Forge of Fate

Kalem's legs trembled as he staggered into the outpost, the massive, lifeless form of the Garon trailing behind him. The beast's corpse carved a jagged groove through the dirt, its crimson scales slick with dried blood. Its jaws hung open, frozen in a silent snarl, and the air reeked of iron and death.

The sentries on the walls stopped mid-step, eyes widening in disbelief. Soldiers who had been chatting or tending their equipment froze, their gazes snapping toward the source of the noise. A lone figure—tattered, bloodied, and grime-coated—dragged the unthinkable behind him.

Kalem.

For a moment, no one moved. The silence was unbearable, broken only by the creaking of the gates as they swung wider to let him through. Kalem released the rope he'd been clutching, and the Garon's body collapsed with a dull thud, dust rising in thin clouds around it. He swayed on his feet, knees buckling as his spear fell from his trembling hand.

"It's… dead." His voice, hoarse and raw, barely carried. He glanced up at the figures frozen in the courtyard. "Now, get it off me."

A stunned soldier moved first. He knelt beside the beast, poking it hesitantly with the tip of his blade as though it might spring back to life. It didn't. Murmurs erupted all around.

"By the gods."

"The Garon. It's—he killed it."

"That can't be right. He's just a miner…"

Kalem didn't hear the voices anymore. His vision swam, the edges turning black, and the ground tilted beneath him. Someone grabbed him roughly by the arms before he crumpled.

"Get the medics!" a gruff voice barked, cutting through the haze.

Kalem didn't remember being carried to the outpost infirmary, but he woke to the sensation of fire lacing through his body. Every muscle screamed in protest, and his head throbbed with relentless pain. His blood-caked clothes had been stripped, and bandages wrapped around his torso, arms, and legs. The medics bustled around him, whispering to each other.

"…How did he even survive that?"

"…The wounds alone should've killed him. Look at the bruising on his ribs."

"…I heard he dragged that thing all the way here. Alone."

Kalem cracked an eye open, wincing as light seared through him. A bearded medic noticed and stepped forward. "He's awake. Bring water."

The man crouched by Kalem's side, his lined face equal parts concerned and curious. "You're lucky you didn't die of blood loss, boy. Don't move too much—your ribs are cracked, and you've got a nasty gash down your side. What in the hells were you thinking?"

Kalem blinked up at him, unable to form an answer. He wasn't thinking. He was doing. That's all he could say for himself, and he didn't bother trying to explain. Instead, he croaked, "The Garon…?"

"It's out there," the medic replied. "Caused a stir, to say the least. The whole camp's talking about you. What you did."

Kalem shut his eyes, exhaustion washing over him. He wanted to feel pride, triumph. But all he felt was bone-deep weariness. He could still see the Garon leaping at him, could hear its final, shuddering breath. That monstrous roar had been silenced, but it still echoed in his mind.

Hours later, Kalem drifted in and out of sleep. The sharp pain from his injuries made it impossible to rest fully, but he managed a haze of unconsciousness where time slipped away unnoticed.

He awoke to the sound of arguing voices outside the infirmary door.

"What do you mean he's a miner?!" a voice growled.

"Exactly what I said. The man who dragged that thing back here wasn't a knight or a mercenary. He's just a damned miner."

"Then how did he do it? We couldn't kill the Garon. An entire regiment of trained soldiers died trying."

"Maybe you should be asking him that yourself."

The door creaked open, and two men strode into the room—one wearing the heavy cloak of an outpost commander, the other a younger knight whose tabard was still streaked with dust and sweat. The commander, a broad-shouldered man with graying hair and a stern expression, stepped forward, folding his arms.

Kalem squinted at them, trying to sit up. The commander stopped him with a wave of his hand.

"Stay down," he said gruffly. "We're not here to rough you up. You've been through enough, by the looks of it."

Kalem's eyes flickered toward the knight, whose scowl was barely contained. The younger man was seething, his pride clearly stung.

The commander continued, his gaze sharp. "The beast outside. The Garon. You killed it?"

Kalem nodded weakly.

"And you dragged it here. Alone?"

Another nod.

The commander exhaled heavily, as though unsure what to do with this information. "What did you use? A weapon? Magic? I need details, boy."

Kalem hesitated, thinking of the volatile minerals embedded in his spear—illegal substances he hadn't technically been allowed to touch. "A weapon I made," he finally muttered. "It was… experimental."

The knight scoffed. "Experimental. Sounds like a load of—"

"Enough," the commander snapped, cutting him off. He fixed Kalem with a long look, his frown deepening. "Do you have any idea what this means?"

Kalem said nothing.

"It means the people will want to know your story," the commander continued, pacing slightly. "The miners will rally behind you. Maybe the people in the city too. And that's dangerous."

Kalem's brow furrowed. "Dangerous?"

The knight stepped forward, sneering. "They don't want a miner becoming a hero. You're nothing to them. You'll stir rebellion, and then what? Chaos."

The commander shot him a look but didn't contradict the statement. Instead, he turned back to Kalem. "Rest for now. You'll be summoned soon enough."

With that, they left the room, the door slamming behind them.

Kalem lay back down, staring at the ceiling. He could already feel it—his victory wasn't a victory at all. It was a curse.