Yirtin sat quietly, feeling the gentle sway of the wagon beneath him as it rumbled along the rough road toward Amif. The sound of creaking wheels and distant murmurs of the iron merchants were his only companions now. Each bump, each lurch seemed to pull him further from home, from honor, from everything he'd once known.

  Slowly, he reached down, lifting the armor left for him. It was a suit of scales—simple, unadorned, made purely for practicality. There were no gleaming symbols of the Solareye clan, no accents of dark metal or rich gold filigree to mark his rank or heritage. The simplicity felt strangely comforting, yet it also stung as a reminder of all he had lost.

  His paws traced over the cold scales, feeling their sturdy craftsmanship, the smoothness of each piece, perfectly interlocked. Practical. Humble. Everything he was forced to become.

  Setting the armor aside, Yirtin reached for the leather bag that Arana had left him. The supple material felt familiar and heavy in his hands. He carefully undid the clasp, unfolding the leather flap to reveal the supplies within.

  Inside were neatly packed rations, dried meat and hard bread wrapped carefully in linen, a sturdy waterskin, two torches bundled together, a small tinderbox for lighting fires, and a rolled-up bedroll secured by leather straps. Beneath it all lay a set of simple clothing, woven from coarse linen—functional, anonymous, perfect for someone with no name.

  But beside the bag, gleaming quietly in the muted daylight filtering through the wagon cover, rested something unexpected—a sword of exquisite craftsmanship. He picked it up slowly, almost reverently. The hilt was wrapped in rich, black leather, and the pommel was forged into the head of a lion, wrought from polished silver. Its eyes were set with small, vivid blue gemstones—Heliondor sapphires, unmistakably marking it as a clan heirloom.

  He inhaled sharply, feeling the weight of Arana’s gift—not merely steel, but a piece of her own lineage, her family's honor, her brother's own sword, now entrusted to a dishonored man. His heart ached as he slid a finger gently along the blade’s edge. It was razor-sharp, honed to perfection; it bit into his skin easily, drawing a thin line of blood.

  He set the sword aside carefully, noticing something else tucked alongside it—a small vial of glowing crimson liquid. A healing potion, he recognized immediately. Beside it, folded carefully, was a note.

  His paws trembled slightly as he unfolded the delicate parchment, Arana’s familiar handwriting flowing elegantly across it:

  "May you find peace in Exile – Arana."

  He stared at the note for a long moment, feeling sadness tug at the corners of his heart. It wasn’t bitterness that overcame him, though, but longing. He missed her already—her voice, her touch, her unwavering spirit. Yet the pain also carried a quiet determination, a spark of purpose buried beneath the grief.

  He would honor her gift.

  He would survive, grow stronger, and become worthy once more.

  And someday—no matter how long or difficult the journey—he would return, no longer a deserter, no longer dishonored, but someone worthy of the blade and the woman who had trusted him with it.

  "Mercenary."

  The voice pierced the canvas cover of the wagon, pulling Yirtin from his contemplation. He shifted forward, stepping carefully between crates of metal ore until he emerged into the open air, where the wagoneers sat guiding the sturdy draft horses. He squinted briefly, adjusting to the daylight.

  "May I help you?" Yirtin asked, his voice steady yet polite, as befitted an employee speaking to his patrons. The humility of his new station chafed at him—not due to any disrespect from the merchants, but from his own lack of allegiance, his own shameful circumstance. Still, he swallowed that bitterness down.

  The younger of the two dwarves—a fresh-faced man, his skin deeply tanned from travel and labor, dark eyes bright but wary beneath a short-cropped beard—spoke first. "We just need ye to be aware that in a few hours we’ll enter a dangerous stretch o’ road."

  Before Yirtin could reply, the older dwarf—a rougher, more weathered reflection of the younger one—added his voice, deeper, richer, carrying the resonance of age and authority. His beard was long and thick, with streaks of grey mingling through chestnut brown. His nose was broad, set beneath eyes that had seen decades of journeys and hardships.

  "Ye Solareye, right?" he asked, his gaze assessing, cautious but not unfriendly.

  A shadow passed through Yirtin’s heart at the name. "Yes," he said quietly. "I was."

  The elder dwarf nodded solemnly. "I hope they're as good as the rest of yer company, lad."

  Yirtin hesitated. Was he still up to the standards he’d once embodied so naturally? He drew a quiet breath, pushing down the doubt that clawed at the edges of his mind. "I will do my best to protect you both," he said, forcing conviction into his words. "For that, you have my word."

  The older dwarf raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I think we need more than words."

  "When the time comes," Yirtin said, voice lowering slightly, "the sword will speak for me."

  At this, the dwarf cracked a faint smile, eyes twinkling briefly. "Oh yes, quite a sword they have left for ye... That lioness. I saw her put it inside my Wagon. Told it was part of yer equipment."

  Yirtin glanced back, the image of the beautifully forged blade vivid in his mind’s eye. "Yes," he said softly, a subtle ache coloring his words. "It belonged to her brother, the sword."

  "I see," the older dwarf murmured respectfully, turning his attention back to the dusty road ahead. "Well, by Duras' Iron, let's hope ye won’t need to use it."

  Yirtin’s ears flicked slightly. Duras—the god of miners, smiths, and all mountain dwarves. That these men revered Duras came as no surprise, and the name carried weight, reassurance even. The quality of their steel, their wares, and their honor would be impeccable.

  Yirtin spoke again, easing the conversation forward. "Do you always take this route?"

  "Aye," the younger dwarf interjected with youthful enthusiasm. "Father and I've been doin' this route for decades now. Out from the Vrill Mountains to Moudhaz."

  The elder dwarf smiled slightly, pride clear in his weathered face. "We pride ourselves on deliverin' the purest metal ore—finest iron ye can get anywhere in the Amif quarter."

  "Did you ever supply the Solareye company?" Yirtin asked, curiosity briefly distracting him from darker thoughts.

  "Oh aye, for many years," the older dwarf replied fondly. "Oleg always paid us a fair price."

  "He’s always been a straight businessman," Yirtin conceded with a slight nod, a ghost of respect crossing his expression.

  At this, the younger dwarf broke into a sudden grin, nudging his father playfully. "But the whores say he's a lousy lay."

  Yirtin blinked, startled from his melancholy. "You don't say," he replied dryly, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  "Oh aye," the younger dwarf laughed. "Said he had a cabbage pecker."

  Yirtin frowned, genuinely perplexed. "What does that even mean?"

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The elder dwarf shrugged dismissively, but amusement danced in his eyes. "Hells if I know, lad. I care not about other men's peckers."

  "Yet they don't seem to leave yer mouth, Father," the younger dwarf teased boldly.

  His father turned sharply, smacking him lightly but firmly across the back of the head, his voice stern but good-natured. "Foolish child. Do not disrespect yer father, or I'll put ye down like a rabid mamelok."

  "Sorry, Father," the younger dwarf mumbled sheepishly, rubbing his head.

  Yirtin watched their exchange quietly, feeling an unexpected warmth at their camaraderie, at the simple affection between father and son.

  "What are your names?" he asked, breaking the silence.

  The older dwarf straightened with dignity. "I'm Grundhill Ironvein, and this fool o' a boy is my son, Artoril."

  Yirtin inclined his head politely. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

  "And what about ye, lad?" Grundhill asked, his expression openly curious, his eyes appraising Yirtin carefully. "What's yer name?"

  Yirtin hesitated, feeling the question sink heavily into his chest. Who was he now? Not a Solareye—he had been stripped of that honor. Not even Yirtin felt right anymore. That name belonged to someone else—a Captain, a leader, a man who no longer existed. The name was too heavy, too full of a life he’d lost, too burdened by shame.

  Grundhill pressed again, gently insistent. "Lad, what is yer name?"

  Yirtin looked away, feeling the weight of his past slip away into something new, something uncertain, but also something lighter. Something he could build anew. There was only one name that rose from the silence within him, one he could carry forward.

  He met Grundhill’s steady gaze, his voice quiet but firm.

  "Zion."

  "Oh," the older dwarf murmured, his expression thoughtful.

  "What does it mean?" Artoril asked, curiosity brightening his dark eyes as he glanced at Yirtin.

  Yirtin—no, Zion now—turned slightly, his golden mane catching the sunlight, eyes distant for a moment as he remembered the old tales. "It is an important name among my people. Zion was a prophet, tasked by the Eternal Lion himself to lead our kind from the Old Continent to Sundrin."

  Artoril's eyes widened with newfound respect. "Seems like a powerful name."

  Zion allowed himself a faint smile. "I will try my best to live up to it."

  Grundhill nodded approvingly. "I'm sure ye will, lad. Now, the next few hours are safe and peaceful, so ye better rest up. I want ye awake and alert through the night, understand?"

  Zion glanced at the road stretching ahead, uncertain. "Wouldn't it be safer if I remained awake?"

  Grundhill chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No, lad. Rest. I’ve traveled this route for years; come dusk, we’ll stop and make camp. It's too dangerous to journey by night."

  "Are there no inns nearby?" Zion asked.

  Grundhill grimaced, waving a dismissive hand. "Bah. Inns charge too much for beds of straw and mugs of watered-down ale."

  Artoril leaned toward Zion conspiratorially. "I’ve even heard that some of the innkeepers around here urinate in the ale and mead—to give it 'taste,' they say, and to stretch their profits further."

  Zion frowned, ears flattening slightly in mild disgust. "I see. In that case, I will follow your advice."

  Grundhill grinned warmly, waving Zion back toward the wagon's interior. "Of course, lad. Now go sleep with the lions, or whatever it is yer folk do."

  Zion slowly shifted his weight, settling down beside the leather bag and the armor Arana had left him. The simple scale armor felt comforting beneath his fingers, a grounding presence that reminded him of a path forward, no matter how unclear. He exhaled deeply, closing his eyes, and within minutes, sleep began to take him. At first, it was gentle—a rare peace, one he had long since forgotten.

  Yet, as sleep deepened, the dream came.

  It started beautifully. Yirtin found himself in the great hall of the Solareye Academy, its pillars gleaming with polished marble and gold. He stood proudly, resplendent in golden armor etched with the insignia of his family. Beside him was Arana, radiant and fierce, clad in shining silver armor that seemed to glow softly, like moonlight trapped in steel. Her icy-blue eyes met his, and a gentle smile formed on her lips. Together they danced—an elegant, proud dance of warriors in love, confident and secure in their future.

  The great chamber was filled with familiar faces: his father, Ethos, solemn but approving; his brother, Kogun, smiling quietly from the side; even Aldox and Sorra Thundermoon watched warmly. It felt right. For one brief, perfect moment, all felt right.

  As the music softened, the dance ended. Zion and Arana stood before the council, hands clasped, ready to be joined forever. A priest of the Eternal Lion, cloaked in ceremonial white robes embroidered with golden thread, stepped forward, holding a scroll to begin the sacred vows.

  Yet, before the priest could utter a single word, the peace shattered.

  BOOTS, BOOTS, BOOTS.

  The rhythm of the heavy, relentless march echoed through the great hall, shaking the pillars, vibrating through the floor beneath their feet. Panic flashed through Zion’s veins, turning his blood to ice. He knew this sound—knew it from the darkest corners of his memory. The beautiful, gleaming hall dimmed, the golden glow fading away into shadows, cold and oppressive.

  The gathered guests vanished one by one, fading into mist as the room darkened, leaving only Arana standing beside him, gripping his hand tightly. Her eyes widened in fear, her ears flattened against her head as she looked beyond him, into the shadows.

  Slowly, dread pulling his heart into his throat, Yirtin turned.

  It emerged from the darkness—tall, gaunt, monstrous. It moved with unnatural grace, skin pale as death, stretched taut over sharp bones. Its face was grotesquely hollow, as though its flesh barely contained the skeletal horror beneath. Long jaws parted to reveal rows upon rows of jagged teeth, glistening with hunger. Its eyes—two orbs burning with a sickly red light—fixed upon Zion, holding him paralyzed with terror.

  He had seen monsters, fought vampire thralls and other creatures of legend, but this was something else entirely. This was a horror he had met before, something he could no longer deny. This was the creature from the massacre—the thing that had slaughtered his men, destroyed his legion, shattered his life.

  It opened its mouth slowly, as if to speak words that would damn him forever—

  And Zion woke.

  He jerked upright, breath coming in ragged gasps, eyes wide and frantic. His heart hammered violently within his chest, and sweat drenched his fur, matting the golden mane to his skin. He gripped the sword tightly in his hand, instinct having taken control even in sleep. It trembled slightly in his grasp.

  “Oh,” came Grundhill’s voice from the front of the wagon, calmly amused. “Took quite a sleep, mercenary.”

  Zion glanced around, disoriented, taking several deep breaths to steady himself. The late-afternoon sunlight cast long, soft shadows into the wagon’s interior. Outside, the wagon rolled steadily forward, wheels crunching softly against the dirt road.

  “What?” Zion managed, his voice hoarse, still raw from the nightmare.

  “Ye had a bad dream,” Grundhill called back, glancing briefly over his shoulder, eyes sharp but kind beneath bushy brows. “At least ye have a good draw.”

  Zion lowered the sword slowly, fingers trembling as the adrenaline faded from his veins. He looked down at the pristine blade, the silver lion on its pommel catching the dying rays of sunlight. His chest tightened once more, the fear still lingering, but tempered now with resolve.

  “I suppose I do,” he said quietly, mostly to himself, as he sheathed the blade. The echo of marching boots still resonated within him, a haunting rhythm he knew he could never forget.

  Grundhill reached out, hesitantly patting Zion’s shoulder. "Best ready yerself, Zion. Dusk is comin', and there's work to do."

  Zion carefully pulled on the simple scale armor, tightening the leather straps to secure it firmly in place. Its unfamiliar weight felt oddly comforting, grounding him in reality after the unsettling nightmare. He sheathed the heirloom sword at his hip, the silver lion pommel gleaming in the faint twilight.

  Without a word, Zion stepped from the wagon, joining Grundhill and Artoril as they began setting up their small campsite. The dwarves had chosen a spot in a sparse patch of woods amid the vast, arid plains stretching endlessly around them. The dry, twisted branches provided little more than thin cover, but they offered at least a semblance of shelter.

  Artoril handed Zion some chunks of dry wood. Zion took them with a glance around, the mercenary in him cautious and alert. "Wouldn't you prefer if we dug a fire pit?"

  Grundhill waved him off lightly, arranging rocks into a rough circle. "It's good enough, lad. Bandits don't wander here often."

  Artoril nodded, adding with a small chuckle, "And we're not exactly an army on the march."

  Zion simply nodded, setting the dry wood within the makeshift stone ring. He struck the tinderbox, quickly lighting the dry branches. A modest fire sprang to life, crackling softly against the quiet night.

  "That’s all for the camp," Grundhill declared, stretching his back with a low grunt. He glanced at Zion meaningfully. "We'll rest now, lad. Do what you're being paid to do."

  Zion inclined his head respectfully, standing to attention. "Will do."

  The dwarves retired to the wagon, pulling blankets around their shoulders, leaving Zion alone in the quiet darkness. He drew the sword from its sheath, the steel whispering smoothly, reassuringly into his paw. He positioned himself by the fire, vigilant eyes scanning the horizon.

  For hours, nothing disturbed the peaceful night. Zion remained alert, disciplined, unmoving except for the occasional turn of his head as he carefully surveyed the surrounding plains.

  Then, suddenly, the silence was broken by a distant, haunting howl.

  Zion's ears flicked sharply, tension gripping his muscles. His grip tightened around the sword’s hilt, knuckles whitening beneath his fur.

  Another howl followed, closer, harsher.

  Then, in the darkness, he heard it—the unmistakable pounding of hooves approaching swiftly. Shapes emerged on the horizon, faint silhouettes against the moonlit sky.

  Three riders appeared in the distance, mounted figures steadily approaching, accompanied by two large dogs racing alongside them. Zion’s instincts told him instantly they were not friendly travelers. The confident way they approached, their speed, their aggressive posture—it all spoke clearly.

  These riders meant trouble.