Draconic Awakening

It was finally morning and no one in the group had gotten a wink of sleep, probably because of the presence of Ragnar, the new addition to their crew, not being trusted, or the princess and her crew also, or this was just something between realm walkers—no one trusted anyone.

While they prepared to travel once more, each of the crew started to take food out of the space or small bag they had on them, eating what they had in hand greedily.

Veron, who had taken a small stash of roasted meat, split it into two and gave some to Ragnar.

"Sorry, my Lord, but you have to bear with me," he said with a low, exhausted tone, further confusing Ragnar.

The young Lord had had enough of his kindness and finally decided to ask him, "Why do you treat me as though I am someone important? I am not your Lord! Just a fellow realm walker like you." This was a feeling the old Ragnar had himself.

Seeing Veron as the only person that respected him felt strange when others treated him badly for being a bastard. Being in the realm where he could stop his acting and he still kept at it—this was what infuriated Ragnar the most.

"Uhm? Oh, I see," Veron smiled. "I am simple, actually. Just as my father is your father's guard, and his sons and daughters are your siblings' guard, I am your guard too. Just that I am a fellow bastard like you. Should we bastards treat ourselves badly?"

Ragnar was stunned. Veron was a bastard? How was that possible? "I didn't know you were a bastard. How is that possible?"

Veron shrugged. "As you were born, my father, who had slept with a harlot, took me from my mother's grasp, killed her, and took me. And I was pledged to you while you were just merely born."

Ragnar lingered for a second, now able to read Veron's true thoughts and personality. He respected the young Lord not because of his pledge of loyalty but because they were the same. Veron must have looked up to him a lot, and he must have lived up to that expectation. After all, the old Ragnar was a tough character that knew how to put out a brave face and act.

"I trust you, Veron, but how far is your loyalty to me?" he asked, puzzled at the young man.

Veron nodded. "I'll do anything for you, because I trust in your decisions."

Ragnar tilted his head a little. "Good, I'll test that loyalty later. But for now, I'll need you to tell me about where we are going and all about this group."

Veron did not complain; he simply nodded. "It seems something is bothering you, Lord Ragnar."

Ragnar nodded and ordered Veron to stay while he walked towards a particular side of the cave where there was a particular lady standing alone, her eyes fixed on him.

Reaching her, he simply rested by the wall and spoke. "Arya, you expected me to be dead?"

The princess shook her head. "I knew you would survive. I trusted you would."

Ragnar's brows tensed at her eerie calmness. "You can see the stats of everyone, so you know my weaknesses and my strengths." She kept silent, just staring at the group as they prepared for their next travels.

"Where we are going next is far more dangerous than the crust, and I know we will very much work together to clear this realm," Arya spoke as though she could see into the future, which made Ragnar perplexed.

"Why the hell are you speaking like you can manipulate the fucking strings of fate?"

Arya let out a sigh and dimmed her eyes for a second. "Something like that. But I can assure you, killing me just means you will also perish in the realm."

With that, she simply smiled and walked away, leaving Ragnar to his thoughts.

'She's insane! Mad! How the hell does she expect me to believe that shit? Calm down,' Ragnar told himself. He was just being perplexed, as he knew he could as well become the dog to the princess. But one thing was for sure—he could tell she was lying about this information.

Soon the leader of the group, Kenny, announced to the others they were about to move, and Ragnar considered his thoughts and options while they moved through the cursed ice realm.

They walked for hours through the snow, the deathly chill air in their nostrils, and the hollow, oppressive silence that the group held in their trek.

Ragnar felt his breath fogging, his hands going numb as he walked around in his torn-up clothing. Even after Veron had offered him a black fur coat from his ring space, it was still unbearably cold.

It was as though the more they trekked further, the colder the environment became. It was somewhat strange... as though they were hearing the beast that made this barren wasteland covered by ice and snow.

The mystery around this place seemed to start bothering Ragnar. He had sometimes thought about what happened to the people living here before. Wendigo's Crust was probably a city if considered once populated by humans.

But something had happened. Something very wrong had turned this land desolate, and Ragnar could not guess why.

When he got bored, he thought about his stat increase from the battle to leave the Crust.

{Draconic imp: 3/20}

{Arcane: 98/500}

{Ember marks: 6}

{Drake sigils: 1}

This was amazing—he had received fifteen Arcane to his core from killing a single Dreadling, and also more ominous was a Drake sigil.

A Drake sigil is a stronger type of ember mark—no, it was more special and sometimes even considered worth money, as one could give his or her sigil out to another.

And unlike the Ember marks, a Drake sigil would carve out its markings on one's wrist before it could be used, which was a bit much slower in usage than an ember mark.

The history and origination of the mark, many would say, is from the demonic curse of transformation, made to change or curse the human race to total oblivion. But who knew? All information seemed to be myths and all.

{Drake sigil: the dragons have blessed the candidate with a sigil, but it had been robbed before reaching the hands of the vessel, but monstrous shadows had converted it into something more awfully crafted.}

{Duskrime: the blade of the drowned moon}

{No description}

Ragnar's eyes furrowed. 'A weapon without description.' This was especially strange. And for a first Drake sigil, what the system said stuck out to him as something utterly sinister—underlying the mystery of his shadows and whoever their enigmatic master was.