Rayz stepped through the southern gate of Varrock just as the morning haze began to lift from the road. The courtyard beyond the walls was already alive with movement. Soldiers crossed the open space carrying bundles of gear, tightening straps on their armor, or checking the balance of their weapons one last time before departure. The steady noise of preparation filled the air. Leather creaked. Horses snorted. Metal buckles snapped into place. Two large supply wagons stood at the center of the activity like the backbone of the expedition. Crates of dried food, sacks of grain, water barrels, folded canvas tents, and bundles of cooking gear were stacked carefully along their frames. The second wagon carried heavier supplies. Spare shields, coils of rope, bundles of spear shafts, climbing tools, and several locked chests that likely held specialized equipment for the hunt. A pair of broad-shouldered draft horses waited patiently at the front of each wagon, stamping their hooves against the dirt.

Foot soldiers moved through the courtyard in small groups, tightening belts or testing the edge of their blades against whetstones. Archers stood off to one side with their bows unstrung across their shoulders while they inspected arrowheads and adjusted the straps on their quivers. A few stablehands hurried between the horses, checking saddle buckles and adjusting harnesses while muttering quiet reassurances to the restless animals. Rayz paused for a moment near the second wagon, taking in the scene with a practiced eye. Barrett had assembled a solid company. Experienced soldiers mixed with younger recruits, but the structure of the formation was already clear. Archers would ride the flanks. The wagons would remain at the center. The bulk of the infantry would march behind them, rotating onto spare horses when the road allowed it. It was the sort of formation meant for long travel through uncertain territory.

Rayz had just finished securing his pack to the side of the wagon when a voice greeted him from behind. “Master Rayz, is it? I was hoping we might meet before we left.” Rayz turned to find a knight approaching across the courtyard. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his armor polished but clearly well used. A neatly kept beard framed a face that carried both discipline and an easy confidence. He stopped a few paces away and offered a respectful nod.

“Sir Loto,” the knight said. “I have heard quite a bit about you.”

Rayz returned the nod. “I hope some of it is true.”

“If even half of it is, I’m glad you decided to ride with us. Barrett tells me you’ve spent more time facing strange creatures than most soldiers spend sharpening their swords.” His tone held no arrogance, only honest curiosity. “I was hoping to learn something from you before we meet the dragon.”

“You seem well prepared,” Rayz said.

“I try,” Loto replied with a small shrug. “Though I admit I am hoping to learn a thing or two before we reach Crandor. Preferably before anything decides we look like a good meal.” There was humor in his voice, but his posture remained disciplined.

“It will certainly be a learning experience for all of us.”

Across the courtyard, a young squire had stopped halfway through tightening a saddle strap. He was lean and still growing into his armor, the leather at his shoulders sitting a little too stiffly as if it had only recently been fitted for him. His attention had drifted away from the horse he was supposed to be preparing and toward the conversation between Rayz and Loto. The boy watched with open curiosity, clearly trying to listen without being obvious about it. His name was Titus, Captain Barrett’s squire, and he studied Rayz with the kind of fascination reserved for the heroes of campfire stories. When Rayz shifted slightly, the edge of the Master’s necklace caught the morning light for a brief moment. Titus’s eyes lingered on it.

Barrett noticed the distraction immediately. From where he stood near the front of the formation, the captain lifted a hand and gave a short, silent gesture toward the horse Titus had neglected. The message required no words. Titus straightened instantly and returned to tightening the saddle strap, though he could not resist one final glance toward Rayz before pulling the buckle snug.

Loto watched the small exchange with mild amusement before turning back to Rayz. “Young Titus has been talking about you for half the morning. He tries not to make it obvious, but admiration is a difficult thing to hide.” Rayz followed Loto’s gaze for a moment, watching the young squire fuss over the saddle strap with exaggerated concentration. He had seen that look before. In villages. In training yards. In the eyes of boys who had heard too many stories and believed too many of them. Rayz felt the familiar discomfort settle quietly in his chest.

“Youth tends to turn stories into legends. Most of the time the truth is far less impressive.” He knew how those stories started. A fight survived. A creature slain. A dangerous road walked and lived through. Each retelling sanded down the fear and sharpened the triumph until the man at the center of it became something larger than he ever was. Rayz had never quite known what to do with that kind of attention.

Loto chuckled softly. “Perhaps. But men like Titus grow up hearing tales of Masters traveling the world, facing monsters most soldiers will never see. You cannot blame him for being curious.” He rested a hand casually on the pommel of his sword while scanning the courtyard. “To be honest, I share some of that curiosity myself.”

Rayz glanced at him, mildly surprised. “You?”

“Of course,” Loto said with an easy grin. “Knights spend most of their lives fighting men. Bandits. Raiders. The occasional drunken brawl outside a tavern. But creatures like dragons, ghouls, or worse? Those are things we usually only hear about after the battle is already finished.”

Rayz allowed a faint smile, though his thoughts drifted elsewhere. Monsters were rarely as grand as the stories made them sound. Most were simply hungry, territorial, or frightened creatures reacting to a world that kept pushing into their territory. Dragons were the rare exception. Dragons knew exactly what they were.

“Then I suppose this journey will give you a chance to correct that imbalance,” Rayz said quietly. And if the reports were true, he thought, it would give all of them far more than they were expecting. For a moment they said nothing, simply watching the last of the soldiers finish their preparations. Then, Loto let out a slow breath. “I will admit,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “a dragon was not quite the sort of enemy I expected when Barrett said we were riding out. Barrett said you have faced one before.”

Rayz paused for a moment before answering. The memory surfaced easily enough. Heat like a furnace door opening, the thunder of wings, the sound a dragon’s breath made just before the fire came. Some memories never faded no matter how many miles a man put between himself and them.

“Once,” Rayz said. “And that was enough to teach me respect for them.”

Loto studied Rayz for a moment, as if deciding whether to ask more. Whatever question had crossed his mind seemed to fade just as quickly. Instead he gave a small nod and straightened from the saddle. “Respect sounds like the correct approach,” he said. “I imagine arrogance is not a trait that serves a man well when facing something that breathes fire.”

Rayz let out a quiet breath of agreement. “Arrogance tends to shorten a man’s life in most situations.” His eyes moved once more across the courtyard, taking in the final movements of preparation. The wagons were now fully loaded. Archers had mounted their horses. The foot soldiers were beginning to gather into loose ranks beside the supply carts. The restless energy of departure had settled over the entire company.

Loto followed his gaze. “Looks like our conversation is about to be cut short.”

Rayz nodded slightly. The familiar rhythm of a company preparing to march had a certain inevitability to it. Once the final straps were tightened and the orders given, there was no more room for idle conversation. From that moment forward, the road claimed everyone’s attention. Across the courtyard, Barrett swung into the saddle of his warhorse. The captain turned his mount toward the assembled soldiers, his voice carrying across the stone with practiced authority. “Form up. We move now.” The courtyard came alive at once. Men stepped into position, reins tightened, wagon drivers snapped the leads forward, and the great gates of Varrock began to open to the road beyond.

The heavy gates of Varrock groaned as they swung open, their iron hinges echoing against the stone walls. Sunlight spilled through the widening gap, casting long beams across the courtyard and the assembled company. Beyond the threshold, the southern road stretched into the distance, a pale ribbon cutting through fields and low hills that faded into the morning haze. The soldiers moved quickly now, falling into their assigned places with the ease of long practice. The two supply wagons rolled forward first, their wooden wheels creaking under the weight of crates and barrels. Archers mounted along the flanks, keeping their bows secured but within reach. The foot soldiers formed two steady lines behind the wagons, shields resting against their shoulders.

Rayz guided his horse into position near the front of the column. The animal shifted beneath him, sensing the restless energy of the men and horses around it. He adjusted the strap of his pack and settled deeper into the saddle, letting the familiar posture of travel take over. For a moment, he glanced back toward the city. The towers of Varrock rose above the walls like silent guardians, their pale stone catching the morning light. Somewhere within those streets stood the small chapel his father had once tended, its worn doors and cracked stone still waiting for the next time Rayz returned.

Then the column began to move. Hooves struck the packed dirt of the road, wagon wheels turning steadily as the company passed through the gates and out into the open land beyond. Varrock’s walls slowly receded behind them as the journey to Crandor finally began. The first miles passed beneath a calm, pale sky. The road south of Varrock was well traveled, worn smooth by decades of caravans, patrols, and merchants moving between the kingdom’s towns. Wagon wheels left familiar grooves in the packed earth, and the steady rhythm of hooves and marching boots settled into a quiet cadence.

Rayz rode near the front beside Barrett’s warhorse, the animal’s heavy stride keeping an easy pace with his own lighter mount. For a time neither man spoke. Barrett’s attention stayed fixed on the road ahead, his posture rigid and composed, while Rayz allowed his gaze to wander across the landscape. Fields stretched outward from the city walls, dotted with farmhouses and low stone fences. Farmers paused in their work as the column passed, some raising a hand in greeting while others simply watched in silence. News traveled quickly in places like these. A company of soldiers riding south rarely meant anything simple. Rayz wondered what stories the farmers would tell that evening. Perhaps they would speak of brave knights marching off to slay a dragon. Perhaps the tale would grow larger with every retelling. It often did. People preferred stories where danger was distant and victory certain. The truth was quieter. Long roads. Cold nights. Uncertainty that stretched mile after mile.

Several days passed before the rhythm of the journey truly settled into place. The road carried them steadily south, leaving the fertile fields near Varrock behind and giving way to longer stretches of forest and open plains. Each morning began the same way with cold air, quiet orders, and the creak of wagons as the company set out again. By evening the men would make camp wherever the road and daylight allowed. The routine wore away the stiffness that had lingered during the first days of travel. Armor loosened slightly, conversation came easier, and the quiet discipline of the march slowly gave way to the small habits that formed whenever soldiers shared the same road long enough. By the time the third camp was made, the men had begun speaking less like strangers and more like companions.

That night a fire burned low in the center of the camp, its orange glow pushing back the darkness that had settled between the trees. A few soldiers sat around it with boots stretched toward the warmth while others finished tending to the horses or checking the wagons. Somewhere along the way a skin of wine had appeared, and it passed from hand to hand as the men finally allowed themselves to relax after the long march. Stories soon followed, as they always did when soldiers gathered with warm firelight and something strong to drink. Jorand was the loudest among them, already halfway through an exaggerated tale about a tavern fight he claimed to have won single-handedly. A few of the others laughed and called out corrections while Niwa listened quietly nearby, the archer’s sharp eyes reflecting the firelight. Not every man joined the circle. A short distance beyond the fire, Leonidas sat alone on a fallen log with his back half-turned toward the others. His armor rested beside him, and he cleaned his blade with slow, deliberate strokes while the laughter carried across the camp. He did not interrupt the stories, nor did he seem particularly interested in them. But every so often his eyes lifted toward the group, watching in silence before returning to his work.

Jorand’s story reached its climax with an enormous sweep of his arms. “-and that is when all four of them came at me at once,” he declared, grinning broadly as the firelight flickered across his face. “Four grown men. All angry. All armed. And all very determined to prove I should not have insulted their cooking.”

“Four?” someone near the back scoffed. “Last time you told that story it was two.”

Jorand pointed accusingly across the fire. “It was four. I simply spared you the full truth before because I thought you might not believe it.”

Laughter rippled through the group. A broad shouldered soldier named Osric leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. A faint scar ran along his jaw. “The only unbelievable part,” he said dryly, “is that anyone would need four men to handle you.”

Sam, sitting beside him, snorted into the wine skin he had just taken a drink from. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the skin along to another soldier named Merrick. “I am with Osric on this one.”

Jorand groaned loudly, clutching at his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Sam. Truly. I come here offering heroic tales and this is the thanks I receive.”

“Heroic?” Merrick echoed with a raised eyebrow. “You said the fight started because you called the tavern owner’s stew ‘an insult to vegetables.’”

“Which it was,” Jorand insisted. “I stand by that statement.”

The wine continued its slow journey around the circle as more voices joined in. Holt and Therin argued quietly about the best way to track wild boar through thick brush, while Niwa listened nearby with a faint, patient smile. Across the fire, Osric leaned back against a log and shook his head as the noise rose around them. Rayz watched the exchange in silence, the warmth of the fire against his boots and the easy rhythm of the conversation settling into the night. These were the small moments that bound soldiers together long before any battle was fought. Around the fire they were simply men sharing a road, laughter carrying easily through the dark while the long journey stretched ahead of them.

The laughter slowly settled into the easy quiet that followed a good story. Someone tossed another piece of wood onto the fire, and sparks climbed briefly into the night before disappearing into the dark canopy above. The road had left the men tired, but the warmth of the flames and the passing wine loosened their shoulders. Osric leaned forward again, eyeing Rayz across the fire. “What about you, Master?” he said. “You must have a story worth telling. Men who wander the roads for a living rarely come back without a few.”

A few of the others turned their attention toward Rayz, curiosity replacing the teasing that had filled the circle moments before. Sam shrugged as he passed the wine skin along. “I imagine most of his stories involve things trying to eat him.”

“That would narrow it down,” Jorand added with a grin.

Rayz smiled faintly at that and accepted the wine when it reached him. He took a small drink before handing it on. “Not all of them,” he said. “Once I met a merchant who tried very hard to convince me I needed fireproof wool.” Several men blinked at that.

“Fireproof wool?” Osric repeated.

Rayz nodded, settling a little more comfortably near the fire. “A traveling trader I met along the eastern road. He had a wagon full of blankets, cloaks, gloves, hats. All made from what he insisted was the finest fireproof wool ever produced.”

Jorand leaned forward immediately. “You mean the kind that would have been useful on this particular trip? Ha, a lark!”

“That is exactly what I told him,” Rayz said. “He assured me his wool could withstand dragon fire itself. Said it had been blessed by three different priests and treated with a secret alchemical process.”

Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And you believed him?”

Rayz shook his head with an amused breath. “Not for a moment. But the strange thing was… I think he believed it.”

The circle broke into laughter at that, several men shaking their heads while Jorand slapped a knee. Rayz chuckled quietly along with them, the sound carrying easily through the firelight. Nights on the road could be long and lonely when a man traveled alone. Sharing a fire with good company had always been one of the small comforts he appreciated most. Across the edge of the campfire’s glow, Leonidas still sat apart from the others on the fallen log. He had finished cleaning his blade some time ago but had not moved closer. The quiet soldier watched the laughter from the shadows, the shifting firelight catching briefly along the edge of his armor before fading again into darkness.

Osric wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. “Fireproof wool,” he said, shaking his head. “You should have bought some. Would have made this dragon hunt a great deal more comfortable.”

“Aye,” Sam added. “Imagine it. Twenty brave soldiers marching up to a dragon wrapped in magical sheep blankets.”

“That would certainly confuse the bastard!” Jorand said.

The laughter returned for another moment before slowly fading into the comfortable quiet that often followed a good story. The wine skin continued its slow journey around the circle while the fire settled into a steady glow of orange coals. Around them the rest of the camp had grown quieter as men drifted toward their bedrolls. Holt was the first to notice the lone figure sitting beyond the reach of the firelight. He nodded toward the darkness with a small tilt of his chin. “Leonidas ever join one of these conversations?”

Osric glanced over his shoulder briefly. Leonidas still sat on the fallen log where he had been for most of the evening, his posture calm and still as he watched the fire from a distance. Osric shrugged. “Not often.” The matter ended there. Some men preferred quiet to company. No one pressed the issue.

One by one the soldiers rose from the fire, stretching stiff legs and gathering their gear for the night. Rayz lingered for a moment longer, enjoying the fading warmth and the easy feeling that came from sharing the road with good company. Traveling alone had its freedoms, but nights like this reminded him why men chose to ride together. Eventually he stood and moved toward the edge of the camp where his bedroll had been laid out. As he passed between the dim lanterns, he noticed Barrett standing a short distance away from the others. The captain leaned against a wagon wheel with his arms folded, his attention fixed on the dark road beyond the trees. Barrett had not joined the stories, nor the laughter.

Rayz watched him for a moment before turning away. Command had a way of placing distance between a man and those he led. It was not loneliness exactly, but something close to it. Rayz had seen it before in captains and commanders who carried the weight of other men’s lives. He settled onto his bedroll beneath the quiet canopy of trees, the last murmurs of the camp fading into the night around him. For now, at least, the road ahead felt lighter knowing he did not walk it alone.

Chapter Two

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