Chapter 3: Mutant

  Roran awoke on a soft bed, surrounded by the golden glow of sunlight streaming through the open window. The blinding radiance forced him to squint as he stirred, his slumber rudely interrupted. He groaned and turned over, draping a thick arm over his eyes in a futile attempt to shield himself from the morning's relentless embrace.

  It didn’t work. This damn tavern, with its lack of blinds, left the window as nothing more than a crude square cut into the hardwood wall. Of course, the light found the perfect angle to peek in, illuminating every corner of the modest room and searing his retinas.

  Roran sat up, beads of sweat trickling down his face. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, damp and sticky from the restless night. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the remnants of a vivid nightmare—one of many that had haunted him over the years. Memories and visions blurred together in his mind: battles lost, people abandoned, and horrors he wished to bury.

  Stretching his tanned, muscular arms, Roran cracked his back in a series of satisfying pops. It wasn’t often he had the luxury of sleeping in a bed, and his body reminded him how much he had missed the simple pleasure. He’d spent too long as a slave, surviving on cold, hard ground with nothing but the stars above. No, this bed was an indulgence, one he knew he couldn’t afford to grow accustomed to.

  Throwing off the crumpled sheets, Roran stood and searched the room for his belongings. His white shirt lay in a pile on the floor, and he yanked it on, ignoring how it clung to his sweat-soaked skin. He strapped on his worn leather breastplate, its surface scarred from years of battles, and bent down to retrieve the pouch of crystals he had hidden under the bed. A habit of caution—trusting no one, not even the flimsy lock on the tavern door.

  Satisfied that everything was in order, he secured the pouch to his belt, laced up his scuffed boots over hole-ridden socks, and pushed open the creaky door. The wooden stairs groaned under his weight as he descended into the tavern’s lobby. The air carried the faint scent of stale ale and fried meat, mingling with the chatter of early risers.

  At a corner table, a group of elves hunched over steaming cups of Scourgetea, their weary eyes betraying long nights. A few dwarves danced near the hearth, mugs of wine in hand, their loud laughter echoing through the room. Roran averted his gaze. Wine before midday? Disgusting.

  He approached the counter, leaning forward to study the crudely scratched menu hanging on the wall. The words were barely legible, etched with uneven letters and smudges of ink. As he raised his hand to call the elf behind the counter, the young woman turned and gasped. The mug she was cleaning slipped, clattering against the wooden bar. Her wide eyes darted to his face, and she fumbled to pick it up.

  “Oh… oh… uh…” she stammered, scrubbing the already spotless mug as though it were filthy.

  Roran raised an eyebrow, biting back a chuckle at her muddled state. “Something the matter, miss?”

  She pointed to the door, her hand trembling. “Out… They are waiting,” she mumbled, barely audible.

  With a sigh, Roran straightened. “Wonderful,” he muttered, already suspecting what awaited him. He’d encountered this before. The paladins, perhaps? No, they wouldn’t have known he’d escaped. He had promised them five years and planned to keep his word. Whatever this was, it had better be worth his time.

  Pushing open the tavern door, he stepped into the blinding daylight. His stomach sank. Lined up outside were twenty guards, their polished spears gleaming in the sun and pointed directly at him. Their faces bore the same expressions: a mix of fear and resolve, as though he were a cladarmor risen from the sands of the Azure Flats. Instinctively, Roran raised his hands, blinking at the sight.

  “What in Nova…” he muttered under his breath, his thoughts racing. Sablewine was a small, humble village—a place no one should have recognized him. Yet, there they were.

  The answer waddled forward, a squat figure pushing through the guards like a self-proclaimed king. Vander, the dwarf from last night, wore a smug grin that made Roran’s blood boil.

  “A fool you are, lad,” Vander began, his tone dripping with condescension. “Did you not think I’d tell the watch about what you did? Striking me down, robbing me blind, embarrassing me before the kind folk of this village?”

  Roran spit on the ground. “And I’d gladly do it again, you scrunched-face weasel. The moment I saw you, I hated that smug grin. You had it coming.”

  The dwarf’s grin faltered, his cheeks flushing red. With an exaggerated sigh, he extended his hand. “Hand over the crystals, or these guards will lock you up.”

  Roran crossed his arms, his fingers digging into the leather of his breastplate. “No.”

  “No?” Vander’s face contorted in disbelief.

  “You heard me. No.”

  The guards exchanged uncertain glances, their inexperience apparent. Vander, realizing his bluff was failing, scrambled to regain control.

  “Fine. Another option, then. Jail, pay up, or… run an errand for me. A dangerous one,” Vander said, a sly grin creeping back onto his face. “One that might cost you your life.”

  Roran’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Entertain me. What do you want?”

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  Vander stepped closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a great secret. “There’s a cave not far east of here. It’s an entrance to the Luminar Caverns, where my goods are. Trouble is, a mutant’s taken up residence there, scaring off anyone who tries to pass. Kill it, and we’ll call it even.”

  Roran considered. Mutants—vile remnants of a plague that had once ravaged Aurelith—were rare but dangerous. Their grotesque forms and primal strength were the stuff of nightmares. Yet, the thought of an errand appealed to him far more than jail.

  “Deal,” he said, turning away before Vander could extend his hand for a shake.

  Roran made his way to a small wooden shed, its weathered planks barely holding against the steady breeze that swept through the village of Sablewine. The scent of damp wood and oil greeted him as he swung the door open. Inside, the warm glow of a lantern illuminated a robust dwarf with arms like iron girders, each limb seemingly thicker than the walls of Aurengarde. His fiery red beard tumbled over his rotund belly, which jiggled slightly as he laughed, a mug of golden booze raised to his lips. The sharp, pungent aroma of alcohol filled the air as a few drops splattered onto the floor.

  “What can I do for ya, sir?” the dwarf bellowed, his voice booming as he slapped his stomach and took another swig. He set the mug down with a heavy thud, its contents glimmering with a faint golden hue. The liquid seeped slightly from the mug’s bottom, as though even the drink couldn’t resist escaping. The dwarf’s demeanor immediately struck Roran as more approachable than most of his kin, even if his ingrained hatred for dwarves simmered just beneath the surface.

  “Booze,” Roran remarked, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Never thought I’d see it in a place called Sablewine.”

  The dwarf threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. He hoisted the mug toward Roran, inviting him to take a closer look. “Well, I ain’t from here, lad. Just tryin’ to get back on me feet, so I took a job as a blacksmith. Now, what’ll it be?” He gestured behind him, revealing an array of weapons and armor hanging from the shed’s wooden walls. Roran’s eyes scanned the selection, his gaze lingering on a silver battle axe. It was long, stocky, and gleamed with a craftsmanship that seemed to call his name.

  Without hesitation, Roran reached into his pouch and retrieved four Lumen crystals. The blue shards shimmered as he placed them on the counter, their light reflecting in the dwarf’s curious eyes. “All I’ve got. That battle axe available?”

  The dwarf chuckled, shaking his head as he walked over to the wall and grabbed the axe. He set it down on the counter before inspecting it with a critical eye. “Hmm… Nope. Need a full Mark for this.” With that, he returned the axe to its place among the other weapons.

  Roran snorted, folding his arms. He had wielded finer axes in the past and couldn’t justify the dwarf’s steep price. “What can I get with what I’ve got?”

  The dwarf sighed, stepping onto a stool to better reach the weapons. After a moment of deliberation, he retrieved a small silver knife and placed it on the counter. Roran picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It wasn’t much, but it was sharper than the dull blade on his belt. With a resigned nod, he thanked the dwarf and exited the shed, clutching his new weapon. His next stop awaited: the cave to the east, where Vander had sent him.

  The forest was dense, its canopy blotting out the fading sunlight. Roran swiped away vines and spat out leaves that clung stubbornly to his lips as he pushed through the underbrush. The air was thick with the scent of moss and earth. After what felt like an eternity, he spotted it: a dark void carved between two colossal rocks. The entrance to the cave loomed before him, ominous and unwelcoming.

  Drawing the knife from his belt, Roran lit a torch he had pilfered from the slave camp and ventured inside. The darkness swallowed him whole, his torch barely piercing the inky blackness. The cave smelled of damp stone and decay. Water dripped rhythmically, the sound echoing like a faint heartbeat. Occasionally, he glanced back, watching the light of day fade into obscurity.

  Time passed slowly as he navigated the twisting tunnels. Critters scurried across his boots, their tiny claws scraping against the stone. After what felt like an eternity, he reached a fork: two tunnels, one leading left and the other right. Both paths were equally dark and uninviting. With no clues to guide him, Roran turned right, trusting nothing but his instincts.

  The tunnel narrowed as he pressed forward, the walls closing in until he had to squeeze through. Finally, it opened into a larger chamber. A bedsheet lay crumpled on the ground, smeared with dirt and blood. The walls were marked with handprints and illegible scrawls. Near the sheet lay a bleached skull, its hollow sockets staring back at him. Roran nudged it with his boot, a chill running down his spine.

  The air grew heavy. The fine hairs on his neck stood on end as a sense of dread washed over him. He felt it before he saw it—a presence. Slender, bony fingers curled around his shoulder, their icy touch sending shivers through his body. A raspy, labored breath puffed against his neck, accompanied by a grotesque, wet sound. Roran’s mind raced. A slimy tongue grazed his skin, leaving a trail of viscous filth. The creature groaned, a haunting, guttural noise that seemed to rattle his very bones.

  Acting on instinct, Roran twisted his shoulder and drove his elbow into the creature’s chest. He dashed forward, but his escape was short-lived. The dome-like chamber was a dead end. He cursed under his breath, realizing he had no choice but to fight.

  The mutant lunged. Its elongated limbs curled as it landed before him, blocking his path. Its massive, gleaming eyes reflected the torchlight, unblinking and unnerving. A grotesque mouth stretched nearly to its neck, filled with jagged teeth. The stench of rot and filth emanated from its every breath.

  The creature’s clawed hand shot out, gripping Roran’s face and slamming his head against the stone wall. Stars exploded in his vision as he struggled to break free. With a desperate yell, he swung his knife, slicing into the creature’s arm. It shrieked, a sound so unnatural it made his ears ring.

  Seizing the moment, Roran tackled the mutant, pinning it beneath him. He grabbed at its chest, his fingers sinking into its bony frame. With a primal roar, he wrenched a rib from its body. The mutant howled, its strength unmatched as it snapped two of his fingers with a sickening crunch. Pain shot through Roran, but he refused to relent.

  As the mutant’s jaws lunged for his throat, Roran thrust the bone upward, driving it into one of the creature’s enormous eyes. Blood and viscous fluid sprayed across the chamber as the mutant thrashed violently. With a final, piercing scream, it collapsed, its limbs twitching as life fled from its grotesque form.

  Breathing heavily, Roran staggered to his feet. His broken fingers throbbed, and his vision blurred as exhaustion took hold. Blood—his and the mutant’s—coated his clothes and skin. He retrieved his torch and limped out of the cave, each step a struggle against the weight of his injuries.

  By the time he reached Sablewine, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the village in shadow. The guards at the gate recoiled at his appearance, their noses wrinkling as they shied away. Roran stumbled forward, his strength fading with each step. Near the entrance, Vander stood, deep in conversation with the guards. The dwarf’s arms were crossed, but his mouth hung open as he caught sight of Roran.

  With the last of his strength, Roran spat a glob of blood onto the ground and hurled the mutant’s severed head at Vander’s feet. The bone still jutted from its eye socket. His voice was weak but firm as he muttered, “Mutant’s dead.”

  His vision swam, the world tilting as he collapsed to the ground. Darkness claimed him, but not before he heard Vander’s voice, somewhere far away, barking orders.