The golden light of late afternoon spilled across the calm lake just beyond Greenwood's western borders, turning its surface into a vast sheet of polished silver. Tall reeds whispered and swayed along the shore, dancing in the gentle breeze. Two horses grazed contentedly nearby, their tails flicking lazily at invisible flies. At the water's edge, Dot knelt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, gripping a makeshift spear fashioned from a sturdy branch. His gaze was locked on the glassy water, patient and unblinking, waiting for the telltale flash of scales beneath the surface.
A short distance away, Dren perched on a flat rock, singing softly to himself. The low, melodic tune drifted across the still air like smoke from a distant fire.
Without warning, Dot thrust the spear downward. Water erupted in a bright spray, and he lifted the branch triumphantly. A fat silver fish thrashed wildly on the point, its scales catching the dying light like scattered coins. A faint, rare grin touched Dot's lips.
Dren's voice rose a fraction louder as he continued singing:
♪ …and the river runs dry… ♪
Dot glanced over his shoulder. "Aren't you going to help?"
Dren paused mid-note, then resumed his song without looking up, letting the question drift away unanswered.
Night fell softly over the shore. A small fire crackled on the pebbled beach, its flames licking hungrily at two skewered fish. Their skins blistered and popped, releasing a rich, savory scent that mingled with the cool night air. Dot tore into his portion with ravenous hunger, grease shining on his chin as he chewed. Dren ate more slowly, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon where the dense green canopy of Greenwood rose like an impenetrable wall against the stars.
"Slow down," Dren said with a quiet laugh as Dot attacked the fish.
Dot eyed the remaining portion still skewered on Dren's stick. "You going to eat that?"
"Here, take it. I'm full."
Dot snatched it eagerly. After a moment of contented chewing, he asked through a full mouth, "What's the endgame here?"
Dren straightened slightly. "What do you mean?"
"You hardly take jobs from royals, let alone kings."
"We need the money," Dren replied evenly.
Dot spat a small bone into the fire. "This is your last job," Dren continued. "I promise you that. Eat. Relax."
"Don't tell me to relax," Dot snapped, though his voice remained strangely calm. "My last job? You've been saying that for almost a month now."
"I understand you're furious," Dren said. "But you need to calm down—we're in Green's territory."
Dot's eyes hardened. "Don't speak to me like we're friends. We're not. We just need each other for the moment. When I'm done with this, you owe me. You'll give me what I want, then I'll be on my way."
Dren nodded silently and took another slow bite of fish, the firelight dancing across his scarred features.
The next morning, they mounted their horses. Soft clouds of dust rose beneath the hooves as they rode toward the distant city gates, the lake shrinking behind them like a fading dream.
Greenwood's massive gates loomed ahead—thick oak reinforced with heavy iron bands, flanked by tall towers draped in flowing green banners that rippled in the wind. Guards in forest-green cloaks and helms etched with leaf motifs stood at attention, spears crossed in a silent barrier.
"State your business, travelers," one called out.
Dren leaned down from his saddle and whispered a single word, too low for Dot to catch. The guard's eyes widened slightly. He stepped aside at once. "…Pass."
They rode through into the bustling heart of the city. Dot's head turned constantly, eyes wide with quiet wonder. Market stalls overflowed with vibrant spices that scented the air, glowing crystals that pulsed with inner light, and caged exotic birds whose feathers flashed like living jewels. Red lanterns swayed above the silk curtains of a brothel, spilling laughter and sultry music into the crowded street. A blacksmith's hammer rang rhythmically against glowing steel. Children darted laughing between the legs of passersby, their voices bright against the hum of commerce.
Soon, a squad of guards approached on foot and saluted stiffly. "The Drought and his… companion. The king expects you. Follow."
They were led through winding streets to a discreet side entrance of the castle—less grand than the main gates, but far more secure. Inside, stone corridors glowed with the eerie, flickering light of flame torches.
Their guest chamber was lavish yet unmistakably guarded: one large bed, a smaller cot, heavy drapes, and a table bearing wine and fresh bread. The heavy door locked from the outside with a decisive, ominous click.
Dren tested the lock lightly with a finger. "Prison with better sheets."
Dot dropped onto the cot. "How long do we wait?"
"I can't say," Dren replied. "We were meant to be here yesterday. That might have pissed off the fat king."
"Typical."
Hours dragged by. Dot paced restlessly, staring out the barred window at the twinkling city lights far below. Dren sat methodically sharpening his great blade, the rhythmic scrape of stone against steel filling the quiet room like a metronome of impending violence.
At last, the door opened. A captain in ornate armor stood framed in the doorway. "The king will see you now."
They passed through a grand hallway where the princess swept by with her entourage of servants and knights. She was radiant in flowing emerald silks, but her laugh rang sharp and cruel as her eyes flicked disdainfully over Dot and Dren's road-worn clothes and the faint scent of campfire smoke that still clung to them.
She whispered to her companions, loud enough for the words to carry: "I bet Father will have their heads." Laughter rippled through her group like poisoned wine.
Dren met her gaze and offered a small, dangerously polite smile.
The grand throne hall stretched vast and imposing: a high vaulted ceiling supported by columns carved with twisting vines, walls lined with rigid ranks of guards whose spears gleamed coldly in the torchlight. Long shadows danced across the stone floor. At the far end rose a throne of dark wood entwined with living green thorns. The king sat upon it—stern, middle-aged, crowned with a simple circlet of silver leaves. His forked beard framed a face hardened by years of conquest. Beside him, his firstborn son watched in brooding silence.
Dren and Dot walked the long aisle, their boots echoing like distant thunder. Dot glanced at the guards' impassive faces—all stone and duty.
They stopped before the dais.
"You were meant to be here yesterday, Dren the Drought," the king intoned.
Dren offered a small bow—not deep, not deferential. "We are deeply sorry. Something urgent demanded our attention."
The prince sneered. "You've disrespected my father the king. Father, they should be punished—him and his son over there."
Dot's voice cut through the air, cold and precise. "We're not related."
A guard barked, "Don't speak when the king hasn't spoken to you."
The king silenced them all with a single sharp look.
"Send one of our men instead," the prince insisted. "We have the best soldiers here."
"Shut up, brat," the king snapped.
He leaned forward on his throne. "Three billion quibes. For one life. The weapon of Thornhold."
Dot frowned. "Weapon?"
Dren's smile spread wide and knowing. "You want Boldr's head?"
Dot's eyes widened. He leaned toward Dren and whispered, "Boldr…?"
"The Thorn King's brother himself," Dren said. "The one they call the Last Æsir. The one they say uprooted a siege tower with his bare hands and shattered enemy shield-walls by charging through them like a living storm. Men worship him as a god walking among mortals."
"The same," the king confirmed, his voice low with barely concealed fear. "His strength is… unnatural. Divine blood runs in his veins—the last spark of the old gods in this mortal realm. He has broken every army we've sent against Thornhold's walls. We will not waste legions on a single beast when a blade in the dark will suffice."
Dot stepped forward slightly, his voice steady but edged with confusion. "If he's just one man—why not poison? Archers? Why us?"
The king's smile was thin and cold. "Because Boldr is no ordinary man. Arrows bounce off him like rain; poison turns to water in his blood. And if our colors are seen near his keep, the pact he holds—the old oaths of the bloodline—might unleash something far worse than defeat. You are ghosts. You leave no trail."
Dren's voice rang out, mocking and theatrical: "O mighty Sweyn Forkbeard, scourge of seas and slayer of kings, who once charged into battle with axe singing and beard forked like thunder—what curse has befallen thee? Naught but a swollen belly and a wilted spirit remain. Where is the honor that drove thee to claim thrones by blood and iron? Hast thou traded valor for the coward's ease, fearing the very death thou once courted without flinching?"
The guards gripped their weapons in fury. The prince sneered, but the king raised a hand, stopping them all.
Dren's smile widened further. "Three billion is generous. Make it five. And a writ guaranteeing safe passage from your lands when the job's done. No… accidents."
The king paused, then nodded slowly. "Five billion. And the writ. Bring me proof—his head. Legends say he can only be killed by a god-killing weapon forged by Dwarves."
Dren raised an eyebrow. "Anyone confirmed that they still exist?"
The king flustered. "Not that we know of."
Dren smiled. "Huh…"
"I doubt they still exist," the king said, sitting upright, his gaze drifting pointedly toward the massive sword strapped across Dren's back.
"Though slaying him should be a hard task," he continued, "the tales claim you're the only one who has ever so much as scratched the beast."
Dot looked at Dren in surprise, struck by how little he truly knew about the man who had saved him.
Dren and Dot turned to leave. The guards parted like water before a prow.
As they exited the hall, the king leaned toward his shadowed advisor. "When they return… kill them."
"Yes, my lord," the advisor murmured, his eyes lingering on Dot's retreating back with quiet calculation.
Outside the castle walls, silence hung heavy between them.
"Five billion quibes…" Dot said quietly. "That's more than kingdoms cost."
"The rich pay high when they're scared," Dren replied. "And higher when they're lying."
Dot stopped walking. "You think they'll turn on us?"
Dren shrugged. "They always do. The question is when." He paused. "That's why I took this little fellow with us and left a generous note if he doesn't pay."
Dot opened the back of their waiting wagon. Inside, bound and blindfolded, a young woman—the princess—struggled fiercely against her ropes.
"Seriously?!" Dot exclaimed.
"Let me go! Help!" she screamed. "You bastards—you think you can get away with this? My father will do anything to have your heads!"
Dren stepped closer. "You talk a lot, princess." He closed her mouth firmly with a strip of cloth.
Now she could only mumble furiously through the gag.
Night cloaked the castle. Greenwood's lights glowed warmly below like a bed of scattered embers.
Inside a private chamber, the king burst in to find his wife weeping on the floor.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"Sire," a guard stammered, "they took the Princess and left a note…"
"Bring the note here," the king growled.
The note read:
*Hey fat king, if you want your daughter back, keep the end of your deal.*
The king's face crumpled—his daughter was his favorite, the light of his ruthless heart. Tears carved fresh tracks through the dust and sweat of his beard.
A knight stammered: "Sire, the princess sent me out of her room… she didn't want me in."
In a blind fury, the king drew his dagger and stabbed the knight who had been on duty when the princess was taken. The man collapsed in a lifeless heap.
Later, in the throne room, the king sat heavily upon his throne. "Bring him."
A hooded man entered—katana at his side, scars crisscrossing his face like a map of old battles.
"Bring me his head," the king commanded. "And the command of my second legion is yours."
The prince protested, "Father, why send him now? Are you even sure he can kill the Drought? If so, why not send him to kill the beast Boldr?"
"If you speak again," the king snarled, "I'll have your tongue."
"The Drought is expected to wear Boldr down," he continued coldly. "While we strike. Change of plans now—with the princess taken, we move faster."
The hooded man smiled thinly. "You're too generous, my king. Consider it done. I'll make the drought bleed."
At that exact moment, outside the castle walls, the prince—broke from the postern gate and galloped into the dying dusk, determined to rescue his sister and defy his father's command once and for all.
Chapter end