Forge of Fate

The morning light barely pierced the heavy clouds over Warsaw, casting an oppressive gloom over the city. Kalem stood outside the gates of the mining quarter, unease gnawing at his gut. He had survived the Garon once, but his reprieve had come at a steep cost: the lives of others who had fallen around him. He had been grappling with the memories when the sharp bark of his name snapped him back to the present.

Graven stood before him, his weathered face lined with fury, his eyes like molten iron. "You reckless fool!" the old miner roared, his voice carrying over the clamor of the morning shift.

Kalem stepped back instinctively as Graven slammed his fist against the wooden table near the gate. "What possessed you to join that scouting party? Do you think this is some kind of adventure? A game?"

Kalem straightened, trying to explain himself, but Graven cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Don't bother. I've no time for idiots who don't know their place. You're dismissed. Don't come back."

There was a finality in his words that stung more than Kalem expected. He nodded silently and turned to leave, his boots crunching against the gravel as he walked away without looking back.

Later, Tharic found him sitting by a quiet fountain near the city's edge. The dwarf, ever loyal, offered him a flask of something strong. "Graven's just scared," Tharic said, his tone almost apologetic. "He's seen too many good men die in these mines. Don't take it personally."

Kalem took a sip from the flask, the burn of the liquor a welcome distraction. "I don't," he replied with a shrug. "It's not like we were close. He wasn't my mentor for very long anyway."

But even as he said the words, he couldn't deny the sting of rejection.

By the next morning, Warsaw had transformed. The usual bustle of miners and traders had given way to a city gripped by fear. Families huddled in their homes, merchants shuttered their stalls, and soldiers patrolled the streets with grim determination. Martial law had been declared.

Kalem wandered the marketplace, listening to the murmurs of those brave enough to venture outside. "A walking calamity," he heard one man say, his voice trembling. "Crimson scales, claws like blades… It doesn't stop. It doesn't rest. It'll tear through anything in its path."

The words brought back memories Kalem had been trying to suppress. He saw flashes of the beast in his mind—the way it moved, the guttural growls that echoed in the tunnels, the blood it left in its wake. He clenched his fists, trying to shake the images away.

That afternoon, hope mingled with fear as an announcement rang out in the city square. A force of 6,000 soldiers and 2,000 miners was being assembled to hunt the Garon. The miners, Kalem included, were to be conscripted not only to provide logistical support but also to serve as expendable shields.

Kalem's name was on the list.

When handed a standard-issue spear, he inspected it critically. The shaft felt flimsy, the tip poorly forged. With a sigh of disdain, he discarded it and retrieved his own spear—a weapon he had painstakingly crafted himself. It was sturdy and reliable, a testament to his skills as a blacksmith. He also strapped his short sword to his belt, its familiar weight a small comfort amid the chaos.

The day of departure arrived with a fanfare that felt disturbingly out of place. The city square was packed with soldiers in gleaming armor and miners armed with crude weapons. At the forefront, knights mounted on majestic steeds delivered rousing speeches about honor, duty, and triumph.

Kalem stood among the miners, his expression unreadable. He watched the pageantry unfold, the knights' words ringing hollow in his ears. "A fancy charade," he muttered under his breath, gripping his spear tightly.

Tharic, standing beside him, shot him a worried glance. "You survived that thing once, Kalem. That's more than most can say. Don't push your luck."

Kalem didn't respond immediately. He simply stared ahead, his jaw set. "Luck won't matter out there," he said quietly. "Not against something like the Garon."

As the massive force began to march toward the beast's lair, Kalem fell into step with the others. The sound of thousands of boots striking the ground in unison was both comforting and unsettling. The soldiers moved with practiced precision, their banners fluttering in the wind, while the miners trudged along, their faces a mix of determination and dread.

The journey to the Garon's suspected lair was long and arduous. The terrain grew more treacherous as they entered the valley, the air thick with tension. Kalem's muscles ached from the weight of his gear, but he pushed forward, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of fear and resolve.

That evening, as the group set up camp near the edge of the beast's territory, Kalem found himself staring into the flames of a campfire. Around him, miners shared stories to distract themselves, while soldiers sharpened their weapons in silence.

Tharic joined him, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "You know," the dwarf began, his voice low, "you don't have to be here. You're smart enough to find a way out of this."

Kalem shook his head. "And leave everyone else to face it? No. I'll see this through."

Tharic didn't press the matter, but his eyes lingered on Kalem, filled with a concern the young man pretended not to notice.

A Beast Worthy of Fear

As the camp settled into an uneasy quiet, Kalem couldn't help but think about the monster they were marching toward. The Garon wasn't just a creature—it was a force of nature, a walking disaster that defied reason.

He gripped his spear tightly, the words of the knights echoing in his mind. Honor. Duty. Triumph.

But Kalem didn't feel honorable, or dutiful, or triumphant. He felt afraid.

And yet, beneath that fear, there was a spark of determination. If he was going to face the Garon, he would do so on his terms.

As he closed his eyes that night, Kalem made a silent vow. He wouldn't let the beast take him without a fight.