The Journey, Book 2: Chapter 39 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 40: Smelly
Nekira had ridden his chestnut bay mare, Myrtle, for over a week. His old companions, Santaya and Kristolia, followed close behind, their steady presence a comfort on the long road. The bond with Amira still lingered faintly in his mind, though the distance had thinned it to the barest whisper. Still, he knew—if danger came—she would fly to him with all the swiftness she possessed.
The air grew foul as the putrid stench of the Delphinian Swamps drifted toward him. Cresting a hill, Nekira paused at the summit, gazing across the endless mire stretching for miles. He closed his eyes and cast out a tendril of his consciousness, seeking the trapped army he had come for. Nothing. Only silence answered.
“Stay close, girls,” he murmured to the wolves. They padded at Myrtle’s flanks as he guided her down the slope and into the swamps. The reek of damp, rot, and decay clawed at his senses, and even the wolves wrinkled their muzzles in distaste. Myrtle picked her path carefully, testing each patch of ground with instinctive caution.
For an instant, Nekira thought he saw a flicker of orange light at the edge of his vision. He turned sharply—but there was nothing. A falcon’s cry pierced the air as it wheeled overhead, then settled on a distant tree. With nothing else to guide him, Nekira urged Myrtle toward it.
Time slipped away as he followed the bird’s lead. At last, he came upon a pathway—trees lining the route carved deep with runes, their markings spaced as though to measure distance.
The falcon gave one last piercing screech before taking wing and vanishing into the grey sky. Nekira’s eyes followed its flight until a strange chittering noise pulled him back to the ground.
Just ahead, a dark, murky-coloured squirrel crouched on the path, its beady red eyes gleaming. It was easily twice the size of any common squirrel. Before Nekira could react, a sudden rush of wings swept down—a massive owl with a hoot like thunder seized the creature in its talons and carried it off. The wolves snarled, hackles raised, but remained at Nekira’s side, guarding both him and Myrtle.
They pressed on, the pathway stretching endlessly into the mire. Each step seemed to pull them deeper into a place that resisted time itself. Nekira drew a steadying breath, then called out in a strong, measured voice:
“Captain James Moore, my name is Nekira.”
The words seemed to vanish into the swamp. He repeated them again, this time in the ancient tongue:
“Kapitano James Moore, mia nomo estas Nekira.”
For a long, heavy moment, silence pressed down. Then, the swamp itself seemed to speak—an immense voice rolling like distant thunder:
“And what is it that you want, Nekira?”
Though hesitation gripped him, relief stirred as well—he was not alone here. Raising his chin, Nekira answered,
“To help, Captain Moore.”
Again he echoed the words in the old tongue:
“Por helpi, Kapitano Moore.”
At once, orange flames burst into being along the pathway, flickering to life one by one. Nekira urged Myrtle forward at a cautious trot, the wolves padding in rhythm at his side. The road twisted sharply, cutting left, and he followed without question.
Soon, a vast wooden arch rose before him, woven from living roots and branches, marking the entrance to a hidden camp. Standing beneath it was a tall, stocky man—his face lined with age but clean-shaven, his hair drawn into a ponytail that fell neatly over his shoulder.
A sudden, guttural snort split the air to the left. Nekira’s head snapped toward the sound. There, half-shrouded in mist, stood a monstrous boar—so massive it might have been mistaken for an Ingmar, had Nekira not known better.
Nekira patted Myrtle’s neck, murmuring for her to hold steady. Sliding his bow from its place, he notched an arrow and drew the string back until it brushed his lip, his breath measured and still. His gaze locked on the boar—and the beast’s blood-red eyes fixed on him in turn.
Behind the creature, Captain Moore moved with deliberate care, his steps quiet and predatory. The boar huffed, snorting clouds of damp air from its nostrils, the sound deep and rumbling like a drumbeat in the swamp.
Then, with a roar that shook the reeds, it charged.
Nekira loosed his arrow. The bowstring gave a sharp, almost whispering twang, and the shaft flew true—burying itself through the beast’s eye, straight into its skull. The boar’s massive forelegs buckled, but before it collapsed, Captain Moore broke into a run. With startling speed for a man of his build, he leapt high, bringing his sword down in a brutal arc. The blade plunged deep, splitting through bone and brain alike.
The boar gave a final shudder and fell still. Moore wrenched his blade free, the steel gleaming wet in the dim light.
“Never trust the animals of these swamps,” he said grimly, flicking the gore from his sword. “It’s as if some of them are granted a second life.”
Nekira swung down from Myrtle’s saddle and inclined his head.
“Thank you for the assist, Captain Moore.”
He offered a small bow. The Captain gave a short nod, then turned sharply toward his men.
“No hunting tonight!” Moore bellowed. “Our guest has gifted us a boar to feast on!”
A thunderous cheer rose up from the camp. Several soldiers rushed forward, heaving the monstrous carcass away with grunts of effort, already laughing and jostling one another as they dragged it within the palisade. The promise of meat and fire brought a sudden lightness to their weary faces.
Nekira fell into step behind the Captain, his eyes roving over the settlement. Rough-hewn tents sprawled in uneven rows, their canvas stained from long exposure to swamp damp. Crude barracks, built from felled logs and swamp wood, stood sturdily enough, though their walls bore the marks of constant repair. Smoke from cook fires coiled lazily into the evening sky, carrying with it the faint tang of spice and char.
Then, from the corner of his vision, Nekira caught it, an aura unlike any other. Cream-coloured, soft yet steady, it clung to a lone figure who lingered apart from the others, keeping his distance as though reluctant to step into the light of the celebration.
“Who are you?” Moore asked, gesturing toward a seat by the crackling fire.
“My name is Nekira—once called Nekonata. I am a Rider, Ingmar Slayer, and Wolf-Friend.”
Santaya and Kristolia padded forward and settled at his sides, laying their great heads across his lap.
From the edge of the firelight, the man with the cream aura spoke, his voice shaky.
“Nekonata… it means Unknown in the ancient tongue… doesn’t it?”
Nekira gave a slow nod.
Before he could answer further, Moore’s voice cut through.
“What do you need, David?”
The cream-aura man hesitated, shrinking back under the Captain’s stare.
“The prophecy…” he stammered. “It speaks of a man unknown… with a purple aura—”
“Now’s not the time for prophecies,” Moore snapped, his tone sharp as a drawn blade. “If that’s all, move along.”
But David did not move. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. Anger bled across his features, his face twisting into a mask of disgust. Nekira felt the shift, so did the wolves. They rose in unison, snarling, lips peeled back to bare their fangs.
Nekira’s eyes flashed, a sudden blaze of purple and orange. In an instant, the world changed. Auras blazed into sight around him, a living tapestry of light, pulsing nerves of colour that throbbed with emotion: anxiety, curiosity, wonder. All the camp stared back at him like a sea of glowing souls.
All but one.
David’s aura, cream at first, carried another hue hidden within it—grey, shifting, shadowed.
Nekira drew in a sharp breath and stepped forward.
David lashed out, swinging a wild punch. Nekira slipped aside, his own hand darting out to seize the man’s throat. With a single fluid motion, he lifted him clean off the ground and slammed him back down, the impact shaking the earth beneath them.
The blow shattered David’s mental barrier. His mind opened like a floodgate—images, memories, whole lifetimes flashing through Nekira’s vision in a torrent. Faces, places, choices… all blurring into one.
And then one image burned brighter than all the rest.
Rubian Blackthorn, the King’s right hand, standing at David’s side.
Nekira’s eyes dimmed, the glow fading until they returned to their natural hue. He knelt beside the unconscious David, his hand still hovering near the man’s throat. Slowly, he straightened, rising to his full height.
“I saw a vision,” Nekira said evenly. “He was standing beside the King’s right hand, Rubian Blackthorn.”
Captain Moore’s expression darkened. With a roar, he ripped his sword free of its sheath.
“Fucking traitor!”
But before the blade could fall, Nekira stepped into his path, his stance calm but unyielding. He shook his head.
“Not yet, Captain. He must be questioned. He may know how to break the trapping spell.”
Moore’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his fury simmering in the firelight. Then, at last, he gave a short, curt nod. Snapping his fingers, he barked an order.
“Tie him to the tree!”
The soldiers dragged David to the edge of the clearing, lashed him tight against the swamp oak, and left him slumped in silence. Moore slid his sword back into its sheath with a grunt, though his eyes never left the unconscious man.
The great boar had already been skinned and butchered, its meat roasting on iron spits over a roaring fire. The smell of fat dripping into the flames carried through the camp, rich and heavy, banishing for a time the swamp’s usual reek of rot.
Soon, laughter and music broke out among the soldiers. They ate with ravenous hunger, tearing at the tender meat, trading boasts and songs. Yet beneath the cheer, unease lingered—their eyes flicking now and again to the tree at the clearing’s edge, where David hung like a shadow.
Nekira sat beside the fire, Santaya and Kristolia curled protectively at his feet. He chewed slowly, more thoughtful than hungry, his mind still replaying the flash of Rubian Blackthorn. Moore, for all his bluster, had grown quieter as the night wore on, nursing a cup of dark liquor, his gaze fixed on the flames as though he could wrestle answers from them.
And David remained motionless, his cream-grey aura flickering faintly against the dark.
The camp feasted, but suspense clung to the air like smoke. Tomorrow, when the man woke, the truth would have to be torn from him.
David writhed against the tree, sweat streaming down his face, his eyes bloodshot and rolling white in the torchlight. His screams tore the camp from its slumber—soldiers gathered in a half-circle, muttering, unsettled.
Nekira stepped forward, his gaze steady, his wolves bristling at his side. He crouched before David, tilting his head slightly as though studying prey.
“You’ve kept too many secrets,” Nekira whispered. His voice was calm, measured, but his eyes began to glow—purple and orange fire flaring in the dark. “It’s time to share them.”
David’s breath hitched. He tried to spit a curse, but his words tangled into a sob.
Nekira struck.
He forced a tendril of his consciousness past the cracks in David’s defences, splitting them wider, clawing into the man’s mind. Images burst into being—memories twisted into cruel shapes by Nekira’s will.
A woman’s face appeared first: pale, thin, lips cracked from fever. David’s wife, her body wasting from consumption. She reached toward him with trembling fingers, whispering his name before coughing blood.
David screamed. “No—no, not again!”
Then a child’s laughter. His daughter, hair tied back with a simple ribbon, running barefoot through tall grass. The sound warped, fractured, her small form collapsing as if struck by invisible hands. Her eyes went glassy, her lips blue.
David’s whole body convulsed, tears streaming down his face.
“Stop this!” he gasped. “You’ve no right—”
Nekira pressed harder, his tone cutting like steel.
“You want them back? Then speak. Tell me of the wards. Tell me how the trap can be broken.”
Another vision flared—this one crueller. The new woman, the one who had eased David’s grief. She appeared radiant at first, smiling at him with warmth. But her smile faltered, her skin peeling like ash, until she crumbled to dust before his eyes.
David howled, straining against his bonds, his mind tearing beneath the assault. The wolves snarled in chorus, their fangs bared, as if feeding off the violence in the air.
Nekira’s eyes blazed brighter.
“Speak, David. The wards. Their source. Their weakness. Or I will unmake every memory you’ve ever loved until nothing remains.”
David’s resistance buckled. His aura flared and fractured, cream and grey shredding into ragged streaks. With a broken sob, words spilled from his lips—truths he had guarded in silence now ripped free.
“The wards… they’re not in the swamp,” David choked, eyes wild. “They’re bound to us—to the fallen! The dog tags, the crests on our armour… every emblem taken when a soldier died—it’s through them we’re chained here! As long as those tokens remain, we can never leave…”
The revelation burst from him like a confession torn from the soul. He sagged against his bindings, shaking violently, his eyes wide and wet with despair.
Nekira let the images fade, withdrawing his grip on the man’s mind. Slowly, the glow drained from his eyes.
The camp was silent but for David’s ragged breaths. Soldiers looked on in awe and fear, whispering among themselves, uncertain which man frightened them more—the traitor tied to the tree, or the Rider who had broken him.
Nekira stood, placing a hand lightly on David’s trembling shoulder.
“I’m… sorry, for your wife and daughter,” he said quietly. “But tell me—how did you end up meeting Rubian?”
David shuddered, fresh tears carving lines down his dirt-streaked face. His voice was raw, broken.
“The grey-eyed man… he sought me out. Promised… promised he could bring them back. My wife and daughter… he said if I did what he asked, they would live again. So… I did it.”
He choked back a sob, struggling for words. “A letter was sent to the Captain, stamped with the King’s wax seal, with instructions on where to go. And when we arrived… I was told to smash two orbs together. That… that’s how they trapped the army here. Forever.”
David’s hands shook violently as he relived it, the weight of his betrayal pressing down like a physical force.
“Rubian lied to you,” Nekira said quietly, his hand still resting on David’s shoulder. “He could never bring your family back. You betrayed your Captain, your comrades, and your king. What happens now… is out of my hands.”
David’s eyes flicked toward Captain Moore. Nekira gave a small, solemn nod.
Moore exhaled heavily and stepped forward, placing a firm hand on David’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, scribe-healer, but military law is military law. I’ll make it quick.”
David swallowed, nodded, and drew a deep, shuddering breath. His gaze met Moore’s one last time.
With a swift, motion, Moore cupped David’s head and snapped his neck. The man went limp instantly, death quick and merciful.
The Captain’s voice rang out, steady and clear across the camp:
“Scribe-Healer David saved our lives more than we ever acknowledged. He was deceived into betraying us. While his crimes cannot be forgiven, neither will we forget his service. He will receive a proper military burial.”
A few soldiers stepped forward, carefully untying David’s lifeless body from the tree and laying him gently on the ground. Others began to dig a grave, the scrape of shovels mixing with the crackle of dying embers from the campfire. Silence hung over the camp like a heavy shroud, the weight of the night pressing on every soldier present.
The grave had been dug at the edge of the clearing, the earth heaped in rough mounds beside it. The soldiers carried David’s limp body carefully, lowering him into the shallow pit with reverence. The flickering firelight danced over the pale, still face of the scribe-healer as if acknowledging the life he had given and the price he had paid.
Once he was settled, a few soldiers poured a steady stream of oil over his body, saturating the fabric of his uniform and the flesh beneath. The smell of the pungent liquid mingled with the damp swamp air. With a solemn nod from Captain Moore, a torch was thrust into the pyre. Flames roared to life, licking hungrily at the oil and fabric, sending sparks and smoke spiralling into the night sky.
The soldiers stood in silence, heads bowed, as the fire consumed him. The heat warmed their faces, but none moved to step closer. When the flames had devoured the body completely, the men took up their shovels and began to push soil over the ashes. Each handful of earth fell with a muted thud, sealing the grave and completing the burial.
When the final mound of earth covered the remains, Moore raised a drinking horn high. The others followed suit, holding their breath as one, the glow of the fire casting flickering shadows across their faces.
“To David,” they said simply, voices low but clear.
Nekira stepped forward, his expression grim but resolved. He held out his hand, and the soldiers brought forth every dog tag, every emblem taken from the dead soldiers—the tokens that bound the army to the trap. He laid them carefully in front of him, arranging them like a map of the chains that needed breaking. His eyes swept over the collection, the glow of the remaining embers reflecting in their metal surfaces.
Before him lay 53 dog tags and 53 emblems, carefully arranged on the ground like grim pieces of a puzzle. Nekira’s gaze swept across the two thousand soldiers standing in precise formation, the Captain at their head, their eyes wary but expectant.
“To be safe—and certain—I’m going to need everyone’s dog tags and emblems,” Nekira said, his voice carrying over the silent camp.
The Captain’s brow furrowed in shock for a moment, then he nodded. Slowly, he pulled his own dog tags from his neck and, with a small knife, carefully cut the stitches holding the emblem from his tunic. One by one, the soldiers followed suit, hands trembling as they laid their tokens at Nekira’s feet.
Nekira exhaled deeply. “Now, to figure out how to destroy them…and the curse holding you all.”
Holding the Captain’s dog tags and emblem in his hand, he recited incantations in the ancient language, calling on fire, thunder, and every spell he knew. The air crackled, the tokens glimmered faintly, but nothing happened. The curse remained unbroken.
Frustrated, he rose and walked to the edge of the camp, gazing out into the darkness of the swamp beyond.
The Captain joined him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“You need to rest, Nekira. One more day trapped won’t harm us.”
Nekira smiled faintly, a hint of weariness in his eyes.
“I’ve tried everything I can think of…”
The Captain sighed, handing him a drinking horn.
“What about the Elvish magic? Is that different from a Rider’s magic?”
Nekira glanced at him, the embers of thought flickering in his eyes.
“All magic stems from the ancient language,” he said slowly. “The Elves… in a sense, they were the creators of it. Dragon magic, on the other hand, is very different—unexplainable, unpredictable. And…” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Elvish blood runs through me. That may change how I can approach this.”
The Captain nodded, studying him silently, the weight of the moment pressing on them both.
Nekira watched an owl glide silently overhead as he lifted the drinking horn to his lips, the cool liquid steadying his thoughts. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he turned to the Captain.
“I might know someone who could help,” he said quietly, “but it may take a little while before she arrives.”
The Captain arched an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Who do you think can help? Where is she coming from?”
Santaya and Kristolia wagged their tails, sensing Nekira’s subtle excitement.
“She’s coming from Caa Alora,” Nekira replied, his voice calm, almost thoughtful, revealing nothing more.
He turned away, walking back to the fire. The warmth licked at his face and hands as he settled onto a log, the soft crackle of embers filling the silence. Reaching for a plate of roasted boar meat, he ate slowly, savouring the flavour and sharing pieces with the wolves, who leaned against him with quiet loyalty.
The camp around them remained alert but subdued, the glow of the fire casting long shadows across the soldiers’ faces. Even in this moment of respite, anticipation lingered—everyone knew something was coming, even if they didn’t yet understand what.
The Captain settled onto the log beside him, watching quietly as Nekira handed scraps of boar meat to the wolves. Santaya and Kristolia accepted them eagerly, tails wagging, their eyes flicking toward their master for each gesture.
After a few moments of silence, Moore finally asked the question that had hung between them for days, unavoidable and heavy.
“What’s the news on the outside?”
Nekira glanced at him briefly, then returned his attention to the wolves, breaking the meat into smaller pieces.
“Thomaz is now king,” he said slowly. “Rubian is his right hand. Through Thomaz’s orders, Rubian killed Zeindaryss. Braiden… he died moments later. Thomaz is unhinged and merciless, while Rubian is calculated and equally ruthless. They’ve pillaged and ransacked villages.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. The Captain’s eyes widened.
“And… Matthious the Corrupter?” Moore asked quietly.
“Still lingering somewhere,” Nekira said. “No one knows what he’s after. And there are two new Riders now… me being one of them.”
Moore gasped, his hand tightening around his cup. “A lot has changed… is the outside even recognisable anymore?”
Nekira shrugged softly, tossing one last scrap to Kristolia. “Only time will tell, Captain Jason Moore.”
The fire crackled between them, the shadows of the camp stretching long and uncertain into the swamp. Even in that quiet, a sense of looming change pressed down on both men, heavier than the night air itself.
'Little one, I’m close by!' Amira’s voice echoed in Nekira’s mind, her emotions rushing through him like a storm.
Nekira straightened, eyes blazing. “Captain, have all your soldiers head into their barracks. No swords. No bows or arrows drawn. If anything happens, it won’t just be my wrath that’s felt—do you understand?”
The Captain hesitated for only a moment before the weight of Nekira’s stare and the intensity of his voice sank in. “Disperse! Everyone to your barracks! Now!”
The soldiers moved slowly, confused, murmuring among themselves. Then, without warning, the entire camp darkened. The ground shimmered in dapples of orange and purple as Amira circled high above, her massive wings blotting out the moonlight. She descended slowly, deliberately, a shadow of power stretching across the tents.
One soldier, still unsure, began to draw his bow.
“DO NOT DRAW YOUR WEAPONS, SOLDIER!” the Captain roared, his voice cracking across the clearing.
Amira landed in the centre of the camp with a soft, reverberating thud. The sheer force of her massive frame sent tremors through the ground. The soldier with the bow dropped to the dirt in shock, his hands trembling as he stared at her immense, awe-inspiring presence.
Silence fell, thick and trembling, broken only by the soft rustle of Amira’s wings settling and the crackle of distant firelight.
Nekira stepped forward, heart pounding, as Amira lowered her massive head. Their eyes met, and in that instant, every mile of separation, every day of longing, vanished. He reached out, and she nudged him gently with her snout, letting out a soft, reverent rumble that reverberated through his chest.
Once the reunion had settled, Nekira led her to the edge of the camp where the dog tags and emblems had been gathered. He gestured for the soldiers to give them space. Amira’s eyes gleamed with curiosity as she turned her colossal head, but a flick of her tail lashed out—knocking David’s old tent, sending them crashing to the ground in clouds of canvas and dust.
Carefully, Amira lowered her snout to sniff at the tokens. Nekira explained, “I’ve tried everything I can think of. The only options left are dragon magic… or dragon fire.”
She stretched, ruffling her iridescent scales, each movement radiating power. ‘Stand back, little one,’ she rumbled.
Nekira nodded and stepped back several paces. Raising his arms, he signalled the soldiers to move as well. Silence fell, heavy and expectant.
Amira inhaled deeply, her chest swelling with controlled force. Then she exhaled, opening her maw just slightly. A thin, controlled stream of orange-purple fire licked toward the dog tags and emblems.
The dog tags burned a bright, searing white, while the emblems shrivelled and melted, fusing into the tags. The heat combined, glowing and simmering until the items slowly transformed into a strange, textured ash.
A distant popping echoed across the camp. From several points along the edges, fissures cracked open, sending small skulls surfacing from the earth—only to split cleanly in half. The oppressive swamp fog that had blanketed the camp for so long began to dissipate, rolling back like a tide.
Amira lowered her snout, sniffing the ashes carefully, then lifting her head to the clearing air. ‘I can’t smell any more dark magic, little one.’
Nekira stroked her side gently. “No. Neither can I. Captain, the only way to be certain now,” he said, turning to Moore, “is if someone crosses the boundary you’ve marked.”
The Captain stepped forward, surveying the cleared, quiet camp. The soldiers shifted uneasily behind him, the tension of two decades spent trapped slowly giving way to hope, and the faintest flicker of wonder at the dragon that now stood as their savior.
Captain Jason Moore squared his shoulders, determination etched across his weathered face. He turned to his second, who opened his mouth to argue.
“It should be me, Captain! The soldiers still need your leadership—”
Moore’s gaze was firm, unwavering. “The decision is mine. I will be the one. That is final.”
With that, he began his slow, deliberate walk toward the edge of the camp. Every step was measured, and he didn’t glance back once. Nekira knelt beside Santaya, whispering softly.
“Follow him,” he said. “Drag him back over the threshold if anything happens.”
The great wolf let out a low, eager growl and fell into line beside the Captain. Together, they walked down the path, the swamp air thick with tension, the camp holding its collective breath. Each soldier imagined the horrors that might be waiting just beyond the boundary, a shadow of fear and hope mixing in their hearts.
Minutes stretched on, every footstep echoing in the quiet night. Then, suddenly, Santaya reappeared, several paces ahead of the Captain, carrying a large deer on her shoulders. A normal deer, the likes of which no soldier had seen in nearly twenty years.
Moore’s lips parted in disbelief, then curved into a wide, relieved smile. The weight that had pressed on his shoulders for years seemed to lift all at once.
He raised his voice, low at first, letting it carry across the camp.
“Boys… WE ARE FREE!!”
The tension shattered. Soldiers erupted into cheering, their fear dissolving into overwhelming joy. The roar of Amira thundered above them, a powerful, resonant sound that silenced the camp for a heartbeat, then fuelled the cheer into an even louder, deafening celebration.
Hope, long suppressed, surged through the army, every man feeling the freedom of the swamp for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
Chapter 40: Smelly
Nekira had ridden his chestnut bay mare, Myrtle, for over a week. His old companions, Santaya and Kristolia, followed close behind, their steady presence a comfort on the long road. The bond with Amira still lingered faintly in his mind, though the distance had thinned it to the barest whisper. Still, he knew—if danger came—she would fly to him with all the swiftness she possessed.
The air grew foul as the putrid stench of the Delphinian Swamps drifted toward him. Cresting a hill, Nekira paused at the summit, gazing across the endless mire stretching for miles. He closed his eyes and cast out a tendril of his consciousness, seeking the trapped army he had come for. Nothing. Only silence answered.
“Stay close, girls,” he murmured to the wolves. They padded at Myrtle’s flanks as he guided her down the slope and into the swamps. The reek of damp, rot, and decay clawed at his senses, and even the wolves wrinkled their muzzles in distaste. Myrtle picked her path carefully, testing each patch of ground with instinctive caution.
For an instant, Nekira thought he saw a flicker of orange light at the edge of his vision. He turned sharply—but there was nothing. A falcon’s cry pierced the air as it wheeled overhead, then settled on a distant tree. With nothing else to guide him, Nekira urged Myrtle toward it.
Time slipped away as he followed the bird’s lead. At last, he came upon a pathway—trees lining the route carved deep with runes, their markings spaced as though to measure distance.
The falcon gave one last piercing screech before taking wing and vanishing into the grey sky. Nekira’s eyes followed its flight until a strange chittering noise pulled him back to the ground.
Just ahead, a dark, murky-coloured squirrel crouched on the path, its beady red eyes gleaming. It was easily twice the size of any common squirrel. Before Nekira could react, a sudden rush of wings swept down—a massive owl with a hoot like thunder seized the creature in its talons and carried it off. The wolves snarled, hackles raised, but remained at Nekira’s side, guarding both him and Myrtle.
They pressed on, the pathway stretching endlessly into the mire. Each step seemed to pull them deeper into a place that resisted time itself. Nekira drew a steadying breath, then called out in a strong, measured voice:
“Captain James Moore, my name is Nekira.”
The words seemed to vanish into the swamp. He repeated them again, this time in the ancient tongue:
“Kapitano James Moore, mia nomo estas Nekira.”
For a long, heavy moment, silence pressed down. Then, the swamp itself seemed to speak—an immense voice rolling like distant thunder:
“And what is it that you want, Nekira?”
Though hesitation gripped him, relief stirred as well—he was not alone here. Raising his chin, Nekira answered,
“To help, Captain Moore.”
Again he echoed the words in the old tongue:
“Por helpi, Kapitano Moore.”
At once, orange flames burst into being along the pathway, flickering to life one by one. Nekira urged Myrtle forward at a cautious trot, the wolves padding in rhythm at his side. The road twisted sharply, cutting left, and he followed without question.
Soon, a vast wooden arch rose before him, woven from living roots and branches, marking the entrance to a hidden camp. Standing beneath it was a tall, stocky man—his face lined with age but clean-shaven, his hair drawn into a ponytail that fell neatly over his shoulder.
A sudden, guttural snort split the air to the left. Nekira’s head snapped toward the sound. There, half-shrouded in mist, stood a monstrous boar—so massive it might have been mistaken for an Ingmar, had Nekira not known better.
Nekira patted Myrtle’s neck, murmuring for her to hold steady. Sliding his bow from its place, he notched an arrow and drew the string back until it brushed his lip, his breath measured and still. His gaze locked on the boar—and the beast’s blood-red eyes fixed on him in turn.
Behind the creature, Captain Moore moved with deliberate care, his steps quiet and predatory. The boar huffed, snorting clouds of damp air from its nostrils, the sound deep and rumbling like a drumbeat in the swamp.
Then, with a roar that shook the reeds, it charged.
Nekira loosed his arrow. The bowstring gave a sharp, almost whispering twang, and the shaft flew true—burying itself through the beast’s eye, straight into its skull. The boar’s massive forelegs buckled, but before it collapsed, Captain Moore broke into a run. With startling speed for a man of his build, he leapt high, bringing his sword down in a brutal arc. The blade plunged deep, splitting through bone and brain alike.
The boar gave a final shudder and fell still. Moore wrenched his blade free, the steel gleaming wet in the dim light.
“Never trust the animals of these swamps,” he said grimly, flicking the gore from his sword. “It’s as if some of them are granted a second life.”
Nekira swung down from Myrtle’s saddle and inclined his head.
“Thank you for the assist, Captain Moore.”
He offered a small bow. The Captain gave a short nod, then turned sharply toward his men.
“No hunting tonight!” Moore bellowed. “Our guest has gifted us a boar to feast on!”
A thunderous cheer rose up from the camp. Several soldiers rushed forward, heaving the monstrous carcass away with grunts of effort, already laughing and jostling one another as they dragged it within the palisade. The promise of meat and fire brought a sudden lightness to their weary faces.
Nekira fell into step behind the Captain, his eyes roving over the settlement. Rough-hewn tents sprawled in uneven rows, their canvas stained from long exposure to swamp damp. Crude barracks, built from felled logs and swamp wood, stood sturdily enough, though their walls bore the marks of constant repair. Smoke from cook fires coiled lazily into the evening sky, carrying with it the faint tang of spice and char.
Then, from the corner of his vision, Nekira caught it, an aura unlike any other. Cream-coloured, soft yet steady, it clung to a lone figure who lingered apart from the others, keeping his distance as though reluctant to step into the light of the celebration.
“Who are you?” Moore asked, gesturing toward a seat by the crackling fire.
“My name is Nekira—once called Nekonata. I am a Rider, Ingmar Slayer, and Wolf-Friend.”
Santaya and Kristolia padded forward and settled at his sides, laying their great heads across his lap.
From the edge of the firelight, the man with the cream aura spoke, his voice shaky.
“Nekonata… it means Unknown in the ancient tongue… doesn’t it?”
Nekira gave a slow nod.
Before he could answer further, Moore’s voice cut through.
“What do you need, David?”
The cream-aura man hesitated, shrinking back under the Captain’s stare.
“The prophecy…” he stammered. “It speaks of a man unknown… with a purple aura—”
“Now’s not the time for prophecies,” Moore snapped, his tone sharp as a drawn blade. “If that’s all, move along.”
But David did not move. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. Anger bled across his features, his face twisting into a mask of disgust. Nekira felt the shift, so did the wolves. They rose in unison, snarling, lips peeled back to bare their fangs.
Nekira’s eyes flashed, a sudden blaze of purple and orange. In an instant, the world changed. Auras blazed into sight around him, a living tapestry of light, pulsing nerves of colour that throbbed with emotion: anxiety, curiosity, wonder. All the camp stared back at him like a sea of glowing souls.
All but one.
David’s aura, cream at first, carried another hue hidden within it—grey, shifting, shadowed.
Nekira drew in a sharp breath and stepped forward.
David lashed out, swinging a wild punch. Nekira slipped aside, his own hand darting out to seize the man’s throat. With a single fluid motion, he lifted him clean off the ground and slammed him back down, the impact shaking the earth beneath them.
The blow shattered David’s mental barrier. His mind opened like a floodgate—images, memories, whole lifetimes flashing through Nekira’s vision in a torrent. Faces, places, choices… all blurring into one.
And then one image burned brighter than all the rest.
Rubian Blackthorn, the King’s right hand, standing at David’s side.
Nekira’s eyes dimmed, the glow fading until they returned to their natural hue. He knelt beside the unconscious David, his hand still hovering near the man’s throat. Slowly, he straightened, rising to his full height.
“I saw a vision,” Nekira said evenly. “He was standing beside the King’s right hand, Rubian Blackthorn.”
Captain Moore’s expression darkened. With a roar, he ripped his sword free of its sheath.
“Fucking traitor!”
But before the blade could fall, Nekira stepped into his path, his stance calm but unyielding. He shook his head.
“Not yet, Captain. He must be questioned. He may know how to break the trapping spell.”
Moore’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his fury simmering in the firelight. Then, at last, he gave a short, curt nod. Snapping his fingers, he barked an order.
“Tie him to the tree!”
The soldiers dragged David to the edge of the clearing, lashed him tight against the swamp oak, and left him slumped in silence. Moore slid his sword back into its sheath with a grunt, though his eyes never left the unconscious man.
The great boar had already been skinned and butchered, its meat roasting on iron spits over a roaring fire. The smell of fat dripping into the flames carried through the camp, rich and heavy, banishing for a time the swamp’s usual reek of rot.
Soon, laughter and music broke out among the soldiers. They ate with ravenous hunger, tearing at the tender meat, trading boasts and songs. Yet beneath the cheer, unease lingered—their eyes flicking now and again to the tree at the clearing’s edge, where David hung like a shadow.
Nekira sat beside the fire, Santaya and Kristolia curled protectively at his feet. He chewed slowly, more thoughtful than hungry, his mind still replaying the flash of Rubian Blackthorn. Moore, for all his bluster, had grown quieter as the night wore on, nursing a cup of dark liquor, his gaze fixed on the flames as though he could wrestle answers from them.
And David remained motionless, his cream-grey aura flickering faintly against the dark.
The camp feasted, but suspense clung to the air like smoke. Tomorrow, when the man woke, the truth would have to be torn from him.
David writhed against the tree, sweat streaming down his face, his eyes bloodshot and rolling white in the torchlight. His screams tore the camp from its slumber—soldiers gathered in a half-circle, muttering, unsettled.
Nekira stepped forward, his gaze steady, his wolves bristling at his side. He crouched before David, tilting his head slightly as though studying prey.
“You’ve kept too many secrets,” Nekira whispered. His voice was calm, measured, but his eyes began to glow—purple and orange fire flaring in the dark. “It’s time to share them.”
David’s breath hitched. He tried to spit a curse, but his words tangled into a sob.
Nekira struck.
He forced a tendril of his consciousness past the cracks in David’s defences, splitting them wider, clawing into the man’s mind. Images burst into being—memories twisted into cruel shapes by Nekira’s will.
A woman’s face appeared first: pale, thin, lips cracked from fever. David’s wife, her body wasting from consumption. She reached toward him with trembling fingers, whispering his name before coughing blood.
David screamed. “No—no, not again!”
Then a child’s laughter. His daughter, hair tied back with a simple ribbon, running barefoot through tall grass. The sound warped, fractured, her small form collapsing as if struck by invisible hands. Her eyes went glassy, her lips blue.
David’s whole body convulsed, tears streaming down his face.
“Stop this!” he gasped. “You’ve no right—”
Nekira pressed harder, his tone cutting like steel.
“You want them back? Then speak. Tell me of the wards. Tell me how the trap can be broken.”
Another vision flared—this one crueller. The new woman, the one who had eased David’s grief. She appeared radiant at first, smiling at him with warmth. But her smile faltered, her skin peeling like ash, until she crumbled to dust before his eyes.
David howled, straining against his bonds, his mind tearing beneath the assault. The wolves snarled in chorus, their fangs bared, as if feeding off the violence in the air.
Nekira’s eyes blazed brighter.
“Speak, David. The wards. Their source. Their weakness. Or I will unmake every memory you’ve ever loved until nothing remains.”
David’s resistance buckled. His aura flared and fractured, cream and grey shredding into ragged streaks. With a broken sob, words spilled from his lips—truths he had guarded in silence now ripped free.
“The wards… they’re not in the swamp,” David choked, eyes wild. “They’re bound to us—to the fallen! The dog tags, the crests on our armour… every emblem taken when a soldier died—it’s through them we’re chained here! As long as those tokens remain, we can never leave…”
The revelation burst from him like a confession torn from the soul. He sagged against his bindings, shaking violently, his eyes wide and wet with despair.
Nekira let the images fade, withdrawing his grip on the man’s mind. Slowly, the glow drained from his eyes.
The camp was silent but for David’s ragged breaths. Soldiers looked on in awe and fear, whispering among themselves, uncertain which man frightened them more—the traitor tied to the tree, or the Rider who had broken him.
Nekira stood, placing a hand lightly on David’s trembling shoulder.
“I’m… sorry, for your wife and daughter,” he said quietly. “But tell me—how did you end up meeting Rubian?”
David shuddered, fresh tears carving lines down his dirt-streaked face. His voice was raw, broken.
“The grey-eyed man… he sought me out. Promised… promised he could bring them back. My wife and daughter… he said if I did what he asked, they would live again. So… I did it.”
He choked back a sob, struggling for words. “A letter was sent to the Captain, stamped with the King’s wax seal, with instructions on where to go. And when we arrived… I was told to smash two orbs together. That… that’s how they trapped the army here. Forever.”
David’s hands shook violently as he relived it, the weight of his betrayal pressing down like a physical force.
“Rubian lied to you,” Nekira said quietly, his hand still resting on David’s shoulder. “He could never bring your family back. You betrayed your Captain, your comrades, and your king. What happens now… is out of my hands.”
David’s eyes flicked toward Captain Moore. Nekira gave a small, solemn nod.
Moore exhaled heavily and stepped forward, placing a firm hand on David’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, scribe-healer, but military law is military law. I’ll make it quick.”
David swallowed, nodded, and drew a deep, shuddering breath. His gaze met Moore’s one last time.
With a swift, motion, Moore cupped David’s head and snapped his neck. The man went limp instantly, death quick and merciful.
The Captain’s voice rang out, steady and clear across the camp:
“Scribe-Healer David saved our lives more than we ever acknowledged. He was deceived into betraying us. While his crimes cannot be forgiven, neither will we forget his service. He will receive a proper military burial.”
A few soldiers stepped forward, carefully untying David’s lifeless body from the tree and laying him gently on the ground. Others began to dig a grave, the scrape of shovels mixing with the crackle of dying embers from the campfire. Silence hung over the camp like a heavy shroud, the weight of the night pressing on every soldier present.
The grave had been dug at the edge of the clearing, the earth heaped in rough mounds beside it. The soldiers carried David’s limp body carefully, lowering him into the shallow pit with reverence. The flickering firelight danced over the pale, still face of the scribe-healer as if acknowledging the life he had given and the price he had paid.
Once he was settled, a few soldiers poured a steady stream of oil over his body, saturating the fabric of his uniform and the flesh beneath. The smell of the pungent liquid mingled with the damp swamp air. With a solemn nod from Captain Moore, a torch was thrust into the pyre. Flames roared to life, licking hungrily at the oil and fabric, sending sparks and smoke spiralling into the night sky.
The soldiers stood in silence, heads bowed, as the fire consumed him. The heat warmed their faces, but none moved to step closer. When the flames had devoured the body completely, the men took up their shovels and began to push soil over the ashes. Each handful of earth fell with a muted thud, sealing the grave and completing the burial.
When the final mound of earth covered the remains, Moore raised a drinking horn high. The others followed suit, holding their breath as one, the glow of the fire casting flickering shadows across their faces.
“To David,” they said simply, voices low but clear.
Nekira stepped forward, his expression grim but resolved. He held out his hand, and the soldiers brought forth every dog tag, every emblem taken from the dead soldiers—the tokens that bound the army to the trap. He laid them carefully in front of him, arranging them like a map of the chains that needed breaking. His eyes swept over the collection, the glow of the remaining embers reflecting in their metal surfaces.
Before him lay 53 dog tags and 53 emblems, carefully arranged on the ground like grim pieces of a puzzle. Nekira’s gaze swept across the two thousand soldiers standing in precise formation, the Captain at their head, their eyes wary but expectant.
“To be safe—and certain—I’m going to need everyone’s dog tags and emblems,” Nekira said, his voice carrying over the silent camp.
The Captain’s brow furrowed in shock for a moment, then he nodded. Slowly, he pulled his own dog tags from his neck and, with a small knife, carefully cut the stitches holding the emblem from his tunic. One by one, the soldiers followed suit, hands trembling as they laid their tokens at Nekira’s feet.
Nekira exhaled deeply. “Now, to figure out how to destroy them…and the curse holding you all.”
Holding the Captain’s dog tags and emblem in his hand, he recited incantations in the ancient language, calling on fire, thunder, and every spell he knew. The air crackled, the tokens glimmered faintly, but nothing happened. The curse remained unbroken.
Frustrated, he rose and walked to the edge of the camp, gazing out into the darkness of the swamp beyond.
The Captain joined him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“You need to rest, Nekira. One more day trapped won’t harm us.”
Nekira smiled faintly, a hint of weariness in his eyes.
“I’ve tried everything I can think of…”
The Captain sighed, handing him a drinking horn.
“What about the Elvish magic? Is that different from a Rider’s magic?”
Nekira glanced at him, the embers of thought flickering in his eyes.
“All magic stems from the ancient language,” he said slowly. “The Elves… in a sense, they were the creators of it. Dragon magic, on the other hand, is very different—unexplainable, unpredictable. And…” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Elvish blood runs through me. That may change how I can approach this.”
The Captain nodded, studying him silently, the weight of the moment pressing on them both.
Nekira watched an owl glide silently overhead as he lifted the drinking horn to his lips, the cool liquid steadying his thoughts. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he turned to the Captain.
“I might know someone who could help,” he said quietly, “but it may take a little while before she arrives.”
The Captain arched an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Who do you think can help? Where is she coming from?”
Santaya and Kristolia wagged their tails, sensing Nekira’s subtle excitement.
“She’s coming from Caa Alora,” Nekira replied, his voice calm, almost thoughtful, revealing nothing more.
He turned away, walking back to the fire. The warmth licked at his face and hands as he settled onto a log, the soft crackle of embers filling the silence. Reaching for a plate of roasted boar meat, he ate slowly, savouring the flavour and sharing pieces with the wolves, who leaned against him with quiet loyalty.
The camp around them remained alert but subdued, the glow of the fire casting long shadows across the soldiers’ faces. Even in this moment of respite, anticipation lingered—everyone knew something was coming, even if they didn’t yet understand what.
The Captain settled onto the log beside him, watching quietly as Nekira handed scraps of boar meat to the wolves. Santaya and Kristolia accepted them eagerly, tails wagging, their eyes flicking toward their master for each gesture.
After a few moments of silence, Moore finally asked the question that had hung between them for days, unavoidable and heavy.
“What’s the news on the outside?”
Nekira glanced at him briefly, then returned his attention to the wolves, breaking the meat into smaller pieces.
“Thomaz is now king,” he said slowly. “Rubian is his right hand. Through Thomaz’s orders, Rubian killed Zeindaryss. Braiden… he died moments later. Thomaz is unhinged and merciless, while Rubian is calculated and equally ruthless. They’ve pillaged and ransacked villages.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. The Captain’s eyes widened.
“And… Matthious the Corrupter?” Moore asked quietly.
“Still lingering somewhere,” Nekira said. “No one knows what he’s after. And there are two new Riders now… me being one of them.”
Moore gasped, his hand tightening around his cup. “A lot has changed… is the outside even recognisable anymore?”
Nekira shrugged softly, tossing one last scrap to Kristolia. “Only time will tell, Captain Jason Moore.”
The fire crackled between them, the shadows of the camp stretching long and uncertain into the swamp. Even in that quiet, a sense of looming change pressed down on both men, heavier than the night air itself.
'Little one, I’m close by!' Amira’s voice echoed in Nekira’s mind, her emotions rushing through him like a storm.
Nekira straightened, eyes blazing. “Captain, have all your soldiers head into their barracks. No swords. No bows or arrows drawn. If anything happens, it won’t just be my wrath that’s felt—do you understand?”
The Captain hesitated for only a moment before the weight of Nekira’s stare and the intensity of his voice sank in. “Disperse! Everyone to your barracks! Now!”
The soldiers moved slowly, confused, murmuring among themselves. Then, without warning, the entire camp darkened. The ground shimmered in dapples of orange and purple as Amira circled high above, her massive wings blotting out the moonlight. She descended slowly, deliberately, a shadow of power stretching across the tents.
One soldier, still unsure, began to draw his bow.
“DO NOT DRAW YOUR WEAPONS, SOLDIER!” the Captain roared, his voice cracking across the clearing.
Amira landed in the centre of the camp with a soft, reverberating thud. The sheer force of her massive frame sent tremors through the ground. The soldier with the bow dropped to the dirt in shock, his hands trembling as he stared at her immense, awe-inspiring presence.
Silence fell, thick and trembling, broken only by the soft rustle of Amira’s wings settling and the crackle of distant firelight.
Nekira stepped forward, heart pounding, as Amira lowered her massive head. Their eyes met, and in that instant, every mile of separation, every day of longing, vanished. He reached out, and she nudged him gently with her snout, letting out a soft, reverent rumble that reverberated through his chest.
Once the reunion had settled, Nekira led her to the edge of the camp where the dog tags and emblems had been gathered. He gestured for the soldiers to give them space. Amira’s eyes gleamed with curiosity as she turned her colossal head, but a flick of her tail lashed out—knocking David’s old tent, sending them crashing to the ground in clouds of canvas and dust.
Carefully, Amira lowered her snout to sniff at the tokens. Nekira explained, “I’ve tried everything I can think of. The only options left are dragon magic… or dragon fire.”
She stretched, ruffling her iridescent scales, each movement radiating power. ‘Stand back, little one,’ she rumbled.
Nekira nodded and stepped back several paces. Raising his arms, he signalled the soldiers to move as well. Silence fell, heavy and expectant.
Amira inhaled deeply, her chest swelling with controlled force. Then she exhaled, opening her maw just slightly. A thin, controlled stream of orange-purple fire licked toward the dog tags and emblems.
The dog tags burned a bright, searing white, while the emblems shrivelled and melted, fusing into the tags. The heat combined, glowing and simmering until the items slowly transformed into a strange, textured ash.
A distant popping echoed across the camp. From several points along the edges, fissures cracked open, sending small skulls surfacing from the earth—only to split cleanly in half. The oppressive swamp fog that had blanketed the camp for so long began to dissipate, rolling back like a tide.
Amira lowered her snout, sniffing the ashes carefully, then lifting her head to the clearing air. ‘I can’t smell any more dark magic, little one.’
Nekira stroked her side gently. “No. Neither can I. Captain, the only way to be certain now,” he said, turning to Moore, “is if someone crosses the boundary you’ve marked.”
The Captain stepped forward, surveying the cleared, quiet camp. The soldiers shifted uneasily behind him, the tension of two decades spent trapped slowly giving way to hope, and the faintest flicker of wonder at the dragon that now stood as their savior.
Captain Jason Moore squared his shoulders, determination etched across his weathered face. He turned to his second, who opened his mouth to argue.
“It should be me, Captain! The soldiers still need your leadership—”
Moore’s gaze was firm, unwavering. “The decision is mine. I will be the one. That is final.”
With that, he began his slow, deliberate walk toward the edge of the camp. Every step was measured, and he didn’t glance back once. Nekira knelt beside Santaya, whispering softly.
“Follow him,” he said. “Drag him back over the threshold if anything happens.”
The great wolf let out a low, eager growl and fell into line beside the Captain. Together, they walked down the path, the swamp air thick with tension, the camp holding its collective breath. Each soldier imagined the horrors that might be waiting just beyond the boundary, a shadow of fear and hope mixing in their hearts.
Minutes stretched on, every footstep echoing in the quiet night. Then, suddenly, Santaya reappeared, several paces ahead of the Captain, carrying a large deer on her shoulders. A normal deer, the likes of which no soldier had seen in nearly twenty years.
Moore’s lips parted in disbelief, then curved into a wide, relieved smile. The weight that had pressed on his shoulders for years seemed to lift all at once.
He raised his voice, low at first, letting it carry across the camp.
“Boys… WE ARE FREE!!”
The tension shattered. Soldiers erupted into cheering, their fear dissolving into overwhelming joy. The roar of Amira thundered above them, a powerful, resonant sound that silenced the camp for a heartbeat, then fuelled the cheer into an even louder, deafening celebration.
Hope, long suppressed, surged through the army, every man feeling the freedom of the swamp for the first time in what felt like an eternity.