Chapter V
✦ ✦ ✦
"God-killing weapon," Dot said. "That's real?"
"Real enough." Dren rested his chin on his hand, eyes on the road. "The fat king has one locked away. Old bloodline heirloom — passed down for centuries. Most who've held it never touched its real power."
"And your plan didn't involve stealing it."
"We need something else first." Dren clicked his tongue at the horses. "According to the map, we're heading toward Yutor." He rode past without another word, leaving dust and the smell of coming rain.
— ✦ —
Greenwood — The Throne Room
A scout in mud-spattered armour knelt before the dais. The king rubbed his temple and didn't look at him.
"Speak."
"The prince has left the city, sire. One servant, riding north toward Thornhold at first light." A pause. "He took Skógrimr."
The king's hand stopped moving.
Skógrimr. Forged in Svartálfaheimr by dark-elf craftsmen. Eight generations old, edge still bright as the day it was made. Not merely a sword — the proof of the bloodline's claim over things that shouldn't be killable.
He rose from the throne slowly. "He took my sword."
"The armorer found the case empty at dawn. The prince left a note: 'I will bring her back, Father. And prove I am worthy.'"
The king's fist came down on the armrest hard enough to crack the wood. "Bring him back in chains. Skógrimr untouched."
The advisor stepped forward. "I'll see to it personally, sire."
One of the councillors in dark green cleared his throat. "Sire — the Drought is already moving toward Thornhold. Let him bleed on Boldr's walls for us. We gain ground without spending a single legion."
The king chewed on that. Then: "Fine. But my daughter travels with that creep. I want her out."
From the shadows near the door: "I'll see to that."
The assassin. Scarred face, katana at the hip, the stillness of a man who has killed so many times the act has become administrative.
"Fail me," the king said, "and you hang."
The assassin smiled and said nothing.
"Let the Drought do the hard work," the king said. "Then we end them both."
The council murmured agreement. The king waved his hand. "Clear the hall."
The doors boomed shut. Then the advisor cleared his throat again.
"Sire. Unexpected visitors."
The doors opened. Six knights in gold cloaks laced with white entered in perfect silence. At their head: a woman in dark robes, expression unreadable, a faint glowing mark visible at her collar.
Mage Vespers.
"Long time, Sweyn Forkbeard."
"If the Allthing sent you to meddle in my war," the king said flatly, "you've wasted the trip."
"The Allthing doesn't concern itself with your little war." She folded her hands. "We are here for the boy traveling with the Drought."
"What for?"
"That doesn't concern you."
Silence. The king leaned forward. "If the Allthing wants them dead, they can wait in line. I'm going to kill them first."
Vespers regarded him the way you regard a door that's in your way. She turned and walked out. The gold-cloaked knights followed. The heavy doors closed with a final thud.
— ✦ —
Road North — Midday
Garon dismounted in the shade of a twisted tree, cloak already torn at the hem, sweat darkening his tunic. He drew Skógrimr halfway from its scabbard. The blade caught the light — warm gold bleeding into pale white along the edge, like something that had never quite decided whether it was metal or fire.
"I'll bring her back," he said quietly. "And you'll see I'm not just the spare."
He sheathed it and rode on.
A Roadside Town — Night
The hour passed day turning night
Garon staggered into the hamlet looking like something the road had chewed and spat out. Cloak torn. Face dirty. Hunger making his hands shake.
The bread seller took one look at him and didn't move.
"Please," Garon said. "One loaf. I have coin—"
"No coin, no bread."
He grabbed the loaf anyway. Was already tearing into it when the seller started shouting.
The street filled fast — hands grabbing at his clothes, voices raised, someone throwing a fist. Garon backed against a wall with crumbs on his lips and nowhere left to go.
"My prince."
His servant stepped between him and the crowd, bowed, and tossed a heavy coin purse to the seller. More than enough. The crowd dispersed, grumbling.
The servant paid for a room at the nearest inn. Garon collapsed onto the bed and finished the loaf with shaking hands, tears cutting through the dirt on his face.
"They robbed me," he said. "Took Charlotte. My horse." He swallowed. "They didn't even want the sword — said it was junk."
The servant bowed his head. "Forgive me, my prince."
He crossed the room. The lock clicked.
Garon turned at the sound.
The dagger was already moving. It caught his shoulder instead of his throat — he'd jerked left on instinct, pure animal reflex. Pain exploded white. He screamed and kicked, caught the servant in the gut, bought himself a second.
His hand found Skógrimr's hilt.
The moment the blade cleared the scabbard, the room went white.
When his vision came back, four men were dead on the floor. Throats opened clean. Blood soaking into the boards. The servant stared at the ceiling with empty eyes.
Garon didn't remember swinging. He didn't remember the other three men coming through the door. He only remembered the light — and then this.
He stood over them, chest heaving, the sword still glowing faintly in his grip.
— ✦ —
The Wagon Road — Late Afternoon
"Are we lost?" Dot squinted at the map.
"No. We're heading toward Yutor."
"I think we're lost. I said we should've taken the right—"
From inside the wagon: rhythmic, furious thumping. Yiva kicking the walls again.
"She's going to hurt herself," Dot said.
"She'll tire."
The thumping got louder. Dot pulled the reins, jumped down, and lifted the canvas flap.
Yiva's forehead connected with his groin before he finished opening it.
He doubled over. She hit the ground running — bound, gagged, impossibly fast — and made it six strides toward the treeline before Dot caught her, hauled her back, and dropped her beside the wagon wheel.
Dren was laughing. Low and genuine, which made it worse.
Dot took the fresh rope without a word and bound her ankles while Yiva stared at him with a fury that could strip bark.
"Thought she was tired," he muttered.
"Next time," Dren said, still smiling, "listen."
The fire had burned low. Dren slept against a tree, blade across his knees. Dot poked the coals with a stick.
Yiva had been watching him for a while before she spoke through the gag — muffled but clear enough that he loosened it.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
"Ask him." Dot nodded at Dren.
"I'm asking you."
"Insurance. So we don't get killed when the job's done."
She studied his face. "You don't even want to be here."
He reached for the gag.
"Wait," she said. "I won't scream."
He left it. Turned back to the fire.
A few minutes later, a sound. Wrong. Out of place.
He looked up.
The rope lay in a loose pile at the base of the tree. Yiva was gone.
She'd palmed his dagger during the headbutt. Had been working the ropes in silence all evening while he sat three feet away.
Dot was on his feet and into the trees before the thought finished forming.
Dren didn't wake. But something reached him in the dark — a cold pressure, a hand against glass. In the black behind his eyes, a stone chamber lit by a single candle. Mage Vespers standing over a table, reading a letter. His letter.
She raised her head and looked directly at him.
Dren's eyes snapped open.
Embers. Silence. The clearing empty except for him.
Then a scream tore through the trees — sharp, sudden, cut short.
Then nothing.
— ✦ —
Yiva ran hard. Bare feet on moss and root, stolen dagger in a white-knuckled grip, the last rope falling from her wrist as she sliced through it. The canopy was dense enough to kill the moonlight. She was running half-blind.
Dot crashed through the undergrowth behind her, branches drawing blood across his face.
"We're not going to hurt you—"
She didn't slow. Vaulted a log. Threw a glance back — and her foot caught a root.
She hit the ground rolling, came up slashing. The dagger hissed past Dot's throat close enough that he felt the cold of the steel.
He caught her wrist. Hard, but not brutal. "Enough—"
The ground cracked beneath them. A deep, sickening split — and the cliff edge gave way.
Yiva's eyes went wide. She went backward into the dark.
Dot went with her.
He got his arms around her in the fall, twisted, took the impacts on his back — branch, rock, branch, earth — each one driving the air from him in raw, wordless grunts. She screamed once and went quiet.
Then the ground.
Then black.
— ✦ —
Dren's Mind
A void. One candle. Vespers coalescing out of the dark like smoke with intent.
"Bring the boy to me," she said. "Surrender him. I'll be generous."
"Go rot."
She studied him the way you study something flawed that you're considering buying anyway. "Name your price. Respect. Purpose. The life you threw away." Her voice dropped. "I can give it back."
"Fuck off."
She stepped closer. "Still hiding behind crude words and cheap wine. Do you think dragging that boy across the world washes her blood off your hands? Your stubbornness killed her. It will kill more."
Dren's face changed. Something raw and ugly moved behind his eyes. His fists closed until his nails cut into his palms.
"Watch," he said quietly, "your mouth."
He took one step toward her.
Vespers smiled. "Come and get him yourself, then."
— ✦ —
Forest Floor — Dawn
Yiva woke to smoke and pine.
Head pounding. Everything aching. She pushed herself up on soft moss and took stock.
Across the clearing, Dot crouched shirtless beside a small fire, feeding it sticks. His back was a map of old damage — scars layered over scars, the kind accumulated over years rather than one bad night. Firelight moved across them.
Yiva looked away fast. Heat crawled up her neck. She scowled at the treeline until it faded.
"I survived that fall," she said.
"Yeah," Dot said, without turning. "We both did."
She tossed his bloodied tunic at his head. "Put that on. You look feral."
He caught it and pulled it on. Said nothing.
A twig snapped.
Both went still.
They came out of the trees in silence — dozens of them. Short, broad, heavily bearded, axes and hammers out. Dwarves. One had Yiva from behind before she could move, cold steel at her throat.
Dot rose slowly. Hands empty.
The leader — iron crown, iron expression — studied him and spoke in a language Dot had never been taught.
The words made perfect sense anyway.
"You speak the Deep Speech, boy?"
Dot heard his own voice answer before he'd decided to answer. The words came naturally, from somewhere he didn't know he had.
"Let her go."
The dwarves went still.
The leader's laugh was low and without warmth. "You carry the scent of the old dark." He jerked his chin. "Cage him. Put the girl with the others. Let the beast decide what to do with this one."
— ✦ —
The Underground Kingdom
They went down for a long time.
The tunnels were ancient — worn smooth by centuries of feet, veins of blue and amber and deep red pulsing in the walls like something alive. The air thickened as they descended: sulphur, iron, and beneath both of those, something older that had no name Dot knew.
The kingdom opened beneath them like a cathedral built inside the bones of the world — tiered streets of black stone, bridges over drops that disappeared into dark, enormous fungi casting everything in cold sapphire light. The sound of hammering never stopped. It rose from everywhere at once, the rhythm of it like a pulse.
Dot was dragged through the main avenue in a heavy iron cage. Dwarves lined the path. Some spat. Some made warding signs. Some just watched.
At the end of the avenue: the Pit.
They shoved him down the ramp. The gate slammed behind him.
He stood in the centre of the arena alone. The blood on the stones was old and layered — many fights, many outcomes, most of them the same. Thousands of dwarves watched from the tiers above.
On the high ledge, the iron-crowned leader stood with Yiva restrained at his side. Her face was pale. Her eyes were not. She found Dot's gaze across the pit and gave him one sharp nod.
The far gate groaned open.
Heat and the stench of old blood rolled out first. Then the beast.
Twice Dot's height. Hide like layered stone. Six amber eyes burning in the dark of its skull. Scythe claws. Curved horns. A tail that moved like a weapon already in use. It looked at him — and something in its eyes was not animal hunger but something older. Recognition.
Dot stood his ground, empty-handed, body still broken from the fall. He looked at Yiva once more.
Then he looked back at the beast and smiled. Just teeth. Nothing behind it.
The creature roared. The entire cavern shook. Dust fell from the ceiling in slow curtains.
Dot didn't move.
— ✦ —
Somewhere Deep Below — The Black Throne
In absolute dark, something ancient sat on a throne of black stone and watched through borrowed eyes.
A long pause.
"Interesting."
Another pause — the kind that contains entire calculations.
"Show me how much you've grown, little shard."
— ✦ —
The Abandoned Camp — Same Night
Dren's eyes opened.
Fire dead. Horses gone. The camp smelled wrong — the specific wrongness of a place that has been watched from the dark for some time.
Then the howling started. Dozens of voices, rising fast, closing in from every direction. Red eyes lit up between the trees — low to the ground, too many, moving with purpose.
Demon dogs. And they weren't hunting at random.
They were coming for the boy.
Dren grabbed his sword and ran into the dark, toward the howling, toward wherever the bottom of the world was tonight.
To Be Continued