HUMANS

  In the great mountains west of Ferdesang, the capital of the kingdom of Elbak, lies a citadel of the Inquisition: Kor Morne. It is a veritable city perched among the clouds, nestled within the mountains. Not literally floating, of course—its foundations are deeply rooted in the rock, and its galleries stretch for miles—but it gave Vixius that impression the first time he saw it.

  Starving and lost for days after his final trial as an apprentice, Vixius had reached the citadel a year ago. One year since his advanced training began, one year of doubts and navigating the intrigues of the Inquisition, particularly because of Dame Irva. Then, like so many others, he saw the rain of fire illuminating the distant twilight.

  Agitation reigns in the citadel, though its vastness makes it hard to perceive. It is not apprentices who will descend from the mountains but a group led by the Grand Inquisitor Kral Margonos. Vixius learned this from his master, a crippled but powerful mage who had taken a fondness to him.

  The tension grows as the kingdom of Elbak’s expedition prepares to enter the Fissure Forest. A new shadow now looms over the proceedings: the Inquisition. Their arrival, sudden and non-negotiable, sends tremors through even the proudest nobles. No one had a say in their participation. No one saw it coming. How did they intercept the group, learn of the expedition from their lofty perch, and descend so swiftly?

  And more importantly, why are they here? Their motives remain unclear, but their mere presence changes the dynamic of the expedition. The Inquisition is not a force welcomed lightly, but it is one that cannot be ignored. Are their goals aligned with those of the king?

  Eldan Rochefer, appointed by the king to lead the preliminary expedition, cannot help but feel uneasy. Dealing with the insufferable mage Yvanna was challenging enough, and now the Inquisition?

  It is an ancient order, an entity independent of kingdoms and crowns. Their power transcends borders, and their authority is absolute when it comes to supernatural phenomena or events deemed heretical or abnormal. No one dares provoke their wrath. They wield the most powerful magics, relying on the trances of their devoted followers. Their bases are everywhere, like the web of a vast, ravenous spider.

  Clad in dark robes embroidered with esoteric symbols, the inquisitors are not merely fanatical priests. They are scholars, warriors, and judges all at once. Each inquisitor is a master of the arcane, the occult sciences, or divine rituals, capable of wielding both magic and steel. Their reputation is terrifying: where they tread, only ashes and silence remain.

  The troops assembled for the expedition watch nervously as the inquisitor and his escort move through the camp. They arrive in silence, a tall man flanked by guards in black armor. Their presence seems to drain the warmth from the air, as if the atmosphere itself tenses around them. Eldan notes their gear—un eerie resemblance to dwarven craftsmanship, though lacking runes.

  At their head stands an imposing figure with chiseled features and dirty brown eyes. He wears a long black coat, and a silver chain hangs around his neck, bearing a medallion that should be engraved with the Inquisition’s symbol. Unlike the traditional emblem, this one depicts a decapitated Baldakai—a mark of the ongoing schism within the order.

  This is Grand Inquisitor Kral Margonos, a legendary figure both feared and respected. Stories claim he eradicated an entire undead army single-handedly, that his gaze can discern lies within souls, and that his magic can burn even the most powerful creatures. Rumors, Eldan knows, are mostly exaggerated, but the man’s presence remains intimidating.

  Kral approaches Eldan, who waits with his council near the central tent. No one speaks, but all watch. Eldan’s jaw tightens imperceptibly.

  The inquisitor offers a slight bow—a formality more than a gesture of respect.

  “Commander,” he begins, his voice cold and controlled, “The Inquisition has deemed it necessary to participate in this expedition. Recent events transcend mere earthly concerns. This cataclysm… this rain of fire and the rift in the sky… are signs of something far greater at work. We must investigate.”

  Eldan meets his gaze impassively. “Your assistance is… appreciated, Grand Inquisitor. But you understand that this expedition is under my command. The king has—”

  Kral interrupts with a chilling smile. “Naturally. Do not concern yourself with your king; he is already aware. We will merely observe. However, should this anomaly prove dangerous or violate sacred laws… the Inquisition will act. With or without your consent.”

  The meeting lasts a few more minutes to finalize details. If they leave now, the group will reach the forest's borders before midday. Eldan hopes not to waste time gathering the hundred conscripted adventurers at Pontoven and then Benamire, the nearest town to the forest. This way, they may be back before the light goes down, if everything goes well, that’s the most unsure part...

  As the group begins its march—for now, a little over a hundred elite soldiers and mages—the iron-shod hooves of their horses clatter against the cobblestones of the royal road. Eldan cannot help but ponder Kral’s presence.

  He sees the man speaking directly with Yvanna. He had known she had ties to the Inquisition, but to this extent? Perhaps she informed them, using her vile magic to relay the information. “The slut,” he thinks bitterly. “Because of her, I have to deal with these people too…”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Eldan knows the inquisitors’ presence profoundly alters the expedition’s atmosphere. Their power is undeniable: their guards, their mages, and their charismatic leader are valuable assets. But their authority, their cold demeanor, and their hidden motives create unease. He can only hope there will be no clashes with the adventurers; those men and women are far less disciplined than regular soldiers.

  Finally, the group truly sets off, the capital quickly disappearing beyond the horizon.

  The march continued the whole morning—on the road first, then boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The weight of the unknown pressed heavily on the company, an oppressive force as tangible as the thick canopy overhead. The expedition had been thrown together hastily, a volatile mix of soldiers, mages, and adventurers with little cohesion. But the presence of the Inquisition changed everything. Their mere existence among the ranks was an unspoken declaration—something unnatural lurked within the depths of the Fissure Forest.

  "Poor guys that became soldiers to skip the fieldwork, dumb zealous inquisitors thirsty for dragon blood or anything that I don’t really want to know; and even funnier, those usually greedy adventurers—now conscripted," utters Groboln, half amused, half cynical.

  I just don’t want to answer him. What for? I kind of agree with him. Also, the inquisitors are real close, and this dumb grandpa of a mage next to me might not give a fuck, but I do.

  Ah, I am Albion Krone, an A-rank adventurer, and I must admit this expedition leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. With every step we take toward the Fissure Forest, I feel the weight of uncertainty and danger pressing on my shoulders. There are many of us—around two hundred adventurers have joined the king’s small army. They don’t want to call it that, but to me, a mix of soldiers, mages, adventurers, and now, with the surprise arrival of the inquisitors, it’s nothing less than a small army.

  They arrived in Benamire before noon. We waited for over an hour in the central square, about sixty of us conscripted. Lower-ranked adventurers are free to do as they please, to go wherever they want, but not us. I should never have ranked up.

  Around me, murmurs ripple among the adventurers. Some claim we’ve been assembled to kill the dragon, the immense guardian of this forest. Others, more cynical, say we are nothing more than sacrificial scouts, sent to assess the area before the real forces are deployed.

  But I don’t believe it. Kill a dragon? That’s not a mission for humans, even armed and organized as we are.

  I saw the rain of fire from my room at the inn in Benamire. Even at a distance, it left me speechless. The blood-red sky, the brilliant flashes of light, and the sense that the entire world shook under the impact. It even knocked over a potted plant, scattering dirt all over the floorboards and forcing me to clean it up. I’m sure even such a cataclysm wouldn’t be enough to kill a creature as ancient and powerful as this. Dragons, especially those of this size and reputation, are not merely beasts. They are forces of nature, living incarnations of raw power.

  I know that in the eastern lands, they killed a dragon a few years ago. A smaller one, obviously—a youngling only a few centuries old. It wasn’t within our kingdom’s territory, so I can understand why the king is furious. He wants his relics, his weapons, his dragon-made artifacts. But I’m not a bloody slayer of mythical creatures!

  With my friend Groboln, an old mage, we talk as we march. We can’t help but notice this is a ragtag but well-equipped expedition, especially given how quickly it was assembled.

  We march in tight formation, led by Captain Eldan Rochefer, a veteran renowned for his mastery of battles in hostile terrain. Beside him is Dornal the Tracker, a rugged man with a wild look about him, guiding us through the safest paths into the forest. I know ol'Dornal—he’s a character in Benamire, and it amuses me that he’s leading the way. His knowledge of the terrain is invaluable, even if his face betrays an unease he doesn’t try to hide. No wonder—he spends more time telling tales of his “adventures” than venturing into the forest.

  My group and I were conscripted, lured by promises of enticing rewards, not really given a choice anyway. Most of us are well-armed, and some possess rare magical skills. That said, we’re a disparate group, and unity does not come naturally. Most adventurers make their careers in groups of four or five, sometimes fewer, sometimes more, but we’re not soldiers. Working in such large numbers, each with unique abilities, is rarely a good idea.

  As we approach the Fissure Forest, conversations grow darker. Groboln remains as relaxed as ever, but I can’t help overhearing the chatter around me.

  “Do they really think we can kill that monster?” one adventurer behind me murmurs.

  “It’s madness. Even wounded, that dragon could wipe us out in an instant.”

  Another, younger one adds with a trembling voice, “And what if it’s not about killing the dragon? What if it’s something worse? Who knows what we’ll find in this forest. That rain of fire… it wasn’t natural… it came from somewhere else.”

  I turn to them, trying to calm their nerves. “Listen, we don’t know why we’re here yet. Maybe we won’t even have to face the dragon. But if we do, think of the fat purse they promised.”

  I don’t entirely believe it myself, but the words are enough to give them a semblance of courage—or at least to shut them up. I’d rather hear Groboln’s nonsense about the elf’s chest further up the line.

  Minutes of marching pass. We finally reach the forest’s edge. The trees are massive, their canopies intertwining to create a dark, oppressive ceiling.

  Groboln comments, “She must feel right at home, that little elf.”

  The air carries the scent of damp earth and ash, a reminder of the hunters’ tales about the fires extinguished by the dragon. I didn’t see it myself, but it’s not just Dornal who claims the dragon put out the flames. Speaking of the devil, he stops, placing a hand on a tree trunk to survey the horizon. His deep voice breaks the silence.

  “This is where the forest truly begins. We’re on its land now.”

  A chill runs down my spine. Even we are unaccustomed to venturing this far; usually, the forest’s edge suffices as our hunting ground. While the dragon is wounded, it doesn’t mean it’s powerless. It survived a rain of fire and fragments from the sky… or maybe it’s dead? That would be ideal! My joy is short-lived.

  As we venture into the undergrowth, tension grips the small army. The forest is eerily quiet. No birdsong, no rustling animals. Just the crunch of boots on dead leaves and the ragged breaths of the men and women around me.

  The soldiers scan the shadows, weapons ready. The mages murmur protective incantations. Even the inquisitor escort, usually so stoic, appears on edge.

  Then, a cry rings out from the rear of our column.

  “What was that?!”

  We turn, weapons drawn, but nothing moves. Only the wind whistles through the trees, a mocking whisper. The group resumes its march, and the answer comes a few minutes later.

  “One of the men thought he saw someone in the distance. He’s jumpy… just the tension,” a soldier reports as he moves up the column toward the commander.