In the golden light of late afternoon, the calm lake just beyond Greenwood's western borders shimmered like polished silver. Tall reeds swayed gently in the breeze along the shore. Two horses grazed contentedly nearby, their tails flicking lazily. Dot knelt at the water's edge, sleeves rolled to his elbows, gripping a makeshift spear fashioned from a sturdy branch. He watched the water with focused patience, waiting for the flash of scales.
A short distance away, Dren perched on a flat rock, singing softly to himself—a low, melodic tune that drifted over the still air.
Dot suddenly thrust the spear downward. The water erupted in a spray, and he lifted the branch triumphantly. A fat silver fish thrashed on the point, scales glinting. A faint grin crossed his face.
Dren's voice rose louder as he sang:
♪ …and the river runs dry… ♪
Dot glanced over. "Aren't you going to help?"
Dren paused mid-note, then resumed singing without looking up, ignoring the question.
Night fell. A small fire crackled on the pebbled shore, its flames licking at two skewered fish. Their skin blistered and popped, releasing the savory scent of roasting flesh. Dot tore into his portion hungrily, grease shining on his chin as he chewed. Dren ate more slowly, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon where the dense green canopy of Greenwood rose like an impenetrable wall against the stars.
Dot spoke through a full mouth. "Slow down," Dren said with a quiet laugh.
Dot eyed the remaining fish on Dren's stick. "You going to eat that?"
"Here, take it. I'm full."
Dot snatched it eagerly. After a moment, he asked, "What's the endgame here?"
Dren straightened. "What do you mean?"
"You hardly take jobs from royals, let alone kings."
"We need the money." Dren says.
"This is your last job," Dren replied evenly. "I promise you that. Eat. Relax."
Dot spat a bone into the fire. "Don't tell me to relax. My last job? For almost a month now?"
"I understand you're furious," Dren said. "But you need to calm down—we're in Green's territory."
Dot snapped but in a calm voice. "Don't speak to me like we're friends. We're not. We just need each other for the moment. When I'm done with this, you owe me. You'll give me what I want, then I'll be on my way."
Dren nodded silently and took another slow bite.
The next morning, they mounted up. Dust rose in soft clouds as the horses carried them toward the distant city gates, the lake shrinking behind them.
Greenwood's massive gates loomed ahead—thick oak reinforced with iron bands, flanked by tall towers draped in flowing green banners. Guards in forest-green cloaks and helms etched with leaves barred the entrance, spears crossed.
"State your business, travelers," one called.
Dren leaned down from his saddle and whispered a single word or phrase—too low for Dot to catch. The guard's eyes widened slightly. He stepped aside. "…Pass."
They rode through into the bustling heart of the city. Dot's head turned constantly, eyes wide. Market stalls overflowed with vibrant spices, glowing crystals, and caged exotic birds whose feathers flashed jewel-like colors. Red lanterns swayed above the silk curtains of a brothel, spilling laughter and music into the street. A blacksmith's hammer rang against glowing steel. Children darted laughing between the legs of passersby.
Soon, guards approached on foot and saluted stiffly. "The Drought and his… companion. The king expects you. Follow."
They were led through winding streets to a discreet side entrance of the castle—less grand, more secure. Inside, stone corridors glowed with the eerie light of flame torches.
Their guest chamber was lavish yet unmistakably guarded: one large bed, a smaller cot, heavy drapes, a table bearing wine and fresh bread. The door locked from the outside with a heavy click.
Dren tested the lock lightly with a finger. "Prison with better sheets."
Dot dropped onto the cot. "How long do we wait?"
"I can't say," Dren replied. "We were meant to be here yesterday. That might have pissed off the fat king."
"Typical."
Hours passed. Dot paced restlessly, staring out the barred window at the twinkling city lights. Dren sat methodically sharpening his blade, the rhythmic scrape filling the quiet room.
At last, the door opened. A captain in ornate armor stood framed in the doorway. "The king will see you now."
They passed through a grand hallway where the princess swept by with her entourage of servants and knights. She was radiant in emerald silks, but her laugh rang sharp and cruel as her eyes flicked over Dot and Dren's road-worn clothes and the faint scent of campfire smoke clinging to them.
She whispered to her companions, loud enough to carry: "I bet Father will have their heads." Laughter rippled among her group.
Dren met her gaze and offered a small, dangerous smile.
The grand throne hall stretched vast and imposing: a high vaulted ceiling supported by columns carved with twisting vines, walls lined with rigid ranks of guards whose spears gleamed in the torchlight. Long shadows danced across the stone floor. At the far end rose a throne of dark wood entwined with living green thorns. The king sat upon it—stern, middle-aged, crowned with a simple circlet, his forked beard framing a face hardened by conquest. Beside him, his firstborn son watched in silence.
Dren and Dot walked the long aisle, boots echoing. Dot glanced at the guards' impassive faces—all stone.
They stopped before the dais.
"You were meant to be here yesterday, Dren the Drought," the king said.
Dren offered a small bow—not deep. "We are deeply sorry. Something urgent demanded our attention."
The prince sneered. "You've disrespected my father the king. Father, let's have his head—and his son over there."
Dot's voice cut cold. "We're not related."
A guard barked, "Don't speak when the king hasn't spoken to you."
The king silenced them with a look.
"Send one of our men instead," the prince insisted. "We have the best soldiers here."
"Shut up, brat," the king snapped.
He leaned forward. "Three billion quibes. For one life. The weapon of Thornhold."
Dot frowned. "Weapon?"
Dren's smile spread wide and knowing. "You want Boldr's head?"
Dot's eyes widened. He leaned toward Dren and whispered, "Boldr…?"
"The Thorn King's brother himself," Dren said. "The one they call the Last Æsir. The one they say uprooted a siege tower with his bare hands and shattered enemy shield-walls by charging through them like a storm. Men worship him as a living god."
"The same," the king confirmed, voice low with barely concealed fear. "His strength is… unnatural. Divine blood runs in his veins—the last spark of the old gods in the mortal realm. He has broken every army we've sent against Thornhold's walls. We will not waste legions on a single beast when a blade in the dark will suffice."
Dot stepped forward slightly, voice steady but edged with confusion. "If he's just one man—why not poison? Archers? Why us?"
The king's smile was cold. "Because Boldr is no ordinary man. Arrows bounce off him like rain; poison turns to water in his blood. And if our colors are seen near his keep, the pact he holds—the old oaths of the bloodline—might unleash something worse than defeat. You are ghosts. You leave no trail."
"O mighty Sweyn Forkbeard, scourge of seas and slayer of kings, who once charged into battle with axe singing and beard forked like thunder—what curse has befallen thee? Naught but a swollen belly and a wilted spirit remain. Where is the honor that drove thee to claim thrones by blood and iron? Hast thou traded valor for the coward's ease, fearing the very death thou once courted without flinching?"
Dren says mocking the king.
The guards gripped their weapons in anger. The prince sneered, but the king raised his arm, stopping them.
Dren's smile widened further. "Three billion is generous. Make it five. And a writ guaranteeing safe passage from your lands when the job's done. No… accidents."
The king paused, then nodded. "Five billion. And the writ. Bring me proof—his head. Legends say he can be killed by a god killing weapon forged by Dwarfs."
Dren: "Anyone confirmed that they still exist?"
King flusters: "Not that we know of."
Dren smiles: "Huh…"
"I doubt they still exist the king says sitting upright looking towards Drens big sword at his back."
"Tho Slaying him should be a hard task, yet the tales claim you're the only one who has ever so much as scratched the beast."
Dot looked at Dren in surprise, struck by how little he truly knew Dren.
Dren and Dot turned to leave. The guards parted like water.
As they exited the hall, the king leaned toward his shadowed advisor. "When they return… kill them."
"Yes, my lord," the advisor murmured, eyes lingering on Dot's retreating back.
Outside the castle, silence hung between them.
"Five billion quibes…" Dot said quietly. "That's more than kingdoms cost."
"The rich pay high when they're scared," Dren replied. "And higher when they're lying."
Dot stopped. "You think they'll turn on us?"
Dren shrugged. "Always do. The question is when." He paused. "That's why I took this little fellow with us and left a generous note if he doesn't pay."
Dot opened the back of their wagon. Inside, bound and blindfolded, a young woman—the princess—struggled against her ropes.
"Seriously?!" Dot exclaimed.
"Let me go! Help!" she screamed. "You bastards—you think you can get away with this? My father will do anything to have your heads!"
Dren: "You talk a lot, princess." (He closes her mouth firmly.)
(Now she's mumbling furiously through the gag.)
Night cloaked the castle. Greenwood's lights glowed warmly below.
Inside a private chamber, the king burst in to find his wife weeping on the floor.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"Sire," a guard stammered, "they took the Princess and left a note…"
"Bring the note here," the king growled.
The note read:
*Hey fat king, if you want your daughter back, keep the end of your deal.*
The king's face crumpled—his daughter was his favorite, the light of his ruthless heart. Tears cut tracks through the dust of his beard.
A knight stammered: "Sire, the princess sent me out of her room… she didn't want me in."
In a fury, the king drew his dagger and stabbed the knight who had been on duty when the princess was taken. The man collapsed in a heap.
Later, in the throne room, the king sat heavily. "Bring him."
A hooded man entered—katana at his side, scars crisscrossing his face like a map of old battles.
"Bring me his head," the king commanded. "And the command of my second legion is yours."
The prince protested, "Father, why send him now? Are you even sure he can kill the Drought? If so, why not send him to kill the beast Boldr?"
"If you speak again," the king snarled, "I'll have your tongue."
"The Drought is expected to wear Boldr down," he continued. "While we strike. Change of plans now—with the princess taken, we move faster."
The hooded man smiled thinly. "You're too generous, my king. Consider it done. I can't wait to see my old friend Dren."
Outside the castle walls at dusk, the prince, cloaked in a hood, slipped away—determined to rescue his sister himself and earn the respect he craved, disobeying his father's command.
**The blade falls soon.**
Chapter Ends