Chapter 2 Kragna
KRAGNA
The light finds me through the slats in the old wood and the cracks in my stonework.
A soft gold that slinks in under Heartbreak Bridge, brushing warm fingers across my iron-gray skin. I stretch, joints popping like kettle stones in heat. The mountain air's crisp, thin, filled with the heady scent of moss, dew, and last night's fire. A good morning. A slow morning.
My beard’s a mess.
I shuffle to the mirror—really just a polished hunk of bronze I hammered into shape a century ago—and eye the situation. Twigs. A dead beetle. One stubborn knot of crabapple paste I don’t remember getting there.
"Charming," I grumble, plucking out the worst of it.
Clippers. Comb. Oil from the amberroot bush.
I groom like a knight about to ride into court, beard glistening, horns polished to a burnished gold. My reflection’s not bad, all things considered. Big nose. Thick brow. A face you could carve into a cliffside and call it home.
A deep groan echoes nearby—my still waking up.
I cross the flagstone path to my distillery, where the stone’s still warm from the night fire. The barrel burps gently, steam curling from the copper piping as the first drips of moonshine splash into a catch jar.
I take a sniff. Nose full of smoke, bark, and fermented crabapple. Just right.
“Another week and she’ll be perfect,” I say to no one in particular.
The fog clings low over the forest, but it’s thinning.
Beyond the trees, the Emerald Mist Mountains rear like gods’ teeth, jagged and blue.
I built my house under this bridge for a reason—nothing bothers me here.
Not the elves, not the humans, not even the screaming skybirds that sometimes drop fish from the clouds.
Peace.
Almost.
A low buzzing breaks the calm.
I sigh, long and low, and wait.
Seconds later, Charen zips in on her latest creation—a balloon of webbing big as a cow bladder, filled with whatever gas her foul little body produces. The balloon farts her gently to a stop on my ledge.
She scuttles down the anchor line, eight legs clacking, tiny humanoid face already sneering.
“Oi, bridge-dick!” she chirps. “You got any booze for the queen?”
I glance at her. “Depends. You got any gossip worth the trade?”
She plops onto the old toadstool stool by my stew pot and sighs theatrically. “Ogres. Big ones. Squishing pinkies in the forest. Gods, it was funny. One got smashed so hard his legs kept running.”
I stir my pot. “Sounds messy.”
“Oh, it was divine. Blood, guts, the whole buffet. Some Ranger types, I think.” She flicks one leg toward the smoke hole. “They were creeping toward Kyrdonis. Real hush-hush. Didn’t end well.”
Something twists in my gut—not guilt, but something like… nostalgia. The last time Rangers came this way, it ended with fire and broken teeth. But Charen’s always full of shit, so I don’t pay it too much mind.
“Any survivors?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Maybe one. I dunno. Got swept off the cliff. Probably soup by now.”
I grunt. “Soup sounds nice.”
“Speaking of soup,” she says, sniffing, “what’s in the pot?”
“Lemurian bone marrow, swamp carrots, and red root.” I lift the lid. The stew’s thick and bubbling, brown and fragrant with spice and smoke. My mouth waters. “Veeto’s supposed to bring smoked squirrel.”
Charen snorts. “If he shows up sober, I’ll eat my own web.”
I hand her a thimble of shine. She sips and immediately starts hacking.
“Shitballs, Krag, that’s strong enough to polish metal.”
“Thank you.”
The mountains hum around us—low, slow, like the earth itself is thinking.
I sit, breathe, watch the fog roll over the trees like a blanket. My claws tap against my cup.
Something’s coming.
I don’t know what.
But I feel it.
I always do.
Charen’s half-passed out on my stew pot lid when Veeto comes clomping up the slope, whistling something obscene.
He’s got a bag slung over one shoulder and a bottle in his fist. His hooves leave little dents in my stone path, and his eyes are bloodshot. Typical.
“Look what the dog shit dragged in,” I mutter, ladling out soup.
“You wish you looked this good when you're half in the drink,” he replies, plopping down and tossing me a smoked squirrel with one hand.
I catch it mid-air. “What did you pickle this thing in, boot sweat?”
“Only the finest,” Veeto grins, taking a swig from his bottle. “Anyway, I brought you a new one.”
“A new what?”
“Story.” He grins wider, eyes gleaming under his unruly mane.
“So I’m out near the Crescent Spine, minding my business, when some idiot human with more balls than brains tries to jump me with a rusty pitchfork.
Naturally, I dodge, grab the bastard, and stomp his belly so hard his kidney popped out his throat. ”
Charen wheezes from the stew lid. “Bullshit.”
“True story!” Veeto says, holding one hoof up like he’s swearing to the gods. “Kidney. Tongue. Same space. It looked like a pink slug trying to scream.”
I squint at him. “Veeto, I’ve dissected more humans than you’ve seen sober mornings. The kidneys don’t connect to the tongue.”
“Not normally,” he says with a shrug, “but I rearranged his anatomy real creative-like.”
I snort. “More like you hallucinated it.”
Veeto throws a chunk of squirrel at me. I catch it in my mouth and chew slowly.
“Point is,” he says around a mouthful of soup, “humans are dumb. They always come stomping where they don’t belong, thinking the forest owes ‘em a shortcut.”
Charen hiccups. “Speaking of dumb humans…”
Before she can finish, the trees explode.
Well—not literally. But they rustle like a thunderclap, and suddenly there’s this blur of blue and silver charging up the path. Toad Knight.
He skids to a halt in front of the fire, wheezing, one hand on the hilt of that ridiculous sword he calls Righteous Hatred.
“She betrayed us!” he bellows.
Veeto blinks. “What, again?”
Toad Knight spins, jabbing a finger toward Charen. “That eight-legged venomous jezebel is guiding a human—a human—this way!”
Charen lifts one leg in salute. “Guilty.”
“You traitorous dung-stained goblet,” Toad Knight roars. “You’d sell our secrets for a shiny rock!”
“Only if it’s really shiny,” she says, already pulling out her next balloon.
I stand, brushing crumbs from my lap, and wander to the edge of the treeline.
Veeto groans. “Ugh, here we go.”
“Quiet,” I say, squinting through the shifting fog.
The trees part in slow motion, and there she is.
Stumbling. Bleeding. Half-dead but upright through sheer hate and muscle memory.
A human girl, maybe five and a half feet of filth, torn leather, and dried blood. Her hair’s black, plastered to her cheeks. She’s leaning on a stick like it’s the only thing keeping her from dropping into the dirt.
And her aura.
It hits me like heat off a forge.
Wounded, angry, proud—bright like sun through glass, cracked but burning anyway.
Something stirs in my chest. Not hunger. Not curiosity.
Something older.
I don't move. I just watch.
She catches sight of me and straightens. Her knees wobble but she draws herself tall, leveling a glare that could melt granite.
That defiance... it shines.
Charen skitters to my shoulder, grinning. “Brought you dinner.”
“Looks undercooked,” Veeto mutters behind me.
“She’s still kicking,” I murmur. “Barely.”
Toad Knight growls. “We must stop this madness. She’ll bring death to our doorstep!”
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But that thing in my chest stirs again, ancient and loud.
I step out into the light.
Toad Knight’s helm glints in the rising sun as he plants himself between me and the human girl, puffed up and self-righteous like a toad in heat.
“She’s a poacher,” he growls, voice like gravel poured through old parchment. “A trespasser. She broke the code. You know what that means, Kragna.”
I arch a brow. “Hmm.”
“It means stew,” he snarls, drawing his ridiculous sword, Righteous Hatred, and pointing the blade straight at her throat. “I’ll carve her myself.”
The girl—barely standing—just blinks at him.
Her face is smeared with blood, her jaw swollen.
I can hear her breath whistling in and out of her, wet and too fast. But her eyes?
Her eyes don’t flinch. They stay locked on Toad Knight like she’s still trying to figure out if any of this is real, or if she’s gone and dropped dead and landed in some fucked-up monster fairytale.
Charen giggles from her perch, “Oh she’s adorable. Like a bleeding doll.”
Toad Knight takes a step forward, sword quivering. “Say the word, Kragna. Say stew, and I’ll make the first cut.”
I scratch my chin. Playful.
“Well…” I rumble, loud enough to make the trees hush, “it’s been a while since I roasted a human.”
The girl’s eyes flick to me. Then to the others. Then back.
She doesn’t speak. Just tightens her grip on that sad excuse for a stick she’s got in her hand.
Veeto snorts. “Stick won’t help you, sweetheart.” He leans on a log, licking his fingers. “If it’s stew, we should gut her quick. Less bile in the meat. Then there’s spit-roasting. Or Kragna’s favorite—bury her in the coals till the belly pops.”
“Or stew,” Charen singsongs. “Oh stew stew stew. Boil the bones and suck the marrow.”
The girl lifts the stick.
Her hand is trembling, skin torn and purpled at the knuckles. She’s got barely enough strength to hold herself upright, let alone fight. But she raises that pathetic twig like it’s a sword forged by gods, and she dares me to come closer.
My breath catches.
Her eyes—they burn. Bright brown. Alive. Furious.
Like fire flickering through fog.
I blink.
Veeto’s still rambling. “Or better yet, throw her in the pit and see how long she screams before the fire gets her liver—”
“Enough,” I say.
They all pause.
I take a step forward, slow. Deliberate.
The girl doesn’t back down.
I study her. Really look.
Not just the mess—though that’s clear enough.
Mud-slicked boots, thigh bleeding in a slow trickle, her cloak shredded and soaked.
One side of her face is swollen, lips split.
Her smell hits me full on—blood, fear, the sharp tang of gunpowder.
But underneath that? Something else. Stubbornness. Strength.
I feel something twist in my chest. Not hunger. Not curiosity.
It feels like... a knot coming undone.
I take another step.
She lifts the stick higher, her chin quivering but raised.
“Alright,” I murmur.
Veeto squints at me. “Alright what?”
I look at her.
“You want to live?” I say. “Sing. Dance. Tell me a tale.”
Silence.
Even the still burbles quieter.
Her brow furrows, like she doesn’t hear me right.
“I’m serious,” I say, louder now. “Make me laugh. Make me cry. Show me you’re more than meat.”
Charen cackles. “You’re soft, bridge-boy.”
“Shut it,” I snap without heat.
Toad Knight glares at me. “She’s a threat—”
“She’s mine,” I growl.
His mouth opens. Closes.
The girl’s stick wavers. She blinks. Slowly.
“What’s the catch?” she croaks.
“No catch,” I say. “This ain’t a fairy tale bargain. You entertain me? You get to keep your bones.”
My heart thuds. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t understand the impulse.
But her fire… it calls to something old in me.
And I want to see if it burns.