Drakemire

The past six months had been a blur of blood, frost, and endless walking. Rowan and I had covered so much ground together, venturing deeper into the heart of the continent, but with every step forward, the weight of the world seemed to press heavier on my shoulders.

According to Rowan, we were heading straight for the epicenter of this chaos—a place where the war against Astoroth’s forces burned hottest. The thought sent a chill through me, and not just from the biting winter air. If this was truly where we might find Astoroth, then we were walking straight into the lion’s den.

It wasn’t just the thought of facing another demon, though. It was what we’d seen on the way here.

So many soldiers—men and women who had once marched with purpose, with dreams of victory in their eyes—now dragged themselves along the roads like specters. Bloodied, broken, and hollow. Their faces haunted me. No songs of glory or camaraderie, just the silent, shared knowledge that they were losing. That we were losing.

This was the biggest continent in the world. If Astoroth’s forces crushed it under their heel, there would be nothing left. No one left. That knowledge gnawed at the edges of my mind, even as I tried to focus on the next step forward.

And it was so cold.

Winter had crept in, stealing what little comfort the road had to offer. The nights were the worst. I slept curled into myself, wrapped in layers and blankets, with a heating spell pressed close to my skin. But even magic couldn’t ward off the chill completely.

It didn’t help that Rowan’s snoring could probably bring down a mountain.

I tried everything—kicking his tent, shouting his name, even throwing rocks at it once. Nothing worked. So now, every night, I cast a muffling spell over my ears just to have a chance at sleep. If anything, it was good practice for precision magic.

He didn’t mean to annoy me, of course. Rowan was... Rowan. Unshakable, pragmatic, and frustratingly calm no matter what we faced. I envied that about him sometimes. While I lay awake overthinking every detail of our journey, Rowan seemed content to take everything in stride, like even the end of the world couldn’t bother him.

Maybe that’s why he was still alive after everything. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t help but trust him.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel... something. Fear, maybe. A flicker of doubt in the back of my mind. We were heading straight for Astoroth, the strongest of them all. The soldiers were proof of his power, and they were just the edge of his army. What were the two of us supposed to do against that?

I shook the thought from my head, focusing on the crunch of snow underfoot. I didn’t have time to doubt myself. Not now. If we didn’t stop Astoroth, who would? If this continent fell, so did the world. And I wasn’t about to let that happen.

Not while I was still standing. Not while I could still fight.

The icy wind howled through the narrow clearing, snow swirling like a living thing around the towering beast in front of us. Its hulking frame loomed against the backdrop of skeletal trees, muscles rippling under frost-covered fur. It was a Coldbear—a monstrous predator that was half beast, half nightmare, with jagged, ice-coated claws and fangs that seemed to glint with their own cold light.

It let out a roar that sent vibrations through the frozen ground, its breath a plume of mist in the bitter air. My staff was already in my hands, a shield spell ready to go at a moment’s notice, but honestly? It felt unnecessary.

I glanced at Rowan, and sure enough, he was already walking toward the Coldbear like it was nothing more than a mildly annoying housecat. His lance was at his side, the sharp tip faintly gleaming as he carried it with the ease of a seasoned warrior.

The Coldbear roared again, the sound so deep it rattled in my chest, but Rowan didn’t even flinch. He stepped into range, and the creature lunged, its massive claws arcing through the air toward him.

That’s when he moved.

In one fluid motion, Rowan sidestepped the blow, his lance flashing upward in a silver blur. The weapon’s tip found its mark, sinking into the soft joint between the creature’s forearm and its claw. The Coldbear howled, jerking back, but Rowan didn’t let up. He spun the lance with precision, tearing through sinew and muscle before pulling it free in one smooth motion.

Blood sprayed across the snow, steaming as it hit the frozen ground, but Rowan was already moving. He ducked low as the beast swiped again, this time aiming to cleave him in half. The blow missed by a hair, shattering a tree trunk instead, but Rowan’s focus didn’t waver.

With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a spell—a shimmering glyph etched in the air before him. The moment it activated, his lance glowed with a faint blue light, an enchantment that seemed to sharpen its edge further. The Coldbear reared back, ready to charge, but Rowan was faster.

He drove the lance forward, its tip sinking deep into the beast’s chest. For a moment, time seemed to freeze—the monster’s eyes wide with fury, Rowan’s expression calm and unyielding. Then, with a guttural roar, the Coldbear collapsed to the ground, its massive frame hitting the snow with a thundering crash.

Rowan yanked his lance free, flicking the blood off the blade with a practiced motion. He didn’t even look back at me.

There he was again.

The best monster-hunter in the world.

And me? I was just standing there, my shield spell ready but untouched, watching him do what he did best.

Honestly, I doubted he even remembered I was here. It wasn’t like he needed me. He never had.

Rowan approached me, his lance resting casually over his shoulder, his expression as neutral as ever. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice as steady as if he’d just finished a stroll through the woods rather than a fight with a creature that could flatten most men in a heartbeat.

I nodded, letting my shield spell dissolve with a flick of my staff. “Right behind you,” I muttered, falling into step beside him.

I didn’t mind that my cut of the pay was smaller. Let’s be honest—I hadn’t done much to earn it. But still, after six months of this routine, I’d come to appreciate the education. Watching Rowan work was like a masterclass in monster hunting. His precision, his efficiency, his utter lack of hesitation—it was something you couldn’t learn from books or even most teachers.

The Coldbear was just another entry on the list of deadly beasts I’d seen him take down effortlessly. At least now, when the time came for me to step up again, I’d be better prepared.

The village came into view as we trudged through the snow, the distant outline of its simple wooden buildings barely visible through the falling flakes. The townsfolk had been too terrified to deal with the Coldbear themselves, but as soon as they spotted us approaching, a handful of them gathered at the edge of the village to meet us.

“Thank you!” one of the villagers called out, their voice shaking with relief. “Thank you both!”

I held back a smirk. Both.

Rowan nodded once, brief and businesslike, as the headman handed over a pouch of coins. He counted it quickly, handed me a smaller share without a word, then tucked the rest into his pack.

“Ready?” he asked, already walking toward the road.

I sighed, falling in step beside him again. “Always.”

Our next stop was the shore city of Drakemire, a bustling port town famous for its towering lighthouses and labyrinthine docks. According to Rowan, we’d be meeting an old friend of his there—a ship captain who’d join us on our journey and ferry us toward the capital.

A new ally, I thought, glancing at Rowan as we walked. It would be nice to have someone else along for the ride.

Though I doubted they’d make me feel any less like a third wheel.

The crunch of snow underfoot was the only sound between us as we walked. Occasionally, Rowan would glance at the horizon, his face as unreadable as ever. My mind, though, wandered to warmer days—to the times I journeyed with Roderick, or even when it was just me, alone. It was harder, yes, but at least I felt... something more. I wasn’t just a shadow trailing behind the best monster-hunter in the world.

But those days were gone.

Lucian’s visits to my nightmare, the lingering mark behind my ear, the weight of knowing there were still two demons left—all of it kept me moving forward. Rowan said he had dreamless nights. “Clean conscience,” he’d claimed, in his blunt, no-nonsense way. Must be nice.

Ahead of us, a group of soldiers appeared on the road, their dark shapes cutting through the falling snow. Most were walking, their heads bowed, their shoulders slumped, though a few rode horses that looked just as worn as their riders.

When they drew closer, I could see it—the pain etched into their faces, the defeat in their hollow eyes.

“It’s a demon, I swear!” one man cried out, his voice cracking. “That man—he didn’t even flinch. Nothing we did even scratched him!”

“Insane! A suicide mission!” another muttered, his hands trembling as he pulled his cloak tighter.

A third soldier—a young one, barely more than a boy—sobbed openly as he stumbled past us, his tears freezing on his cheeks.

Rowan and I stepped aside to let them pass, the snow crunching beneath their boots like a dirge. They didn’t look at us; their gazes were fixed somewhere far away, haunted by whatever horrors they’d faced.

I opened my mouth to say something, but what could I say? Instead, I just watched them go, their voices fading into the cold wind.

When the last of them disappeared into the distance, Rowan spoke, his tone unusually grim.

“It’s Astoroth,” he said. No preamble, no guessing. Just a fact. “No one else could do that to them.”

I swallowed, the cold biting harder now than before. “You’ve seen him,” I said, not a question but a statement.

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“Once,” Rowan replied. “A long time ago. I ran.”

The honesty in his voice was startling. Rowan Hale, the unshakable, indomitable monster-hunter, admitting to retreating?

“Smartest decision I ever made,” he added, as if reading my thoughts. His expression hardened as he adjusted his lance, the weapon catching the pale winter light. “And if we meet him this time... you’ll need to be smarter too.”

I nodded silently, my grip tightening on my staff as we resumed our walk. The soldiers’ words echoed in my mind.

I glanced sideways at Rowan, his stoic expression unchanging as we trudged through the snow. The words tumbled from my lips before I could second-guess them. “Do you think we have a chance? To actually defeat Astoroth?”

Rowan didn’t hesitate. “By myself? No.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, as though we were discussing the weather. “But with you? Maybe.”

His answer sent a jolt of something through me. Was it hope? Doubt? It was hard to tell.

“That’s why we need another person,” Rowan continued, his gaze fixed ahead. “Someone strong enough. Reliable. My friend is one of them.”

“You have someone in mind?” He asked, though my thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.

Roderick. His name echoed in my mind, unbidden. My brother, with his unyielding strength and reckless bravery. The one person I’d trust to guard my back through anything. But no—this wasn’t a fight I could drag him into. This wasn’t just about brute force. This was life or death, and I couldn’t put him in that kind of danger. Not for this.

So I shook my head and replied simply, “No.”

But even as the word left my mouth, my mind kept wandering. I did have someone in mind.

I hesitated, the silence stretching between us as the snowy road crunched beneath our boots. Finally, I said it aloud, the name that had lingered at the edge of my thoughts. “I do have someone.”

Rowan glanced at me, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “Who?”

“The best mage in the continent,” I said.

We both spoke her name at the same time.

“Sihir.”

Rowan nodded, his expression unreadable, but I could see the flicker of recognition. “You know her?” I asked, though I already suspected the answer.

“Of course,” he replied, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Everyone does.”

I let out a quiet sigh. “Then you also know how much of a pain she is.”

Rowan’s smirk widened, just slightly. “The best usually are.”

Rowan adjusted his grip on his lance, his voice steady as he said, “Had a mission with her once. Very efficient. Her raw magical power is above yours, no question. She’s built for destruction.”

I glanced at him, noticing the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “But?”

He let out a faint chuckle, a rare sound from him. “But for god’s sake, she’s unbearable.”

I had to bite back a laugh. “You don’t say?”

“She could probably take down Astoroth with a single shot, assuming everything aligns perfectly,” Rowan continued, his tone shifting to something more serious. “Her attacks are devastating, no doubt. She deserves every ounce of her reputation.”

I nodded, unable to argue with that. “She does. I’ll admit, my mana pool’s bigger, but when it comes to sheer magical power? She’s on another level. A hundred times over, even.”

“She’s called the best mage in the continent for a reason,” Rowan agreed.

For a moment, the two of us trudged in silence, the only sound the crunch of snow beneath our boots. Finally, I broke it, my voice quieter. “If only she were here. Everything would be easier, wouldn’t it?”

The words felt heavy, tinged with sadness that I hadn’t intended to show.

Rowan shrugged, his usual stoicism returning. “I know you well enough,” he said, his tone calm but confident. “If you and Sihir ever dueled to the death, I’d put my money on you.”

I blinked at him, caught off guard by the unexpected vote of confidence. “You would?”

He glanced at me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Every time.”

The cold bite of winter was still in the air as we finally reached Drakemire. The bay city spread out before us, perched along the coast like a glittering jewel amidst the snow-dusted cliffs. Its skyline was dominated by graceful spires and arching bridges, all crafted in the delicate yet enduring style of elven architecture. From the bustling harbor to the winding streets that wove between slender, towering buildings, Drakemire exuded a sense of ancient beauty and quiet resilience.

But something felt off. As we moved through the city’s gates and onto its polished cobblestone streets, I couldn’t help but notice that the people bustling around us were all elves. Every shopkeeper, guard, and fisherman. Not a single dwarf, human, or orc to be seen.

“Notice something?” Rowan asked, his voice breaking into my thoughts.

I looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “You read minds now?”

He smirked faintly. “Don’t need to. Most people notice it right away. Drakemire’s exclusive. Elves only.”

“Why?” I asked, glancing at a group of elven children laughing as they chased each other near a fountain carved in the shape of a leaping dolphin.

“History.” Rowan gestured at the bay. “Drakemire was founded centuries ago by a fleet of elven explorers. This place was nothing but rock and storm. The bay was nearly impossible to navigate, filled with jagged reefs, fierce tides, and something worse.”

“Worse?” I prompted, intrigued despite myself.

“A kraken,” Rowan said, his tone matter-of-fact. “A massive, ancient one. It’s said to have guarded the waters around Drakemire, attacking any ship that dared venture too close. The elves didn’t just settle here—they earned this land by killing the kraken and claiming its lair.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “A kraken? You’re serious?”

He nodded, gesturing to the statues and carvings scattered around the city—images of tentacles, seashells, and waves worked into every corner of Drakemire’s design. “It’s not just a story. The bones of the thing are still here, buried in the cliffs beneath the city. Drakemire was built on victory, on proving they could survive anything the sea threw at them. That’s why it’s still standing, why it’s elves only. It’s their prize, their legacy.”

I studied the city with new eyes, noticing the way the elves carried themselves, with a kind of quiet pride and belonging.

“You’ve been here before, I take it?” I asked, looking over at Rowan.

He nodded again, his gaze distant for a moment. “Kraken hunting, as a matter of fact. A different one. Smaller, meaner. Drakemire’s waters are still dangerous—less so with me around.”

I rolled my eyes at that. “Humble as always.”

Rowan gave a faint smile, his pace steady as we made our way deeper into the city. “It’s the truth. Drakemire pays well for protection. They don’t take kindly to threats, and they’ll throw gold at anyone who keeps them safe.”

I made a mental note of that, my gaze lingering on the intricate carvings on the walls and the quiet determination in the elves’ faces. This place was a fortress of its own kind, proud and unyielding. Just like the people who called it home.

Rowan adjusted the straps on his armor, giving it a tug as he looked toward the bustling city ahead. “Head to the bar,” he said, his tone flat but firm. “I need to repair this armor and sharpen my lance. Elves may not be my favorite company, but their craftsmanship is almost on par with dwarves. Worth the coin.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked off toward the smithy, his braid swaying with each step. For someone who claimed not to like elves, he moved with a sort of ease that suggested this wasn’t his first visit to Drakemire.

I watched him go for a moment, then turned toward the nearest inn. Silver Tides, the carved wooden sign read, swaying gently in the cold wind.

The biting chill of the winter air seeped through every layer of my clothing, and the idea of stepping into a warm bar was far too tempting to resist. I pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside.

The warmth hit me immediately, like an embrace after a long journey. A roaring hearth sat at the far end of the room, the flames casting flickering golden light over polished wooden beams and intricately carved furniture. The scent of mulled wine and roasting meat mingled in the air, a far cry from the stale ale and smoke-filled taverns I’d grown used to in human cities.

The pub was modestly busy. Fishermen with weathered hands and dockworkers with salt-streaked hair occupied the long benches, their quiet chatter blending with the soft melody of a lute played by an elven bard in the corner. A group of traders huddled over maps at one table, their voices low but animated.

Elven craftsmanship was evident in every detail—the delicate filigree on the iron lanterns that hung from the ceiling, the seamless joinery of the tables and chairs, and even the smooth, glistening bar top that looked like it had been polished every day for decades.

I made my way to an empty table near the hearth, shrugging off my cloak and letting the warmth sink into my bones. A barmaid with silver hair and an easy smile approached, her long fingers deftly balancing a tray of steaming mugs. “Welcome, traveler,” she said warmly. “What can I get you?”

“Something hot,” I replied, rubbing my hands together.

The barmaid returned moments later, carrying a clay mug that steamed gently in the warm pub air. She set it in front of me with a small smile. “Drakemire’s specialty,” she said, her voice melodic. “Perfect for a traveler looking to shake off the cold.”

I wrapped my hands around the mug, the heat seeping into my fingers as I stared down at the rich, dark liquid within. A frothy layer sat on top, speckled with a fine dusting of something that smelled faintly sweet and earthy. When I lifted the mug closer, the aroma deepened—warm and inviting, with hints of something roasted and slightly bitter, but mellowed by a subtle creaminess.

“What is it?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A Draeven brew,” she replied with a sly grin. “Elves don’t just craft fine weapons and boats, you know. Drink up—you’ll see.”

I hesitated for only a moment before taking a cautious sip. Warmth bloomed across my tongue, rich and velvety, with just a hint of sweetness that wasn’t overpowering. The drink was thick, almost decadent, but not heavy. It left a faint, nutty aftertaste that lingered just long enough to make me want another sip.

I blinked, caught off guard by how much I enjoyed it. “This is... good,” I admitted, earning a chuckle from the barmaid before she turned back toward the bar.

I cradled the mug in my hands, savoring the warmth and the rare indulgence. The rich drink was unlike anything I’d ever tasted on my travels—no ale, cider, or spiced brew could compare. It was comforting in a way I hadn’t expected, soothing the edges of my exhaustion from months on the road.

For a moment, I let myself simply exist in the cozy atmosphere, savoring the warmth of the pub as I sipped the Draeven brew. The fire crackled cheerfully, and the soft melody of a lute drifted through the air, lulling the patrons into a tranquil buzz. It was a rare moment of peace, a small reprieve from the chill of the outside world.

Then, the door burst open.

The sudden gust of icy wind that swept into the room made me shiver, clutching my cup a little tighter. Heads turned sharply toward the entrance as the warm atmosphere was replaced by a startled hush.

The man standing in the doorway was a sight to behold. Broad-shouldered and tall, he was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak dusted with snow, the edges frayed from travel. His sun-weathered skin spoke of long days under a harsher sun than this one, and his dark, piercing eyes scanned the room with unyielding intensity. Resting on his shoulder was a sleek raven, its glossy feathers catching the flickering firelight. It cawed once, sharply, as if punctuating his arrival.

Then he bellowed, his voice booming through the pub like a thunderclap. “MY NAME IS ERYON! I COME FROM A FAR LAND NAMED VALKTHARA! I SEEK A SEA CAPTAIN TO TAKE ME TO THE CAPITAL CITY!”

The declaration hung in the air like a challenge, his words loud enough to rattle the mugs on nearby tables.

The pub froze. All conversation stopped as everyone stared, some in confusion, others in annoyance. Nobody moved or spoke, the silence punctuated only by the faint crackling of the fire and the bird’s low caw.

“Shut up, Eryon,” came a slurred voice from a corner.

Heads turned again, this time toward the source.

The speaker was a woman slouched over a table, one hand loosely gripping the stem of an empty wineglass. Her short, unkempt hair framed a face flushed red from drink, and her half-lidded eyes lazily regarded the towering man at the door. A battered staff rested against her chair, the crystal embedded in its tip faintly flickering with erratic light.

“And close the damn door,” she added, her words weaving through the haze of drunkenness.

Eryon’s brows furrowed as he glanced back at the door, then slammed it shut with enough force to rattle the walls. Without missing a beat, he strode toward the woman, both axes suddenly in his hands, the faint metallic gleam catching the firelight. His posture screamed one thing: confrontation.

The raven cawed again, this time sounding almost amused.

It took four elves—muscular, well-built ones at that—to stop him. They grabbed his arms and shoulders, straining to hold him back as he pushed forward, his boots scraping loudly against the wooden floor.

Eryon’s glare was murderous, his axes glinting dangerously under the warm pub light. The elves holding him back struggled, their boots sliding on the polished wooden floor as they tried to keep the furious giant at bay.

The woman—whoever she was—didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. She leaned further back in her chair, the crooked smirk still plastered on her face, and took a long, lazy sip from her mug.

I didn’t recognize her. Short, wild hair, the glint of mischief in her hazy eyes, and a battered staff resting against her table—it was clear she was no ordinary drunk. There was an edge to her, something raw beneath the slouching, carefree demeanor.

Eryon, on the other hand, was a completely different storm. Standing there with a raven perched on his shoulder, his wild, untamed look was amplified by his towering frame and the way he brandished those twin axes like they were extensions of his own arms. The raven let out another sharp caw, as if taunting the entire room.

I leaned back, muttering under my breath, “Perfect. Just what this day was missing.”

Eryon’s deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. “You. Take back what you said, or I’ll carve those words out of your tongue.”

The woman chuckled, her head tilting back as if she found the whole thing wildly entertaining. “You could try,” she said, her voice heavy with mockery. “But I’d hate to see you trip over your own ego on the way.”

My brow twitched. I didn’t know either of these people, but it was clear that letting this escalate wouldn’t end well—for them or for the pub.

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To be continued