Before the sun could show us the path, we had already left the village. We were ready. Or at least, we thought we were.
I wore a leather armor forged from the hide of a beast called Durmara—a creature covered in scaled plates, large enough to blot out a hilltop. They say hunting one takes a full Emberlight squad, sometimes more. It's a death mission for anyone below that rank.
So how do I have a full set of Durmara armor?
My father is rich. That's the short of it.
We followed the river upstream. It was our chosen path—easy to navigate, unlikely to lead us astray. But not even half a day had passed, and already our packs were bulging with beast matter—skins, fangs, sacks of blood. Far too many beasts. It wasn't natural.
"We shouldn't carry any more," said Captain Segeford, scanning the bodies strewn across the grass. "Drop what's common. Keep only what's rare or fetches high coin. We've got a long way to go."
"Aye, Captain," we replied.
Reluctantly, I tossed out a few blood sacs and a snarlfang pelt. Would've gone for good coin back home.
Then it happened—
ARRRRR—
A sound tore through the jungle. Deep. Thick. Guttural. Like thunder caught in a dying throat.
It was the kind of roar that didn't just echo—it lingered.
I turned. Looked behind me. Up at the canopy. Then at the others.
They'd heard it too. Their eyes had gone tight. Silent. Still.
"Captain…?"
The voice belonged to Miya, an older Ashborn in our group. She was the kind who didn't scare easy. The kind who had history with things people didn't speak of in towns.
Her eyes were on Segeford. And hers weren't just scared—they were remembering.
"It's a warning," Segeford said, calm as ever. "We've entered a beast's claimed region. We leave. Now."
There was something in his tone that didn't leave room for questions.
We packed quickly and moved faster. But something in Segeford had changed. His jaw clenched a little harder. His eyes—usually relaxed, like a man watching the weather—were constantly moving, scanning the treeline. At one point, his brow flinched. Just once.
I followed his gaze.
There was nothing. Just green. The dense weight of the jungle. Leaves stirring lightly in the breeze. Bugs whining from one branch to another. The river flowing, soft and unbothered.
But then… I heard it.
A sound. Rattling.
Not the rustle of wind. This was dry. Dead.
My eyes searched, tracing the sound—and found it.
A single tree. Withered. Bone-dry. Dead as winter.
In the middle of a living jungle. Just beside the river.
"Blightwood...", Segeford whispered. "Miya", he continued.
I don't think I was meant to hear it, but I did.
Miya nodded. Just once. But the way she looked at him like old soldiers remembering a war no one else survived made the air around us feel wrong.
For some reason, after that… the jungle fell silent.
No more beasts. No movements. Just wind, and roots, and branches creaking under nothing.
And before I realized it, it was nightfall.
---
We made camp. Sparks danced from the fire, pushing shadows deeper into the trees.
Edward was cooking.
He had beast meat simmering over the fire, seasoned with the spices he'd brought from Valemoor—strong ones, aromatic, stinging the nose and warming the tongue. It smelled incredible. So good, it made you forget you were in a jungle haunted by silence.
Edward wasn't just a cook. He was a chef, the son of the man who owned the largest inn in Valemoor. Though really, "inn" is the wrong word.
That place was more like a Wayfort walls of stone, towers with warm lights, vast rooms bigger than nobles' manors. Edward was supposed to inherit and run the whole thing.
But instead… he's here. In a jungle. Stirring a pot over a campfire with blood still drying on his boots.
Because of me.
I dragged him into this life. He caught the flame 'adventure' and now he burns for it too.
Also, I needed a cook. And why pay a king's ransom for roasted meat when you can own the chef himself?
>"Smells fantastic, kid," Miya said, crouching by the fire. "Where'd you learn to cook like that?"
"My father owns an inn in Valemoor," Edward replied quietly.
>"Yeah… an 'inn'," Silvy muttered under her breath, eyes rolling.
I laughed. Not out loud, just to myself.
Edward's heart is pure. That's the only reason he's here with me.
He doesn't belong in this world of fangs and shadows. But that's the thing about good people.
They follow you. Even when they shouldn't.
Once the food was ready, we started eating. That was the best beast meat I'd ever had. Everyone was impressed by Edward's cooking skills. We laughed, talked, shared stories. We had fun.
I looked at them faces glowing softly in the flicker of firelight, warmth dancing in their eyes and teeth as they grinned and joked. The heat from the campfire kissed our cheeks and fingers, warding off the bitter cold like a silent blessing from the Moon herself.
Winters in this region of Velrya weren't cruel snow fell occasionally, but mostly it was just frigid air and an icy quiet. Luckily, the beasts hot-blooded and used to warmer lands tended to grow sluggish in this season.
Eventually, it was time to sleep. Everyone settled into their roles, some keeping watch, others curling up in cloaks. I went to my bedding, sparing one last glance at Miya and Segeford speaking in a quiet corner. The campfire's faint light framed them in shadows just enough to make out their silhouettes standing close.
The Next Morning
We were moving again legs sore, eyes determined pressing deeper into the jungle's grasp.
On the second day, we only encountered common beasts nothing unusual. Segeford didn't even draw his axes. Instead, he let the newer adventurers take the lead. The Kindlings fumbled, the Ashborn stepped up. By sunset, we were tired, sore-footed, and aching at the shoulders. But the pain felt like a price worth paying for a glimpse of forgotten ruins.
The third day brought fewer, but tougher, beasts. Less common ones. Segeford now stepped in occasionally, giving pointers and assisting the Ashborn when needed. Kindlings could barely stand against these foes anymore. Their meat, though, was incredible and Edward's cooking made sure none of it went to waste.
The fourth and fifth days passed in similar fashion. The jungle grew quieter, but the enemies more bizarre. By now, only Segeford and Miya were landing killing blows, while the rest of us became support. They fought like they'd done this for decades effortless, precise, brutal. Perfect teamwork.
On the Sixth Day
That's when we saw them.
They weren't like the others. These beasts… were massive.
Almost as big as the carriage bulls we'd ridden into the jungle with. They looked like apes but towering. Their thick, matted fur hung in long, filthy strands. They stood on two legs like men. Their breath fogged the air like steam from a furnace, and they smelled… like unwashed dung and rotting leaves.
"Don't get involved," Segeford warned, stepping forward. "You're no match for them."
He locked eyes with the nearest beast and drew his axes from his back.
We froze, unable to move, just watching. The sheer force that man radiated it was like something out of a myth.
The beast lunged with a roar, its long arms swinging toward him. Segeford met the attack head-on, crossing his axes to absorb the blow and retaliated in one smooth motion. A deep gash split across the beast's side. It screamed, staggering.
And then he vanished.
Or so it seemed. One moment he stood before us the next, he was already at the creature's chest.
Segeford roared as he launched his entire body into a single, earth-shattering strike.
CRRRRRK.
With a single cleave, the beast's upper torso came crashing down.
A beast like that a monster that thirteen-man team wouldn't dare approach was dead in one strike.
The real beast in that clearing… was Segeford.
"That's my man," Miya muttered.
"Cough… cough…" one of the Ashborn faked a cough, clearly teasing her.
She was slightly embarrassed, but she composed herself quickly.
"Keep moving," Segeford said calmly.
We obeyed, giving the corpse a wide berth. No one wanted to see what lay beneath that foul coat of fur. The smell was enough to haunt the night.
Seventh Day – Noon
The jungle was quieter now. No beasts. No movement. Just silence.
We were exhausted. My legs felt like stone. My shoulders burned. I was thinking of suggesting we turn back.
"That looks unnatural," Silvy spoke, her voice barely a whisper over the crunch of frost and soil beneath our boots.
I looked up and froze.
There, rising like the fossilized rib of some long-dead titan, was a stone monolith, half-swallowed by vines and age, yet defiant against time. Its surface was cracked, moss-covered, and fractured… but unmistakably crafted, not born of nature. It stood at least thirty feet high, wide enough that even three wagons side-by-side couldn't span its width. Its top had broken off long ago, lying tilted in the undergrowth like a fallen crown.
We all stood there, stunned. Not just by the sight but by the feeling. A pressure. The air grew denser, heavier with each breath, like we had stepped into a place that didn't belong in our world.
Segeford walked toward it. No hesitation. No fear. He pressed a gloved hand to the stone, feeling its ancient chill, then spoke softly.
"We've arrived."
Nobody cheered. No one laughed. The realization that the map wasn't fake, that the ruin existed somehow didn't bring joy. Just awe. Exhausted as we were, silence bound us tighter than fatigue ever could.
Torches were lit in haste. Flames flickered nervously, casting gold and orange across the jungle's bones. Before us, tucked between the roots of overgrown trees and the wound of a collapsed hill, was a black maw of stone—the entrance to the ruin. A cave, carved but now consumed by the earth itself.
Segeford led the way.
The entrance swallowed us, like a throat of old stone. Wind whispered from within, dry and sour older than rot, colder than snow. Then came the sound. Wings. A sudden burst.
They exploded around us bats, a sea of wings slicing the air, shadows breaking through firelight like shattered glass. Screams erupted, some human, most animal. We flinched. Weapons rose. But nothing struck.
"Bats," Miya said, brushing one off her shoulder. "Nothing more."
We descended.
The tunnel narrowed, then opened again into a massive, vaulted chamber. The moment we stepped onto its floor, the weight of silence buried us whole. Our torches flickered against black stone columns that stretched into darkness. The flame-light couldn't touch the ceiling. Echoes returned distorted, as if the ruin had a mouth of its own.
"Light the chamber," Segeford ordered.
One by one, torches were lit. Their orange glow chased shadows along ancient carvings that spiraled up the walls, across the columns, and onto a central dais a great stone platform at the center of the chamber. Something stood on it.
A statue.
Ten feet tall at least, made of a black stone I'd never seen, and sculpted with impossible detail. Its face… was missing. Not broken. Not eroded. Just absent, like the sculptor stopped at the edge of something they dared not finish.
Around the statue were offerings long turned to dust bones of animals, shattered pots, rusted trinkets. Above the altar was a giant relief carved into the wall itself.
I approached the center of the ruin, where the stone jutted out like a fang piercing through the dust of time. The torch in my hand sputtered slightly, its light trembling as if uncertain.
Then I stepped closer to the stone pillar. The torchlight wavered in my grip as I raised it, casting flickering shadows across the surface.
I ran the flame along the cold, cracked stone trying to grasp what was carved there.
And then
My breath stopped.
It was like something had seized my lungs. I couldn't inhale. I couldn't exhale. I just froze.
A drawing. Faint, but unmistakable.
Dark.
A shadow. Towering. With wings wings shaped like despair itself. Like the folds of night screaming in silence.
But it wasn't the form that broke me.
It was the eyes.
Two abnormally gleaming stones too bright, too alive set deep into the carved skull.
Just one glance at them felt like a hole had been torn in my chest.
"Arazeel," someone behind me muttered. A scholar. He had read the inscription below the relief.
I couldn't speak.
The name itself rang like a distant scream in my bones. The others had gone quiet too. Something about the chamber had changed. The air was colder. The torches flickered harder. Time seemed to slow.
I felt cold. Like something ancient had reached inside and silenced the warmth of life.
The air felt heavier. The torch dimmed, just slightly, as if it too were recoiling.
I looked away. Couldn't bear it.
Turned back shaken, breath shallow only to realize...
Segeford was standing just behind me.
I stumbled slightly, startled.
But then I saw his face.
And I stilled.
I had never imagined I'd witness a man like him a lion-hearted legend look like that.
He was sweating.
Not from heat. Not from exhaustion.
Then he spoke, low and hoarse, like trying not to awaken something that was already watching.
"Pick up what you have. Leave the rest. Move toward the exit. Slowly. No one runs."
I didn't understand what had changed. I couldn't grasp what he saw, what we had touched.
And then
ARRRRRRRRRRR
A roar.
A thunderous, soul-tearing roar that split through the ruins like a god tearing open the sky.
So loud I nearly blacked out from the sound alone.
It came from just behind me.
It was so powerful, I felt my bones clamp together, as if the stone beneath me was screaming through my spine.
For a moment, I thought it was Segeford himself the mountain of a man roaring in rage behind me.
But I didn't turn.
I couldn't.
Instead, I looked into Segeford's eyes.
And what I saw in them was a gleaming reflection... As the flickering light of torch reflected the thing behind me, into Segeford's eyes.
I had just one feeling in my bones.
Death.