God-killing weapon.
That shit real? Dot looks at Dren asking
"Real enough. The fat king's got one locked away."Dren rested his hand on his chin."
…"You serious?
"Old bloodline heirloom—passed hand to hand for centuries. Only a handful ever touch its power." Dren says this Dead serious.
"And your brilliant plan didn't involve to stealing it."Dot asked
"Ysmay's already moving pieces. We've got one more thing to grab first.
Just follow the map.
It'll take us right to the edge… and probably over it."
Dren then rides passing Dot.
Greenwood – Throne Room
Sunlight cuts through tall arched windows in narrow golden blades. The king sits heavily on the thorn-wreathed throne, one elbow propped on the armrest, rubbing his temple. A scout in mud-spattered armor kneels before the dais, head bowed.
"Speak," the king mutters.
The scout rises only enough to speak clearly.
"Sire, the prince has left the city. He took one servant and rode north toward Thornhold at first light. They are pursuing the princess."
The king exhales slowly through his nose. His face remains almost bored.
"Let the boy play at being a hero. He'll crawl back when the first thorn bush rips his fine cloak."
The scout hesitates. His voice drops.
"Sire… he took Skógrimr ."
The king's hand freezes mid-rub. The room seems to lose half its light.
Skógrimr
The ancient blade Forged in Svartálfaheimr the realm of the dark elves and master craftsmen. the weapon said to reshape itself to the worthiest hand — its edge still gleaming after eight generations. It is not merely a weapon. It is the bloodline's proof of dominion over monsters. It has never left the royal armory without the king's seal.
The king stands. Slowly. The throne creaks.
"He took my sword?" His voice is dangerously quiet.
"Yes, sire. The armorer found the case empty at dawn. The prince left a single note: 'I will bring her back, Father. And prove I am worthy.'"
The king's fist slams the armrest.
"Detain him," he snarls. "Before he reaches Thornhold. Bring him back in chains if you must. And bring me Skógrimr untouched."
The advisor steps forward smoothly, bowing. "I will take care of it personally, sire."
The king glares at him, then at the small council gathered at the side of the hall — three older men in dark green robes. One of them clears his throat.
"Sire… perhaps we should not act in haste. The Drought is already moving toward Thornhold. Let him weaken the beast. Let him bleed for us. When Baldr is dead, we gain the upper hand in the coming war without wasting our own legions."
The king's jaw works. He stares into empty space.
"Fine." He waves a hand. "What about my daughter? I can't have her traveling with that creep."
From the shadows near the door, the assassin's voice came quietly, almost bored.
"I'll see to that, Your Lordship."
The king turned to look at him — the scarred face, the katana at his hip, the stillness of a man who had killed many times and felt nothing about it.
"Remember my promise," the king said. "If you fail me, you'll be hanged."
The assassin smiled thinly, saying nothing.
The king growled. "Let the Drought do the hard part. Then we end them both."
"Very wise, sire," the council murmured in unison.
The king waved a hand. "Clear the hall. Closed doors. Now."
The guards and lesser courtiers filed out. The heavy doors boomed shut. But before the last echo died, the advisor cleared his throat.
"Sire. You have unexpected visitors."
The doors opened again. Six knights entered in gold cloaks laced with white, moving in perfect silence. In front of them walked a woman — robes dark, expression unreadable, the faint glow of an old mark just visible at her collar.
The courtiers who hadn't yet left froze in the doorway.
Golden Cloaks, someone whispered. What are they doing here?
The woman stopped a respectful distance from the throne and looked up at the king with eyes that held no warmth and required none.
"Long time no see, Sweyn Forkbeard."
The king's expression curdled. "Mage Vespers. What are you doing here? Did The Allthing send you to intervene in my war? If they told you to stop it — you just wasted your trip. You'd better be on your way."
Vespers folded her hands. "The Allthing doesn't concern itself with trivial matters like your little war." A pause, precise and deliberate. "We are here for the boy traveling with the Drought."
The king blinked. "What for?"
"That," Vespers said simply, "doesn't concern you, Forkbeard."
Silence stretched across the hall. The king leaned forward on his throne, teeth set.
"If the Allthing wants them dead, they'll have to wait in line." His voice had gone very flat. "I'm going to kill them first."
Vespers regarded him for a long moment — the way a person regards a door they've already decided to walk through.
She said nothing more. She simply turned and walked back toward the golden-cloaked knights, who parted and fell in behind her without a word.
The doors closed.
The king stared at the empty hall for a long time.
Road North – Midday
Prince Garon dismounted in the shade of a lone, twisted tree. His cloak was already torn at the hem from thorns. Sweat darkened his fine tunic. The servant — older, wiry, face lined from years of silent service — tied the horses without a word.
"We rest here," Garon said. "Go to that village. Bring me supplies."
The servant met his eyes briefly. "What supplies, my prince?"
The prince rolled his eyes. "Bread, water, bandages. Supplies, idiot."
The servant bowed without meeting his eyes again and rode off down the slope.
Alone now, the prince sat on a flat rock and drew Skógrimr halfway from its scabbard. The blade caught sunlight like liquid fire — warm gold bleeding into pale white along the edge, the steel impossibly clean for something so old. He stared at his own reflection in it. Younger-looking than he felt. Eyes that still wanted approval.
"I'll bring her back," he muttered. "And you'll see I'm not just the spare."
The servant arrived at the village and walked toward a merchant stall, scanning the goods, when a hand brushed his — quick, purposeful — and slipped a folded letter into his palm before vanishing into the crowd.
He stepped into an alley and broke the seal.
Capture the prince. Bring him and Skógrimr to the capital. Do not fail. — By order of the Advisor.
He folded the paper carefully and tucked it into his sleeve. His expression didn't change.
He stood in the alley a moment longer. He thought about every morning he had dressed the prince in silence. Every time he had been called dog in front of the full court. Every slap. Every barked order. Every time the prince had looked through him like a wall.
His hand drifted to the dagger at his belt.
Capture? he thought. No. I think I'll just end it here.
Wagon Road – Late Afternoon
They rode out of Greenwood territory, approaching a certain area four days' ride from Thornhold…
"Are we lost?" Dot asked.
"No," Dren replied. "I bet we're heading toward Yutor now."
"I think we're lost. I told you we should have followed the right path—you decided to take a shortcut instead."
"The map's old."
"Maybe we should turn back."
The wagon rattled over uneven ground. Inside, rhythmic thumping echoed — Princess Yiva kicking the wooden walls again and again.
Dot glanced back at the canvas flap.
"She's going to hurt herself."
Dren kept his eyes on the road. "She'll tire eventually."
The thumping grew louder. More desperate.
Dot pulled the reins. The horses slowed.
"I'm opening it."
"Don't."
Dot ignored him. He swung down, walked to the back, and pulled the flap aside.
Yiva was crouched like a coiled spring — hands bound behind her, gag in mouth, eyes blazing. She launched forward the instant the flap opened. Her forehead slammed directly into Dot's groin.
Dot made a strangled sound and doubled over.
Yiva tumbled out, landed hard on the dirt road, scrambled up — still tied, still gagged — and sprinted toward the nearest tree line with a speed that had absolutely no business existing in a royal upbringing.
Dren sat on the wagon bench and stared. Then he started laughing — the real kind, from somewhere low in his chest.
Dot wheezed, straightened with visible effort, and sprinted after her. He caught her in six strides, hooked an arm around her waist, and hauled her back, kicking and muffled-screaming. He dropped her beside the wagon and stood over her, breathing hard, his dignity somewhere back in the road dust.
Dren pulled fresh rope from under the seat and dropped it next to Dot without comment, still shaking with quiet laughter.
Dot bound her ankles. Yiva glared at him with an expression that could have stripped bark off a tree.
"I… thought she was tired," Dot said.
Dren exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Next time, listen."
Forest Clearing – Night
A small fire crackled in the clearing, throwing orange light across the trunks. Yiva sat tied to a tree, knees drawn up, staring into the flames. Her fury had cooled from volcanic to something colder and more dangerous — the kind that calculates.
Dot sat a few paces away, poking the fire with a stick. Dren leaned against a trunk across the fire, blade across his knees, and within minutes his breathing had slowed and deepened. He fell asleep the way a soldier does — instantly and completely.
Silence settled over the clearing.
Dot studied the flames. Yiva studied Dot.
For a long while neither of them spoke. Then, quietly, she did — muffled through the gag, but the tone was unmistakable. Not rage. Something smaller.
Dot looked up. He glanced at Dren, then back at her.
He stood, crossed to her, and loosened the gag just enough.
She drew a slow breath. When she spoke, her voice was rougher than expected. "Why are you doing this?"
"Ask him," Dot said, nodding toward Dren.
"I'm asking you."
Dot looked at her for a moment.
"Insurance. So we don't get killed when the job's done."
Yiva was quiet. Her eyes moved over his face — looking for something. "You don't even want to be here, do you."
It wasn't a question. Dot didn't answer it. He reached for the gag.
"Wait—" Her voice dropped, almost reluctant. "I won't scream."
Dot studied her. Something passed between them — a truce of sorts, thin and provisional.
He left the gag loose and went back to the fire.
Yiva looked at the flames again. Her fingers moved slowly behind her back.
Dot froze.
A sound. Faint. Wrong.
He looked around. Dren still slept. The horses were calm. The fire —
Movement. A flash of white in the dark between the trees.
Yiva was gone. The rope lay in a loose pile at the base of the tree. When she had headbutted him on the road, his dagger must have fallen — and she had grabbed it then, palmed it, waited all evening without a word or a sign.
Dot stood. He looked at Dren — still breathing, still asleep.
He ran.
Dren didn't wake. But something reached him — not through sound or sight. A cold pressure at the edges of sleep, like a hand pressed flat against a window.
His eyes moved beneath their lids.
In the dark behind his eyes, a candle-lit chamber materialized. Stone walls. A single flame. And a woman standing at a table, head bowed, lips moving in words too quiet to shape.
Mage Vespers.
In her hands — held carefully, like something still warm — was a folded piece of paper. Dren recognized the handwriting before he could read the words.
Hey fat king, if you want your daughter back, keep the end of your deal.
She had his letter. She was inside it somehow — moving through the ink, tracing the words back to their source the way a river traces back to its spring.
Her lips stopped moving. Slowly, she raised her head.
And looked directly at him.
Dren's eyes snapped open. The fire had burned down to embers. The clearing was quiet.
He sat up slowly, said nothing, and stared at the dark trees where Dot had gone.
To be continued.