the runaway mercenary back inside by the collar and dropped him unceremoniously at Dren's feet.
Dren smirked at the boy.
(Only moments before, Dot had stood far across the bar, picked up a loose stone, narrowed his eyes, and thrown. The stone cracked against the fleeing rider; the horse reared, and the man tumbled hard to the ground.)
Dot met Dren's gaze. "Which one do you need?"
Dren glanced down. "Not this one."
The first mercenary whimpered, voice breaking. "Please don't kill me! I promise I'll pay you. I have enough. I'll give you anything you want."
Dren raised his sword. One clean stroke. The head rolled across the blood-slick floor.
The bar owner and remaining patrons stared in frozen horror.
The tavern owner's daughter whispered, barely audible, "Thank you."
Dren sheathed his blade with a decisive click. He pulled two silver coins from his belt and tossed them onto the bar.
"A room. Now."
The owner stammered, pointing a shaking hand upstairs. "T-top floor… take it. Please."
Dot and Dren climbed the narrow stairs. Dot carried the captive over one shoulder and the severed head in a rough sack.
In the simple room—one bed, one chair, a small window overlooking the night—Dot sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floorboards.
Dren leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "I sent the pickup a message. Early tomorrow we take them to the crossroad and collect the reward."
Dot replied flatly, "I know how it works."
Dren grinned. "Sheesh… You take the floor then."
A faded-edged memory stirred: Dot's broken body lying amid the rubble of Hidenheim. Dren kneeling beside him.
"Still breathing…"
Days blurred in silent montage. Flesh knit. Bones realigned. Dren watched over him in grim silence.
Weak and trembling, Dot had spoken his first real word: "Liora…?"
Back in the present, Dot looked up, eyes hard as flint.
He murmured something too soft for even Dren to hear.
Then sleep claimed him.
Dren crossed the room, gently lifted the boy, and carried him to the bed.
Dot dreamed in jagged fragments—Liora's death, then endless darkness. A void. He jerked awake with a silent gasp.
**Morning.**
Dot woke to the rich smell of hot food drifting up from below. He padded downstairs.
Dren sat at a table, eating and drinking, laughing easily with the tavern owner and his daughter.
"Boy, come join me," Dren called. "They really cook tasty food here."
The girl blushed. "I'm glad you like it."
Dot sat, dipped his spoon into the steaming soup, tasted it, then devoured the entire bowl as though he hadn't eaten in weeks.
The owner chuckled. "Boy, you must be really hungry."
"My name is Dot."
"Sorry—it stuck because he normally calls you that."
Dot glanced at Dren.
"It's really tasty," Dot said quietly, cheeks faintly pink.
After the meal, they set out. The owner and his daughter waved goodbye from the doorway—the girl blushing at Dren one last time.
A man on horseback soon approached. They handed over the bound prisoner and the severed head in its sack. The wagon driver passed Dren a heavy sack of coins and a sealed letter, then rode off without another word.
Dren scanned the letter. "Looks like we'll be sleeping in a castle soon, kid."
The letter read simply: "Call to Greenwood."
They rode on. After a short while, they passed a large tree where a lady in form-fitting ninja-like garb—accentuating every curve—perched gracefully on a branch.
"Help me!!" she called, voice sweet as honey.
Dot sighed in quiet frustration.
Ysmay leaped down with effortless elegance and landed lightly on the horse's back behind Dot.
"Long time no see, Dot," she purred, wrapping her arms around him.
Dren glanced back. "Ysmay, you made it. Need a favor."
Ysmay, distracted, reached around to playfully pinch and rub Dot's cheeks. "My, how you've grown."
"Ysmay," Dren said firmly.
"Coming~" she replied cheerfully.
Dren handed her a note with the task written upon it.
"For real." Ysmay's face twisted in exaggerated dismay.
Dren and Dot rode onward, while Ysmay and her own horse veered toward another path. In the distance, the great trees of Greenwood rose like ancient guardians against the sky.
Throne Room
A king sat upon his throne, his face carved with grim resolve.
"We take the war to Thornhold."
The assembled knights shouted in unison, their voices echoing like thunder through the hall.
Chapter End