Chapter 5
Riddles And Secrets
By midday, Aldric had made his way to the main courtyard. He was the first to arrive.
He felt off.
No armor.
No sword.
It felt wrong, like stepping onto a battlefield barefoot, but he came anyway, shoulders squared, expression calm.
The palace doors opened.
Goroth emerged first, massive as ever, a great two-handed sword resting casually across his shoulder, its fuller gleaming.
Mareth followed, twin curved blades crossed over his back.
Aldric looked at both of them, and nodded in acknowledgement.
Mareth did not say a word, he just tossed a package towards Aldric.
It hit the stone at Aldric’s feet with a heavy clank.
“Here, take it. My sister likes you. You’re no use to us dead.”
Aldric glanced down.
“What is it?”
“Armor. Not the best, but it’ll keep you from being crushed. There’s a shield and a sword in there too.”
Aldric knelt and opened the bundle.
Demonic craftsmanship. Dark metal, clever design. The pieces locked together with intelligent straps and flexible edges, meant to be donned alone. Within minutes he was fitted, the armor settling against him like it had been made for him.
He rose.
“So. Where’s the dragon?”
Mareth lifted a hand and pointed toward the tallest mountain beyond the valley.
“Our ride is waiting there. Or rather, our portal.”
Goroth grunted.
Mareth shot his father a glance.
“I know you hate these. But it’s faster. And I’m not bringing Varrgothar.”
Aldric frowned slightly.
“The dragon you arrived on?”
Mareth nodded.
“Dragons warn each other. Even broken, even bound, they’re still beasts. One bad instinct and it’ll tear off the hand keeping it alive, just because it can.” He turned sharply. “Let’s go.”
Aldric hesitated a fraction.
“No farewells? The court? Your family?”
Mareth didn’t slow.
“This hunt is for men only. Tradition.”
Aldric nodded once.
And then they walked—
three figures crossing the courtyard in silence, the weight of what awaited them pressing heavier with every step.
Beyond the palace walls, the valley opened before them.
It was pleasantly warm. The rolling slopes were basked in soft gold light. Vineyards stretched across the valley in careful rows, their leaves rustling gently in the breeze.
They moved in silence.
A warm gust of wind swept across the hills, carrying with it the scent of ripening grapes and sun-warmed earth.
The air felt heavy with late-season heat, calm and almost peaceful.
Their footsteps continued down the winding path, the distant rows of vines swaying softly as they descended into the valley.
Once they were halfway through the valley, they stopped by a narrow stream cutting through the stone.
Aldric crouched, splashing water over his hands, then glanced at Mareth.
“You don’t seem fond of dragons, yet you ride one.”
Goroth let out a low laugh, more to himself than anyone else, as if Aldric had struck something old and familiar.
Mareth didn’t look up at first.
“No,” he said at last. “I don’t.”
Aldric stilled.
“That sounds… personal.”
Mareth snorted.
“It wasn’t. Until it was.”
Aldric hummed quietly.
A feud, then.
He straightened slightly.
“In Isendor, we had our share of feuds. No dragons involved, though.”
Mareth laughed, sharp and humorless.
“I’m willing to bet your feuds didn’t earn you the title of the most wanted being in the land.” He took a sip, eyes dark. “Not hunted by the most vicious, power-hungry pack of cunts alive, armed with leashed monsters.”
The venom in his voice made Aldric pause.
Mareth drank again, slower this time.
Aldric watched him for a moment, then asked quietly,
“How did it become personal?”
No response came.
Goroth laughed again.
“Go on,” he said. “Tell him.”
Mareth’s jaw tightened.
“A female demon once challenged me to a duel.”
Aldric blinked.
“All right. Clearly you won. I assume she died.”
Mareth’s mouth flattened into a thin line.
Goroth just shook his head.
Aldric frowned, still missing something.
“I spared her,” Mareth said at last. “Then we…”
He trailed off.
Aldric nodded slowly.
“Okay. But how did that make you the most wanted demon—”
“The woman who challenged me,” Mareth cut in sharply, “happened to be the leader of the Stormclaw Five.”
Aldric smirked.
“So you pissed off the wrong demon woman.”
Mareth shot him a hard look.
“Arelith commanded the most terrifying dragons in this realm,” he said coldly. “And for a time, she was… subdued.”
Goroth leaned in.
“But?”
Mareth exhaled, shoulders easing just a fraction. His voice shifted—softer, almost reluctant.
“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “The other one had blue eyes.” A faint, crooked smile. “You know how mesmerizing those can be. Besides, I told Arelith that we were just a one time thing. She told me she felt the same way. That we were not a thing…”
Aldric chuckled despite himself.
“So what happened? Did the two of them fight?”
Mareth’s expression darkened at once.
“No.”
Something crossed his eyes, something Aldric couldn’t quite name.
“Arelith murdered Ethelle out of spite,” Mareth said quietly. “She couldn’t accept that I did not belong to her anymore. Then she put a price on my head.”
Silence fell.
Goroth was busy sharpening his sword.
Mareth drew a breath.
His gaze hardened.
“So I did what anyone would. I buried Ethelle and I swore to the Gods I would annihilate Arelith and her sisters. Every last one of them, including their beasts.”
Aldric did not ask any more questions.
Goroth grunted, pushing himself upright.
“We should move. I want to reach the damned portal by nightfall.”
They walked for the rest of the day.
Aldric kept their pace without complaint.
The road narrowed, then steepened. Stone gave way to jagged switchbacks, the air thinning as they climbed. Muscles burned. Boots scraped. Still, Aldric said nothing.
By dusk, they reached their destination.
It was massive.
A hand-hewn gate stood alone at the mountain’s peak, carved directly from black stone. Hollow at its center. Ancient. Silent. The opening was wide enough for ten grown men to pass. Or a far larger beast.
Mareth stepped forward and clasped his hands once.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
He took his position before the gate and raised his palms. His movements were slow and deliberate, each gesture part of a precise, practiced sequence. The stone within the frame began to shimmer, as though disturbed water were trapped inside it.
A tremor rippled through the air.
Golden motes bled from the black stone, drifting inward, spiraling. The hollow darkened, then deepened, until the space within the frame no longer reflected the mountain sky.
The portal was forming.
Goroth grunted in open disapproval.
When it was done, Mareth turned to Aldric and Goroth.
“Our prey awaits.”
They stepped through.
The portal enveloped them, it felt like moving through dense water, pressure pressing in from all sides, sound dulled, weight dragging at their limbs.
Then the air hit them.
Foul and rotting.
Humid.
A marsh stretched out before them, shrouded in drifting fog and the stink of decay.
Goroth clasped his massive hands together, clearly delighted.
Aldric glanced at Mareth.
“This dragon that we’re hunting. What do you know about it?”
Mareth tilted his head, irritation flickering across his features.
Then, with a sigh, he indulged him.
“That’s the point of the hunt, knight. We don’t know what kind of dragon we’re dealing with. That’s part of the allure.”
He gestured ahead with his chin, toward Goroth, who was already moving forward. One hand resting casually on the hilt of his massive sword.
“You see him?” Mareth continued. “That’s how you approach a dragon hunt. You come with everything you have. Knowledge. Skill. Armor. Steel.” A pause. “And no magic. Dragons are immune to it.”
Aldric nodded slowly.
“I see. Then how do you kill it?”
Mareth smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
“You find its blind spot. Every dragon has one. Then you gut the fucker.”
Aldric absorbed that, then asked carefully,
“I see. What about the dragon you arrived on… how did you subdue it?”
Mareth’s expression went flat.
“I chained it in a cave deep underground for almost a millennium, until I broke its will.”
Aldric frowned.
“That’s… harsh.”
Mareth turned his gaze on him, unblinking.
“Varrgothar would skin me alive if it could. We’ll call it even.”
He shifted his stance and unsheathed the blades.
Ready.
“Now focus, knight. Guard up,” he added coldly. “The scaly fucker is close. This place reeks of dragon magic.”
They moved in silence.
No more banter.
Only the slow crunch of boots through wet earth and rotting leaves.
Then Aldric saw it.
The dragon lay half-buried in the marsh, motionless at first, so still it might have been part of the land itself.
Its scales were grey and weather-worn, dulled by age, streaked with moss and lichen that clung to its massive body like decay. One wing lay folded and torn. The other twitched faintly.
Its eyes opened.
Fractured.
A black slit at the center, surrounded by a web of sickly red veins, as if something inside them had cracked long ago.
The ground shuddered.
With a grinding roar of stone and mud, the beast rose, tearing itself free from the marsh. A hissing breath rolled across the battlefield, hot, rotten, and heavy enough to choke.
Aldric’s lungs burned.
The dragon surged forward, impossibly fast, its reflexes and speed beyond anything Aldric had ever faced.
Mareth and Goroth were already circling the dragon.
An opening flashed beneath its left wing, an exposed seam between overlapping plates of scale.
Aldric moved without thinking.
He charged.
Steel rang.
His blade struck true—
And slid.
Sparks burst as the edge skidded harmlessly across hardened hide.
The dragon twisted.
In a heartbeat.
A massive limb slammed into his shield.
The impact hurled him through mud and reeds like a snapped twig.
Pain exploded through his ribs.
Only the armor kept him alive.
He barely rolled aside as claws tore through the space where he had been.
Too slow.
Too obvious.