Draconic Awakening

It was finally morning again, and the sunless sky magically lit up, bathing all in its pale, unnatural light — even the jagged, cursed crown of the Mesa. The black stone peaks drank in the light like some ancient predator savoring the taste of its prey, yet somehow still gleamed ominously.

Ragnar and the party lay sprawled in different positions — some on their backs, others on their sides. None but Princess Arya had managed to get more than a wink of sleep. The trust, or lack thereof, between the outsider and the two hunters was a delicate thing, not to be taken lightly.

Ragnar himself had grown far too accustomed to sleepless nights. He despised comfort — saw it as a parasite that wormed its way into men's bones and made them soft. In both his lives, he had trained himself to resist its alluring grasp. He knew how to deal with fatigue just enough to never fall into its treacherous embrace again. But the same could not be said for the hunters.

The young Lord would occasionally catch them drifting into slumber, heads bobbing as exhaustion gnawed at them. The worst offender was Cleaver — hot-headed, reckless, and apparently incapable of maintaining discipline. Ragnar had, however, made his intentions clear earlier. He wasn't going to kill them — not because of some misplaced mercy, but because they were his best chances of making it out of this wretched crust alive.

When morning finally came, Cleaver roused himself from a short, grudging nap. He rose to his feet, stomping over to Ragnar like a man ready for a fight.

"Are you fucking kidding me? How can you stay awake the entire night, bastard?"

For some reason, that question seemed to burn inside him, like it wasn't curiosity but insult that drove it.

Klein, still seated, rubbed his eyes and glanced at Ragnar with the same question silently hanging in his mind.

The young Lord stood slowly, deliberately letting silence stretch between them like a drawn blade. Then, with a voice as cold as the frost that haunted the Mesa, he replied:

"Once you know what you want, and you put your mind towards it… you are unstoppable. Comfort will always be your enemy in that regard."

Klein nodded, the words settling into him like an unwelcome truth he nonetheless recognized. Cleaver, however, ground his teeth, hissed through them, and turned away. He must have hated to admit it — but Ragnar's words had cut through both of them.

{Writer: What has comfort done to become antagonized by the faceless son of darkness?}

Ragnar saw the notification flash before his eyes. He ignored it. The "Writer" lingered for a moment, perhaps waiting for a reply. Ragnar gave none. He knew better than to waste breath answering something that either didn't truly want an answer — or already knew it.

When the group was fully awake, Arya retrieved bread and small water jugs from her storage ring, handing one to each of them.

'The ring of a princess holds more food than all of us combined… as expected of royal bastards,' Ragnar thought. He was oblivious — or perhaps indifferent — to the fact that he, too, bore royal blood in his veins.

Receiving his share, he wasted no time in tipping the jug back, gulping water greedily until the dryness in his throat finally yielded. Then he tore into the bread like a starving beast, barely tasting it before swallowing each mouthful. By the time he was done, it was gone entirely — devoured faster than any civilized man should eat.

Only then did he notice the eyes on him. Disturbed gazes. Uneasy stares. Cleaver's disgusted scowl.

He had eaten no better than a wild boar. But who wouldn't? If they had endured what he had endured, they would be eating with the same primal urgency. In truth, most wouldn't have survived long enough to complain.

"What? Can't a man eat in peace?" His words dispersed their stares, though the awkward tension still clung to the air like frost that refused to melt.

"A man… uhm…" Klein scratched his head, trying to be tactful. "It would be too generous to use that word right now. No offense, but you eat like a beast."

Arya nodded, lips pressed together, in silent agreement. Cleaver just sighed in irritation.

"A trace of etiquette can't even be found in such scum. What else could we expect from a bastard?" Cleaver's voice dripped with contempt.

Ragnar ignored their complaints. He remained unmoved, tilting his head slightly as his gaze locked with the princess's.

"Tell me," he said evenly, "why haven't you cleared the gate and left this hellhole? Why are you still here?"

Arya pressed her lips together, considering her answer before speaking.

"Well… where do I begin? Oh yes. Cleaver scouted the route to leave the Crust. The gate is located at the very top of the obsidian Mesa."

Her voice turned grim. "There's a horde of Wendigos there — not an issue for us, perhaps. But beyond them… there's something else. A being unlike the Wendigos. A beast that commands ice at its will. I suspect it's a Dreadling."

The name hung in the air like a curse. Even the wind seemed to still.

A new predator in the Wendigo's Crust — one that could bend ice to its will?

'It controls ice… I command fire. So that's the only reason I was spared in the first place.' Ragnar exhaled through his nose, a tired sigh, then met the princess's gaze.

"I see. So what's the plan?"

Arya rose, and in her hands materialized a long sword — silver blade gleaming faintly, the guard forged from some dark, unfamiliar material that bled a menacing aura. The darkness crawled up her arm like smoke. Ragnar recognized it instantly — an Ember Mark, but of far higher rank than that of the Bloodsucker's. If he had to guess, this one was Rank C.

Ember Marks varied from Rank E to Rank S. Ragnar's blade was only Rank E — serviceable, but far from the best.

"By tomorrow," Arya said, voice hard as steel, "when you've healed from your wounds, we'll cross that gate. But for now, prepare yourselves. We have a long, heroine's journey ahead."

With that, she turned from the camp, disappearing from sight — likely to train.

Ragnar leaned back against the cold stone and let out another slow breath. Then he sank into his stats, eager to see what had changed.