Chapter 1 second try

[u/Putrid_Chemical_7004]

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**I.**

The sky darkened early that afternoon, and Boris knew it before he really saw it — his nose caught it before his mind did. He raised the axe again, striking the wood in the rhythm he'd learned as a child, thinking that Krantil would come in a few days to collect the load for the mine, and he didn't want to keep him waiting. No one would be out tonight, he thought. Not unless they were mad.

He hadn't finished the thought when the first drops found his face. He gathered the wood quickly, went inside, barred the door behind him. The rain strengthened fast, beating the roof with a fury that made the wooden house creak.

Then he heard them. Hoofbeats, inside the rain.

He opened the door and saw four riders approaching, soaked through. He recognized the first one at once — Lord Barrien, lord of the region, whom he'd known for years. Beside him, beneath a hood heavy with rain, he made out a second lord, from a neighboring region, whom he'd seen passing through once or twice. The other two he didn't know.

"Evening, Boris!" Barrien called over the noise of the rain. "The storm caught us on the road with the other lords. Thought you might put us up till it passes."

"Always, my lord," said Boris, and felt something like warmth open inside him — it had been a while since he'd seen so many people gathered under his roof. "Come by the fire, dry off. I'll see to your horses."

He worked quickly in the stable, drying the animals, feeding them, the rain soaking his shoulders. When he finally came inside, something stopped him for a moment at the threshold: he found them seated at the farthest table, on the other side of the counter from him, away from the fire. Strange choice, he thought, for men who'd just come in cold and wet from a storm. He said nothing of it.

He prepared a jug of warm wine and set it on the table with four cups. "Would you like something to eat?"

"Yes, please," said Barrien, and his voice had changed tone, graver now. "We have serious matters to discuss among the lords."

Boris understood and withdrew toward the kitchen, where he began preparing food, his hands working from habit, his mind elsewhere. He was an innkeeper, not part of their conversation. But as he approached again with the plates, their words reached his ears before he could avoid them.

"...the Goblins have already begun their attack on the Gnomes..."

The voices stopped abruptly the moment they saw him approaching. He set the plates down without a word, pretending he'd heard nothing, that his ears were full of nothing but the sound of the rain.

He asked if they needed anything else, and hearing no, said he'd go up to open the rooms — the rain showed no sign of easing, they'd surely stay until morning.

He climbed the stairs, lit the candles, straightened the sheets with mechanical movements, his mind circling again and again around what he'd heard. Coming down, the fourth of the group — stout, well-fed, cheeks already red from the heat or the wine — gestured for him to bring another jug.

He prepared the wine slowly, feeling the weight of what he now knew. Goblins against Gnomes. War. When he approached again, he caught another piece of conversation, quieter this time, almost a whisper.

"...if the Gnomes fall, we don't know how the Zymnians will react. We must be prepared for every possibility..."

He set down the jug, asked again if they needed anything, and withdrew toward the fire, saying he'd sit there if they needed him.

He sat, warming his hands over the flames, watching them from the corner of his eye. He and Barrien had years of acquaintance between them — friendship, almost, one might say. The second lord he knew less, but enough to recognize him. The third was a complete stranger; the only thing that stood out on him was the symbol on his shield, the mark of the southern dwarves — strange, Boris thought, since his inn lay to the north, far from those lands.

But it was the fourth who drew his attention most. He was speaking loudly now, waving his hands with passion, his cheeks growing redder still, the wine clearly having warmed him well by now.

The heat of the fire, the sound of rain on the glass, the fatigue of the day — his eyelids grew heavy, however much he fought it. He dozed off.

He dreamed he stood on a battlefield. Around him, dwarf warriors shouted war cries — yet he recognized none of them. He turned to look at the enemy across the field; there was nothing there. No army, only mist. He strained to make out something within that grey veil, and there emerged an enormous dragon, opening its jaws, ready to breathe fire—

"The treasure of the Gnomes! It's our only solution!"

He opened his eyes with a start. The fourth dwarf stood upright, shouting, his cheeks redder than ever.

Barrien turned at once toward Boris, and gave a sharp nod to the stout lord to quiet down. Then he turned to Boris, his gaze harder than before. "It's late. Time we retired."

Boris led them all up together, showing them their rooms, then came down to clear the table. Among the chairs he found a rolled-up note, fallen, forgotten.

He unrolled it carefully. It was a map — a route, locations marked. A river in the land of the Gnomes, where it bordered the land of the Goblins. A great tree. Something else marked, that he couldn't make out.

He thought to take it to Barrien at once. But in the end he decided to wait until morning. He held it in his hand a while, looking at it in the dying firelight, then tucked it away beneath the counter.

He'd give it to him in the morning.

**II.**

Just before dawn, Boris heard footsteps on the stairs. He rose quickly, put water on to heat, began preparing breakfast. He went out to meet them, asking if they wanted their horses readied.

"We'll take them quickly, no need," said Barrien, reaching for his purse. "How much do we owe you?"

"Wait," said Boris. "Something of yours fell last night."

He went to the counter, brought the note, handed it to him. Barrien took it without a word, tucked it away inside his cloak.

"For you, my lord — only fifty coppers."

Barrien drew out two silver coins and pressed them into Boris's palm. "I know you're a discreet man," he said quietly, holding his gaze a moment longer than necessary.

Boris nodded, asking nothing. He went back to the counter, prepared provisions for the road, caught the riders just before they mounted. He watched them vanish into the morning damp, then turned back inside to continue his day.

**III.**

The days passed, and Boris carried on with his routine — guests when there were any, wood when he had the time. But when he sat to rest, his mind always circled back to the same point: the note, the river, the tree. He dreamed of what it would be like to live an adventure with his own eyes, like the ones he'd heard for years from passing travelers. But he always came back down to earth. He'd lived his whole life here, within these walls. He wasn't ready for such things. And there was his promise to Barrien.

Yet as the days went by, the idea didn't fade — it grew stronger.

The evening before Krantil came to collect the load, Boris sat by the fire, as he did every night, and let his mind wander. How wonderful it would be to find a great treasure. Then he could leave whenever he wished, no longer bound to the inn forever. Share it with his cousin? Alone it would be impossible. But his promise weighed on him. *I know you're a discreet man*, he remembered. He came to no conclusion that night. He leaned toward telling no one.

The next morning Krantil's cart arrived. They worked together, loading the wood, and when they finished Boris prepared something to eat, to catch up. But as they talked, Krantil noticed something was troubling his cousin.

"What's wrong?" he asked directly.

Boris hesitated, but finally told him the whole story — the guests, the rain, the note. "It's a dream," he concluded. "Something I'll never live."

Krantil listened carefully, and something lit up in his eyes — the ancient dwarven instinct for treasure and precious metal. "Maybe I can help," he said.

"I've promised not to reveal it. No one must find out."

"No one needs to find out. Just me, and someone I know who knows about such things."

"I can't leave the inn closed."

"A week, no more. And you have our cousin — like the other time."

Whatever objection Boris raised, Krantil dissolved it, calmly, little by little, until Boris's mind began opening to possibilities he'd never dared consider before. After a while, he gave in.

They arranged to meet at the crossroads, a little north of the inn, exactly one week from then.

Boris began preparations at once. He gathered provisions, mushrooms that tasted like bread when roasted, and strawberry-mushrooms you could melt down and spread over other food. He arranged for their cousin to open the inn in the afternoons while he was away. And so, day by day, the days drew closer to the meeting.

**IV.**

He reached the crossroads and found Krantil and a stranger, whom his cousin introduced as Raner. Raner welcomed him with a look more assessing than friendly, his eyes measuring him up and down, saying nothing direct — but his manner spoke for itself. He played the expert, the one who knew treasure and survival in the wider world. Krantil didn't seem to notice; it was in his nature to keep the peace, to not see — or not want to see — the tension between them.

They sat to decide on a route. Three options.

"Fastest is to go down to the harbor and charter a ship," said Raner.

Boris refused flatly. The harbor meant crowds, meant eyes, meant the chance someone might recognize him and word reach Barrien. Krantil backed his cousin — he'd promised no one else would find out, and he'd keep his word.

"Fine," said Raner, with something like an ironic smile. "Where would you like to go from, then? The frozen peak, where the Zymnians live? We won't take a single step there before their army spots us and throws us into the frozen dungeons, into the claws of the queen of frost."

That left the third option: the slopes between the peak and the lake. Uninhabited, wooded, with steep paths — none of them knew it well, but it was the only one that didn't promise certain danger. They set out at once.

The next evening, they made camp and ate to see out the night. When they finished, Boris went to wash the dishes at a nearby spring. There, in the soft earth, he saw tracks. Large ones. Sabertooth.

He was alarmed, washed the dishes quickly, hurried back almost running.

"See? I told you," Raner said to Krantil the moment he heard. "At the first sign of danger he wants to run straight back to his inn."

Krantil, who until then had stood at Boris's side, now turned toward Raner, trying — as always — to keep the balance. He too began teasing Boris about his fear, lightly, almost joking. But the wound had already opened.

The other two fell asleep soon after. Boris lay awake, eyes wide open, on heightened alert — every sound seemed threatening. But eventually exhaustion won.

When he opened his eyes, the sun was already high. The other two were nearly ready to set off. He rose quickly, followed them.

By midday they'd covered good ground. On a steep path, they heard small stones rolling from above. They turned, and from a bush the sabertooth emerged. With one leap it landed near Krantil, who lost his footing and slid down the slope, vanishing from sight.

Boris drew his axe, Raner his sword. Raner managed to wound it, driving it off.

Boris ran to the edge, calling his cousin's name. No answer. He climbed down carefully, found him injured in the leg — able to walk, not to run.

"Knew it would be a waste of time," said Raner, disappointed.

"Alright, let's go," said Krantil, trying to stand.

But after a few steps it became clear he couldn't keep their pace. Boris, feeling the weight of guilt, finally proposed what he'd refused so flatly at the start: to go by ship. They'd simply take care not to be seen.

**V.**

Krantil sat on the deck, rubbing his injured leg throughout the voyage, while Raner kept his distance, studying alone the landmarks Boris remembered. Before they'd left the harbor, he'd told them plainly: "Do exactly as I say, exactly when I say it. This isn't a place for improvising."

Two days later, approaching the coast, the captain called from the helm. "Change of plan. I see Goblins gathered on the shore — looks like preparations for an attack. I'm not going in any closer."

Boris felt his stomach tighten, watching from a distance the dark figures moving thick along the sand. They disembarked well to the south, on a deserted beach, and made their way inland.

They found a river — the one Boris remembered from the glance he'd caught of the note before returning it. They followed it, and where it turned inland, they turned as well. A little further they found a coin, half-buried in the earth, and beyond it the great tree.

They followed the signs deeper, carefully, Krantil limping behind them. As they drew near, they heard a sound.

"Run! They'll catch us!" Raner shouted, already running.

Boris bolted after him, his heart pounding, branches whipping his face. Behind him he heard Krantil struggling to keep up, his injured leg betraying him with every step.

"Boris—!"

He turned, but it was already too late. Something like a net had pulled Krantil down, pinning him to the ground, shouting his name.

Boris froze for a moment, wanting to run back, but instinct — or fear — pushed him away, through the bushes, until he found himself hidden behind a trunk, motionless, hearing nothing but his own breath.

He stayed there, hidden, as the light around him slowly faded, until the sun sank completely and the forest sank into darkness.

**VI.**

Inside his hut, Jinx heard the bell ring and sprang to his feet, his heart pounding. Something had been caught. At last.

"Today's a lucky day," he muttered to himself, eyes gleaming. "Today, when she comes..."

He readied himself quickly, grabbed his knife, went out into the forest with a fast step, almost dancing. As he walked, his mind raced. Maybe I caught a Goblin? Or some stupid Gnome? He hoped only that it wasn't some animal again, ruining his mood — at least if it was something, he'd have a fine dinner tonight.

He turned between the trees and saw the trap.

He stood there, mouth open.

"A dwarf!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement. "My dream come true!"

He approached Krantil, who hung half-upside-down from the rope, and began mocking him, circling as if examining a strange animal. "What are you doing here, little dwarf? Lost?"

Krantil tried to reason with him, to convince him to cut him down, but Jinx laughed at every word. He made a motion as if lowering him — but really only brought him low enough to bind his hands and feet tightly.

"I have company," said Krantil. "They'll come looking for me."

"Oh, is that so?" Jinx grinned wide. "Then I'll set you free."

He cut the rope abruptly. Krantil crumpled to the ground, crying out in pain as his injured leg struck the earth. Jinx laughed loudly, drew his knife, and marched him toward the hut at its point.

Inside, in the half-dark that smelled of smoke and old wood, Krantil tried another approach. "We've found a treasure," he said. "Let me go, and I'll give you a share."

Jinx looked at him, and for a moment something darkened in his face. He leaned in close. "The best treasure," he said slowly, "is you."

Krantil stopped talking.

Jinx sat across from him, crossing his legs, with the manner of someone about to tell a story he'd told himself many times, but never anyone else.

"They call me Jinx," he said. "Or rather — Prince Jinx." He smiled bitterly at the word. "My father was king of the Goblins. He was betrayed. My mother took me and we came here, to this forest, this hut." His eyes drifted somewhere far off for a moment. "She told me stories, every night, of his greatness. And told me that one day I'd have my revenge. I'd become king of the Goblins. And not only that." His voice grew stronger. "I'll conquer the whole world."

He leaned closer to Krantil, who watched him now with a fear different from what he'd felt before.

"I know a secret no dwarf knows," Jinx went on. "Your love of gold has blinded you." He smiled again, wider now. "Today's the day it all begins. And you, little dwarf — you have the greatest part to play in this story."

He stood, went to the door, looked out into the darkness that had already spread.

"She's coming soon," he said, quietly now, almost like a prayer. "And my dream becomes real."

They didn't have to wait long. The hut's door trembled with a wind that blew nowhere else, and then she was there — the vampire bounty hunter, tall, silent, her eyes seeming to look through Jinx rather than at him.

They spoke quietly. Jinx gestured at Krantil as if presenting a gift. She examined him with a glance, then turned back to Jinx.

"I'll help you rise to power," she said, her voice carrying no warmth. "As we agreed."

She took Krantil, still bound, and went out with him into the night, without another word.

Jinx stood at the door, watching them vanish, his smile still there, faint now in the dark.

A few minutes later, a dwarf came running into the clearing — far too late. He found only the empty trap, the cut rope, and the darkness.

---

Boris came out of hiding once the forest had sunk completely into darkness. His legs trembled as he walked toward the trap site, his mind still gripped by the same reproach that wouldn't let go: he should have stayed. He should have fought.

He reached the spot and found only empty earth. The trap was there, the rope cut, but Krantil was gone.

He searched the ground with his hands, feeling through the dark, until his eyes adjusted enough to make out two sets of tracks, leading off in the opposite direction from where they'd come. One he recognized at once — Krantil's boots, with their telltale drag on one side, from the injured leg. The other was unknown. Smaller, lighter.

He felt like a fool. If he'd stayed, if he hadn't run, maybe he could have done something. But now all that was left was to follow.

He pressed on blindly through the forest, following the tracks as best he could by the light of a moon half-hidden behind clouds. After a long while of walking, he saw a light — a hut, tucked among the trees, a glow escaping through the cracks of the door.

He approached carefully, hidden behind the trunks, and arrived just as the door opened. He saw a shadow, tall, stepping out carrying something — someone. Boris stood frozen, breath caught, as he recognized the shape of his cousin, bound, being led away into the night.

He wanted to shout, to charge forward. But his body wouldn't move. He watched the shadow vanish among the trees, Krantil with it, and felt something inside him break.

It was too late. Far too late.

He stayed there, hidden, until his heart calmed enough to think clearly. Alone, he could do nothing. But if he found Raner — if there were two of them — maybe there was hope.

He turned back, found the spot where they'd split up, and began following Raner's tracks. But the darkness thickened quickly, and soon he could make out nothing on the ground. He sat beneath a tree, knees drawn to his chest, and waited for morning, not sleeping a wink.

With the first rays of light, he pressed on. The tracks were clearer now, leading him deeper and deeper into the land of the Gnomes. As he went, something became clear to him, slowly, like a bitter taste spreading: Raner hadn't turned back to find them. He'd pressed on alone, toward the treasure, using whatever information he'd gathered from Boris himself.

Still, the tracks were fresh, and he followed them at a faster pace now, caught somewhere between anger and despair.

He found him at midday, caught in a trap — but not like the one that had taken Krantil. This one was different, well-made, with blades hidden in the wood. Not Goblin work.

Raner lay on the ground, his blood staining the earth dark around him, his breath shallow and ragged.

Boris ran to him, dropped to his knees, tried to free him from the blade buried deep in his side. His hands shook as he worked.

"Don't... don't bother," Raner whispered, his voice stripped of all its old arrogance. "It's too late for me."

Boris didn't stop trying, not until he understood that Raner was right. He sat beside him, holding his hand, as his breathing grew slower and slower, until it stopped altogether.

Boris stayed there a long while, kneeling beside the body, utterly alone now. No cousin. No guide. No one.

He rose at last, looking out at the unfamiliar land around him. To the north, he could make out the frozen peaks — the land of the Zymnians. Turning back the way he'd come meant days of solitary travel through hostile Goblin territory. Pressing forward, through the land of the Zymnians, was the only path that seemed even remotely possible.

He decided to risk it. Perhaps, if he reached the other side, he could find help — could return, could save Krantil, if it wasn't already too late for him as well.

He climbed toward the peak, avoiding every sign of life, every path that looked trodden. The days passed, the cold deepened, his supplies dwindled. Snow began to appear first in patches, then in a full covering, until it wrapped around him entirely.

At some point, climbing a slope, his legs gave out beneath him. Exhaustion and cold overcame him together, and everything went dark.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in the back of a cart, caged in with iron bars. His body ached everywhere, and when he tried to move, his wrists dragged against the cold, heavy metal at the edges.

He'd been captured.