Before dawn had fully broken, the old blacksmith was already hammering iron outside the abandoned mill.
With a chipped hammer, he struck an old ploughshare hanging from the wall.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The ringing echoed through the misty morning air.
Old Cole walked over from the oak tree with a bundle of dried meat strapped across his back.
The supplies had arrived just before dawn.
A Skink courier had run more than a hundred and fifty miles through the night from Golden Tower to deliver them outside Harmstone.
Cole never revealed where the meat had come from.
He simply told the blacksmith,
“The people coming to meet us sent it.”
The blacksmith examined the grain of the dried meat and the vine bindings securing the bundle.
He said nothing.
Instead, he turned and distributed it among the women and children inside the mill.
From Harmstone to the edge of the rainforest was less than a day’s journey.
The Whitewater River was shallow.
Cole led everyone to the narrowest crossing he knew.
The smooth pebbles beneath the water had been warmed by the afternoon sun, making them comfortable beneath bare feet.
He crossed first to test the depth.
The water barely reached his knees.
Turning back, he called,
“It’s safe.
Come across.”
One after another, the refugees entered the river.
The old blacksmith carried an elderly woman who could no longer walk.
Cole carried a child no older than four.
Several young men supported the pregnant woman on a makeshift stretcher.
Her name was Ella.
Her husband had remained behind in Clermont to defend the city.
When they parted, he had promised,
“If the city survives, I’ll come find you.”
She had already been more than eight months pregnant when she escaped over the city walls with the refugees.
After travelling more than forty miles, the strain had triggered premature labour.
Watching her lying silently on the stretcher with her eyes closed, Cole silently cursed the Kingdom of Erhart again and again.
Beyond the Whitewater River, the grasslands slowly disappeared behind them.
Trees began to appear.
At first, scattered shrubs.
Then thin woodland.
Further ahead, the canopy thickened until it blocked out most of the sky.
This was the very edge of the rainforest.
Chaos had not yet tainted the air.
The only scents were damp earth and decaying leaves.
As they walked, Cole searched the tree trunks for familiar marks.
The Skink scouts had carved them.
Tiny arrows.
One every fifty paces.
Every arrow pointed in the same direction.
Each time he found one, he looked back and called,
“This way.”
“Stay close.”
The forest grew darker.
The townsfolk who had never entered a rainforest before stared upward.
Towering ancient trees stretched endlessly overhead.
Only thin shafts of sunlight slipped through gaps in the canopy.
Massive trunks wrapped in vines.
Stone covered in emerald moss.
Silence gradually settled over the group.
Even the children stopped crying.
It wasn’t because they weren’t afraid.
They had become so frightened that silence was all they had left.
Like tiny animals hiding beneath bushes while a predator passed nearby.
Afraid even to breathe too loudly.
One young man walking at the rear constantly glanced behind him.
He could have sworn something moved within the bushes.
Every time he turned…
Nothing.
He never noticed the grey-scaled scouts.
They crouched high among the branches, hidden behind curtains of vines.
Their scales blended almost perfectly with the bark.
He couldn’t see them.
But they saw him.
“Old Cole…”
The blacksmith lowered his voice.
“The people coming to meet us…”
“Soon,” Cole replied.
Another half hour passed.
The canopy thickened until almost no sunlight reached the forest floor.
Only the occasional beam illuminated patches of dark humus.
Then Cole stopped.
He had found the marker.
Not an arrow this time.
A circle.
Inside it was the simple carving of a serpent.
The Lizardmen’s symbol.
The rendezvous point.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Very light.
Not human footsteps.
Human boots made dull sounds against the forest floor.
These were sharper.
The soft rustling of scaled feet brushing across fallen leaves.
The sounds came from every direction.
Behind trees.
Above them in the canopy.
Deep within the undergrowth.
The refugees heard them too.
Their reactions varied.
Some froze.
Some instinctively stepped backwards.
Others clutched the hands of those beside them.
Small…
Slender…
Pairs of golden eyes flashing between the bushes.
A Skink slowly leaned its head out from behind a curtain of vines.
Tilting its head, it quietly observed the humans.
It wasn’t watching prey.
Nor an enemy.
It was simply curious.
Someone screamed.
A young woman stumbled backwards until she struck a tree trunk.
Her cry startled brightly coloured birds from the canopy.
They burst into the air in a whirl of feathers.
Several men instinctively stepped forward.
One drew a sickle.
Another grabbed a broken branch.
A mother pulled her child tightly against her chest.
The child immediately burst into tears.
Cole turned to face everyone.
His voice wasn’t loud.
But every word carried weight.
“Don’t run!”
Every pair of eyes fixed on him.
He stood between the refugees and the Skink skirmishers.
“I told you before.”
“The people meeting us don’t look like us.”
He stepped aside, allowing everyone a clear view.
The Skinks made no move to attack.
They simply stood there.
A patrol armed with javelins.
Seven or eight crouched upon exposed roots.
Three stood near the bushes.
Their grey-scaled scout captain remained at the front, quietly studying the unfamiliar humans with calm golden eyes.
“They won’t hurt you.”
“I lived beside them for an entire month.”
“They gave me food.”
“They gave me clothes.”
“They gave me a place to live.”
“I’ve been safer here than I ever was back in Harmstone.”
After a pause, he added,
“They’re only scouts.”
“The ones truly waiting for us are further ahead.”
Silence answered him.
The old blacksmith narrowed his remaining eye.
He wasn’t watching their faces.
He was watching their weapons.
Their javelins rested casually upon their shoulders.
Not aimed at anyone.
Not held in attack.
Simply carried while on patrol.
An old blacksmith might never have learned to read words.
But he knew how to read weapons.
Slowly, he lowered the hammer in his hand.
Behind him, his daughter and daughter-in-law finally relaxed their breathing, although neither looked away from the scaled warriors.
Then another sound echoed through the forest.
The ground trembled.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Heavy.
Steady.
Like a mountain walking.
The vibrations grew stronger.
Leaves high above began to shiver.
Every Skink scout immediately stood upright.
Then…
A massive shadow emerged from the depths of the rainforest.
He stood three and a half metres tall.
Blue scales shimmered beneath the scattered rays of sunlight filtering through the canopy.
Every scale bore old scars.
Ancient marks left behind by countless battles fought across thousands of years.
They resembled cracks carved into stone.
Yet they were harder than any forged armour.
One enormous scaled hand brushed aside branches blocking his path.
Muscles rippled beneath the scales along his forearm as thick branches bent like dry reeds.
His shoulder grazed an ancient tree trunk.
A large patch of moss scraped away, leaving faint blue scale dust behind.
His powerful tail swayed calmly behind him.
The broken spike near its tip traced slow arcs through the air.
Then his face emerged fully from the foliage.
The face of Kroq-Gar.
His slit pupils narrowed in the dim forest before slowly widening again.
Behind those reptilian eyes rested Zhang Ke’s calm, measured gaze.
He slowly surveyed every person before him.
Judging.
Observing.
Measuring.
No one screamed.
Not because they weren’t afraid.
Because terror had stolen even their voices.
The young woman who had screamed moments earlier stood frozen, her mouth hanging open without a sound.
The man holding the sickle slowly placed it on the ground, afraid the weapon might be mistaken for hostility.
The old blacksmith rose to his feet.
His hammer slipped from his fingers and landed heavily on the earth.
He never bent down to retrieve it.
Then Ella cried out.
Not a scream.
A short gasp.
Followed by the sharp sound of clenched teeth.
Her fingers dug into the rough wooden stretcher.
Another contraction.
The blacksmith’s daughter knelt beside her and touched her forehead.
“She’s burning up.”
Cole turned toward the refugees.
“This…”
He looked at the crowd before turning toward Kroq-Gar.
“This is who I told you about.”
“He is Kroq-Gar.”
“He saved us from Chaos.”
“He is the one who sent me back for you.”
No one spoke.
Some stared into Kroq-Gar’s face.
Others couldn’t take their eyes off the massive claws that looked capable of tearing open iron armour with ease.
Others looked at the towering spear resting across his back.
Then a little girl suddenly slipped free from her mother’s grasp.
Her mother was already holding a younger child and failed to stop her.
The little girl walked to the very front of the group.
She was no older than six.
Thin enough for her chin to look almost pointed.
Her hair was tangled.
She wore no shoes.
Tilting her head upward, she stared at Kroq-Gar for a very long time.
Finally she asked,
“Are you a dragon?”
Kroq-Gar looked down at the child.
His slit pupils widened slightly in the dim light before narrowing once more.
He slowly crouched.
One knee rested upon the ground.
The other remained raised.
He lowered himself as much as possible so she could clearly see his face.
When he spoke, his deep voice was softer than anyone there had yet heard.
“I’m not a dragon.”
“I’m a lizard.”
The little girl tilted her head thoughtfully.
Then she reached into her pocket and produced a shrivelled wild berry.
It was no larger than her thumb.
Its skin had wrinkled with age.
She had picked it during the journey and carefully saved it instead of eating it.
Kroq-Gar accepted the tiny fruit.
He placed it gently upon his left palm.
The claws of his right hand hovered in mid-air.
Then slowly withdrew.
He realised they were too sharp.
They would crush the fruit.
Those claws could split stone and pierce iron.
Yet now they moved with extraordinary care simply to avoid damaging a child’s gift.
He carefully held the berry in his palm before quietly speaking to the grey-scaled Skink captain beside him.
“Keep this safe.”
The scout accepted it with both hands.
As though receiving a sacred relic.
Kroq-Gar rose to his feet.
Turning toward the Skink skirmishers, he released a short, commanding hiss.
The sound echoed like stone grinding against stone.
Instantly, every Skink dispersed.
Within moments they had established a fresh defensive perimeter extending fifty paces in every direction.
Only then did he turn back toward the humans.
“Come with us.”
His deep voice remained calm and unmistakably clear.
Each word landed with the weight of carved stone.
He carefully counted every refugee from the mill.
Then the remaining families from Harmstone.
Only after confirming everyone was present did his eyes settle upon Ella.
She lay silently upon the makeshift stretcher, sweat covering her forehead as her fingers gripped the frame.
Kroq-Gar walked toward a fallen rainforest giant beside the path.
It had been toppled long ago by a violent storm.
The trunk was as thick as a grown man’s waist.
He bent down.
His left hand seized the roots.
His right grasped the middle of the trunk.
With a powerful pull, the muscles beneath his scales swelled.
His spine released a deep, resonant crack.
The entire trunk tore free.
He flipped it across one knee.
With several swift strokes of his claws, bark and wood chips flew in every direction.
Moments later, one side had been carved perfectly flat.
He bound thick vines around both ends.
Four Skinks each tested one corner.
Satisfied with its strength, they secured the platform between two Cold Ones.
One walked in front.
The other behind.
The knots were tied with the precision of seasoned dockworkers.
“Lay her down.”
Cole and the blacksmith’s daughter carefully helped Ella onto the wooden sled.
As she settled onto it, her tightly closed eyelids fluttered open.
Above her, the endless rainforest canopy drifted slowly past.
The Cold Ones walked with remarkable stability.
The vines remained taut.
The wooden platform glided smoothly across the forest floor.
Far more gently than being carried by hand.
Cole resumed leading the column.
After consulting with the Skink scouts, he chose a route marked by serpent symbols carved into tree trunks.
The packed earth and scattered stones allowed the Cold Ones to move without difficulty.
The column formed up once again.
The Skinks marched close along the refugees’ right flank, lightly tapping the ground with the tips of their tails to maintain formation.
The old blacksmith walked behind his daughter.
She supported his arm.
A small boy rode inside a woven basket resting against his mother’s shoulder.
The breathing of humans blended with the soft scraping of reptilian scales brushing against low branches as the combined column steadily disappeared into the heart of the rainforest.
The little girl who had offered Kroq-Gar the berry rested quietly in her mother’s arms.
Peeking over her mother’s shoulder, she continued watching the enormous blue figure walking behind them.