The Last Dragon Knight

Chapter 1 - Praise the Sun

Dorlan is the central region of Alandavor, the known world. It is the main home of humans and is divided into three kingdoms. Separated by extensive mountain ranges from one another, each of these domains also has unique ethnic, cultural, and geographic characteristics.

Peace has long prevailed in the region, with good commercial and diplomatic relations between the kingdoms of Doknar and Trabarioth, and a somewhat more fragile relationship with the eastern kingdom of Elbarie. The northern region of Rimdail is in a permanent state of civil war, causing refugees from the north to constantly arrive in search of new lands or asylum.

Despite these issues, the main threat comes from the west, originating from the region of Bloodmere, home to orcs, goblins, and straggling humans from different cultures. The dark region’s attempts to seize Dorlan led to the Great Invasion led by the green skins over five hundred years ago, in which they were expelled by the defenders who established Doknar as the last defensive line. Now, an ancient evil rises again, threatening the entire world.

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The small coastal village of Arretheart was in the midst of its annual festival in honor of Leiorus, god of the sun, held during the final months of autumn—when the great star began to appear less frequently in the region's sky. It was an official celebration, mandated by the Crown, and during the single day it lasted, all work activities were to cease so that everyone could enjoy a full day of festivities.

The afternoon sky was clear, though a few clouds drifted in from the Ederia Sea, which stretched along the horizon, leaving a scent of salt and fish in the air. In the center of the plaza, wooden tables had been set up and covered with all kinds of food: from fruits and vegetables to pork and beef. Goat cheese, forest sweets, mushrooms, and all sorts of drinks filled the boards. Minstrels played their out-of-tune lutes to the rhythm of a single hurdy-gurdy, handled by the town's "dwarf"—not of dwarven race, but rather a man of very short stature.

The villagers’ wild dances seemed to follow the beat of the music, contrasting with the children who ran about in swift pursuits and imaginary battles, even at that hour of the afternoon.

On a hill, away from the low houses with wooden and thatched roofs, stood the cabin of the village healer. She was a serious and taciturn woman, with piercing blue eyes, tawny skin, and dark hair. No one quite remembered her real name, as she was only known as “the healer.”

The enigmatic woman was not celebrating anything. She didn’t believe she had anything to celebrate—at least not since the entire village had turned its back on her. And that was because she had given birth to a child. On the surface, this might have seemed normal. However, the middle-aged woman hadn’t been with anyone in many years. So what had happened? Only the gods knew. But the strangest part of all was that the child growing in her womb took only two months to be fully formed and born.

The villagers remembered that night as “The Night of the Lightning,” since, true to its name, an unprecedented thunderstorm covered the sky, giving the birth an even more sinister atmosphere. The lightning strikes destroyed several village houses, and many trees met their end, especially due to the hurricane-like winds—rarely seen with such force.

As if that weren’t enough, the child who emerged from her body did not appear to be normal. He had his mother’s tawny skin, but his hair was completely white, and his eyes were yellow, with vertical slit pupils—like those of a serpent or certain felines. His most distinctive feature was a black birthmark in the shape of a dragon, stretching along the side of his cheek, covering part of his eye and even crossing his temple.

The healer, having received no help during the birth—not from midwives or any other women in the village—decided to hide the newborn’s traits, confining him to the cabin and making sure no one saw him. And whether by fate or the will of the gods, she would later be grateful for that decision.

“Attention, everyone! Attention!” began the village elder, standing atop one of the food tables.

The crowd turned to look at him, though not as quickly as the bald, rotund old man would have liked.

“Come on, you loafers… Lathus, I see you—don’t turn your back on me… That’s right.”

The sun had nearly set, reduced to a thin orange line reflected on the calm black sea.

“Let us celebrate already, Beor! Not another drunken speech!” shouted someone from the crowd, immediately bursting into laughter.

“You’re gonna bring on another Night of the Lightning!” yelled another. This time, everyone laughed.

“Well then, here we are. Once again celebrating an excellent season in our beautiful village of Arretheart,” the old man’s voice rang out—slightly high-pitched, but full of genuine emotion. It was clear that the wine had done its part. “And it is an honor for me, as this new year begins, to have all of you as friends and neighbors… It is an honor to represent you before the Baron of Hobbaristal, who has always supported us… And though the royal decree states that only today must we refrain from working due to the Sun Festival… well, to hell with it! It’s been an excellent season, and so—tomorrow, we’ll rest off today’s hangover!”

Cheers, applause, and shouts of joy erupted around him.

The music began to play again for the delight of those present, and the almost paternal gaze of the village’s eldest man—and therefore its representative—radiated happiness and held back tears of joy that never quite fell. He could see his neighbors dancing and celebrating the successful season they’d had. He could see the children still running, fighting invisible creatures. He could see the beautiful silhouettes of the musicians framed by the fire.

But what he didn’t see was the black bolt that shot violently out of the darkness and pierced his eye, tearing through his skull and exiting the other side with bits of brain matter and blood.

At first, no one truly realized what had happened—not even him, who was already dead on his feet.

Within seconds, the village was in chaos. Cries of pain and terror began to blend with those of joy and celebration. The children’s running could no longer be distinguished as play or survival. Arrows flew back and forth, tracing straight lines through the air.

The healer peeked through the window, and what she saw filled her with dread. Arretheart was under attack. Dozens of orcs—huge green-skinned brutes clad in crude chainmail, studded leather, horned helmets, and worn-out mail coifs, armed with machetes, axes, or spears, and of course, crossbows and bows—were invading mercilessly.

She saw one of the villagers running toward her cabin, only to be struck down by an axe that split his head in two. Two children tried crawling into the shadows, but were quickly spotted by a massive savage orc who skewered their bodies with a spear. The screams of mothers crying out for their children were only drowned out by those who were trying to hold their intestines in with their hands—or who were being torn limb from limb for the amusement of the green skins, whose howls completed the hellish scene.

What was chilling was how much the sound of the massacre resembled the sound of the festival—only with different music.

“Bring everyone to the plaza!” the healer heard.

The voice, deep and raspy, belonged to a towering orc, well over two meters tall, wielding an enormous crossbow with an axe blade mounted like a bayonet. His face seemed to show slightly more intelligence than his crude companions. A massive scar twisted his upper lip, revealing the full length of his tusk, anchored in his blackened, drooling gum. His hair was simply tied at the top of his head, shaved at the sides to form a crest. As he spoke, he gestured with his arm—thick as a tree trunk, crisscrossed with deep scars, adorned with massive iron bracelets and a spiked metal pauldron.

“Quickly, I want everyone to hear me!”

The villagers, gripped by horror and dread, obeyed the commands of the massive orc in charge, herded like cattle by the attackers. Once they were gathered in the designated spot, the green-skin leader climbed onto one of the tables and disdainfully kicked the corpse of old Beor, which fell to the ground with a dull thud.

“My name is Djarak, and from now on, you all belong to me. This village belongs to me. You will speak quickly and answer all my questions.”

A heavy silence hung over the survivors.

“That’s more like it. I come in the name of Lord Faradax,” he continued. “We’re looking for a small child… a newborn. The cursed brat should have a mark—something like a tattoo on his face… Have you seen him?”

The villagers exchanged nervous glances, but no one spoke.

At that moment, Djarak stepped forward, grabbed a young man by the neck, and with nothing but the pressure of his hand, crushed it, producing a sickening crack before letting the lifeless body drop at the feet of the horrified hostages.

“I’m not playing games. We’ve already gone through several villages… we need to find—”

“The healer gave birth recently!” shouted one of the villagers.

“And who the hell is this healer? Speak!”

“She... she lives... on that... hill over there!” the man stammered, pointing with a trembling finger. “She’s the only one who’s given birth in the last few months.”

“And why isn’t she here with all of you, you soft-skinned idiots?”

“Sh-she… she doesn’t come out much,” the villager replied, swallowing hard, knowing those might be his last words. “Her childbirth was… strange… and… and she says she hasn’t been with any man and still got pregnant… Many in the village think she’s a witch. Nobody likes her…”

“A witch, my ass!” Djarak bellowed with a thunderous laugh. The orcs around him burst out laughing as well. “Find that bitch and her brat!”

The woman in the cabin, who had not yet fallen victim to the attack—perhaps due to the distance of her home and the cover of darkness offered by the surrounding trees—shuddered when she heard the nickname Djarak chose for her.

Without a second thought, she grabbed a cloak, a bag filled with herbs and food, a waterskin, a dagger, and slipped out the back door, heading east—toward Hobbaristal or Doknar.

At the same time, a dozen orcs began climbing the barely visible path up the hill, toward the cluster of trees surrounding the cabin. From several hundred meters away, the healer saw them approach, storming in with full fury. But within seconds, she turned and, before starting to run, cast a fleeting glance at the baby—who was looking up at her with those large amber eyes and an innocent smile on his lips, dimples forming in his rosy cheeks.

“Don’t worry, little one…mommy´s here. I won’t let them take you.”

She began to run like there was no tomorrow… and truth be told, that was a very real possibility.

After searching the cabin to no avail, the orcs returned to where Djarak was waiting.

“The bitch is gone,” said the first to arrive.

“No! Find her! I’ll make you suffer every one of Demento’s hells if you don’t bring me that bitch, you worthless slackers!”

“What should we do with these soft-skins, Captain Djarak?” asked an orc, licking his lips.

The orc leader gave a half-smile, gazing at the terror and tears streaming down the faces of the poor villagers of Arretheart—men, women, the elderly, and children among them. The clouds now rolling in strongly from the sea began to flicker with lightning, foretelling a great storm.

“Prepare dinner…”