Six months had passed since the Wyrm-Breakers dragged me from the cold dampness of St.
Jude’s Orphanage.
In that time, I had grown.
Thanks to Finn, who possessed an uncanny talent for filching extra dried meat, heavy bread, and thick stews from the poachers’ supply crates, I was no longer the sickly, gaunt child who had arrived in late summer.
My frame had broadened; a layer of lean muscle covered my ribs, and my legs were far stronger, tempered by relentless physical labor and desperate sprints through mountain terrain.
I still looked small—an eleven-year-old child in oversized, patched clothes, appearing weak and unassuming at a glance—but there was progress.
My real growth, however, was not physical.
It was magical.
In just half a year, I had crammed four to five years of practical spellwork into my head.
I lacked formal theoretical background; I couldn’t cite historical wand movements or recite long Latin treatises like a Hogwarts student.
But in terms of pure, lethal application, I was terrifyingly efficient.
Where a wizard spent years mastering spell arcs through trial and error, my brain bypassed the guesswork entirely.
Every spell was reduced to pure geometry, vector physics, and atmospheric pressure variables.
When Jad grudgingly showed us the unlocking charm, Alohomora, I didn’t just learn to unlatch wooden crates.
I calculated the precise vibration frequency needed to shatter internal tumblers, picking heavy iron padlocks in a fraction of a second with a flick of my worn, second-hand wand.
I mastered Incendio, learning to compress the flame arc into a needle-thin jet of heat that could sever thick roots or ignite a poacher’s lantern from twenty yards away.
I learned Flipendo, Diffindo, and basic shield charms—not through textbook study, but under the threat of flying curses, charging beasts, and Jad’s heavy leather belt.
My execution was flawless and unnervingly graceful.
To the poachers, it looked like sheer talent; to me, it was simply cold, instantaneous calculation.
I had been dragged along on three more hunts since the Wampus-Lynx.
I had been used as live bait to flush out a nesting Garten-Wyrm in the damp marshlands, forced to sprint through mud and dodge corrosive acid spits until the trackers could drop their runic cages.
During another hunt, when an aggressive Troll-Boar broke through the trappers’ line, I barely managed to deflect a glancing blow from its razor-sharp tusks with a desperately timed knockback charm to keep myself from being trampled to death.
I was still far from matching the experienced duellists in the camp, but I was rapidly catching up to the dullest, least skilled hands among them.
I had brushed past death half a dozen times, each terrifying encounter stripping away unnecessary panic and training my reflexes to execute my mental calculations in a heartbeat.
“Faster with that brush, ye lazy gobshite!” Jad’s harsh voice roared through the afternoon mist, shattering my thoughts.
Presently, Finn and I were down on our knees in the bloody dirt near the butchering tables, scrubbing dried dragon scales and hardened gore from heavy iron chains.
My hands were raw, caked in dirt and alchemical soap, but I kept my rhythm steady, my wand tucked securely inside my coat sleeve.
“Miserable old turnip,” Finn muttered under his breath, his red hair damp with sweat as he scrubbed next to me.
“One of these days, I’ll slip Devil’s Snare spores into his morning porridge, see how loud he barks then.”
“Keep your head down, Finn,” I murmured back quietly.
“He’s looking this way.”
Before Jad could bark another order, a shadow fell over our work area.
Vanya stepped out from the fog, her long leather coat trailing behind her with silent elegance.
Her dark hazel eyes scanned the butchering line before landing on me.
Jad immediately straightened up, his vulgar posture collapsing into nervous deference.
“Madam Vanya. We’re nearly done with the chains for the next haul—”
“Quiet, Jad,” Vanya said smoothly, her tone soft yet cutting like a razor.
She didn’t even look at him.
She extended one gloved finger and beckoned to me.
“Little bird. Come.”
Jad swallowed hard, snapping his mouth shut and backing away without a word.
I wiped my hands on my trousers, stood up, and glanced at Finn, who gave me a tight, anxious nod.
I followed Vanya through the sprawling camp, passing row after row of enchanted tents, iron cages, and rough-looking duellists sharpening their blades.
“Where are we going, Madam Vanya?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
“The Boss wants to see you,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the path ahead.
“Garrik The Scarred doesn’t usually waste his breath on apprentices, little bird. But your little stunts have reached his ears. Jumping in front of Troll-Boar, dodging six-legged cats, picking locks faster than our best thieves…”
She stopped abruptly, turning on her heel to face me.
Her hazel eyes locked onto mine, and for a fraction of a second, the playful warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory darkness.
She leaned down, her face inches from mine.
“Mind your manners in there, Leon,” she whispered, her fingers gently adjusting the collar of my tunic.
“Garrik is not Jad. If you displease him, he won’t whip you. He’ll feed what’s left of you to the wyverns. Understand?”
Then, just as quickly, her face melted into a sweet, dazzling smile, and she patted my cheek affectionately.
“But don’t be too frightened! You’re far too clever to be stupid. Now, in you go.”
We had reached the center of the camp.
Dominating the clearing was a colossal tent made of thick, dragon-hide leather, reinforced with heavy iron posts and glowing ward-stones embedded in the earth.
But what drew the eye—what made the blood run cold—was what sat atop the structure.
Rigged above the main entrance was the monumental, terrifying skeleton of a dragon.
It was massive, far larger than any normal specimen.
Its horned skull was as wide as a carriage, its long, razor-sharp fangs curving downward like scimitars, gleaming pale white against the grey sky.
The ribcage arched over the tent’s roof like the vaulting arches of a dark cathedral.
It was a trophy of absolute violence.
Vanya gestured toward the heavy leather flap of the entrance.
“He’s waiting.”
I took a breath, steeled my nerves, and pushed the heavy flap aside.
The interior of Garrik Vane’s tent was a striking contradiction.
It was martial and brutal, yet carried an air of dark, aristocratic luxury.
The floor was covered in plush, dark furs—wolf, bear, and magical beasts I couldn’t identify.
Weapon racks lined the canvas walls, holding runic broadswords, silver-tipped spears, and enchanted crossbows alongside shelves of rare alchemical ingredients and dark magical artifacts.
Maps of Europe and the British Isles were pinned to a large tactical board, marked with red ink and iron pins.
At the far end of the tent sat a massive oak desk.
Behind it sat Garrik Vane.
I froze for a moment at the threshold, assessing the man before me.
Garrik Vane was a giant of a man, built like a fortress.
He wore a heavy, fur-lined tunic over dark leather armor, his broad shoulders easily twice the width of a normal man’s.
Long, dark hair fell around his massive jaw, and a thick, unkempt beard covered his chin.
But his most striking feature was his face.
The right side of his face was that of a rugged, handsome warrior.
The left side, however, was a nightmare of ruined flesh.
A horrifying burn covered the entire left half of his head and torso.
The skin was melted, shiny, and tight, pulled into thick, knotty red scars that dragged his left eye down into a permanent, unnatural glare and exposed a sliver of yellowed teeth near his cheek.
It wasn’t just a scar; it was a mark of unimaginable agony that had survived magic.
[image]
“Don’t just stand there lurking in the doorway, boy,” Garrik’s voice boomed, deep and raspy, like grinding stones.
“Step forward.”
I collected myself, stepped into the tent, and bowed my head respectfully.
“Mr. Vane, sir.”
Garrik leaned back in his heavy chair, his good right eye and his twisted left eye both fixing on me with intense scrutiny.
He picked up a parchment from his desk—a report, no doubt—and glanced at it before looking back at me.
“Leon, isn’t it?” Garrik grunted, setting the paper down.
“Six months ago, Jad dragged you into my camp as scrap metal. An orphan boy meant to haul crates, scrub blood, and serve as meat for the traps. I didn’t give you two weeks.”
He folded his massive, scarred hands on the desk.
“And yet, here you are. Vanya tells me you’re dodging Wampus-Lynxes. My duellists tell me you picked up Incendio in an afternoon. Some say you work spells with a precision that makes Jad’s casting look like a drunken troll swinging a club.”
“I only do what is necessary to survive and be useful, sir,” I answered, keeping my tone humble.
Garrik let out a low, rumbling laugh that sounded like dry thunder.
“Useful. Aye, usefulness is the only currency that matters in the Syndicate. You’ve got magic in you, lad, but more than that, you’ve got a good brain. A rare commodity among the muscle-brained fools I employ.”
He leaned forward, placing his heavy elbows on the oak desk.
“Keep progressing at this pace. Prove your loyalty, prove your worth, and you won’t spend your life scrubbing chains with Finn. In a few years, when you’ve grown a proper set of shoulders, I might just make a true Wyrm-Breaker out of you. A duellist. A hunter. Someone who commands.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied.
“I intend to keep learning.”
As I spoke, my eyes involuntarily flicked upward, lingering for a fraction of a second on the massive, twisted mass of melted scar tissue running down his left cheek and neck.
Garrik caught the movement instantly.
His good eye narrowed.
“Interested in the canvas, boy?”
I immediately stiffened, lowering my head.
“I apologize, Mr. Vane. It was disrespectful.”
“Ha!” Garrik barked out a sudden, booming laugh, waving a dismissive, heavily calloused hand.
“At least you don’t avert your eyes like a coward like half the men in this camp. You’re curious. Good. A hunter should be curious.”
He gestured toward the massive dragon skull looming over the tent roof outside.
“You saw the skull outside, didn’t you?” Garrik asked, his voice taking on a darker, theatrical edge, the tone of a master storyteller commanding an audience.
“That was a Swedish Short-Snout. But not just any Short-Snout. A mutated bull, twice the size of its kin, with scales thick as iron plates and a temper matched only by the devil himself.”
Garrik leaned back, his gaze drifting into the past as he began to speak.
“Fifteen years ago, I was still making my name. The Syndicate didn’t respect me yet. I needed something grand—a kill that would force every poacher, smuggler, and dark wizard in Europe to remember the name Garrik Vane. So, I tracked that beast through the frozen peaks of Scandinavia for three weeks.”
His right hand tightened into a fist on the desk.
“We brought it down. Pinned it with sixteen runic anchors, choked it with dampening chains. We had it caged. The greatest prize in northern Europe. And then… the Ministry turned up.”
Garrik’s lip curled into a sneer of pure hatred.
“Not a squad of Aurors. Just one man. A young, arrogant bastard named Alastor Moody.”
My heart skipped a beat at the name, though I kept my expression entirely stone-faced.
“Moody was a nightmare even back then,” Garrik growled, his voice thick with grudging respect and burning fury.
“He tracked us through the blizzard alone. Didn’t wait for backup. He hit our camp like a thunderbolt, blasting through my men before I even drew my wand. We fought in the freezing snow, spell for spell, curse for curse. The air was screaming with dark magic.”
Garrik reached up, his thick fingers tracing the edge of his ruined face.
“In the chaos of our duel, an errant blasting curse hit the cage’s control runes. The Short-Snout broke free. It was blind with rage, thrashing in the storm. I turned to secure the beast, and it caught me point-blank with a stream of blue-white dragonfire.”
He leaned closer, his yellowed teeth bared in a fierce grin.
“Dragonfire doesn’t just burn flesh, boy. It burns magic. It melts skin to the bone in half a second. The pain… normal men die of shock before they hit the ground. But I didn’t die. I screamed, I held my wand, and I threw myself into a glacial river to extinguish the flames.”
Garrik’s voice lowered to a deep, resonant rumble that shook the quiet tent.
“With half my face melted and blood blinding my left eye, I crawled out of that freezing river, bypassed Moody in the dark, and escaped. Moody thought I was dead. The Ministry wrote me off as ash.”
He slammed his heavy fist onto the oak desk with a deafening CRACK.
“Two months later, while my skin was still rotting and healing, I tracked that same dragon back to its lair. I walked in alone, with one good eye and a body screaming in agony, and I drove an enchanted iron lance straight through its throat! I carved its head off, dragged its bones across Europe, and built my hall over its skull!”
The tent fell dead silent.
Garrik sat there, breathing heavily, his scarred face gleaming under the candlelight, looking like a terrifying warlord straight out of ancient legend.
The raw, dangerous power radiating from him was suffocating.
He was not just a criminal; he was a monster who had survived dragonfire and Alastor Moody, emerging stronger and more ruthless.
Garrik slowly exhaled, his composure returning as he smoothed down his leather tunic.
His good eye fixed back on me, cold and calculating once more.
“That is why they call me The Scarred, Leon. Not because I was wounded… but because I survived what should have destroyed me, and I killed the thing that burned me.”
He waved his hand toward the exit.
“Remember that lesson. Pain is just information. Survival is the only victory. Now, get back to your work.”
“Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Vane,” I said quietly, bowing deeply.
I turned and walked out of the tent into the crisp, foggy evening air.
As I passed under the gigantic dragon skull hanging above the entrance, I looked up at the massive pale jaw, feeling a cold, sharp clarity settle over my mind.
Garrik Vane was a monster, but he was a brilliant, lethal monster.
And as long as I was trapped in his camp, I would absorb every piece of strength, every spell, and every tactic he had to offer—until the day I was strong enough to escape or crush his empire to dust.
<><><>
Author’s note :
Garten-Wyrm: A lesser, serpentine variant of dragon native to European marshlands and damp bogs.
Quadrupedal and low to the ground, it hides in wet vegetation and mud to ambush prey.
Lacking full wings or true fire-breathing capabilities, it defends its nest and hunts by spitting streams of highly corrosive acid.
Its hide and acid bladders are prized by dark alchemists for potion-making.
Troll-Boar: A massive, highly aggressive magical beast found in European mountain ranges and dense forests.
Resembling a gargantuan wild boar with thick, hide-like skin, it possesses razor-sharp tusks and a natural resistance to minor knockback and stunned curses.
Known for its unpredictable rage and devastating charges.
So, what do you think about Garrik Vane?
That’s all for today.
Five chapters seems like a good amount for the first day.
I still have some in reserve, but I prefer not to use them up too quickly.