Vale continued walking through the soft, yielding sand, his steps slow as the dark shapes of his ravens finally faded from the horizon. They were gone now, gone for at least two months, perhaps far longer.

  Strangely, he didn’t feel as broken as he thought he would.

  Yes, a tear had slipped free. Yes, something inside his chest felt hollow. But beneath it all was relief. If letting them go meant they would live, meant they wouldn’t be twisted by this place, then the pain was worth bearing. He would carry it gladly.

  Still, a single thought refused to let go.

  'What will they become?'

  The question lingered as Vale slowed and turned back.

  Drago had stopped.

  The old man stood a short distance away, hunched over a strange device that hadn’t been there moments before. Its surface shimmered faintly, symbols and lines of dim light flickering across it before sputtering out again. Drago muttered under his breath, irritation thick in every syllable, jabbing at the device with far more force than necessary.

  Eskar stood beside him, posture tense, eyes narrowed with unease as he watched the man struggle with whatever the object was meant to do.

  Vale walked back toward them, uncertainty creeping into his steps.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, confusion clear in his voice.

  Eskar glanced at him briefly before answering.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But there definitely seems to be.”

  Drago snapped the device shut with a sharp, annoyed click.

  “Yeah,” he said bluntly. “Irea’s gone to hell.”

  Vale blinked.

  “The king died on a hunt,” Drago continued, already turning away. “Which means the throne is vacant, and that means a new monarch.”

  Vale raised a brow, studying the old man.

  “…And why exactly is that bad?”

  Eskar’s eyes widened slightly, mirroring Vale’s own confusion.

  Drago paused, then looked back at them as if only now realizing how little they knew.

  “Right,” he muttered. “You two wouldn’t.”

  He exhaled sharply before continuing.

  “There’s a minister, Wolf. He’s been circling the throne for years. He is both ambitious and ruthless. Now that the king’s dead, he finally has his chance.”

  Eskar crossed his arms.

  “And what makes him so dangerous?”

  Drago hissed through his teeth and started walking again, his long robe gliding across the pale sand.

  “Every plan that man has ever put forward has been a disaster,” he said coldly.

  “He imprisons people without cause. Discriminates openly. Silences opposition. If he takes the throne, freedom in Irea will be nothing more than a memory.”

  Vale and Eskar followed, exchanging uneasy glances.

  Drago didn’t slow.

  “If Wolf becomes king,” he added, almost casually,

  “I doubt either of you will be welcome in Irea for very long.”

  Vale felt his stomach tighten.

  He stayed silent for a moment before finally asking,

  “Then… what are we supposed to do?”

  Drago glanced back, his ruby eyes unreadable.

  “That,” he said calmly,

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “is for me to figure out.”

  He paused, then added,

  “I’m the one bringing you to the kingdom. That makes you my responsibility now.”

  After a few more steps, he spoke again.

  “Your responsibility is simpler. Keep yourselves alive. And make sure I stay alive too.”

  Eskar gave a short nod.

  “Fair enough.”

  Vale nodded as well, though his thoughts were elsewhere.

  As they walked, his gaze drifted to the towering stone formations scattered across the desert, massive, rib-like structures piercing the sky.

  Bones.

  The remains of an Unhallowed.

  The sight stirred unease deep within him.

  Why here? What had such a being sought in this scorched place? What purpose did this realm serve that could draw something so vast, so powerful?

  And why had it died?

  Metamorphosis, Drago had said. Apotheosis toward a Goliath of Uncreation.

  But something about that answer felt incomplete.

  They walked for hours in silence, the desert stretching endlessly around them. Eventually, Vale drew a steady breath and spoke again.

  “Sir.”

  Drago slowed, then glanced back, his expression guarded.

  “How do you know about the Black Lion?” Vale asked.

  “And… how did the Unhallowed die?”

  The air seemed to grow heavier.

  Even as they continued walking, a tense silence settled between them, as if Vale had crossed an invisible boundary simply by asking.

  Seconds passed.

  Then Drago finally spoke.

  “I know of the Black Lion because everyone who survives long enough in this realm hears its name,” he said quietly.

  “It is a figure wrapped in myth. No one truly knows what it is, only that it exists.”

  He paused.

  “The High Priestess of the Desert Temple left us one hint however.”

  Vale’s eyes widened, hope flaring in his chest.

  “Really?” he asked quickly.

  “What was it?”

  Drago didn’t answer immediately.

  “At the heart of the dragon’s maw,” he said at last, voice low,

  “the Black Lion lies. Its slumber eternal.”

  Vale absorbed the words, his mind racing.

  'A dragon… imprisoned within one? Or beneath one?'

  Eternal slumber meant imprisonment, or something far worse.

  Before Vale could press further, Drago continued.

  “As for the Unhallowed…”

  He slowed, his cane pressing deeper into the sand.

  “That,” he said quietly,

  “is a dreadful story.”

  Drago’s gaze shifted upward, his eyes narrowing slightly as a series of distant, predatory shrieks tore through the sky above them. The sounds echoed unnaturally, stretching across the dunes like the cries of something hunting for sport rather than sustenance.

  He continued walking as if the noise were nothing more than an annoyance.

  “This place is…” he said slowly, searching for the right words, “…something of a slaughterhouse for spawn.”

  His voice carried easily through the still air.

  “I’m certain that, if you truly come from where I believe you do, you already understand this much,” he continued. “The strongest spawn are dealt with by godlike beings, entities powerful enough that no human ever has to witness their inevitable doom firsthand.”

  Drago paused briefly, then glanced back at them.

  “Do you really think those godlike entities don’t need a battlefield of their own?”

  Vale felt his breath catch.

  Eskar stopped short, eyes widening as realization struck him.

  “…You mean this place,” he said slowly, disbelief seeping into every word, “is a battlefield for gods?”

  Drago nodded once and kept walking.

  “Indeed it is,” he replied calmly. “Though their battles are rare. In all my time here, I’ve only witnessed two such clashes.”

  He gestured vaguely toward the horizon.

  “Each time, the land itself shifted, dunes swallowed whole, stone melted, entire regions reshaped as if they were nothing more than clay.”

  Vale swallowed.

  “Still,” Drago added, “the beings that rule this place do not meddle with humans. You needn’t fear him.”

  That sentence did little to calm Vale’s nerves.

  His hand drifted to the hilt of his blade as his heartbeat began to quicken.

  “You speak about this… godlike being,” Vale said cautiously, “as if you know him.”

  Drago answered without hesitation.

  “Of course I do. Everyone here does.”

  He glanced at them both.

  “There are three of them, to be precise.”

  Silence followed.

  Vale and Eskar exchanged a look, then Vale spoke.

  “…What are they called?”

  Drago turned his head just enough for one ruby eye to catch the light.

  “The first,” he said, “is Xerax, the Unholy Purge.”

  His voice hardened slightly.

  “He is the one who slew the Unhallowed whose bones now pierce the sky.”

  Vale felt a chill crawl down his spine.

  “The second is Mist,” Drago continued. “Unlike the others, Mist is a Goliath of Uncreation, one who chose to side with the gods.”

  Vale’s eyes widened sharply.

  Goliaths of Uncreation regaining full consciousness was strange enough. That one would stand with the gods, nearly as their equal, was something else entirely. He had always assumed such a thing would never be permitted.

  Drago continued before Vale could speak.

  “The last is Frost. He holds no formal title, but make no mistake, he is no lesser force.”

  Eskár opened his mouth, ready to ask another question,

  but Drago suddenly stopped.

  His hand lifted slightly as he stared ahead.

  “Seems like that will be the first of the day,” he said flatly.

  Vale and Eskar followed his gaze as they climbed the tall dune beside him.

  What waited on the other side made Vale’s breath hitch.

  A massive scorpion stood several dozen meters away, its obsidian-black carapace gleaming under the harsh light. Its frame was immense, far larger than any creature Vale had seen before, and its tail arched high above it, stinger dripping with a faint, corrosive shimmer.

  The creature shifted, sand crunching beneath its weight.

  Vale grit his teeth and glanced back at Drago.

  “Is this,” he asked quietly, tightening his grip on his blade,

  “our first kill?”