The frilled grazers moved in a lumbering wave, their thick, armor-plated bodies pressing down the lush vegetation. Club-like tails swung absently as they trudged along, chewing mouthfuls of leaves and fibrous stalks. Each creature was a mountain of muscle and plated hide, nearly half the weight of the village's largest fishing net haul.
They moved with a ponderous grace, relying on their numbers for safety, their journey starting from the burrows far south of the valley. From there, they pushed northwest, their progress slow but inexorable as they foraged through the dense forest, wary of wyvern swoops but secure in their herd. When isolated, they flare their colorful frills, making themselves appear almost twice their size—an instinctive display to intimidate predators while bracing to defend with their club-like tails.
The clearing by the sea lays unnaturally quiet. The villagers of Ryn are scattered across, some parents amuse their children by pointing out the horizon, where the waves seemed to stretch infinitely. Salt-laden air washed over them, a fleeting comfort.
Then, suddenly, the ground trembled. A rumble that grew into a violent shake. Panic rippled through the survivors as a villager burst from the treeline, shouting a warning. Behind him, the grazers surged into the clearing—dozens of them, their massive feet pounding the ground, shaking the cliff's edge.
Kaevran's eyes widened as he saw the cliff's edge crack and start to give way, chunks of terrain splintering and tumbling into the churning sea below. The ground shuddered, and dirt crumbled away beneath the children's feet as they teetered on the very brink, their small hands desperately grasping at nothing but air. A father strained, reaching for his two daughters.
Just as Kaevran bolted forward, the crowd gasped again. From the southern path, a new group appeared—riders astride lizard mounts, rounding the grazers with deft movements.
One rider, a short woman with very long dark hair reaching her rear, braided in intricate patterns, and wearing a gray - weathered cloak, broke away, heading straight for the cliffside. In one swift motion, she dismounted and grabbed the father's arm, yanking him and his daughters to safety. The woman nearby, however, let out a scream as the ground beneath her gave way. The rider lunged, but it was too late—the woman fell, swallowed by the churning sea.
For a breathless moment, silence gripped the clearing. The villagers stood frozen, the reality of the loss sinking in—a bitter reminder of how fragile their survival truly was. Some lowered their heads, others tightened their grip on loved ones, the weight of grief pressing down as the wind howled against the broken ground.
Amid the stillness, the grazers continued to feed, oblivious to the spectacle they had caused. Their massive bodies lumbered over the moss-covered ground, tearing at grass and foliage as if nothing had happened. The stark indifference of the herd only deepened the villagers' sense of helplessness as they slowly moved back toward the forest line.
The rider wiped sweat from her brow, her eyes sweeping the group as she led her mount back toward the forest line. Her voice rang out clear and calm. "This clearing is unstable. It's a feeding ground. You shouldn't have camped here."
The villagers muttered among themselves, overlapping questions rippling through the crowd: "How did you find us?", "Can you help us?" Maelhan approached, but before he could speak, another rider, a younger man with a sharp gaze, spoke up. "Thalenna, they look half-starved. Where did they come from?"
Thalenna turned sharply toward Nevun, eyes narrowing with a warning glare that cut off his words mid-sentence. She steadied herself, then focused on Maelhan, her tone measured and calm. "Where are you from?"
Maelhan swallowed, his voice cracked and worn. "Ryn. We were attacked—forced to flee. Our village is... gone."
The crowd's murmurs grew louder, overlapping voices of doubt, concern, and helplessness rippling through them. Thalenna raised her hand slightly, silencing the noise, and spoke with measured calm. "We came from an oceanside village to the south to trade goods."
Maelhan took a breath, his voice weary and strained. "Maybe you can take us there. We need refuge." Nevun, still on his mount, spoke up without hesitation. "We can. But it will take us four moonrises to get there. Six—maybe seven—considering how many of you there are."
Thalenna's head snapped toward Nevun, her sharp glare silencing him as if he had overstepped. Then, without missing a beat, she raised her voice to address the crowd. "Our village is closer. Two moonrises away. You'll be safer there."
A ripple of hope surged through the crowd, though some whispered doubts. Maelhan, shoulders sagging, nodded slowly. "Please... lead us." His voice was strained, as if yielding to an inevitability he could not escape.
The day faded into a gray, rain-soaked gloom. Back at the den, two armored guards stood vigil by its entrance, eyes on the sky as wyverns circled against the storm. Scavenger lizards could be seen crawling the wet ground in dozens, seeking warmth and shelter in nearby cracks and burrows.
Inside, Khoren was hunched over the device, his mind racing. Frustration gnawed at him. The device wasn't responding—too damaged, too far gone. But the crystal shard at center of it remains intact. They needed power—more than just a recharge, something that could pierce the ancient dragon's calcified scales.
Alfazar's ancient scales had thickened over millennia, already hard as stone, and now even more impenetrable in their calcified state. He glanced at Erel, who worked calmly despite the tension. As a flash of inspiration struck, Khoren muttered, "If we can't repair it, we need to boost it. A power source—strong enough to break Alfazar's shell."
Khoren turned his gaze to Alfazar, particularly on the dragon's chest that was marked with what seemed to be repetitive, forceful blows. His thoughts then wandered to Lerric, the Scout Leader. A bitter smile crossed his face. That self-righteous bastard is probably halfway back by now, smug in his report to the Crown. Khoren imagined the sarcastic tone Lerric would use, emphasizing the delay of the Swords while the Scouts completed their mission. The thought fueled his resolve. They couldn't afford to fail—not now.
A sudden volley of pulse blasts echoed from the cavern entrance. Khoren whipped around, his gut clenched. He exchanged a grim look with Erel as the blasts grew louder, moving closer.