"God-killing weapon. That shit real?" Dot asked, eyes narrowed.
Dren rested his chin on his hand, gaze distant. "Real enough. The fat king's got one locked away."
"You serious?"
"Old bloodline heirloom," Dren said, voice low and dead serious. "Passed hand to hand for centuries. Only a handful have ever touched its true power."
Dot let out a disbelieving huff. "And your brilliant plan didn't involve stealing it?"
Dren's mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "We've got one more thing to grab first. Just follow the map. I'm sure we're heading to yutor …" He clicked his tongue at the horses. "According to the map."
He rode past Dot without another word, leaving only dust and the faint scent of coming rain.
Greenwood – Throne Room
Sunlight sliced through the tall arched windows in narrow golden blades, illuminating motes of dust that danced like uneasy spirits. King Sweyn sat heavily upon the thorn-wreathed throne, one elbow propped on the armrest as he rubbed his temple with thick fingers.
A scout in mud-spattered armor knelt before the dais, head bowed.
"Speak," the king muttered.
The scout rose just enough to be heard. "Sire, the prince has left the city. He took one servant and rode north toward Thornhold at first light. They are pursuing the princess."
The king exhaled slowly, face almost bored. "Let the boy play at being a hero. He'll crawl back when the first thorn bush rips his fine cloak."
The scout hesitated, voice dropping. "Sire… he took Skógrimr."
The king's hand froze mid-rub. The room seemed to lose half its light.
Skógrimr — the ancient blade forged in the fires of Svartálfaheimr by dark-elf master craftsmen. A weapon said to reshape itself to the worthiest hand, its edge still gleaming after eight generations. It was not merely steel. It was the living proof of the bloodline's dominion over monsters.
The king rose slowly. The throne creaked beneath his weight.
"He took my sword?" His voice was dangerously quiet.
"Yes, sire. The armorer found the case empty at dawn. The prince left a single note: 'I will bring her back, Father. And prove I am worthy.'"
The king's fist slammed down on the armrest. "Detain him. Before he reaches Thornhold. Bring him back in chains if you must—and bring me Skógrimr untouched."
The advisor stepped forward smoothly. "I will take care of it personally, sire."
One of the councilors in dark green robes cleared his throat. "Sire… perhaps we should not act in haste. The Drought is already moving toward Thornhold. Let the boy weaken the beast. Let him bleed for us. When the time comes, we gain the upper hand without wasting our own legions."
The king's jaw worked. After a long moment, he waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. But what about my daughter? I can't have her traveling with that creep."
From the shadows near the door, a bored voice drifted out. "I'll see to that, Your Lordship."
The king turned. The assassin stood there—scarred face, katana at his hip, the deadly stillness of a man who had killed too many times to feel anything about it.
"Remember my promise," the king growled. "If you fail me, you'll hang."
The assassin smiled thinly and said nothing.
The king leaned back. "Let the Drought do the hard part. Then we end them both."
"Very wise, sire," the council murmured.
The king waved a hand. "Clear the hall. Closed doors. Now."
The heavy doors boomed shut. But before the echo died, the advisor cleared his throat again.
"Sire. You have unexpected visitors."
The doors opened once more. Six knights in gold cloaks laced with white entered in perfect silence. At their head walked a woman in dark robes, her expression unreadable, a faint glowing mark visible at her collar.
Mage Vespers.
"Long time no see, Sweyn Forkbeard."
The king's expression curdled. "What are you doing here? If the Allthing sent you to meddle in my war, you've wasted your trip."
Vespers folded her hands. "The Allthing does not concern itself with trivial matters like your little war." She paused, precise and cold. "We are here for the boy traveling with the Drought."
The king blinked. "What for?"
"That," Vespers said simply, "does not concern you, Forkbeard."
Silence thickened in the hall.
The king leaned forward, teeth bared. "If the Allthing wants them dead, they'll have to wait in line. I'm going to kill them first."
Vespers regarded him the way one regards an obstacle already decided upon. She said nothing more. She simply turned and walked out, the golden-cloaked knights falling in behind her like shadows.
The doors closed with a final, heavy thud.
Road North – Midday
Prince Garon dismounted in the shade of a twisted tree, his fine cloak already torn at the hem. Sweat darkened his tunic. He drew Skógrimr halfway from its scabbard. The blade caught the light like liquid fire—warm gold bleeding into pale white along the edge.
"I'll bring her back," he muttered to his reflection in the steel. "And you'll see I'm not just the spare."
---
**Wagon Road – Late Afternoon**
"Are we lost?" Dot asked, squinting at the map.
"No," Dren replied. "We're heading toward Yutor now."
"I think we're lost. I told you we should've followed the right path—"
The wagon rattled over uneven ground. From inside came rhythmic, furious thumping—Princess Yiva kicking the wooden walls again and again.
Dot glanced back at the canvas flap. "She's going to hurt herself."
"She'll tire eventually," Dren said.
The thumping grew louder. More desperate.
Dot pulled the reins and swung down. "I'm opening it."
"Don't."
He ignored the warning. The moment he pulled the flap aside, Yiva launched forward like a coiled viper. Her forehead slammed straight into his groin.
Dot doubled over with a strangled groan.
Yiva tumbled out, scrambled to her feet—still bound and gagged—and sprinted toward the tree line with impossible speed.
Dren watched from the wagon bench, then started laughing, low and genuine.
Dot wheezed, straightened, and sprinted after her. He caught her in six strides, hauled her back kicking and muffled-screaming, and dropped her beside the wagon.
Dren tossed him fresh rope without comment, still chuckling.
Dot bound her ankles while Yiva glared daggers that could strip bark from trees.
"I… thought she was tired," Dot muttered.
Dren exhaled. "Next time, listen."
---
**Forest Clearing – Night**
The fire crackled softly. Yiva sat tied to a tree, eyes cold and calculating. Dren had already fallen asleep against a trunk, blade across his knees. Dot poked the flames with a stick, lost in thought.
Yiva studied him for a long while before speaking through the gag, her voice muffled but clear enough.
Dot loosened it slightly.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked quietly.
"Ask him," Dot said, nodding at Dren.
"I'm asking you."
Dot hesitated. "Insurance. So we don't get killed when the job's done."
Yiva's gaze searched his face. "You don't even want to be here, do you?"
He didn't answer. He reached for the gag again.
"Wait," she whispered. "I won't scream."
He left it loose and returned to the fire.
Moments later, a faint sound—wrong, out of place—made Dot freeze.
He looked up.
The rope lay in a loose pile at the base of the tree.
Yiva was gone.
Dot's eyes widened. She must have palmed his dagger during the headbutt on the road and worked the ropes all evening in silence.
He shot to his feet and ran into the darkness after her.
Dren didn't wake.
But deep in his sleep, something reached him—a cold pressure, like a hand pressed against glass. In the darkness behind his eyes, a candle-lit stone chamber appeared. Mage Vespers stood at a table, lips moving silently over a folded letter.
She had his letter.
Slowly, she raised her head… and looked directly at him.
Dren's eyes snapped open.
The fire had burned down to embers. The clearing was deathly quiet.
He sat up slowly, staring toward the dark trees where Dot had vanished.
In the distance, a single scream tore through the night—sharp, sudden, and cut brutally short.
Then silence.
To be continued…