The central clearing of the Wyrm-Breakers camp was bathed in the harsh, flickering orange light of three massive bonfires.
At the center of the gathering stood Garrik Vane.
The scarred leader of the Wyrm-Breakers towered over the crowd, his heavy dragon-hide trench coat draped over his broad shoulders.
The firelight played brutally across his ruined face, highlighting the contrast between his dark, sharp right eye and the milky, dead tissue on his left.
Beside him stood Leon.
Garrik didn’t wait for silence.
The low murmurs of the poachers died down instantly as the giant man stepped forward, raising one hand.
In his other hand, he held a heavy burlap sack, soaked with congealed blood at the bottom.
“Look at this boy,” Garrik’s voice boomed, carrying easily across the camp without the aid of a Sonorus spell.
“Two years ago, he was a scrawny, worthless Muggle-born orphan pulled out of a gutter in Sheffield. Most of you thought he wouldn’t last three months as bait.”
Low rumbles of laughter rippled through the crowd.
Leon kept his expression unreadable, looking at the crowd’s reactions, analysing the shifts in posture and gaze.
“Today,” Garrik continued, his voice dropping into a dangerous, reverberating pitch, “he walked into the frozen crags with us. He faced rival scum trying to steal our kill. And when the steel was drawn…”
With a sudden, violent movement, Garrik reached into the burlap sack, pulled out the severed, frozen head of the rival poacher by its greasy hair, and held it high above his head.
Dark blood droplets sprayed onto the snow.
“He spilled blood. He claimed his kill !” Garrik roared, casting the severed head onto the center table with a heavy, sickening thud.
“Leon is no longer a stray dog under our boots! He is a Wyrm-Breaker!”
A wild, thunderous cheer erupted from the gang.
Wands were thrust into the air, shooting harmless streams of golden and crimson sparks that dissipated harmlessly into the dark canopy of the pine trees, strictly contained within the ward line so as not to attract unwanted attention.
“Eat! Drink! Tomorrow we hunt!” Garrik barked before tossing the empty sack aside and stepping back, clapping a heavy, iron-like hand onto Leon’s shoulder.
‘A rough diamond ,’ Garrik’s dark eye seemed to say, inspecting his investment with brutal satisfaction.
The banquet began immediately.
Huge platters of roasted meats—boar, enchanted venison, and cuts of magical beasts that smelled of rich spices and smoke—were slammed onto long wooden tables magically expanded for the occasion.
Flagons of heavy mead, spiced rum, and dark ale flowed freely, enchanted barrels self-refilling as the poachers dug in with ruthless appetites.
Near the fire, a young couple in their mid-twenties, Robert and Olivia, stepped onto a pair of overturned wooden crates.
Robert slung a battered, enchanted fiddle over his shoulder, while Olivia pulled out an accordion lined with brass runes.
They struck up a fast, aggressive rhythm—a rough, raucous style of magic-infused music, reminiscent of ancient sea shanties adapted for dark wizards hiding in the shadows.
Soon, a dozen burly poachers were slamming their wooden mugs against the tables, chanting the chorus in unison:
“Oh, the Ministry hunts in the daylight light, And the Aurors preach what’s wrong and right! But the dragon’s skin pays double in gold, And the night belongs to the brave and bold! So drink your mead and sharpen your blade, By the blood on the snow, our fortunes are made!”
Leon stood near the edge of the firelight, holding a heavy mug of spiced ale.
He observed the chaotic celebration: the rhythm of the music, the scent of roasting meat, the subtle shift in power dynamics across the camp.
“Look at you, little bird,” a smooth, dangerous voice purred close to his ear.
Vanya materialized beside him with the fluid grace of a predator.
She smelled of pine, cold mountain air, and faint iron.
Her hazel eyes gleamed under the firelight, her shoulder-length chestnut hair framed by her dark leather coat.
“A full member now,” she murmured, stepping uncomfortably close.
She reached up, her fingers sliding up his jawline to cup his chin, holding his lower face firmly in her grip.
Leon could feel the warmth of her palm, contrasting with the icy bite of her intent.
She slowly ran her tongue over her full lips, her dark gaze locking onto his pale blue eyes.
“Now that you’re one of us… I have every excuse to spend so much more time with you.”
‘She’s dangerous.
Unpredictable,’ Leon thought instantly, assessing the threat level of her proximity.
‘She enjoys pushing boundaries.
At this rate, she’s going to end up devouring me whole…
To be honest, I wouldn’t even mind it that much, just not like this—not while I’m at her mercy.’
Leon didn’t flinch, nor did he break eye contact, but he raised his hand, his grip firm and unyielding as he gently but decisively took her wrist and pushed her hand away from his face.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, Vanya,” Leon replied, his voice entirely devoid of the panic an ordinary twelve-year-old should feel.
“And I look forward to learning more from you. But keep your hands to yourself.”
Vanya paused, her eyes widening slightly in genuine surprise before a wicked, amused smile spread across her face.
“Resisting me already?” she laughed softly, a husky, intoxicating sound.
“Barely a man, and you already think you can draw lines with me? How adorable.” She leaned in, her breath warm against his cheek.
“I’ll let you off the hook tonight, little bird. Enjoy your victory. But don’t think you can run forever.”
She gave his cheek a pat that hovered on the edge of a slap, turned gracefully on her heel, and melted back into the crowd, leaving Leon with a lingering sense of unease.
He respected her lethal skill, but her sadistic edge kept every alarm bell in his mind ringing.
Taking a sip of his ale, Leon began walking through the camp.
As he moved, he noticed Jad—the brutal poacher who had spent the last two years terrorizing him and Finn—standing near a weapons rack.
The moment Jad’s eyes met Leon’s, the older man’s sneer faltered.
Jad looked down at the dragon-hide coat on Leon’s back, then at the silver hunting knife at his belt, and quickly turned away, hurrying toward the other side of the camp.
‘Fear,’ Leon calculated cleanly.
‘He knows I’m no longer helpless.
He knows what I did today.’
Further down the table, two familiar figures waved him over.
Kaelen and Bram, the two veteran poachers he had accompanied on his very first hunt against the Skardraken, were grinning through grease-stained beards.
“There he is! The head-chopper!” Kaelen barked, clapping Leon on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.
“Grab a seat, kid! You did well out there.”
“Aye, clean strike,” Bram agreed, shoving a plate of roasted boar toward him.
Leon joined them for a while, engaging in low-key banter, learning small details about his future job, like trade routes, creature hides, and black-market buyers.
He absorbed every piece of information like a sponge, filing it away for his future plans.
As the night wore on and the alcohol took full effect, the atmosphere grew wilder.
Near the creature pens at the edge of the camp, a group of drunken poachers dragged out a chained, iron-collared Troll-Boar—a massive, aggressive beast with thick grey hide and curved, deadly tusks.
The creature snorted in rage, thrashing against its heavy chains.
The poachers were starting a favorite camp game: riding the thrashing beast while holding onto its iron collar, placing bets on who could stay on the longest before being thrown into the snow.
Kaelen finished his flagon and stood up, grinning wildly.
“Look at that beast! Bram, come on! Let’s see who lasts longer!” He turned to Leon.
“What about you, kid? Want to show us if you can ride a Troll-Boar?”
Leon looked at the creature.
The beast was terrified, enraged, and bleeding from where its chains chafed its neck.
While Leon had no moral qualms about hunting, killing, or harvesting magical creatures for power and profit, he saw no logic or purpose in pointlessly tormenting an animal for drunken amusement.
“Pass,” Leon said smoothly, offering a polite smile.
“I’ll leave the bruises to you two.”
“Suit yourself!” Bram laughed, running off with Kaelen toward the chaotic spectacle.
Leon quietly stepped away from the roaring crowd.
He navigated through the shadowy edge of the camp until he reached the quiet tent he shared with Finn.
Finn was sitting on a wooden crate just outside the tent flap, his arms wrapped around his knees.
Because he was still an uninitiated captive, he wasn’t allowed near the main feast or the alcohol.
When Finn saw Leon approaching, a genuine grin split his freckled face.
“Look at the grand hero,” Finn teased softly, using his familiar Dublin accent.
“Survived Vanya, survived Vane, and survived the bloody crowd.”
“Barely,” Leon replied, stepping into the tent with a dark glass bottle of high-grade butterbeer he had quietly snagged from the main table.
He sat down on the crate next to Finn, unstoppered the bottle, took a modest drink, and handed it over to the Irish boy.
Finn’s eyes widened.
“Is that…?”
“Butterbeer,” Leon said quietly.
“Vane said I’m a full member now. Which means my rations are my own to share.”
Finn took the bottle, his hands trembling slightly, and took a deep gulp before coughing at the slight burn of the liquid.
“Ah, bloody hell… I’m not used to this stuff!” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, looking at Leon with a mixture of awe and deep relief.
“You really did it, didn’t you? You’re one of them now.”
“Only on paper, Finn,” Leon said, his voice dropping into a quiet, cold tone that only his friend was meant to hear.
He looked back toward the roaring bonfires, watching the shadows of the Wyrm-Breakers dancing against the trees.
“This gang is a tool. A stepping stone.”
Finn looked at his friend, sensing the absolute certainty in Leon’s words.
He took another sip of the mead and handed the bottle back.
“Wherever you’re going with this, Leon… just don’t leave me behind in this shithole.”
“I won’t,” Leon replied, taking the bottle.
‘I need loyal hands for what comes next.
And Finn is the first.’
The two boys sat together in the cold Nordic night, sharing the stolen bottle in silence as the wild, lawless songs of the poachers echoed through the dark pine forest.