“Zayril Najiroth?” Violet repeated, brows lifting. “Zill’s father.” She glanced at Zill, then back at Mortreaver. “I knew he was an explorer, but… I never read much about him.”

  Mel spoke up quickly, surprising even herself with how fast the facts came out. “I know him. He explored farther than anyone—reached the coast.” She leaned forward. “And he helped take down Ashurak.”

  Mortreaver’s eyes widened slightly. “Someone so young knows about him.”

  Dru frowned. “If he explored as far as the coast, why didn’t we hear more about him in school?”

  Lara answered immediately, voice edged. “Because the councilors hated him.”

  Mortreaver cleared his throat—half correction, half confirmation. “That’s… partly true.” His tone stayed measured. “He caused chaos early on. Tried to operate as a solo explorer before he’d earned the title. Went out on his own.”

  Violet smirked and elbowed Zill lightly. “Went out on his own, huh? Sounds familiar.”

  “He was smarter,” Lara said, and there was something like admiration in her voice. “His combat skills weren’t enough for solo work, but he understood something most fools don’t.” She tapped her temple. “Survival matters more than strength.”

  Mortreaver nodded. “That belief changed how solo explorers are judged. He set a new standard.”

  Then Mortreaver’s expression darkened slightly.

  “He was brilliant,” he said quietly. “He explored places even full squads wouldn’t dare enter.” His gaze drifted, distant for a moment. “He died young, though—before he could establish a legacy the way the names in the archives did.”

  Zill’s voice came out smaller than usual. “Is it true he was just… found dead at the coast when I was barely two?”

  Mortreaver didn’t soften the answer. “That’s sadly true.”

  Dru and Violet both reached out—quick, wordless touches to Zill’s shoulder.

  Zill stared at the floor. “Grandpa always called him a crappy dad for being absent.” His jaw tightened. “He was angry that my father chose this life.” He looked up. “Was he actually good?”

  Mel hesitated. “The areas he explored near the coast aren’t well documented. Explorers who go beyond that point… sometimes go missing.”

  “That’s why he’s barely in the books,” Lara added. “It’s believed he skipped details. People disappear out there—and we still don’t know why. Its been almost two decades.”

  Mortreaver’s eyes narrowed, as if the memory still irritated him. “That’s why I don’t blame him. It’s been a long time, and we still haven’t uncovered more ourselves.” He paused, then said, firmer: “But I’ll tell you this—he was brave. Not a powerhouse. Not a prodigy with combat. But brave and he loved to explore.”

  His gaze fixed on Zill.

  “He faced the unknown alone anyway.” Mortreaver’s voice sharpened. “And he wasn’t just trying to survive. He was a strategist.”

  He hesitated, then added more quietly, “There’s much I owe him.”

  Zill’s head snapped up. “Why do you owe my father?”

  Mortreaver stood and walked toward the weapons mounted along the wall.

  His hand stopped at one piece that dominated the space—an ashen-colored scythe with a sharply curved blade, the steel unnaturally smooth, as if it drank the light instead of reflecting it.

  “My Ashreaper,” Mortreaver said.

  He lifted it down with care that didn’t match its size.

  “Zayril’s knowledge—his planning—let me kill my first apex predator.” Mortreaver’s fingers tightened around the haft. “…Ashurak.” His eyes hardened. “Even now, few hunts come close to what that creature was.”

  Dru blinked. “Did he just… document the predator for you?”

  “More than that.” Mortreaver glanced back at them. “He planned the entire hunt. He recruited me and two others.” He paused, letting the weight settle. “We hunted Ashurak without major injuries.”

  Lara snorted. “That story again.” She folded her arms. “Ashurak—the first and greatest dragon ever taken down—and no one got hurt.”

  “A hit from Ashurak wouldn’t leave a scratch,” Mortreaver replied evenly. “It was dodge or die.”

  Eiden stared at the scythe like it was holy. “One of my master’s greatest creations,” he murmured, awe slipping into his voice.

  Mortreaver chuckled. “Your master was drooling when we brought him Ashurak’s body.” He shook his head. “He wouldn’t shut up about the quality of the weapons that could be made.”

  He gestured toward a table tucked into the forge office corner. “Sit.”

  The office was cramped compared to the open forge, its walls packed with cabinets filled with hand-drawn schematics—weapon designs layered over weapon designs. Zill’s eyes wandered despite himself.

  One display caught his attention.

  A familiar shape from Lara’s armory—like a crossbow, but wrong. No limbs, no string. Instead, a metallic barrel was integrated into its frame. Compact. Heavy. Purpose-built.

  Zill stared a second too long.

  Eiden quietly reached over and picked it up, giving Zill a subtle look that said don’t.

  But it was too late.

  Lara’s eyes flicked toward them.

  “We’ll leave,” she said curtly. “We already know the story.” Then she looked at Zill. “Come to my quarters when you’re done.”

  She turned and walked out—dragging Eiden with her by the sleeve. He didn’t resist. He just mouthed an apology over his shoulder.

  Mortreaver sat back.

  “Let me tell you the story from the beginning.”

  * * *

  “Mort. It’s time,” Zayril said, out of breath as he ran. “We can finally take down Ashurak.”

  The Guild’s main hall was alive with noise—the heart of everything. Wooden tables and benches were packed with explorers eating, trading stories, checking missions, or simply soaking in the comfort of being inside the walls. A modest diner ran along one side, its counter lined with steaming plates. On the other, the steward’s desk sat beside an odd-jobs board covered in pinned requests.

  Traffic flowed constantly between the hall, the library, and the armory.

  Mortreaver barely looked up from his food. “Calm down.” He raised both hands. “Ashurak—the elder dragon? We can’t kill him. I’ve said that before.”

  “Yes, we can.” Zayril’s eyes were bright with urgency. “I have a plan. But we have to move now.”

  Mortreaver’s frown deepened. “Even if we reach him, we don’t have anything that can pierce him.”

  “He’s injured,” Zayril said. “Chest wound.”

  Mortreaver paused.

  Zayril leaned closer. “He was hit by a pack of Sunhides. One clean strike is all we need.”

  Sunhides were feline predators—similar in size to Redstalkers but bulkier, with ember-colored fur and eerie blue eyes. They hunted in coordinated packs, turning the battlefield into a trap.

  Zayril turned toward the armory. “Grab Elarion and Kaelen. They know Ashurak’s patterns.” He pointed toward the stables. “I’ll prep the cart.”

  Mortreaver abandoned his food and pushed through the hall.

  Zayril’s insane, he thought. But he’s never wrong when it matters.

  * * *

  The stables sat outside the city gate in a wide stone building, dusty and loud with restless hooves. Horses stood in open stalls, tack polished and ready. Carts of all sizes lined the yard—some designed for hauling predator corpses, others packed with expedition supplies.

  Zayril had already hitched a heavy cart. Its frame was loaded with stacked turtle-shell shields and a bundle of powder charges.

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

  When Mortreaver arrived with Elarion and Kaelen—both armed and confused—they ran up together.

  “Are we really hunting Ashurak now?” Kaelen and Elarion asked in unison.

  Zayril ignored the question and nodded at Elarion’s blade. “Good. You brought the greatsword—the best your family owns.” His eyes flicked to the others. “The rest of your weapons? Leave them. Not part of the plan.”

  “We brought them in case something jumps us on the way,” Mortreaver said. “And you still need to explain yourself.”

  Zayril exhaled hard. “I spent months going over Ashurak’s moves with you.” His eyes narrowed. “You think I was telling stories for fun?”

  The three of them looked away awkwardly.

  “Of course they weren’t just stories,” Kaelen muttered.

  Elarion pointed at the cart. “What are all the shields for?”

  “In case they break,” Zayril said flatly. “Ashurak’s claws are stronger than anything we’ve seen. Turtle-shell shields are thick and heavy. They’ll hold—at least for a while.”

  Kaelen muttered, “So it’s a suicide run.”

  “It’s a calculated run.” Zayril climbed into the cart and snapped the reins. “You know his patterns. We have shields and numbers. We only need one clean hit.”

  The cart jolted forward.

  “Three days to reach Ashurak,” Zayril called. “Move.”

  They hesitated—but they trusted him.

  And more importantly, they wanted the glory of killing a dragon.

  * * *

  On the road, Zayril spoke again, tone colder now—more like a man reading a battlefield than a friend.

  “Ashurak is a loner. No other dragons will join him.” He glanced at them. “And he’s prideful. He won’t flee.”

  Most dragons were impossible to hunt. They flew off at the first real threat or vanished into the wilds before anyone could track them. But Ashurak wasn’t like the others—his vengeful pride made him reckless.

  That predictability was why Zayril chose him.

  Not because he would bring the most glory.

  Because he was the only one who wouldn’t run.

  This is Zayril, Mortreaver thought. A relentless strategist who profiles a predator’s ego like it’s a weapon.

  They reached a rugged stretch of the highmarch far from the city—sparse woodland, tall trees spaced wide enough to make hiding difficult and sightlines dangerous.

  In the center lay the aftermath of a battle: snapped trunks, churned soil, claw-gouges carved into stone.

  “It happened here,” Zayril said, pointing. “Ashurak’s likely nearby—retaliating.”

  “It was Sunhides that attacked him, right?” Kaelen said. “Their den should be close.”

  As they neared the den, the smell hit first.

  Then the bodies.

  Sunhide corpses lay strewn across the ground—too many, too large, too brutal. Even apex predators can be torn apart.

  “Sunhides…” Kaelen whispered. “Apex predators like them—taken out this easily?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Zayril said. “Ashurak was hurt.”

  He turned to them, voice cutting through their fear.

  “Look at me. Of course you’re scared.” His eyes narrowed. “That just means you’re sane. But remember why you’re here.”

  He pointed to each of them, one by one.

  “Mortreaver—you want a legendary weapon. The thrill. The glory.”

  Mortreaver didn’t deny it.

  “Kaelen—you want a name for your family. For your wife. Your kids.”

  Kaelen’s jaw tightened.

  Elarion scoffed, trying to hide nerves with bravado. “What will you say to convince me?”

  Before Zayril could open his mouth.

  Mortreaver answered for him. “He doesn’t need to. You’re a fighting maniac.”

  Zayril slowly turned his head and stared at Mortreaver like he’d just stepped on the plan.

  “…That,” Zayril said flatly, “was not the right way to ask.”

  Mortreaver shrugged. “It’s true.”

  Elarion puffed his chest out anyway, pretending the insult was a compliment. “Finally, someone recognizes my talent.”

  Zayril sighed, then switched gears instantly. He stepped forward and threw his arms wide like he was announcing a hero on stage.

  “Elarion,” he declared, voice dripping with exaggerated reverence, “our glorious sword saint. Our irreplaceable pillar. The only thing standing between us and becoming dragon food.”

  Kaelen chuckled, “That’s more like it.”

  Zayril leaned in a little, lowering his voice just enough to sound sincere—while still obviously mocking. “If you don’t come, we’ll have to rely on Mortreaver’s charm and Kaelen’s prayers.”

  Mortreaver frowned. “I don’t—”

  “We need you, Elarion!” Zayril finished, now being louder.

  Elarion rolled his eyes—then smirked, clearly pleased despite himself. “Fine. Without me, you’d all be dead anyway.” He already wanted to fight, but he still enjoyed the compliments.

  They moved forward.

  And then they saw him.

  Near the den, Ashurak roared as he fought off two adult Sunhides. A few pups cowered behind broken stone, too terrified to flee.

  As expected, Ashurak hadn’t run to heal.

  Driven by fury, he had tracked the Sunhides back to their den—vengeance overriding instinct, even while wounded.

  Zayril’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Positions,” he said. “Now.”

  * * *

  As the Sunhides lunged, Ashurak raised his right wing and swept them aside like they weighed nothing.

  Then the dragon turned—jaw opening—and lunged for the pups.

  Elarion moved without thinking, throwing himself between Ashurak and the cowering young.

  “Idiot!” Mortreaver shouted, sprinting after him. “That wasn’t part of the plan!”

  “They’re pups!” Elarion snapped—then immediately looked embarrassed at how high his voice went. “I… I couldn’t just stand there.”

  The two adult Sunhides took the opening instantly. They grabbed their young and fled, vanishing into the trees with desperate speed.

  Ashurak roared, wings spreading wide. Elarion backed away, heart hammering.

  Still worth it, he told himself.

  They repositioned quickly, circling the dragon into a triangle—Mortreaver and Kaelen in front with shields, Elarion at the angle with the greatsword ready.

  Zayril stayed in the treeline, eyes sharp, voice cutting through the chaos.

  “He’s bleeding,” he called with a grin. “Stick to the plan—we’ll win without a scratch.”

  They smirked at the statement as if it was a joke.

  Everyone knew better.

  A scratch was death.

  Elarion carried the apex-forged greatsword—the only weapon with a chance of biting deep enough. Mortreaver and Kaelen each wore a spare shield strapped to their backs, the goal simple and brutal: distract, endure, and feed Elarion an opening.

  Ashurak’s tail lashed out first, a sweeping blow that knocked Mortreaver and Kaelen off-balance like dolls.

  Before they could fully recover, the dragon lunged at Elarion—right claw coming down like a falling wall.

  Elarion blocked—barely.

  The shield in his hands cracked apart under the weight.

  “Shields hold against the tail,” Zayril called, watching like a hawk. “Not the claws. As we thought.”

  Mortreaver threw a small powder charge—an explorer’s trick meant for distraction, not damage. It burst with a sharp crack and smoke.

  Ashurak flinched.

  It wasn’t fear—just irritation.

  The dragon swung at Mortreaver. His shield shattered. He tore the spare from his back and raised it in time.

  Ashurak began to understand.

  It stopped trying to kill them first.

  It tried to break their guards.

  Mortreaver’s next shield shattered. Kaelen stepped in and covered him, taking the pressure for a heartbeat while Mortreaver repositioned.

  They repeated the pattern again and again—shields cracking, smoke flashing, feet scrambling, breaths turning ragged.

  Eventually, Ashurak roared and leapt into the air, enraged.

  Kaelen’s voice tightened. “Finally… our shields are starting to run out.”

  Ashurak dove, claws aimed straight for Mortreaver.

  Mortreaver dodged right—toward Ashurak’s blind side.

  The dragon crashed through the trees instead, splintering five trunks and sending debris into the air like shrapnel.

  Kaelen threw a powder charge at the dragon’s eye.

  Ashurak thrashed blindly, furious.

  Elarion seized the opening. He surged in—going for a deep stab—

  —but Ashurak reacted.

  Elarion adjusted mid-stride and slashed the bleeding wound instead.

  Not a killing blow.

  But the bleeding intensified, turning the injury into a problem Ashurak couldn’t ignore.

  The dragon lashed back. Elarion was knocked down hard.

  Kaelen rushed to cover him.

  Mortreaver smirked through bruised breath.

  This is turning out exactly like Zayril predicted.

  He threw another powder charge.

  Ashurak reeled—then pulled its head back.

  Through the pale skin of its throat, a dull red glow began to build—swelling brighter with every heartbeat.

  Heat rolled over them before the fire even came.

  “Breath—!” Zayril’s voice cut sharp from the trees.

  Kaelen and Elarion scattered instantly, boots skidding on churned soil—toward the thicker trunks Zayril had marked earlier. The bark there was dark and damp, as the trees had been soaked in water as planned.

  Ashurak exhaled.

  A torrent of red flame poured down in a brutal cone, swallowing the ground where they’d stood a moment ago. The forest screamed—dry brush igniting, leaves curling into ash midair. Two trees caught immediately, their trunks blooming with fire like torches.

  But the trunk Kaelen dove behind hissed instead of flashing. Steam burst off the soaked bark. The flame licked around it, angry and bright—still deadly, still burning—but delayed, just long enough.

  Kaelen hit the ground hard behind it, cloak smoking at the edges.

  Elarion threw himself sideways and rolled. The back of his coat blackened, fabric sizzling—then he slapped it out on instinct, teeth clenched, barely avoiding a full catch.

  They lived by a hair.

  Mortreaver didn’t retreat.

  The instant the flame began, he dropped his shield and sprinted straight beneath the dragon before it could angle the breath downward again—

  —and grabbed its leg.

  The dragon slammed down violently.

  Mortreaver let go at the last second and crashed through branches, breaking his fall on wood and luck.

  Ashurak landed hard, stumbling.

  Its right wing sagged—damaged.

  Elarion forced himself up, breath ragged, and drove his sword in again.

  This time it pierced deep.

  Ashurak’s breathing turned uneven—wet, strained.

  Zayril’s voice cut in instantly. “Didn’t reach the heart—hit the lungs. We just need to hold.”

  Ashurak lunged to bite Elarion.

  Mortreaver and Kaelen blocked—

  —and both shields broke at once.

  The dragon roared and surged upward again.

  “Is he fleeing?” Elarion rasped, disbelief in his voice.

  “No,” Zayril said flatly. “He’s too proud.”

  Ashurak turned mid-air.

  And aimed straight at Zayril.

  For the first time, the dragon wasn’t striking what was closest.

  It was striking what was smart.

  Zayril raised a shield—

  The impact shattered it and hurled him from the tree.

  He hit the ground hard. His ankle twisted with a sickening snap of pain.

  Ashurak reared up over him.

  “I’m coming!” Mortreaver shouted, sprinting.

  Ashurak had abandoned those directly in front of it.

  This wasn’t part of the plan.

  Desperation breaks patterns. Even predators fall back on survival, Mortreaver realized.

  No one could reach Zayril in time.

  We can’t let him die here—

  Panic spread through them, sudden and helpless. They froze—eyes wide, faces pale.

  Zayril had predicted everything so far. Every move. Every reaction.

  His plan had carried them without a single death. They hadn’t even needed to improvise.

  To lose him now—

  after all that—

  was unthinkable.

  Then—

  a blur.

  A Sunhide slammed into Zayril from the side, tackling him out of Ashurak’s reach.

  Another Sunhide appeared, crouching beside him—eyes bright, body tense, not attacking… guarding.

  The debt.

  Elarion had saved their pups.

  Now they repaid it.

  Zayril didn’t waste the gift. He hauled himself onto its back.

  They bolted into the trees.

  Ashurak tried to rise and fly—

  but it was too injured.

  It fell.

  And it fell toward them.

  Elarion, Kaelen, and Mortreaver were too close.

  “Jump!” Zayril screamed from the distance. “Shields down!”

  They obeyed on instinct, throwing themselves flat and bracing what little protection they had left.

  The impact hit like an earthquake.

  They were hurled upward—weightless for a heartbeat—then slammed back down.

  They landed on their backs, bruised and breathless. Shields were cracked or gone.

  Ashurak wasn’t faring better.

  The dragon’s limbs trembled as it forced itself up, driven by one last violent instinct. It lashed out in a final strike.

  Mortreaver stumbled, nearly falling—

  —and saw Elarion’s greatsword lying in the dirt.

  He dove for it.

  Ashurak struck.

  Mortreaver dodged, rolled, and surged forward.

  With a burst of strength born from panic and purpose, he drove the blade into Ashurak’s chest—forcing it through ribs, through lungs, and into the heart.

  Mortreaver collapsed beside the dragon, the weapon left buried inside.

  Ashurak groaned once—deep, unwilling—

  and then fell to its side.

  The fight was over.