The morning sun is already high when Ignis and King finally emerge from the mouth of the Crypts of Eldor. The golden light seems almost offensive after so many hours in the cold darkness of the dungeon. The fresh air of the forest surrounding the northern hill of Pritha carries the scent of pine and damp earth—a brutal contrast to the stench of death and sulfur that still clings to their clothes.
King walks more slowly than usual, shoulders slightly hunched. Samael's torture still echoes in his head, a thousand times over like a hammer. He carries his axe on his back, as always, but his hands are clenched into fists, the knuckles white with tension.
Ignis, beside him, keeps a steady pace, but her eyes constantly scan the surroundings. The conversation with Samael—and the genuine fear she felt of his sadism—has left her alert as she rarely is.
They are less than a hundred meters from the entrance when they hear the dry crack of a branch behind a bush to the right of the path.
Ignis stops immediately, his tail hidden beneath his cloak bristling.
Ignis: (low voice) We have company.
Before King can respond, a small, agile figure leaps from atop a nearby rock, directly towards them.
It's a halfling—barely a meter tall, with disheveled brown hair, dark clothes, and large, gleaming eyes of greed. In each hand, a curved, poisoned dagger gleams in the sun. He falls in deadly silence, aiming for King's neck with the precision of someone who has done this many times before.
Halfling Rogue: (hissing through clenched teeth) Hand over everything you took down there and maybe I'll let you live!
King reacts purely on instinct. He doesn't touch the axe on his back. Instead, he turns and lunges forward with clenched fists.
The halfling tries to plunge a dagger into King's exposed shoulder, but the barbarian is faster. A brutal punch, straight to the small thief's chest, hits him squarely. The impact is like a hammer against an anvil—ribs crack audibly, air leaves the halfling's lungs in a hoarse groan. He flies back three meters, rolling on the ground with feline agility.
The halfling staggers to his feet, coughing up blood, and desperately throws two star shuriken from his sleeve. One grazes Ignis's arm, cutting his cloak and leaving a trickle of dark blood; the other lodges in King's chest. The barbarian's thick skin, a physical characteristic of his race, absorbs the impact like old leather. No growl of pain, no flinch. King simply feels nothing; the shuriken was little more than an insect bite to him.
King rips the shuriken from his leg with his hand, throwing it to the ground, and charges forward again—fists ready, tribal tattoos gleaming with renewed fury.
King: (deep, heavy voice) You picked the wrong day, shorty. (Cracking his fists) After what happened, I need to relieve the tension.
The halfling realizes his fatal mistake. He looks at Ignis—who already has flames dancing at the tips of his claws, and his wings spread—and at King, who advances like an avalanche of muscle and rage. His eyes widen in genuine terror.
Halfling: (stuttering, recoiling) A D-dragon?! And... and you're crazy! I... I didn't know!
He turns and dashes towards the forest, his short legs moving with impressive speed, disappearing among the trees in seconds.
Ignis lowers her hand, her wings shrinking. She looks in the direction the halfling fled, then at King, who touches his wounded chest without an expression of pain, only a tiny stain of blood trickling down.
Ignis: (with a slight smile) Didn't even blink at that. "Your skin is as tough as my scales."
King slowly relaxes his fists, flexing the halfling's dirt- and blood-stained fingers.
King: (hoarsely) We Goliaths evolved to ignore the pain of wounds. Fists don't need it.
Ignis nods, adjusting his cloak over the superficial cut on his arm.
Ignis: That's a sign. The news has already spread. The dungeon has been "cleared." The vultures are coming. And soon... more than vultures.
King: (looking back at the dungeon entrance, now silent under the sun) Come what may. I'll be ready. With or without an axe.
Ignis: I know. Let's go back to the city.
The two resume their journey to Pritha, the sun shining high, oblivious to the shadows that begin to stir in places far deeper than any dungeon—and to the silent fury that now burns stronger in King's chest.
After leaving behind the Eldor Crypts hill and the encounter with the cowardly halfling, Ignis and King arrive at the gates of Pritha without further incident. The city is bustling as always, but they ignore the curious glances of the guards and merchants.
The plan is simple: a quick stop for supplies, perhaps a hot meal, and then continue on to Eldoria at dawn. But King's stomach rumbles like distant thunder, and Ignis knows that a hungry barbarian is a distracted barbarian. Ignis: (looking at the setting sun, tinging the towers orange) Let's go to the Boar Hat. It's near the guild, has decent food, and beer that won't knock you out.
King: (nodding, touching the Valknut necklace to his chest to center himself) Good idea. I need something strong to drown out these echoes in my head.
They turned towards the Blade Quarter, where the "Boar Hat" tavern stood out with its creaking sign: a stylized boar wearing a crooked felt hat, swaying in the wind. The place was known for attracting adventurers of all kinds—from the dreamy novice to the scarred veteran. The smell of grilled meat and exotic spices wafted through the open door, mingling with the murmur of loud conversations and laughter.
Upon entering, the crowded hall greeted them with a welcoming warmth. Thick wooden tables occupied by mixed groups: elves drinking light wine, dwarves with overflowing mugs, humans boasting about recent quests. A halfling bard in the corner plays a lively lyre, singing of "heroes who tamed death." The tavern keeper, a burly man with a thick mustache and a stained apron, waves from the counter.
Tavern Keeper: (shouting over the noise) Ignis! King! Sit down! I heard the Eldor dungeon is quiet again. Was it you rascals?
Ignis sits on a high stool, while King occupies a sturdy chair that creaks under his weight.
Ignis: (with an evasive smile) Someone decided. A round of beer and the house roast boar. Double portion for the big guy.
King: (grunting) And mead. Strong.
While they wait, a group of adventurers at the next table turns to them, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
While they wait, a group of adventurers at the next table turns to them, their eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Adventurer 1 (a human warrior with a scar on his face): Hey, is it true they saw a demon down there? My cousin was one of those who disappeared... and now the guild says it's cleared.
King exchanges a glance with Ignis, his hand instinctively going to the Valknut necklace. The divine pulse calms him, but the mention of demons pokes at Samael's fresh wound.
King: (low voice, almost a growl) It wasn't just any demon. It was something worse. But it's over.
Adventurer 2 (an elven mage, curious): It wasn't just any demon? What do you mean?
Ignis: (interrupting firmly, before King says too much) Nothing worth repeating. The dungeon is safe now. End of discussion.
The tavern keeper arrives with steaming platters: roasted boar with herb sauce, warm bread, cheeses, and a jug of mead that smells of honey and fire. King attacks the food voraciously, his fists gripping the bone of the meat as if it were a weapon. The meal helps—the warmth in his stomach drives away the echoes of mental torture.
While they eat, Ignis unfurls a discreet map on the table, tracing the path to Eldoria with a sharp claw.
Ignis: (whispering) Two weeks on the road, weather permitting. We'll pass through forests, a wide river... and rumors of bandits. But in Eldoria, the arcane library has ancient tomes on planar seals. If the prophecy is true, we'll find answers there.
King: (chewing a piece of meat, his voice firmer now) And allies. If the Demon returns, we'll need more than just the two of us.
Suddenly, the local bard stops playing and announces a new song: "The Ballad of Kyton of Chains". The lyrics speak of a being of shadows and chains that cleanses evil and lives in sadism. Ignis and King freeze, exchanging glances. Rumors have already spread... or is Samael playing with us? They wonder...
The Boar Hat tavern is at the height of its lively atmosphere. The fire in the hearth crackles loudly, the smell of roasted boar and spilled beer fills the air, and the crowd sings along with the halfling bard who has just finished her ballad about "Kyton of the Chains." Applause echoes, mugs clink on the tables.
King is finishing his second jug of mead, his hunger satisfied, but his mind still heavy. Ignis observes the hall with attentive eyes, the map rolled up beside the empty platter.
Then the music stops for a moment. The bard descends from the stage with feline grace, her lute swinging on her shoulder, and walks directly to Ignis and King's table. The hall follows with curious glances; famous bards always attract attention.
She is a human bard—or at least she appears to be. Tall for a mortal woman, her slender body enveloped in a dark green dress with gold details, her wavy red hair falling to her waist, an ornate lute in her hands. Her face is beautiful, with delicate features and a seductive-ironic smile that makes half the hall turn their heads. She makes an exaggerated curtsy, receiving whistles and applause.
She stops before them, resting a hand on the table, leaning slightly with that smile that promises stories and perhaps more.
Bard: (soft, seductive voice) Ignis Coppervein, the legendary copper dragon in mortal form... always a pleasure to see beauty and wisdom together. (wink at Ignis)
Ignis raises an eyebrow, amused but cautious.
Ignis: You know me by name... how do you know I'm a dragon?
The bard laughs, a light, musical laugh, and turns to King.
Bard: And you... the big guy from the northern lands. King, the Fist of Thor. They say his punches create envious thunder. It's an honor...
She extends her hand in greeting—a seemingly innocent gesture, slender, elegant fingers. The instant her hand approaches King's broad shoulder, her voice changes.
The seductive, feminine tone suddenly deepens, becoming grave, resonant, multifaceted—as if several voices were speaking simultaneously from within a deep well.
Bard/Samael: ...to meet someone who has seen and spoken directly with a deity.
The bard's eyes, once bright green, blink once—and turn scarlet, intense, familiar.
King freezes. His hand instinctively flies to the Valknut necklace, gripping it tightly. The divine pulse anchors him, but his blood runs cold.
Ignis rises halfway from his chair, flames already forming in his claws beneath the table, his red eyes narrowed in contained fury. Ignis: (growling, furious) Samael...
The surrounding room continues laughing and drinking, oblivious. To them, the bard was merely making an inside joke. No one notices the subtle change in the aura, the faint smell of sulfur that lingers only around the table.
Samael (in the bard's form) smiles—the same lazy and sadistic smile as always, now on feminine lips.
Samael: (voice back to the bard's normal tone, but with an ironic tone that only they recognize) I told you we would meet again.
He sits down uninvited, crossing his legs like an elegant lady, the lute resting on his lap.
Samael: (looking directly at King, his scarlet eyes gleaming) How's your head, big guy? Does that little souvenir from daddy still hurt? (He touches his face, his hand glows and all memories of the torture are erased) There... feeling better?
King growls softly, flinching from her touch, his fists clenched on the table, the Valknut necklace gleaming faintly beneath his shirt.
King: (hoarse, heavy voice) What do you want, Kyton?
Samael: (raising his hands in feigned innocence) Nothing. Just a drink with the heroes of the day. And perhaps… a friendly warning.
He leans forward, the smile fading for a second—something serious, almost genuine, passing through his golden eyes.
Samael: (low voice, just for the two of them) The cracks are growing faster than I expected. He smells fear in the air. And fear… feeds. He should be able to get out in a few years. Maybe… five years.
Ignis: (coldly) And you came to warn us out of kindness?
Samael laughs again, his voice returning to the bard's seductive tone for an instant, before deepening once more.
Samael: Kindness? No. Curiosity. I want to see what you'll do. If you'll run, fight, or... try to seal it again. (She stands, gracefully adjusting her dress) Either way, it'll be fun.
He winks at Ignis, then at King.
Samael: Enjoy the night, my dears. Pritha is still safe... for now. We'll see each other again someday. For now, I'll return to Hell... (shrugging) my time here is over.
With a theatrical bow, he turns and walks back to the stage, the lute already in his hands. The music begins again—a cheerful song about lost loves—and the hall applauds as if nothing had happened.
Ignis and King remain silent, looking at the figure of the bard who now sings sweetly again.
King: (touching the necklace, low voice) He's playing with us. Like cats and mice.
Ignis: (exhaling fire through his nostrils, restrained) Yes. But he's also scared. And that... that worries me more than the sadism.
They finish their drinks in silence, pay the bill, and go up to their room. The road to Eldoria awaits them at dawn—and now, more than ever, they know that time is running out.