THE DRAGON'S RETURN

The Dark Forest

A single arrow split the rain and pinned Thorn's shirt sleeve to a thick pine trunk.

He did not flinch. He grabbed the wooden shaft with his bare right hand, snapped the head off against the bark, and kept walking into the dark trees.

"Hold your fire!" a loud, gravelly voice barked from the shadows under a low spruce branch. "It is the prince!"

Three men in muddy leather coats stepped out from behind the tall pines, their short bows lowered. Behind them, Old Marcus sat on a flat wooden cart pulled by a lean gray horse. His pale face was covered in dirt, but his one good eye burned bright in the moonlight.

"You took your sweet time, boy," Marcus said, wiping rain off his forehead with a damp sleeve. "I thought the guards caught you at the gate."

"The gate is gone," Thorn said, stopping beside the wooden wheel of the cart.

Marcus looked past Thorn's shoulder at the dark outline of the city wall, then looked down at Thorn's gray face. "Your jaw looks like a grave marker."

"It functions well enough," Thorn replied, his tone flat and dry.

"We have three horses and two supply sacks," Marcus said, pointing a calloused finger toward a small leather bag resting on his lap. "The old vanguard guards are scattered through the hills. Fifteen men are heading west to distract the city search parties, and ten are staying with me."

"Where are you going?" Thorn asked.

"To the southern border," Marcus said. "The old empire still has two loyal forts near the red river. If we reach the river before Julian's riders catch us, we can rest for three days."

"Julian is paralyzed," Lyra whispered, her pale ghost light floating near Thorn's right ear. "He will not be riding anywhere for a week."

"Julian has lieutenants," Marcus spat, hearing only the wind in the trees. "Those dogs will hunt us down the main road the second the sun comes up."

"Then do not take the main road," Thorn said.

"The side paths through the black marsh are full of wild beasts," one of the vanguard soldiers chimed in, leaning heavily on a long iron spear. "We cannot drag a horse cart through six miles of knee-deep mud."

"You will not need to drag it," Thorn said. "I am going north."

Marcus frowned, his thick gray eyebrows pulling together. "North? There is nothing in the northern mountains except snow, old ruins, and dead gods."

"The northern ruins hold the second leyline basin," Lyra whispered, her faint voice carrying only to Thorn's mind. "It is the only place left with pure spirit water."

"I need the northern basin," Thorn said aloud to the old general.

Marcus stared at Thorn's stone cheek for three long seconds. He let out a harsh, bitter laugh that ended in a low cough. "You want to wash that arm again? You saw what happened under the market. The spirit water only freezes the skin for a few days. It does not cure the curse."

"It buys time," Thorn said.

"Time for what?" Marcus asked, leaning forward on his wooden cart seat. "To kill another three elders? To burn down another grand hall? You are fighting a war against the whole sky with one good arm, Thorn!"

"I am not fighting a war," Thorn said, placing his right hand on the horse's cold leather bridle. "I am finishing what my father started."

"Your father wanted peace for his people!" Marcus shouted over the sound of the rain. "He did not want his only son turning into a lump of black stone in an empty ditch!"

Thorn did not answer right away. He looked back at the tall stone towers of the distant capital, where tiny orange lights were flickered as the city guards ran around in panic.

"My father is dead," Thorn said softly. "Peace died with him."

Marcus sighed, dropping his chin toward his chest. He reached into his wet coat and pulled out a small iron key attached to a leather string. He tossed it onto Thorn's palm.

"What is this?" Thorn asked, looking down at the rusted metal.

"The key to my old cabin in the northern pass," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur. "There is a box of dry meat, a winter cloak, and a map of the mountain trails under the floorboards. If you make it past the high ridge, use the cabin."

Thorn closed his fingers around the key and shoved it into his pocket. "Thank you, Marcus."

"Do not thank me yet," Marcus grunted, grabbing the horse reins with his thick hands. "If you turn into stone up in those hills, I am not coming up there to carve your name on a rock."

"Fair enough," Thorn said.

"Move out!" Marcus ordered the ten vanguard soldiers standing around the cart. "Head south toward the red river! Keep off the main trail!"

The old horse grunted, pulling the heavy wooden cart through the thick mud as the soldiers fell into step around it. Marcus did not look back as the cart disappeared into the dark pine trees, its wheels squeaking softly against the wet earth.

Thorn stood alone under the dripping branches, the rain falling straight through the dark forest canopy.

"We should start walking before the mountain guards close the pass," Lyra said, her ghost form flickering faintly against the black tree trunks.

Thorn took two steps forward, but his left knee suddenly gave out. He stumbled sideways, his right shoulder slamming hard against the wet bark of an ancient oak tree.

A sharp, stabbing pain shot from his left shoulder straight down into his ribs. He gripped his chest with his right hand, feeling his heart pounding wildly against his stone-gray ribs like a trapped bird beating its wings against iron bars.

"Thorn!" Lyra shrieked, floating down right in front of his eyes. "What is happening?"

Thorn gasped for air, but his left lung felt stiff and tight, unable to expand fully under his hardened chest skin. He looked down at his shirt. A thin, purple light was glowing beneath the wet fabric, pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat.

"The relic is waking up," Thorn gritted out, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to stand upright. "The cold rain is making it aggressive."

"You cannot walk to the northern mountains like this," Lyra said, her silver light wavering with pure panic. "It will reach your heart before sunrise!"

"Then I will run," Thorn said, his dark eyes fixing on the steep, rocky slope rising ahead into the northern darkness.

He pushed off from the tree trunk, taking long, hard strides up the muddy mountain trail, leaving the burning city and his old life behind in the wet valley floor.

he Dark Forest

A single arrow split the rain and pinned Thorn's shirt sleeve to a thick pine trunk.

He did not flinch. He grabbed the wooden shaft with his bare right hand, snapped the head off against the bark, and kept walking into the dark trees.

"Hold your fire!" a loud, gravelly voice barked from the shadows under a low spruce branch. "It is the prince!"

Three men in muddy leather coats stepped out from behind the tall pines, their short bows lowered. Behind them, Old Marcus sat on a flat wooden cart pulled by a lean gray horse. His pale face was covered in dirt, but his one good eye burned bright in the moonlight.

"You took your sweet time, boy," Marcus said, wiping rain off his forehead with a damp sleeve. "I thought the guards caught you at the gate."

"The gate is gone," Thorn said, stopping beside the wooden wheel of the cart.

Marcus looked past Thorn's shoulder at the dark outline of the city wall, then looked down at Thorn's gray face. "Your jaw looks like a grave marker."

"It functions well enough," Thorn replied, his tone flat and dry.

"We have three horses and two supply sacks," Marcus said, pointing a calloused finger toward a small leather bag resting on his lap. "The old vanguard guards are scattered through the hills. Fifteen men are heading west to distract the city search parties, and ten are staying with me."

"Where are you going?" Thorn asked.

"To the southern border," Marcus said. "The old empire still has two loyal forts near the red river. If we reach the river before Julian's riders catch us, we can rest for three days."

"Julian is paralyzed," Lyra whispered, her pale ghost light floating near Thorn's right ear. "He will not be riding anywhere for a week."

"Julian has lieutenants," Marcus spat, hearing only the wind in the trees. "Those dogs will hunt us down the main road the second the sun comes up."

"Then do not take the main road," Thorn said.

"The side paths through the black marsh are full of wild beasts," one of the vanguard soldiers chimed in, leaning heavily on a long iron spear. "We cannot drag a horse cart through six miles of knee-deep mud."

"You will not need to drag it," Thorn said. "I am going north."

Marcus frowned, his thick gray eyebrows pulling together. "North? There is nothing in the northern mountains except snow, old ruins, and dead gods."

"The northern ruins hold the second leyline basin," Lyra whispered, her faint voice carrying only to Thorn's mind. "It is the only place left with pure spirit water."

"I need the northern basin," Thorn said aloud to the old general.

Marcus stared at Thorn's stone cheek for three long seconds. He let out a harsh, bitter laugh that ended in a low cough. "You want to wash that arm again? You saw what happened under the market. The spirit water only freezes the skin for a few days. It does not cure the curse."

"It buys time," Thorn said.

"Time for what?" Marcus asked, leaning forward on his wooden cart seat. "To kill another three elders? To burn down another grand hall? You are fighting a war against the whole sky with one good arm, Thorn!"

"I am not fighting a war," Thorn said, placing his right hand on the horse's cold leather bridle. "I am finishing what my father started."

"Your father wanted peace for his people!" Marcus shouted over the sound of the rain. "He did not want his only son turning into a lump of black stone in an empty ditch!"

Thorn did not answer right away. He looked back at the tall stone towers of the distant capital, where tiny orange lights were flickered as the city guards ran around in panic.

"My father is dead," Thorn said softly. "Peace died with him."

Marcus sighed, dropping his chin toward his chest. He reached into his wet coat and pulled out a small iron key attached to a leather string. He tossed it onto Thorn's palm.

"What is this?" Thorn asked, looking down at the rusted metal.

"The key to my old cabin in the northern pass," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur. "There is a box of dry meat, a winter cloak, and a map of the mountain trails under the floorboards. If you make it past the high ridge, use the cabin."

Thorn closed his fingers around the key and shoved it into his pocket. "Thank you, Marcus."

"Do not thank me yet," Marcus grunted, grabbing the horse reins with his thick hands. "If you turn into stone up in those hills, I am not coming up there to carve your name on a rock."

"Fair enough," Thorn said.

"Move out!" Marcus ordered the ten vanguard soldiers standing around the cart. "Head south toward the red river! Keep off the main trail!"

The old horse grunted, pulling the heavy wooden cart through the thick mud as the soldiers fell into step around it. Marcus did not look back as the cart disappeared into the dark pine trees, its wheels squeaking softly against the wet earth.

Thorn stood alone under the dripping branches, the rain falling straight through the dark forest canopy.

"We should start walking before the mountain guards close the pass," Lyra said, her ghost form flickering faintly against the black tree trunks.

Thorn took two steps forward, but his left knee suddenly gave out. He stumbled sideways, his right shoulder slamming hard against the wet bark of an ancient oak tree.

A sharp, stabbing pain shot from his left shoulder straight down into his ribs. He gripped his chest with his right hand, feeling his heart pounding wildly against his stone-gray ribs like a trapped bird beating its wings against iron bars.

"Thorn!" Lyra shrieked, floating down right in front of his eyes. "What is happening?"

Thorn gasped for air, but his left lung felt stiff and tight, unable to expand fully under his hardened chest skin. He looked down at his shirt. A thin, purple light was glowing beneath the wet fabric, pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat.

"The relic is waking up," Thorn gritted out, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to stand upright. "The cold rain is making it aggressive."

"You cannot walk to the northern mountains like this," Lyra said, her silver light wavering with pure panic. "It will reach your heart before sunrise!"

"Then I will run," Thorn said, his dark eyes fixing on the steep, rocky slope rising ahead into the northern darkness.

He pushed off from the tree trunk, taking long, hard strides up the muddy mountain trail, leaving the burning city and his old life behind in the wet valley floor.