It didn’t take them long to find a bridge to cross to the other side of the Diamond River. The wooden crossing was quite precarious and didn’t even have a guard post, but it was located at a rather narrow stretch of the water, so they managed to cross without difficulty. Several days had already passed since they had left behind the village of Rivero, with its funeral pyre and charred buildings. After that, the days had been gray and rainy, marked by a bout of snowstorms one night. From the smoke and the stench of death, they could deduce that Faradax and his army had crossed the main bridge toward Epsilia, and that the city had fallen. They hadn’t come across any survivors or refugees from the ravaged villages, but that was only logical, since the adventurers were traveling through inhospitable and sparsely populated lands. Not a very appealing choice for those who had survived.

  With that sorrowful image lingering in their minds, they pressed on through the frozen lands. More than once, they had to hide from orc patrols that moved up and down along the riverbanks and the nearby fields. The devastation they left in their wake was far greater than the adventurers could have imagined. When the orcs had attacked Doknar years ago, they had focused solely on the capital city, skirting small villages but leaving them mostly untouched. Epsilia, however, was different—already a walled city, with thriving trade and even a noble caste.

  At a certain point, after leaving Epsilia behind and to their right, the ground began to slope downward. Though they could not see the city from such a distance, the thick black smoke rising into the ghostly sky marked its location all too clearly. Great rocky masses loomed on either side, opening to reveal a snow-covered path that seemed to merge with the white horizon above. The clouded sunset washed the landscape in an eerie pink.

  “It is known as the Road of Arimondia,” said Anthos with a click of his tongue. “It leads to Fort Askarg, abandoned long ago.”

  “And why that name?” asked Kalen ’Fal, pulling a wolf pelt tighter around his face as the wind picked up in sudden gusts.

  “Arimondia is a plant that grows only in this region, specifically atop those isolated peaks,” Anthos explained. “It’s said those peaks erupted from the bowels of the earth when the great war of the southern mages tore Báctrago apart, twisting it into the barren, deformed, and poisonous land now known as Páramo. They say the world shook so violently that oceans swallowed entire continents, volcanoes erupted, and here, pillars of stone thrust upward into the skies, forming this road.”

  “It looks abandoned,” said Galfrido.

  “It is no longer used,” Anthos replied. “Once, it served the now-vanished knighthood of Dragma on their way to Epsilia. When the order dissolved and the fort was deserted, the road fell into oblivion—too treacherous, and far too haunted by the strange legends that surround this place.”

  By nightfall, after crossing the Road of Arimondia, they reached the crumbling ruins of Fort Askarg. All that remained standing were a flight of stairs, a few pillars, and fragments of walls with their windows and portals. Paradoxically, in some places, the brackets for torches and candelabras still clung to the stone.

  “This place is safe,” said Anthos, glancing up at the rock masses encircling them, forming a kind of natural fortress. “Let us light fires around the camp to ward off the cold that will descend tonight—and any vermin that might creep down from the cliffs.”

  “You speak wisely, Anthos,” said Kalen, narrowing his eyes at the sky. “It won’t snow tonight, but the frost will be bitter. If we want to endure it, we should make use of the empty lamps and torch brackets.”

  “Yes, and farther north it will only get worse,” the guide added. “There’s a reason Trabarioth is known as the Frozen City.”

  “It’s astonishing how a people as young as yours have so many ruins scattered across your realms,” said Begryn, glancing around. “Your great cities, immense fortresses, or majestic works of art seem to last only a few hundred years. The luckiest of structures reach a millennium at best.”

  Those present exchanged looks, surprised by the elf’s musings.

  “Well, it’s not as if our lives are very long either…” Galfrido remarked.

  “In any case, this place is safe enough,” Anthos declared, as if to put an end to the discussion. “Still, we’ll stand watch. Given how close the enemy may be, it’s best to do it in pairs. We’ll rest less, but we’ll be safer.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  As night deepened and the stars filled the sky, they managed to keep warm despite the biting frost that had begun to fall. Little Drako seemed content in Begryn’s arms, soothed by the fire’s warmth and no longer crying.

  Kalen turned his gaze to the rocky walls and noticed some carvings. One depicted a knight battling a dragon, mounted on another dragon, wielding a massive lance. Though worn by time, the flickering firelight cast shadows that defined the contours almost perfectly. He recalled the stories he had heard of the Order of Dragma: a knighthood sworn to wipe dragons from the face of the continent.

  In contrast, he looked at little Drako. He knew well that, had the order still existed, they would already have another enemy to face. The irony weighed on him—protecting a dragon-born child inside the very fortress of dragon hunters.

  They ate some legumes and salted meat they had managed to gather. Yet their spirits remained low, weighed down by the trail of devastation they had witnessed. The mountain, the osgor, Baba Yaga—that had already been more than enough, not to mention Ertai’s betrayal. But the destruction of Rivero? That they could never have imagined. And Epsilia? Well, it was the second-largest city in the region. They had not seen it burn, but the truth was obvious. After Rivero, Faradax’s army had marched in that direction. Not long after, they had seen the telltale black smoke rising into the sky from where Epsilia once stood.

  “I’ll stand watch with you, if you don’t mind,” said Anthos, looking at the knight.

  “Not at all, my friend. If only we had a skin of wine to wet our throats and trade stories.”

  At last, Galfrido and Begryn retired to sleep, leaving the two adventurers to their vigil.

  “At some point during the journey, Galfrido told us you once faced a minotaur,” said Anthos, trying to spark a conversation to make the night watch pass more pleasantly. “I always thought minotaurs only existed in legends.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, this was a very real legend,” Kalen replied with a smile, brushing his long blond hair back to clear his face.

  “And how did that happen? Did you slay the minotaur all by yourself?”

  “No, of course not. There were some warriors with me. I was still just a young initiate in my order, so I wasn’t even authorized to take on missions. But since there weren’t enough knights available to carry out the task entrusted to the order, Sir Rhien Mildavar, my master, assigned me to it. At first glance, it wasn’t supposed to be so difficult—just accompany a group of warriors to recover an artifact from an old alchemist, stolen by some forest creatures.”

  “And why was that assigned to your order?”

  “Many times, when an employer—or whoever hires adventurers for such a task—suspects there might be some curse or spell involved that could require divine intervention, they request the protection of a knight. Not a cleric, because the one who goes must also be able to defend himself. And what better than a warrior blessed by the gods?”

  “I see.”

  “In any case, we reached the forest and found it crawling with vermin—forest goblins. We struggled for a time but finally arrived at the place we had been told of: the ruins of an ancient civilization, long lost to time. A perfect place to hide a magical artifact, wouldn’t you say? The site was a vast network of winding corridors, dead ends, and, of course, traps. Some of the warriors died there. That’s when we saw the minotaur: a massive, demonic creature with the face and horns of a bull but the body of a giant.”

  As he spoke, Kalen gestured with his hands for emphasis. “It attacked us without a word,” he went on. “It charged me with its horns and hurled me aside. The arrows of our archer barely scratched it. The thrusts of spears and swords couldn’t stop its fury. It was a magnificent… and terrifying sight. Within minutes, we were finished. Resigning myself to my god, I took up my sword and challenged it. The monster came at me with all its strength, and I stood my ground—but in my battered state, I stumbled over a stone and rolled across the floor, watching as the minotaur thundered past me. It smashed headfirst into the wall with such force that the entire place shook, and the ceiling began to collapse. Staggering, the beast struggled to rise, only for a massive chunk of stone to fall upon it, crushing it to the ground. I approached, sword in hand, and gave the dying creature its final blow.”

  “Wow… I…” Anthos paused for a moment, at a loss for words.

  “You thought the feat would sound more epic, didn’t you?” said the knight with complete humility, a smile on his face. “Well, that’s how it truly happened. My only merit was tripping over a stone and finishing off a dying monster. That’s why they allowed me to take my knight’s trial two years earlier than usual.”

  “Did you recover the artifact?”

  “Yes, we managed to find it before the whole place came down.” He paused for a moment in thought. “Do you know what’s the funniest part? The artifact turned out to be a compass with a map inside, marking the place and the exact date of Drako’s birth, according to prophecy. Always every hundred years after the death of the last Dragon Knight.”

  “So that mission left its mark on you forever.”

  “In a way, yes.”

  They spent a while exchanging trivial conversation until the time came to switch the watch.