The guild hall was still loud when dawn arrived.
Not the roaring chaos of last night—but the restless noise of people who had slept badly and woken early. Chairs scraped. Armor clinked. Someone cursed softly while nursing a hangover.
Altair slept through all of it.
He lay sprawled across two chairs pushed together near the wall, coat folded under his head, one arm hanging loosely toward the floor. His breathing was slow. Even. Too relaxed for someone who had just accepted a Gold-ranked mission as a Copper.
A few adventurers glanced his way.
"…He's actually sleeping." "Is he stupid?" "Or fearless." "…Same thing."
Footsteps approached.
Careful ones.
Altair's eyes opened.
Just slightly.
No tension. No alarm. As if he'd been awake the entire time and simply decided now was a good moment to acknowledge the world.
The old man stood a short distance away, hands clasped behind his back. His wife hovered beside him, cloak pulled tight around her shoulders despite the warmth indoors.
"Ah—" the old man said softly. "Young… sir."
Altair blinked once.
Then sat up.
He stretched, arms lifting overhead as his spine cracked faintly. A yawn followed—unbothered, unhurried.
"…You're ready?" he asked.
The old woman nodded quickly. "The carriage is prepared."
Altair swung his legs off the chairs and stood in one smooth motion. No stiffness. No hesitation.
Several adventurers fell silent.
He adjusted his coat, rolled his shoulders once, then glanced at the couple.
"Let's go."
That was it.
No questions. No reassurances. No speeches.
He walked past them toward the exit.
The guild doors creaked open.
Morning light spilled in.
Altair stepped outside.
The street had gathered an audience.
Adventurers leaned against walls. Merchants paused mid-task. Someone up on a balcony craned their neck for a better look.
Altair didn't slow.
At the edge of the square, the carriage waited.
Its frame was reinforced darkwood, polished but unadorned—luxurious without screaming nobility. Gold-lined lanterns hung at the corners, their glass still warm from recent use. Thick leather curtains swayed gently as the driver adjusted the reins.
At the front stood the horses.
No.
Beasts.
Broad-shouldered. Six-legged. Iron-gray coats that caught the morning light with a muted sheen. Ember-colored manes smoldered faintly along their necks as they breathed, steam curling from their nostrils.
Their hooves struck stone with a deep, measured sound as they shifted—controlled, patient.
Gravehorns.
A common name for uncommon beasts.
They did not spook. They did not fidget. They waited.
Altair stopped beside them and glanced up.
"…Nice ride," he remarked.
The driver stiffened, unsure how to respond.
Altair didn't wait.
He opened the carriage door and stepped inside, settling across from the old couple without ceremony. One arm draped over the seat. One leg crossing casually over the other.
The old woman hesitated—then climbed in after him.
The old man followed, glancing once at the watching crowd before the door closed.
Outside, murmurs rose.
"He's really going." "With them?" "Copper-ranked lunatic…"
The carriage lurched gently as the driver clicked his tongue.
The Gravehorns moved.
Stone gave way to road.
And Grayhaven fell behind them.
Inside the carriage, the air was quiet.
The old woman sat with her hands folded in her lap, fingers laced tightly despite herself. The old man stared out through the open curtain, eyes scanning the rising slopes ahead.
Altair lounged across from them.
One arm draped casually over the seat. One leg crossed over the other. His posture made it look less like an escort mission and more like a leisurely ride.
The mountains rose to meet them.
Not gradually.
Not gently.
The Ashfall Mountains climbed straight out of the land like broken teeth, jagged ridges tearing upward into the sky. Their peaks were stained black and gray, soot clinging to stone that should have been bare. Scorch marks traced long, uneven scars across the cliffs—as if fire had once poured freely through these passes and never fully left.
The stone itself looked wrong.
Darker. Denser.
Veins of dull crimson threaded through the rock, faint and half-buried, like embers trapped beneath cooled ash.
The road narrowed as it pressed deeper between the cliffs.
Stone walls rose on either side, cutting off the horizon. Wind slipped through the pass in uneven gusts, brushing against the carriage and carrying heat that didn't belong to the sun alone.
It was dry.
Brittle.
And beneath it—
something sharp.
A sound cut through the air.
High.
Thin.
It echoed once—then fractured, bouncing between the cliffs before fading into nothing.
The carriage creaked.
The old woman stiffened, fingers tightening in her lap.
"…Did you hear that?" she asked, voice low.
Altair tilted his head slightly.
He didn't speak at first.
Another sound followed—longer this time. A screech that scraped against stone, stretching as it moved, echoing down the pass like a warning dragged across metal.
Altair's lips curved.
"Yeah," he said lightly. "That's them."
The old man's throat bobbed as he swallowed.
"…Wyverns."
The Gravehorns reacted a heartbeat later.
One snorted sharply, hooves striking stone harder than before. The other slowed, muscles bunching beneath its iron-gray hide as its ember-colored mane flared faintly with agitation.
The driver clicked his tongue, reins snapping once as he leaned forward.
"Easy," he muttered. "Easy…"
Another screech rang out.
Closer.
The sound rolled through the mountains, heavier now, carrying weight behind it. Pebbles rattled loose from the cliffside and skittered down the rock face.
The Gravehorns faltered for half a step.
Then steadied.
Inside the carriage, tension coiled tight.
Altair leaned back against the seat.
Relaxed.
One arm draped loosely at his side, posture unguarded—almost lazy—as if the mountains weren't closing in around them at all.
His eyes gleamed faintly.
Interested.
The old man glanced at him again.
He hadn't meant to.
But the ease in Altair's posture—legs stretched, shoulders loose, gaze half-lidded while the mountains pressed closer—gnawed at him.
Concern finally won.
"Boy," he said carefully, choosing his words like stepping across thin ice,
"have you ever… fought wyverns before?"
Altair blinked.
Once.
Then his lips twitched.
A breath escaped him—not quite laughter at first, more like disbelief.
"Fought them?" he echoed.
He leaned back into the seat, head tilting until it rested against the carriage wall. His eyes drifted upward, unfocused, as if the ceiling had turned into a memory instead.
"I wiped out a whole army of them when I was a kid."
He laughed again.
Soft.
Almost fond.
Like he'd just remembered an embarrassing childhood story.
The carriage didn't just quiet.
It stalled.
The wheels kept turning. The Gravehorns kept moving.
But inside—
nothing.
The old woman turned toward him slowly, her brows knitting together. Her lips parted, then closed again, as if the words she wanted didn't quite make sense yet.
The old man stared.
Not rudely.
Not accusingly.
Just… processing.
"…A kid?" he repeated.
The word sounded wrong in his mouth.
Altair lifted one hand lazily and waved it in the air.
"Don't overthink it," he said, tone light, dismissive. "It's not important."
Not important.
The old woman swallowed.
"B-But… wyverns don't gather in armies," she said hesitantly. "They're territorial. Even two together is rare."
The old man nodded slowly.
"And a child…" he added, voice low. "No offense meant, but even seasoned knights—"
Altair cracked one eye open.
Just one.
A faint grin curved his lips.
"That's why it was fun," he said.
He closed his eye again.
The couple fell silent.
They exchanged glances—quick, uncertain looks filled with unspoken questions.
Was he exaggerating?
Joking?
Delusional?
Or—
The carriage jolted slightly as the road steepened.
Stone pressed closer on both sides. The air grew warmer. Thicker.
Altair's smile lingered.
He noticed their confusion.
And, quietly—
he enjoyed it.
The road climbed higher.
And the mountains waited.
Ashfall's heart opened before them—steep cliffs on either side, blackened stone rising like broken teeth. The sky had begun to darken, dusk bleeding into the mountain shadows.
Another roar tore through the air.
This one closer.
The Gravehorns screamed.
Their legs buckled as instinct finally took hold. One reared, the other slammed sideways, harnesses snapping taut. The carriage lurched violently, wheels lifting for a breathless moment.
"Easy! Easy!" the driver shouted, hauling the reins with practiced strength.
The beasts fought their panic, hooves skidding before finally regaining footing.
Inside the carriage, the old woman grabbed the seat.
Her voice trembled.
"Y-You're copper-ranked," she said, unable to stop herself. "Why are you so calm?"
Altair yawned.
Actually yawned.
He stretched his arms overhead, joints popping faintly.
"I'm copper-ranked," he said lazily, "because I joined yesterday."
He lowered his arms and looked at her.
"Not because I'm weak."
Before either of them could respond—
A roar exploded overhead.
So close it rattled the carriage frame.
Altair's eyes opened.
Bright.
Interested.
A grin spread across his face.
"…There we go."
The Gravehorns screamed again, hooves stamping wildly.
Altair stood.
He reached for the carriage door and pushed it open.
Heat rushed in.
Wind whipped his coat.
Altair stepped out.
The mountains answered.
Wind screamed through the pass as something vast shifted above. Shadows slid across the cliff walls—long, warped shapes stretching and breaking as they passed over jagged stone. One screech rang out.
Then another.
Then many.
The sound didn't come from one direction.
It came from everywhere.
Altair stopped walking.
Not abruptly.
Just… naturally.
As if this was exactly where he'd planned to stand.
The sky overhead was already darkening, dusk bleeding into the last sliver of sunlight clinging stubbornly to the peaks. Clouds hung low, thick and bruised, dragging their bellies across the mountain crests.
Something moved inside them.
Altair tilted his head back.
Rolled his shoulders once.
Cracked his neck.
Then his knuckles.
The sound was small.
Almost laughably so.
Above him, the clouds broke.
Not all at once.
One shape emerged first—then another—then many.
Wide wings cut through the thinning mist, beating slowly, deliberately. Massive silhouettes circled the pass, their shadows overlapping, stacking, swallowing the road in layers of darkness.
They didn't dive.
They claimed the sky.
Altair's eyes followed them upward, crimson pupils catching what little light remained. His lips curved—slowly—into a grin that showed far too much teeth.
Wyverns.
As they descended, the last of the sunlight struck them.
Scales glinted—wet slate and dark iron, ridged and layered like armor grown rather than forged. Their bodies were built for the air alone: no forelimbs, only vast, bat-like wings stretching outward, membranes taut and veined as they leveled out of their spirals.
Powerful hind legs tucked beneath them, claws curled tight.
Long, serpentine necks bent against the wind, coiling back before snapping forward. Narrow heads turned downward, beak-like jaws parting just enough to reveal rows of hooked teeth.
But it was their tails that dragged the eye.
Thick. Muscular.
Ending not in a taper—but in a swollen, chitinous scorpion stinger.
Venom glistened along its curve, catching the light as each tail swayed lazily through the air.
One.
Two.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen.
They formed a descending ring, wings beating in slow, thunderous rhythm, screeches overlapping into a chorus that shook loose pebbles from the cliffs.
Below them—
Altair stood alone.
Boots planted firmly on stone.
Hands loose at his sides.
Completely relaxed.
His eyes never leave them.
And with his wide smile.
"Alright," he said casually, voice carrying easily through the screaming wind.
He planted his feet.
"Let's see how long you last."
The wyverns descended.
And the sky closed in around him.
To Be Continued…