Chapter One

  “Another day. Another tent shredded, and another dead orc.” Aina Kar Harabaj said with resignation as the corpse breathed its last a few paces from her fire. The arrow that robbed him of his life was still twitching in his eye when she put away her bow and sat back down to take out her quill and log book.

  Twenty-second of the Month of Lon in the eighth year of her Royal Majesty Queen Tariais reign of Leoniis…

  twenty-seventh month of my exile in the Auralian Hills…

  Aina raised her quill from above her log book. It was ‘technically’ a log book at least. Meant to record her official observations and combat actions, so that in the event of her death when it was recovered, the team to find her could have some idea of what was out there and what might have ended her life. Alternatively, in the event of survival, it would be handed over to her superiors for the same purpose.

  But it had in fact become more of a journal, recording her life in the Wyldlands that stretched from the edge of civilization, all the way to the fortress and the wall it manned just to the southwest of the Auralian Hills. ‘Should I really write ‘my exile’ there?’ Aina wondered to herself without relaxing her grip on the quill. It wasn’t ‘technically’ true. The assignment to roam and hunt the forest for monsters or demihumans that slipped over, under, or around the wall in some way was a legitimate one, a necessary one, even a vital one.

  But the truth was, it was also a deadly one. ‘No, exile it is. And it’s still nicer than saying ‘twenty-seventh month of my execution.’ Aina snorted with disgust. ‘What are they going to do, kill me? Even if they don’t like it, they’ve already kept me on a one year assignment three months longer than I should have been here, and twelve months longer than the average paladin survives.’

  She looked up from her writing and over to the corpse of the orc. He was the first one she’d seen in months. Before him it had been nagas, before that, hobgoblins. His weapon had been the broken haft of a spear and his armor had been so broken and full of holes that aiming for his eye had been pointless. All those she’d killed had been in a shoddy state, and those she’d driven back to the wall by way of warning had been just as badly off. ‘There must be another war over there.’ She pondered, a hint of pity in her thoughts. She frowned, recalling the cause of her exile to be that very same sense.

  ‘Always there are more. Some I can make leave. Others I kill. But always, there are more wretched and despised ones in this world, everywhere one looks…’ Her writing paused when she heard a horrific roaring cry far overhead.

  It was traveling, fast, whatever it was. In the pitch dark of night she was normally still functional, her night vision went above and beyond others thanks to her training as an archer, but it moved so quickly it was a mere blur in the dark.

  Her naturally narrow eyes narrowed further in suspicion. Whatever it was crashed down hard, with who even knew how many trees were breaking under its size and weight.

  Quickly she wrote into her log, ‘Terrible noise, so much pain in it, I don’t know what it is. It crashed nearby, the ground rumbled underfoot and trees snapped like toothpicks. Going to investigate. If this is my end, I regret nothing.’

  It was one last ‘fuck you’ to the ones who punished her.

  And with that, she stowed her journal, removed her bow, and ventured in the direction of the noise.

  Ever the cautious paladin archer, she did not go directly to the source. Rather she took a circuitous route that carried her around the source and let her home in on it, ensuring she was not taken unawares by anything else.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The rumbling noise of a deep voice grew louder in her sharp ears as she got closer.

  The sun was breaking on the horizon by the time she caught her first glimpse of the thing itself through the mass of trees, and at the same time, the smell. Blood. Pain. Fear. And burned flesh.

  “Gods preserve me.” Aina whispered as she saw the pale blue scales and stepped into the clearing the thing had made with its horrific landing. Trees were snapped and broken everywhere, rocks the size of men or greater were reduced to pebbles scattered in every direction. Bushes were uprooted, and a deep imprint had been made into the soft soil in the outline of the body.

  And none of that was a wonder, for Aina found herself looking down the length of her drawn arrow at a half dead frost dragon. Its blue scales were smeared with white, snow colored blood, its jaw was broken, its wings were shredded as if by horrific claws. Its body was covered in bruises where it wasn’t bleeding from open wounds. Burns at least cauterized the worst of them, but three of its four limbs were broken with the bone exposed and poking through the flesh.

  She stepped closer, the belly of the beast was torn open, and its eyes were wide with the anguish of the slowly dying. Its head was lying back on the ground so that, when it saw her, she was upside down to him. He caught sight of her.

  There was none of the rage for which dragons were known, none of the greed, nor hate, nor wrath. Instead, his eyes reflected back the same pathetic desperation Aina had seen in the smallest, hungriest, most desperate demihuman child refugee. “Help. Me.” The words were garbled thanks to the broken jaw. But they were still clear enough for her to understand.

  Aina drew her arrow back further. At range, against a healthy dragon, her arrow was a flea. His scales were armor like little else she had ever heard of, and the magic of his kind could make it even greater. But down on the ground, wounded, with so many exposed places to shoot? ‘If I let go of my arrow, he might die in one shot. If I kill a dragon, one of the great enemies of humanity, I might get back home in one piece. They’d almost have to give me a new assignment, I’d be a damn hero…’

  But then, there it was. That pitiful desperation in the eyes of the monster. That wild hope that followed the plea for help.

  And with it, came the thing that saw her exiled. ‘Pity. Pity for the helpless, even an enemy.’ Aina inhaled heavily and lowered her bow until the arrow was pointed into the ground at her feet. She released her hold on the arrow and fired it into the ground. It sank up to the feathers, “Damn it. I missed.” She said, and slung her bow over her back.

  “I can help you. Maybe.” Aina said as she drew close to the maw of the monster. “But if you live, you must promise not to eat me.” The frost dragon’s breath was cold as a winter breeze and it sent a shiver down her spine when she came close enough to touch the end of its nose.

  “I. Pro-mise.” The dragon gargled out the words. “Not. Eat. You.”

  “This would have been a lot easier for me if you’d have refused.” Aina groused a little and reached for the pouch at her side. “Alright, let’s get started. A lot of this is going to hurt like hell, and there’s not much I can do about that, so don’t blame me.”

  The dragon gave a tiny nod that must have hurt for it to make from its position, and Aina removed the dried leaves from their place among her gear. “I’ll need to make a field potion, this will take me a few minutes, but I’ll be quick, I should be able to stop the bleeding. If I use some of your blood, I might be able to improve it…” She didn’t finish the question, but when the dragon made another nod of his head, she came close to the wound to get started.

  When she stood beside his jaw and gathered some of the blood on the crackling green leaves used to make field potions, Aina shivered not just at the cold of the breath that kissed her skin, but at the thought that ran behind her eyes.

  ‘Out of all the followers of the gods, I must be the one they despise most of all, that I should find myself inches from the mouth of death.’ Aina may have thought it, and cursed her lot, but nonetheless, trapped by pity for the pain of the desperate, helpless, dying creature, she could do nothing else but set her hands to the task.

  “What’s your name, dragon?” She asked while she mixed her potion. “I am Aina Harabaj.”

  “Araghramorn.” The dragon answered when she stood up with a stone flask in hand.

  “Alright, Araghramorn… this will sting.” She said, and approached him with the first of many potions that might save its life, and thereby end her own.