Chapter 1: The Statue's Gaze

Harlan wiped the sweat from his brow, the rough linen of his sleeve scraping against skin burned red from the sun. The heat pressed down on Southport like a blacksmith's forge, unnatural for this time of year, when the sea breeze should have carried the chill of the gulf. He stood in the midst of his fields, the earth soft under his boots, the scent of turned soil and salt mixing in the air. His cattle grazed lazily, their low moos a familiar rhythm, while in the distance, the town bustled with the day's labors—fishermen hauling nets that smelled of brine and fish guts, merchants calling out prices in voices hoarse from haggling, children laughing as they chased gulls across the cobblestones.

"Hotter than a forge today," a voice called from the road. Harlan looked up to see Old Man Corwin, the town's blacksmith, leading his cart toward the market. The man's face was red with heat, his shirt soaked through. "Never seen it like this in all my years. The sea should be cooling us, but it's like the gulf itself is boiling."

"Aye," Harlan called back, leaning on his pitchfork. "Unnatural, this heat. Makes the cattle restless."

"Everything's restless," Corwin said, pausing to wipe his brow. "Even the fish are staying deep. The fishermen came back with empty nets this morning. Said the water felt wrong, like something was stirring it up from below."

Harlan nodded, though the words made him uneasy. Southport was no grand city like Haze, with its towers and sorcerers; it was a place of simple folk, where life turned with the tides, and the empire's banner flew high but distant, a grey eagle on crimson that fluttered over the gates like a half-forgotten promise. Harlan had lived here all his forty-two years, farming the same fields his father had tilled, raising his boys to know the feel of good earth between their fingers. The Race Wars had ended barely a year past, and peace—true peace—still felt like a fragile thing, something that could shatter with the wrong word or the wrong look. But here, in Southport, far from the capital's intrigues, life had settled into a rhythm that felt almost normal.

"Probably just a strange season," Harlan said, more to reassure himself than Corwin. "The weather's been odd since the wars ended."

"Odd's one word for it," Corwin muttered, then clucked to his horse. "Well, I've got iron to work. Stay cool, Harlan."

Harlan watched him go, then leaned on his pitchfork, the wood worn smooth from years of use, and squinted at the sky. Something was wrong. The air shimmered, hot and thick, as if the gods themselves had stoked a fire in the heavens. A low rumble rolled in, not the thunder of a storm, but deeper, like the growl of a beast from Old Nan's tales—the kind his grandmother had whispered by the hearth when he was a boy, stories of dragons and wildlings from beyond the seas. Harlan shook his head, pushing the thought away. Those were children's fears, and he was no child, not with a farm to tend and a family to feed.

The cattle stirred, heads lifting, ears twitching. Harlan followed their gaze, and his blood ran cold.

A red blur streaked across the horizon, growing, unfolding into wings like sails of bloodied leather. It was no bird, no cloud. Scales caught the light, gleaming like heated iron, eyes burning with a hunger that made his stomach twist. A dragon. The word lodged in his throat like a bone. Sailors spoke of such creatures from Draconia, that cursed isle far south, but they were myths, tales to scare green boys. Yet here it came, diving low, its roar shattering the air like cracking stone.

Harlan dropped the pitchfork and ran, his boots pounding the earth, heart hammering in his chest. "Run, you fools!" he shouted to no one, the words lost in the wind. Flames burst from the beast's maw, a river of fire that swept the field. The cattle bellowed in agony, their hides blistering, flesh charring in an instant, the stench of burned hair and meat filling his nostrils. He gagged, stumbling as heat washed over him like a wave. The barns ignited, timbers cracking with pops like breaking bones, embers swirling up into the sky like angry spirits.

From the town, screams rose, sharp and piercing. People spilled from houses, faces twisted in terror, clutching babes and bundles. "Dragon! Gods save us, a dragon!" a woman cried, her voice breaking as she dragged a child by the hand. The guards at the gates—hard men like Tomas, young and cocky with a grin that hid his green years, and Captain Elara, with her scar from some long-ago skirmish snaking down her cheek—scrambled, swords drawn but trembling in their grips. Tomas climbed the tower, his face pale as milk, hands slippery with sweat as he yanked the bell rope. The tolling boomed, deep and urgent, vibrating in Harlan's chest as he reached the gates.

Elara stood tall amid the chaos, her long red hair streaked with silver whipping in the hot wind, her blue and silver armor gleaming despite the years. It was the old style of the emperor's royal guard, emblematic colors that spoke of a life long past: fights beside Baltius the Second in the Race Wars, blades clashing against elves and orcs in mud-churned fields, the weight of oaths that had once bound her to the throne. She had retired to Southport for peace, or so the whispers went, her strength undiminished by age. But now, as the shadow fell, her scarred face tightened, eyes narrowing against the smoke.

Tomas slid down the ladder, sword drawn, voice cracking. "Captain, it's hopeless—what do we do?" he asked, his youth laid bare in the tremor of his words.

Elara glanced at him, a flash of pity in her eyes for the lad who had never seen true war, then hardened like forged steel. "We swore to protect the people, Tomas," she said, her voice low but carrying over the din, laced with the resignation of one who knew the cost of oaths. "We might die today, but we'll buy them time to hide and escape. That's our duty—now hold your ground."

She turned to the crowd, raising her sword high, the blue and silver catching the firelight like a beacon. "Warriors to me! Draw the beast away from the town—give the folk a chance to run!" A handful of guards and brave fools rallied, their faces pale but set, gripping spears and bows with knuckles white as bone. "For Southport—for the empire!" one shouted, voice breaking on the words, as they burst through the gates, arrows nocking, spears thrusting upward in futile defiance.

The dragon wheeled above, tail lashing like a whip of thunder, smashing a windmill to splinters with a casual flick, wood cracking and flying like shrapnel. Flames licked at roofs, thatch igniting with whooshes, smoke billowing black and choking, stinging eyes and throats. Harlan pushed through the crowd, his mind a whirl of panic—his wife Mira, with her gentle hands and weary smile, his sons, young and reckless, where were they? "Mira!" he called, voice hoarse over the din, elbowing past a merchant clutching his gold like a child. People fled in all directions—some to the cellars, dark holes smelling of mold and fear, others to the woods, branches snapping underfoot as they ran, horses whinnying in terror as riders spurred them wildly across the fields. Chaos reigned, a tapestry of screams and smoke, the bell's toll mingling with the dragon's roars like a dirge for the damned.

Elara led the charge, her long red hair streaming like a banner, her blue and silver armor clanking as she ran, sword raised. "Loose!" she commanded, her voice cutting through the panic like a blade. Arrows whistled up, harmless as straw against the scales, bouncing off with tinks like rain on tin. The dragon dove low, its shadow swallowing them, flames erupting in a wall that consumed the front rank, men screaming as flesh melted, armor glowing red. Elara rolled aside, her cloak singed, coughing smoke, her resolve cracking like the burning timbers as she saw Tomas fall, his young face twisted in agony. "Fall back—get to the woods!" she gasped, but it was too late—the beast circled once more, its eyes gleaming with malicious intelligence, as if toying with them. She staggered up, sword heavy in her hand, knowing this was the end, but holding for those precious moments, buying time with her life as the flames closed in.

Harlan glimpsed his family in the fleeing crowd, Mira clutching the boys, their faces soot-streaked and tearful, and he ran to them, the world a blur of fire and flight. As the dragon's shadow passed one final time, the town gates buckled under a tail strike, wood splintering like brittle bone, flames leaping to devour what remained. The bells fell silent, toppled in the ruin, their last peal a desperate cry that faded into the wind, carrying north like a wounded bird's call, toward Haze, where the emperor sat in his hall of marble and gold, oblivious yet to the plea it bore.

In the heart of Haze, the empire's grand capital sprawled like a crown of stone and sorcery, its towering walls encircling palaces and academies where rivers of merchants and diplomats flowed through gates guarded by knights in gleaming plate. The news from the south arrived like a storm wind, messengers riding hard, their horses lathered and eyes wide with the horror they had seen.

Baltius the Second sat in his council chamber, a vaulted room of marble veined with gold, the air thick with incense and tension, the scent of sandalwood mingling with the faint, metallic tang of arcane residues from his subtle spells. At seventy-eight, his hair was silvered, his eyes sharp as a hawk's, holding the weight of a man who had forged an empire from the ashes of war. He was the greatest sorcerer of his age, they said, but power had etched lines of calculation into his face, a reminder that unity came at a cost. The Race Wars had ended barely a year past, and already new threats tested the fragile peace he had built.

Torchlight flickered across the faces gathered around the long oak table, casting shadows that danced like uneasy ghosts on the walls. As he listened to the messenger's stammered report—the flames, the screams, the bells' distant toll—his mind weighed the words like spells in balance, sensing the fragile threads binding these disparate voices. A dragon. From Draconia, perhaps, or some stirred anomaly from the wars' aftermath. Either way, it was a test. The empire was young, barely formed, and every crisis was a chance for the fractures to show.

Beside him stood Prince Baltius the Third, his son and heir, a man in his fifties. He paced restlessly, armor clinking softly, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword, the fire of ambition burning in his gaze. "Father, these reports from the south cannot be ignored," he said, his voice edged with urgency. "Southport burns. If we delay, the southern territories will see us as weak. The people look to us for protection—we must act swiftly, or they'll lose faith in the empire we've built."

The prince's words hung in the air, and Baltius felt the weight of them. His son was right, of course, but there were other considerations. The council table was ringed with ambassadors from the empire's major cities, each representing their homeland's interests in this fragile alliance. Unity was a delicate spell, one that could shatter with a single misstep.

"Let us hear from the council," Baltius said, his voice calm but carrying authority. "What say you, Lord Thorne?"

Lord Thorne from Varlin, the city of sorcerer academies, leaned forward slightly, a sly smile playing on his thin lips. His bald head gleamed under the chandeliers, and he was dressed in red and gold silks that spoke of wealth amassed through arcane dealings. "The prince speaks true—the south's plight demands response," Thorne conceded with haughty pragmatism, his finger tracing the rim of his goblet as if appraising a rare gem. "Varlin's sorcerers could weave wards to shield against the flames or summon illusions to distract the beast. But let's turn this to advantage; aiding the south could showcase our arcane prowess and bind the peripheries closer to Haze. The dragon's origins may be vague—a wanderer from Draconia or some stirred anomaly—but our magic could unravel that mystery while securing loyalty in return."

"And at what cost?" asked Envoy Lirael from Solundria, her voice serene but pointed. "Illusions are clever, Lord Thorne, but nature's balance is disrupted by such fire. Solundria's druids could summon vines to ensnare the wings or invoke healing runes for the scorched lands. This aid would restore harmony, but we must ensure it's not just a bandage—perhaps our invocations could probe the beast's unnatural presence, preventing future incursions."

Captain Vance from Linguard, the island of warrior training, shifted in his seat, his brooch of elite trials glinting like a badge of hard-won scars. His words were clipped like commands on the training grounds, his weathered face set in a mask of disciplined focus. "Healing and wards are fine for aftermath, but to slay it, we need steel. Linguard can summon its trained elites—knights and archers scattered across the realm but sworn to answer the call—to form the vanguard, piercing scales from afar or closing for the kill. Pair that with your druids' bindings, Lirael, and we have a coordinated strike to end the threat to the kingdom; delay risks more lives."

"Steel alone won't ground a dragon," General Tauron from Spire rumbled, his horns casting long shadows on the table. "We've tangled with beasts like this in the old days—minotaurs know it's brute force that grounds them for good, smashing wings and all. Spire's mages could enchant chains to bind it mid-flight, our warriors finishing the job."

Vance's jaw tightened. "Your chains are fine, General, but we need precision. Not brute force."

"Precision?" Tauron snorted. "Your precision will get men killed. You need to pin the beast, not dance around it."

Merchant-Lord Silas from Dron, the trade island of mercenaries and pirates, chuckled darkly, leaning in with a glint in his eye, his rings clinking as he gestured with a bejeweled hand. He was pragmatic, his tone laced with opportunistic grit, scanning the room like a trader appraising wares. "A strike's bold, Captain, but let's not forget the seas. Dron's ships and mercenaries could flank from the gulf, harrying with boarding hooks or flaming arrows. This dragon threatens trade lanes—our contribution secures the coasts, turning peril into profit for the empire. What say you, Karim? Your deserts border the south; surely Pyrathis sees the value in a united front."

Pharaoh's Voice Karim from Pyrathis, the desert city of vast armies, inclined his head. At eighty-five, Pharus's representative spoke with measured authority, his voice steady as shifting sands, his elderly frame belying a sharp mind. "The value is clear, Lord Silas—the beast's flames could spread to our borders, emboldening jungle outlaws. Pyrathis has new merchants arrived this week with cargo of powerful runes to supply mages for the battle, including the first—"

"Karim," Baltius interrupted smoothly, his voice resonant with that subtle undercurrent of sorcery, a note that made the air hum faintly and drew all eyes to him. His silvered hair caught the torchlight, and his sharp eyes held Karim's for a moment, a silent warning wrapped in paternal calm. "We shall see the shipment after this council. But enough supplies of heavy magic missile runes would be enough to assist the expedition—your legions can provide the backbone, disciplined ranks holding the line while Dron's ships flank and end the threat to the kingdom swiftly."

The ambassadors continued their debate, each pushing their city's interests, but Baltius's mind was already made up. He steepled his fingers, the cool metal of his rings pressing into his skin like a reminder of the chains that bound his empire—fragile links forged in blood and compromise. His expression remained unreadable, a mask honed over decades of courtly shadows, though a flicker of satisfaction glinted in his sharp eyes as the ambassadors' voices wove together, disparate threads forming a tapestry of reluctant unity. Self-interest laced every word, of course; Thorne's sly calculations, Tauron's rumbling bravado, even Lirael's serene caution hid agendas as deep as the gulf's abyss. But that was the nature of power—ambition masked as alliance, loyalty bought with favors unspoken.

"Your perspectives forge a path," he said at last, his voice resonant with that subtle undercurrent of sorcery, a note that made the air hum faintly and drew all eyes to him, commanding attention like a spell woven into words. "The dragon's coming remains vague, but our response will not be. Maximo will lead—we will battle the beast with a fierce warrior at the fore."

Lady Elowen from Syriel, the elven city of archery mastery, leaned forward slightly, her elegant features sharpening with a rare spark of approval, her silver-leaved earrings catching the torchlight like dew on ancient branches. "Ah, the warrior who defeated Sante," she murmured, her tone a blend of respect and subtle intrigue, as if recalling a legend that still whispered through elven halls. "A great pick, Majesty—his blade has tasted dark sorcery before."

Baltius inclined his head, a paternal nod that masked the calculations turning in his mind like gears in a dwarven clockwork. Sante's fall was a memory he guarded closely, a victory that had cemented his rise, but one riddled with secrets best left buried. "I agree with Tauron," he continued, his gaze shifting to the minotaur with a measured glance, acknowledging the subtle tension between Spire and Pyrathis without fanning it. "We must deny the beast flight—it will be easier to battle on the ground. Dwarf engineers will use their machinery to pin it down, while we need foot warriors—minotaurs, humans, orcs, and elves—to combat it in close quarters. A medium battalion to end the threat, drawn from your contributions as suited."

The words hung in the incense-thick air, a decree that brooked no dissent, though Baltius felt the undercurrents—Krag's eager grin hiding orcish hunger for glory, Elowen's arched brow suggesting elven reservations unspoken. Unity was ever a delicate spell, one that could shatter with a single misstep.

The prince stopped pacing, his face alight with resolve, though a shadow of frustration crossed his features at being sidelined. "Let me ride with him, Father. The people need to see the heir standing against such threats."

Baltius regarded his son with a mix of pride and caution, his tone firm yet paternal, though a shadow of weariness lingered in his sharp eyes—the weight of an empire fractured not by external foes alone, but by the simmering resentments within. "No, my son. Your place is here, aiding in matters that demand subtlety and steel alike. The rebels stir—the nomads of the Drakart desert raiding caravans, those hidden in the Dark Cathedral assaulting towns in the night, rogue pirates thieving shipments on the mainlands, and gangs of mages, archers, and knights fueled by old grudges from the wars, those who lost kin to other races and rail against our union. We must bolster security in the towns and roads, quell these threats before they ignite into open flame. Maximo will suffice for the dragon—he has the fury of ten knights when roused."

The prince's jaw tightened, but he nodded, the frustration clear in his eyes. Baltius understood. His son was a warrior, born for battle, but the empire needed more than warriors. It needed rulers who understood that some battles were fought in council chambers, not on fields of blood.

The ambassadors exchanged glances, murmurs of accord rippling around the table like a settling wind, the chamber's tension easing into purpose, though the incense smoke lingered, a subtle veil over the underlying calculations. The decision was made, the pieces set in motion.

Baltius rose, the movement fluid despite his age, and the council followed suit. As they filed out, he caught his son's eye, seeing the hunger there, the need to prove himself. Soon, he thought. Soon the empire would be his, and he would learn that ruling was far harder than fighting. But for now, there was a dragon to slay, and Maximo was the man for that task.

He moved to the window, looking south toward where Southport burned, and felt the weight of the empire pressing down on him. Barely a year of peace, and already the cracks were showing. The rebels, the dragon, the fragile alliances—all of it threatened to undo everything he had built. But he had survived the Race Wars. He had forged an empire from chaos. He would not let it crumble now.

Maximo sat at the worn oak table in his modest home in Jul, the warm glow of the hearth fire casting flickering shadows across the room. The air smelled of freshly baked bread and roasted pork, mingled with the faint salt tang from the open window overlooking the sea. Laughter filled the space—his own deep rumble mixing with the high-pitched giggles of his children. Madison, ten years old, her golden hair falling in unruly waves, leaned over to poke her brother Xot, six and full of boundless energy, who was making faces with a mouthful of bread.

"Stop that, or you'll choke!" Maximo chuckled, his scarred face softening in the firelight, the gash on his cheek pulling tight with the smile. At thirty-eight, he was a man who had seen too much war, fought too many battles, but here, in this moment, with his family around him, he could almost forget the weight of the Sword of Fury that hung on the wall, almost forget the way it sometimes hummed in his grip, as if alive with some dark hunger.

"Papa, tell us about the dragon!" Xot said, bouncing in his seat, bread forgotten. "The one in the stories!"

"Not now, Xot," Madison said, though her own eyes were wide with curiosity. "Papa's tired."

"I'm never too tired for stories," Maximo said, ruffling Xot's hair. "But dragons are dangerous creatures, little one. Best left in stories."

"Did you ever fight one?" Madison asked, leaning forward.

Maximo shook his head. "No, thank the gods. I've fought enough without adding dragons to the list."

Elane, his wife, moved about the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour, her "no vocation" life a quiet anchor in this island haven far from the wars' echoes. She had chosen this—a simple life, away from the empire's demands, away from the battles that had defined his existence. The Race Wars had ended barely a year past, and for the first time in decades, Maximo had allowed himself to hope that peace might last. That he might watch his children grow without the shadow of war hanging over them.

"Let your father eat in peace," Elane said, though her voice was gentle. "There'll be time for stories later."

But peace, it seemed, was a fragile thing.

A sudden tap-tap-tap echoed from the kitchen window, like stones against glass. Elane paused, wiping her hands on her apron, and approached the sill. "What's this?" she murmured, her voice laced with curiosity as she unlatched the pane.

The arcane swift perched there, its form glowing softly, a rolled parchment clutched in its talons, sealed with the emperor's eagle in crimson wax. The bird released its burden and vanished in a puff of light, leaving only the faint hum of residual magic.

Maximo's stomach tightened. He knew that seal. He knew what it meant.

Elane's face paled as she unrolled it just enough to see the seal—this was direct from the emperor's chamber, no ordinary missive. She pocketed it, forcing a smile as she carried a platter of steaming bread and pork to the table. "Fresh from the oven," she said, her tone steady, but her eyes met Maximo's with a worry she couldn't hide. "And... this was just delivered."

Maximo, mid-laugh with the children, shifted his glance to her, his expression changing in an instant—from joy to a grave stillness, like a storm cloud rolling over the sea. He took the parchment, breaking the seal with a thumb scarred from countless grips on his sword. As he read, his eyes gleamed with sadness, the words pulling him back to the world of duty and danger.

The letter spoke of the dragon's rampage, the need for his command—meet in the south plains at Southport, where the medium battalion marched under Captain Stompor's temporary command. Catch up to them swiftly; the threat brooked no delay.

"What is it?" Elane asked, her voice tight with worry.

Maximo set the parchment down, his hand lingering on it. "A dragon attacked Southport. The emperor needs me to lead the hunt."

"A dragon?" Madison's eyes widened. "Like in the stories?"

"Not like the stories, little one," Maximo said softly. "Real. And dangerous."

Madison and Xot fell quiet, sensing the shift, their wide eyes fixed on him. "Papa, you have to go?" Madison asked, her voice small, clutching her fork like a lifeline.

Maximo set the parchment aside, kneeling to pull them close, his arms strong but gentle. "Aye, little one. But I'll be back before you know it—slaying dragons is what your old man does best." He ruffled Xot's hair, drawing a reluctant giggle.

"Promise?" Xot asked, his voice small.

"I promise," Maximo said, though the words felt heavy on his tongue. He turned to Elane, his hand cupping her cheek. "Keep the home fires burning, love. This is just another call, like the wars."

Elane's eyes searched his face, and he saw the fear there, the memory of all the times he'd left before. "How long?" she asked.

"A few weeks, maybe a month. The beast can't be far." He tried to sound confident, but even he didn't know if it was true.

Elane nodded, her eyes glistening, though she held back the tears for the children's sake. "Be safe, Maximo. The empire takes enough from us."

"The empire needs me," he said, and hated how it sounded like an excuse.

The words cut deeper than she knew. The empire had taken his brother Xotax, cleaved in two by an orc warlord's axe during the Race Wars. It had taken years of his life, years he could have spent with his family. And now, barely a year into peace, it was calling again. But duty was duty, and Maximo had never been one to shirk it.

He prepared his gear in the flickering lantern light—the Sword of Fury, its hilt familiar in his palm, humming faintly as if sensing the battle ahead, though he dismissed it as the wind. The blade felt heavier than it should, as if it carried the weight of all the battles he had fought, all the blood he had spilled. During the Race Wars, when he had faced Sante at Shadowthorne Keep, the sword had done something strange—it had absorbed the magic from Sante's pendant, and ever since, it had felt... different. More alive. More hungry.

But that was foolishness. A sword was a sword, nothing more.

Armor strapped, cloak clasped, he said his last goodbyes—a kiss for Elane, promises to the children of tales upon return. Outside, a small group of warriors from Jul waited, their horses snorting in the night air, summoned by the same arcane call. Maximo mounted, his silhouette dark against the moonlit path, and rode off toward the south, the clip-clop of hooves fading into the distance.

Madison watched from the doorway, her small hand clutching the frame until she couldn't see him anymore, the night swallowing his form. They didn't know this was the last time they would see him.

Maximo and his small group of warriors from Jul rode hard through the night, the moon a pale sentry overhead, the path winding through coastal hills that gave way to the open plains. The air grew cooler as they rode, the salt tang of the sea fading into the earthy scent of grass and dust, but Maximo's mind was a storm of thoughts—the warmth of the dinner table left behind, the emperor's urgent words burning in his memory. The Sword of Fury bounced against his back, its faint hum lost in the rhythm of hooves, dismissed as the wind whipping past.

"Commander," one of the warriors called, a young man named Kael who'd joined them from a neighboring village. "How far to Southport?"

"Two days' hard ride," Maximo replied, his voice carrying over the clatter of hooves. "We'll push the horses, but not break them. The beast won't wait, but we're no good to anyone if our mounts collapse."

"Never seen a dragon before," Kael said, his voice a mix of excitement and fear. "Only heard stories. Is it true they can breathe fire hot enough to melt steel?"

"True enough," another warrior, an older man named Garrick, grunted. "I was at the siege of Varlin during the wars. Saw a sorcerer's fire spell melt a gate. If a dragon's fire is anything like that, we're in for a fight."

Maximo glanced at them. "Then we fight. That's what we do." He spurred his horse forward, and the others followed, their conversation fading into the rhythm of the ride.

By dawn, the plains stretched endless before them, golden under the rising sun, but the horizon held the acrid hint of smoke, a reminder of the devastation ahead. They pressed on, horses lathered and weary, until midday, when the sun high and merciless, he crested a hill and spotted the camp below—a sprawl of tents pitched in the shadow of Southport's ruined outline, smoke still curling from the town's charred remnants, the air thick with the stench of burned wood and flesh, a grim welcome that made Maximo's jaw tighten.

They entered the battalion's settled camp, where warriors tended fires, druids knelt over the injured with glowing hands, and scouts scanned the horizon with keen eyes. Survivors had emerged from the woods during the battalion's march to Southport—haggard folk with soot-streaked faces, clutching what little they salvaged, drawn by the promise of aid. Druids murmured incantations, vines of green light weaving over wounds, while warriors distributed bread and water. "You'll be safe in Haze," a sergeant told a cluster of villagers, his voice rough but kind, as a small party prepared to escort them north—women with babes in arms, men limping from burns, their eyes hollow with loss.

Among the survivors, a farmer huddled with his family, a woman holding two boys close, their faces pale and drawn, the stink of smoke clinging to their clothes like a curse. The farmer's hands trembled as he accepted a waterskin from a druid, his voice rough as he muttered to his wife, "We made it... barely. The farm's gone, but we're alive." The man's eyes widened at the sight of Maximo, and he nodded weakly at a passing warrior. "The captain... Elara... she held the line. Gave us time." The words hung heavy, a testament to sacrifice amid the camp's murmur of weary voices and the crackle of cookfires.

Maximo dismounted, his boots sinking into the trampled grass, as Captain Stompor approached, a burly man with a beard like tangled wire and eyes sharp as a hawk's, his armor dented from wars past. "Commander Maximo," Stompor said, clasping arms with a firm grip, his voice rough as gravel. "Glad you made it swift—the emperor's bird found you, eh?"

"It did," Maximo said. "What's the situation?"

"The beast struck hard here," Stompor said, gesturing toward the ruins. "We arrived yesterday—found the town gutted, but some held out in the woods. We've healed who we could, sent them north with an escort. The hunt starts now; scouts are out, but the dragon's cunning—strikes and vanishes like smoke."

Maximo nodded, his gaze sweeping the camp, noting the disciplined ranks despite the grim task. "What do the scouts say?"

"Elves tracked it south," Stompor replied, his eyes scanning the horizon. "No word from northern towns, so it shouldn't be far—elves say a couple days through the plains and mountains to its lair. But it's smart, this one. It knows we're hunting."

"How many men did we lose here?" Maximo asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Stompor's face darkened. "Captain Elara. A few guards. Most of the town got out, thanks to her. She held the line, gave them time to run." He paused, then added, "She was one of yours, wasn't she? From the old guard?"

Maximo felt a pang of recognition. "Elara. I knew her. Fought beside her in the Race Wars." The memory was sharp, painful. Another good soldier gone.

"She died well," Stompor said simply. "Now let's make sure her sacrifice wasn't in vain."

They started the scouting process that afternoon, the battalion moving out in ordered columns, elves at the van with their keen senses, druids murmuring to the wind for guidance. For the next three days, they marched through the southern plains, the grass whispering underfoot, the sun beating down like a hammer on an anvil.

"These plains are too open," a dwarf engineer grumbled to his companion as they marched. "Give me a mountain tunnel any day, where you can trap a beast proper. Out here, it can see us coming from leagues away."

"Aye, but then you'd miss the glory of charging under open sky!" a human warrior laughed, clapping the dwarf on the back. "Besides, we've got the harpoons. Once those dwarven contraptions pin it, the beast won't be going anywhere."

"Assuming we get close enough to use them," the dwarf muttered. "Assuming it doesn't burn us to ash first."

An elf scout, lithe and silent, fell into step beside Maximo. "Commander," she said, her voice soft but clear. "The tracks fade, but the air tastes of ash. It's close. Circling like a wolf scenting weakness."

"How close?" Maximo asked.

"Two days, maybe three," she replied. "It knows we're hunting. It's being careful."

Stompor rode up beside them, his horse snorting dust. "No alerts from the northern towns," he said, shielding his eyes against the sun. "The elves reckon we're on its trail. It shouldn't be far now."

Maximo nodded, the Sword of Fury heavy at his side, its hum a faint echo in his mind, growing stronger with each passing day, as if it sensed the battle ahead. "You've seen dragons before, Stompor?"

"Only in paintings," Stompor admitted. "But I've fought enough beasts to know when one's different. This one feels wrong. Like it shouldn't be here."

"How so?" Maximo asked.

Stompor was silent for a moment, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Dragons are supposed to be from Draconia, far south. They don't just appear in the empire. And this one... it's too smart. Too calculated. It's not just hunting—it's testing us. Seeing what we'll do."

Maximo felt the sword hum louder, as if agreeing. "Then we'll make sure it doesn't stay. And we'll show it exactly what we'll do."

Then, an elf scout dashed into the army's lines, swift as an arrow, blowing a shivering whistle that pierced the air, heard through all the ranks with amazing speed. The army halted, horses stamping, warriors tensing. The elf reached Maximo and Stompor's position, breath steady despite the run.

"Commander!" she gasped, though her voice remained clear. "Civilians fleeing the roads ahead—farmers, traders. They spotted the dragon not far from here, maybe an hour's march. It's feeding on a herd of bison it scorched."

"Where?" Maximo demanded.

"Southwest, in the open plains. It's not hiding anymore. It's waiting."

Maximo and Stompor looked at each other and nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. They spurred their horses forward through the army lines, voices booming.

"ARMY, READY YOUR WEAPONS!" Maximo shouted, his voice cutting through the air. "FORM THE DRAKON PHALANX—ARCHERS TO THE FORE, DWARVES POSITION HARPOONS, DRUIDS PREPARE SHIELDS! MARCH ON MY COMMAND!"

"Move, you bastards!" Stompor bellowed, his voice rough as gravel. "The beast is waiting! Let's not keep it!"

The order rippled through the ranks like a wave, warriors snapping to attention, bows nocking, shields raising with clanks of metal. The air thrummed with tension as the battalion advanced, elves scouting ahead, their light steps silent on the grass. Maximo and Stompor separated, each taking chunks of the army—the idea was to flank the dragon, Stompor drawing its attention while Maximo and the dwarves positioned their attack machinery with enormous harpoons toward the beast. The air grew thicker and hotter as they crested a hill, the sun beating down like judgment. Stompor gazed out over the plains, where the enormous beast shone in the midday light, its red shiny scales glinting like fresh blood. He knew they would need to buy Maximo some time, the harpoons' setup a delicate dance amid the chaos, as the dragon lifted its head, eyes locking on the approaching force with a roar that shook the ground.

The dragon was in the plains, feasting on a herd of wild bison it had scorched and felled, its maw tearing into flesh with wet crunches, blood staining its scales like war paint. The ground around it was charred black, bones scattered like forgotten relics, the air heavy with the reek of cooked meat and ash. Stompor raised his hand, signaling the archers—elf and dwarf soldiers alike—to prepare their bows and crossbows, loaded with onyx arrows, rare and dark-veined, said to pierce dragon scales like butter through hot knife. "VOLLEY—DRAW ITS EYES!" he bellowed, and the shafts whistled through the air, arcing high to rain down on the beast, some glancing off scales with sparks, others embedding shallowly, drawing a furious roar.

The dragon's eyes blazed like forges, and it let out a roar that shook the ground. Wings unfurled with a leathery snap, and it took to the air, circling low.

"Here it comes!" someone shouted.

"It's going to breathe fire!" another warrior cried.

"SHIELDS UP!" Stompor bellowed, his voice hoarse over the inferno. "DRUIDS, NOW!"

Warriors screamed as the edges caught them, armor melting, flesh blistering. The heat was unbearable, like standing in a forge. Men fell, their cries lost in the roar of flames.

The druids with Stompor's group reacted, the most expert ones committing a lot of their energy, faces straining as they chanted in unison, hands weaving patterns that glowed green. Enormous vines erupted from the earth, thick as tree trunks but not massive enough to engulf the dragon, forming a barrier that intercepted the fireball. The flames slammed into the vines with a hiss of steam and crackle of burning foliage, the barrier holding just long enough to deflect the worst, though tendrils withered to ash, and the druids staggered, sweat beading on their brows from the exertion.

The dragon hit one vine hard, its body twisting in mid-air, quickly composing itself to shift direction back toward the army. But another vine emerged under it, summoned by a final push from the druids, tangling in one of its legs with a snap like breaking rope. The beast lost balance in its flight, wings flailing, and crashed to the ground in the plains with a thunderous impact that shook the earth, dust billowing like a storm cloud, its roar turning to a furious bellow as it thrashed to free itself.

Maximo, from his flanking position, saw the opening. "NOW—HARPOONS LOOSE!" he commanded, the dwarves cranking their machinery with grunts, enormous harpoons launching with twangs that vibrated through the air, aimed to pin the grounded beast further.

Maximo waded into the fray, the Sword of Fury singing in his hands, the blade biting deep into leg and flank. A surge of inexplicable rage filled him, strength beyond mortal limits coursing through his veins like fire, his vision narrowing to the beast's throat. The sword was humming now, loud enough to hear over the chaos, and he felt something dark stirring in his chest—the same feeling he'd had at Shadowthorne Keep, when he'd faced Sante. The berserk fury. The hunger for blood.

He leaped onto its neck, muscles straining, driving the blade deep with a wet thud. The dragon thrashed, scales scraping like iron on stone, its blood hot as molten lead splashing his armor. The sword drank it in, the hum growing louder, and Maximo felt the darkness spreading through him, consuming him, making him something more—and less—than human.

In its agony, the beast's final breath erupted, a blast of scorching flame that enveloped Maximo. Heat seared his flesh, turning muscle to stone in an instant, a cold hardness spreading from his core. He froze mid-strike, a statue of triumph and torment, the beast crumpling dead beneath him, its eyes dimming like cooling embers.

The Sword of Fury, still clutched in his petrified hands, fell silent at last.

In that final moment, Maximo's eyes held the last spark of life, the flecks of gold visible even as the stone claimed him. The eyes that had seen war and peace, that had looked upon his children with love, that had faced death without flinching—now stone, unseeing, eternal. The determination frozen forever in that final moment, a testament to the man he had been.

Fifteen years passed. Salt wind and rain weathered the statue. The story was told and retold around campfires and in taverns, passed from old warriors to young, until it became legend. And in Jul's central square, a daughter stood before her father's statue, her hand resting on the sword at her side, her eyes—so like his, but alive, seeing—gazing up at the stone face that watched over the town.

Madison stood before the statue, the story complete in her mind. She knew it all—the dragon's attack on Southport, the council in Haze, her father receiving the summons, the battle, the petrification. She'd heard it told a hundred times, from old warriors who'd been there, who'd seen it with their own eyes. Captain Thorne had told it best, his voice rough with emotion, his eyes distant with memory. The story was as familiar to her as her own name, but knowing the story and understanding it were two different things.

The sword hummed louder now, as if sensing her understanding, and she felt that dark hunger stirring in her chest. This burden, this curse—it was hers now. But where others had fallen, she would rise. Where others had been consumed by the sword's darkness, she would master it.

"Madison! We've been looking for you!"

The voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and urgent. She turned to see Puli striding across the square, his dark hair whipping in the sea breeze, his face flushed with hurry. Puli carried himself with the lithe grace of someone who'd spent countless hours drawing a bow, his shoulders set in a way that spoke of archer's training. He was a year younger than Madison, but they'd been training together for months.

"Sorry," Madison said, her hand lingering on the sword's hilt as she glanced at the statue one last time. The stone eyes seemed to watch her, unseeing but eternal.

She walked toward Puli, the Sword of Fury warm at her side. "What's the hurry?"

"Taiba's waiting for us at Mistress Lena's shop," Puli said, falling into step beside her. "The ship leaves at midday, and we still need to pick up the runes and fluids. Mistress Lena said she'd have everything ready."

They'd been preparing for this for months—training every day, studying the history of the trials, practicing their skills. They'd done it because they had to, because the dream of becoming elite warriors, of earning their promotions, was the only thing that kept them going in a town that had been forgotten by the empire. They'd never expected it to actually happen. The Vocation Trials selected only five hundred participants per year, and most of those invitations went to the big cities—Haze, Varlin, Solundria, places with academies and training grounds. Small towns like Jul were lucky to get one invitation every few decades.

Jul hadn't received a single invitation in fifteen years—not since before the Race Wars ended, when the empire was still forming and opportunities were more evenly distributed. But three invitations? In the same year? To three friends who'd been training together? It was madness. It was impossible. And yet, the letters had arrived three months ago, sealed with the emperor's eagle, calling them to the trials. They'd been preparing even before that, but receiving the invitations had intensified their training, made it real. Now, after three months of focused preparation since the letters came, they were leaving.

Mistress Lena. The old healer who ran the apothecary shop near the harbor. She'd been in Jul longer than anyone could remember, her hands gnarled with age but still steady, her knowledge of herbs and remedies unmatched. She'd helped them prepare for the vocation trials, teaching them what to expect, what supplies they'd need.

"Did you say goodbye to your family?" Puli asked as they walked through the cobblestone streets, the smell of salt and fish heavy in the air.

"Not yet," Madison said. "I was... I needed to see the statue first."

Puli nodded. "Well, we should hurry. Taiba said the captain wants to leave on time, and you know how he gets when things don't go according to plan."

They reached Mistress Lena's shop, a small building tucked between the fish market and the harbor, its windows filled with glowing runes arranged in neat rows and vials of mana and life fluids that shimmered with inner light. The air inside hummed with residual magic, the scent of charged stone and arcane energy. Taiba was already there, talking to the old healer, his voice animated as he gestured at a collection of runes and fluid vials laid out on the counter. Taiba's bow was slung across his back, the wood polished from use, and his fingers—calloused from countless hours of practice—tapped restlessly against the counter as he spoke.

"Ah, there you are," Mistress Lena said, her voice raspy with age but still strong. She was a small woman, her back bent with years, but her eyes were sharp and knowing. "I've prepared everything you'll need. Support healing runes, mana fluids, life fluids. The trials are grueling, and you'll need every advantage." Her eyes swept over them, taking in Madison's sword, Puli's quiver of arrows, Taiba's bow. "A warrior and two archers. Jul hasn't sent anyone to the trials in fifteen years, and now we send three. The gods must be smiling on us."

"Thank you, Mistress Lena," Madison said, accepting the bundle the old woman handed her. It was heavier than she expected, filled with carefully wrapped runes and vials that clinked softly together.

"Good luck, child," Mistress Lena said, her eyes meeting Madison's. "You've trained well. You're ready."

Madison nodded, feeling the weight of the runes and fluids in her bundle. "Thank you."

"Now go," the old healer said, shooing them toward the door. "Don't keep the captain waiting. Captain Thorne doesn't like delays."

They left the shop, supplies in hand, and made their way toward the harbor. Madison's home wasn't far—a modest house near the square, where her mother Elane still lived, where her brother Rapso had grown up. Rapso was twenty-one now, a fisherman like most of the men in Jul, but he'd always been protective of his sister, always worried about her following in their father's footsteps.

"Madison!" Elane's voice called from the doorway as they approached. Her mother stood there, her hands dusted with flour, her face lined with worry. "I thought you'd left already."

"I'm leaving now," Madison said, pulling her mother into a hug. Elane smelled of bread and home, and for a moment, Madison wanted to stay, to forget about the trials, to forget about the sword and the legacy and everything that came with being Maximo's daughter.

"Be safe," Elane whispered, her voice tight with emotion. "Don't do anything foolish. Your father..."

"I know, Mother," Madison said, pulling back. "I'll be careful."

Rapso appeared in the doorway, his face serious, his hands calloused from years of hauling nets. "You sure about this, Maddie? The trials are dangerous. People die. And you..." He gestured at the sword at her side. "You're a warrior, like Father. That means you'll be in the thick of it, not shooting from a distance like Puli and Taiba."

"People die here too," Madison said, though she knew what he meant. The vocation trials were brutal, designed to test the limits of those who would become the empire's elite. Warriors faced the greatest danger—they were the ones who closed with the enemy, who stood in the front lines. Archers had distance, could strike from safety. But she had to go. She had to try. "I'll be fine, Rapso. I've trained for this. I know what I'm doing."

"You trained with a sword," Rapso said, his voice tight. "But training and the real thing are different. You know that. You've heard the stories."

"I've heard them," Madison said. "But I've also trained every day for months. Puli and Taiba will have my back. We're a team."

Rapso's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Just... come back, alright? Don't end up like Father."

"I'll come back," Madison promised, though the words felt heavy. She hugged him quickly, then turned to go, Puli and Taiba already moving toward the harbor.

"Madison," Elane called after her. "Remember who you are. Remember where you come from."

"I will," Madison said, and meant it.

The ship was waiting at the dock, a sturdy vessel with sails that bore the empire's colors. Captain Thorne stood at the helm, a grizzled man in his sixties, a scar running down his left cheek. He'd served in the Race Wars, fought beside Maximo in more battles than he could count. He'd retired to Jul after the wars ended, but he still captained ships when the empire needed him.

"About time," Captain Thorne said as they approached, his voice rough as gravel. "Thought you'd changed your minds."

"Never," Taiba said, his voice confident. He was the youngest of the three, but he had a fire in him that couldn't be quenched.

Captain Thorne's eyes met Madison's, and for a moment, she saw something there—recognition, maybe, or understanding. He gave a brief nod, then turned to the crew. "Cast off!"

"Now get aboard," he said, his voice returning to its gruff tone. "We've got a six-hour journey ahead of us, and I want to reach Haze before dark. The capital's not a place you want to arrive in after sunset."

They boarded the ship, finding places among the cargo and supplies. The ship was small but well-maintained, its deck scrubbed clean, its sails patched but strong. As the crew cast off the lines and the ship began to move, Madison stood at the rail, watching Jul shrink in the distance. The statue was still visible in the square, a small figure against the sky, but soon it was lost to distance and mist.

Puli and Taiba joined her at the rail, their bows secured with their gear, their quivers full of arrows they'd fletched themselves. They'd spent months perfecting their craft, learning to read the wind, to judge distance, to strike true. Madison's training had been different—sword work, shield drills, close combat. The three of them together, a warrior and two archers, heading to the trials that would determine their futures.

The journey was long but uneventful. The sea was calm, the wind steady. Captain Thorne told them stories of the Race Wars, of battles fought and won, of the empire's formation and the fragile peace that had followed. He spoke of Haze, of its grandeur and its dangers, of what to expect when they arrived.

"Warriors hold the line," Captain Thorne said, his eyes on the horizon. "They protect the archers and the sorcerers, they take the hits so others don't have to. Archers strike from distance, pick their targets, stay out of harm's way. But warriors? Warriors walk into the fire and come out the other side. Or they don't come out at all."

As the hours passed, the coast of the mainland came into view—first as a dark line on the horizon, then growing into rolling hills and cliffs that rose from the sea like ancient guardians. The wind shifted, carrying new scents: wood smoke, spices, the metallic tang of forge fires, and something else—the faint hum of magic that seemed to permeate the very air.

Then they saw it.

Haze rose from the horizon like a crown of stone and sorcery, its towers piercing the sky like spears, their peaks lost in the afternoon clouds. The walls were massive, built of grey stone that seemed to absorb the light, their height impossible to judge from this distance. But it was the harbor that made them all fall silent.

Ships. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Their masts formed a forest that stretched as far as the eye could see—merchant vessels with colorful flags, warships with black sails, fishing boats bobbing between the larger craft. The harbor was a chaos of activity, ships coming and going, their sails catching the wind like great birds. Smaller boats darted between them, ferrying passengers and cargo to and from the docks.

As they drew closer, the scale of it all became overwhelming. The docks stretched for what seemed like miles, wooden planks creaking under the weight of crates and barrels being unloaded by teams of workers. Merchants in fine silks haggled with ship captains, their voices rising above the din. Carts rumbled along the waterfront, pulled by horses that snorted and stamped, their drivers calling out warnings.

But it was the people that made Madison's breath catch. Hundreds, maybe thousands, moving along the docks and streets. She saw warriors in armor, their swords gleaming in the sun. Archers with bows slung across their backs, quivers full. Sorcerers in robes that shimmered with arcane energy. And others—so many others—young men and women who looked like them, nervous and excited, carrying weapons and supplies, their eyes wide with the same mixture of fear and anticipation.

"Are they all..." Puli started, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Participants," Captain Thorne said, his voice gruff. "The trials draw them from every corner of the empire. Merchants come to sell supplies, weapons, runes. Others come to watch, to bet, to recruit. Haze swells during the trials. The city never sleeps."

The ship maneuvered through the crowded harbor, Captain Thorne's voice booming commands as they navigated between other vessels. Madison watched as another ship, larger than theirs, disgorged a stream of people onto the docks—warriors and archers and sorcerers, all heading toward the city gates. Merchants called out from stalls set up along the waterfront, their wares displayed on tables: weapons, armor, runes glowing with inner light, vials of mana and life fluids catching the sun.

The city itself seemed to pulse with life. Beyond the walls, she could see towers that reached higher than any building in Jul, their windows glowing with soft light even in the afternoon. Smoke rose from countless chimneys, and the air was thick with the sounds of a city alive—hammers on anvils, voices raised in conversation, the distant toll of bells.

"This is it," Puli said, his voice breathless with excitement, his hand unconsciously checking his quiver. "The capital. The Vocation Trials. Everything we've been preparing for."

"Everything we've been preparing for," Taiba echoed, his eyes fixed on the city ahead, his fingers tracing the string of his bow. "Think we're ready?"

"We're ready," Madison said, her hand on the sword's hilt, feeling the familiar weight of steel. She'd trained for this, trained to stand in the front lines while Puli and Taiba provided cover from behind. They were a team—the archers and the warrior, each with their role, each with their strengths. The future was here, waiting for them. The trials, the challenges—all of it lay ahead, in that city of stone and sorcery.

The ship sailed into the harbor, its sails catching the afternoon sun, and Madison felt her heart quicken. This was it. The beginning of everything.