Early the next morning, the Skink guards pulled the wooden bar from the prison door.
The iron gate opened with barely a sound.
There was no harsh rattle of chains dragging across the floor.
Only the dull thud of the wooden pin sliding free from its iron ring.
“You.”
The leading Skink pointed the shaft of its javelin at Lysandor.
“The Lord wishes to question you.”
“Come with me.”
It spoke in the Common Tongue.
The pronunciation was rough.
Every word sounded as though it had been crushed between claws before being forced out.
But it was understandable.
Lysandor glanced toward his deputy.
She remained seated against the stone wall atop the straw bedding.
Her expression was calm.
She simply gave a slight nod.
I’ll stay here.
Go.
Lysandor followed the Skink upstairs.
Morning sunlight filtered through the firing slits in the watchtowers, casting long ribbons of light across the stone pavement.
The city was already alive.
Companies of Saurus Spearmen drilled upon the training grounds.
Sunlight flashed from polished bronze shields through the lingering morning mist.
Outside the forge, Skink artisans crouched while sharpening freshly forged javelin heads.
Bright sparks scattered from the grinding stones like tiny stars.
From the Cold One pens came the deep growls of the beasts greeting the dawn.
Golden Tower had awakened with the sunrise.
Every corner of the city moved with the sound of scales.
The Skink led him to the base of the stone platform on the northern side of the plaza.
There was no throne.
No ceremonial guards.
No grand decorations.
Only a massive blue-scaled Lizardman sitting cross-legged upon the edge of the platform.
His tail rested lazily along the steps.
The broken spike at its tip tapped lightly against the stone.
Spread before him were a few simple items.
A bark-paper map.
Several clay bowls.
And a serving of roasted meat that still steamed in the cool morning air.
Kroq-Gar had just lifted a piece of meat toward his mouth.
When he noticed Lysandor approaching, he calmly placed it back into the bowl.
With a sweep of his tail, he nudged a flat stone toward his guest.
“Sit.”
Lysandor obeyed.
Not out of submission.
His legs had simply gone weak the moment he saw the enormous creature sitting casually with crossed legs.
A giant Lizardman standing three and a half metres tall and weighing nearly two tonnes…
Sitting comfortably on a stone platform.
Eating breakfast.
Inviting him to sit.
The scene clashed so violently with every patrol report describing “cold-blooded beasts” that his mind needed several moments to adjust.
Kroq-Gar pushed another bowl of roasted meat toward him.
“Eat.”
Lysandor stared at it.
The meat had been cut into thick chunks.
Its surface carried a light char.
Coarse salt glittered across it.
He wasn’t hungry.
Captured scouts rarely were.
Years of habit made eating difficult after capture.
Still…
He reached for a piece.
Not because of hunger.
Because that enormous scaled tail rested less than a pace away, slowly swaying from side to side.
He took a bite.
The meat came from some rainforest bird.
Tender.
Perfectly roasted.
The seasoning was simple, but the salt was just right.
“Elf.”
Kroq-Gar finally spoke.
His voice remained deep and steady.
“Why are you at war with the humans?”
Lysandor lowered the piece of meat.
The question did not surprise him.
Any commander meeting an unknown civilisation for the first time would place the current state of war among the first subjects to discuss.
“Border disputes.”
“Eighty years ago, the Kingdom of Aelhart crossed the Grey Ridge Mountains and established three colonial settlements along the eastern edge of the Elven Forest.” Visit g.com for the full chapter.
“We repeatedly demanded they withdraw east of the mountains.”
“They refused.”
“Thirty years ago, King Aelhart officially declared the eastern forest to be part of his kingdom.”
“Twelve years ago, human settlers began cutting down the forests along our frontier.”
“Six years ago, the Elven Council issued its final ultimatum.”
“They demanded the evacuation of every disputed settlement.”
“The humans refused.”
“Four years ago, war began.”
At some point during his explanation, Tekuna quietly approached.
The Skink Priest crouched upon a nearby stone with a charcoal stick, rapidly recording everything upon bark paper.
Lysandor noticed the writing wasn’t in the Common Tongue.
It was another script entirely.
One he had never seen before.
The characters resembled overlapping scales.
The Priest was documenting every word.
“How is the war progressing?”
Kroq-Gar asked.
“The Elves currently hold the advantage.”
“We have besieged the southern city of Clermont in the Kingdom of Aelhart.”
“The siege has lasted for over a month.”
“The northern front remains locked along the Grey Ridge Mountains.”
“Neither side has made meaningful advances.”
“But the human supply lines are far weaker than ours.”
“We destroyed their granaries.”
“Their border agriculture has nearly collapsed.”
“If the war continues for another year, Aelhart will most likely sue for peace.”
“What other races exist in this world?”
Kroq-Gar asked, changing the subject without warning.
That casual transition unsettled Lysandor even more.
An advanced civilisation…
That didn’t know who else lived in the world.
Either these Lizardmen had only recently emerged from complete isolation…
Or they came from somewhere beyond this world.
Neither possibility comforted him.
“Elves.”
“Humans.”
“The Old World contains many kingdoms and empires.”
“Aelhart is only one of them.”
“Dwarfs.”
“They dwell deep beneath the mountains.”
“They trade with us but have remained neutral in this war.”
“Halflings.”
“They are few in number.”
“Most live within human cities, earning their living through trade and craftsmanship.”
He paused.
For a moment, he debated whether to continue.
Then he did.
“There is one more.”
“What?”
“We call them…”
“The Dark Enemy.”
His voice lowered instinctively.
Not by choice.
Simply because every discussion of them did.
“They are not native to this world.”
“According to Dwarven records, they appeared several centuries ago.”
“At first there were only scattered sightings.”
“Twisted beasts roaming the northern wastes.”
“The dead rising from their graves.”
“Entire villages disappearing overnight.”
“Then they became more numerous.”
“They now control vast territories in the far north.”
“The human kingdoms fight defensive wars against them every year.”
“The Elven Forest has not yet been invaded.”
“But our elders believe it is only a matter of time.”
Kroq-Gar slowly lowered his bowl.
Until now, he had continued eating throughout the conversation.
But the words…
“Appeared several centuries ago…”
Made his claws stop moving.
“What kind of demons?”
Lysandor remained silent for a long moment.
Not because he wished to hide the answer.
Because he suddenly realised this conversation represented the first intelligence this hidden civilisation would ever receive regarding the Dark Enemy.
He remembered his old instructor.
A veteran from the northern front.
The man had once told him,
“The ones you understand.”
“The ones you don’t.”
“And the ones you don’t even realise you know nothing about.”
The Dark Enemy belonged to the third category.
“We don’t know.”
The admission tasted bitter.
“The Elven Council and the scholars of the Great Library have studied them for more than a century.”
“We have confirmed only three things.”
“First.”
“They are not native to this world.”
“Second.”
“They appear to share a common source of corruption.”
“We call it dark magic.”
“Or foul sorcery.”
“But they call it…”
“Chaos.”
“Third.”
“Their forms vary endlessly.”
“Some resemble twisted humans.”
“Some resemble warped beasts.”
“And some…”
He hesitated.
“…cannot truly be described.”
He drew a slow breath.
Tekuna had stopped writing.
The Skink Priest simply watched him now.
Golden eyes fixed upon him with quiet concentration.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, the scrutiny made him uncomfortable.
“There are many varieties.”
“The weakest are corrupted mortals.”
“Human rebels.”
“Chaos cultists.”
“They eventually degenerate into monsters that exist only to walk and kill.”
“Above them are Chaos Warriors.”
“They wear black armour.”
“They wield corrupted weapons.”
“They are far stronger and faster than ordinary humans.”
“Our scouts have also encountered Chaos Spawn.”
“They are masses of uncontrolled muscle and limbs.”
He glanced toward Kroq-Gar.
“In terms of size…”
“They’re probably comparable to you.”
Kroq-Gar didn’t react at all.
Faced with that unnervingly calm gaze, Lysandor began to understand something.
The giant Lizardman before him might know far more about Chaos than he did.
He could no longer tell whether he was a prisoner being interrogated…
Or an intelligence source unknowingly briefing an entirely different civilisation.
“We’ve never encountered every variety of Chaos ourselves,” Lysandor continued.
“The Elves only fight defensive campaigns along the northern frontier.”
“The strongest Chaos entities remain deep within the Chaos Wastes bordering the human empires.”
“They lie far beyond our reach.”
“The most powerful Chaos creature we’ve personally documented is the Chaos Spawn.”
He spread his hands.
After making the gesture, he realised he had no idea whether it carried the same meaning here.
Even so, he finished it.
“If stronger forms exist…”
“We’ve never seen them.”
“And we don’t know.”
“You have known of these demons for centuries.”
Kroq-Gar’s voice remained calm.
“You call them the Dark Enemy.”
“And yet…”
“You’ve never truly understood them.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a statement.
Kroq-Gar folded the map before him and set it aside.
Then he pushed the untouched bowl of roasted meat closer to Lysandor.
The bowl overflowed with thick cuts of meat.
Oil shimmered across the broth beside floating wild greens.
Kroq-Gar rose to his feet.
His three-and-a-half-metre frame cast a long shadow across the stone platform beneath the morning sun.
The shadow completely enveloped Lysandor where he sat.
“You don’t know what demons truly are.”
His deep voice was quiet.
It sounded as though he were speaking both to Lysandor…
And to himself.
“I do.”