Morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Guild Hall, bathing the polished stone floor in golden streaks. The scent of parchment, ink, and warm tea hung faintly in the air. Inigo and Lyra stood quietly outside Guildmaster Thorne’s office, the ornate double doors before them bearing the silver-etched sigil of the Adventurer’s Guild: a sword, a scroll, and a rising sun.
A clerk emerged from within, nodded once, and held the door open.
"Guildmaster Thorne will see you now."
Inigo and Lyra entered.
Thorne was already standing by the map table at the far end of the chamber, his back turned, hands clasped behind him. His cloak, embroidered with thread-of-gold, hung neatly across his shoulders. A small kettle steamed on the side table beside three porcelain cups. Without turning, he spoke.
"We did," Inigo said.
Thorne turned and gave them a curt nod, his gray eyes sharp as ever.
"We’ve parted ways, for now," Lyra said gently.
"Not out of bitterness," Inigo added. "Just... time. Time to recover. Regroup. If the Demon Lord of Destruction stirs again, we’ll reunite. That was the agreement."
Thorne moved to the table and poured tea into the cups with practiced ease. "The Demon Lord’s aura has quieted—for now. The leyline reports from our arcane divisions confirm it. But quiet does not mean gone. You were wise to split."
"We didn’t come to discuss the past," Lyra said. "We’re looking for a quest."
Thorne raised a brow. "Already? I would’ve thought you’d want at least a week of rest."
"I don’t sleep well unless I have something to aim at," Inigo said simply.
The Guildmaster smirked faintly. "So you’re restless."
He turned to the map table and swept aside a few reports, revealing a sealed letter stamped in red wax with an unfamiliar crest—three crescent moons around a blazing sun.
"This came in last night from the Kingdom of Velnora," Thorne said, tapping the parchment. "A formal request from the crown."
Lyra’s eyes narrowed. "South of the Stonefrost Mountains."
"Correct. Isolated. Mostly untouched by the Demon Lord’s movements. But they’re dealing with something... ancient."
He broke the seal and passed the letter to Inigo.
The words were neat, formal, and filled with urgency:
To the Honored Adventurer’s Guild of Elandra,
We request aid from your strongest adventurers. There have been confirmed sightings of a red dragon in the Emberreach Highlands. We have already lost two scout regiments, a village has been razed, and the beast has claimed a section of the mountain as its territory.
We ask for your elite. If possible, the one called Inigo.
–Signed, Marshal Cedric of Velnora’s Royal Guard
Inigo’s brows drew together. "A red dragon?"
Lyra inhaled deeply. "That’s not just a request. That’s a plea."
"You’ve never encountered a dragon, have you?" Thorne asked, voice low.
"No," Inigo admitted. "I’ve heard the word tossed around, but never saw one."
Lyra stepped forward, her voice steady. "Dragons are not just beasts. They are apex predators—ancient, intelligent, and above all, territorial. Each one is a force of nature. Red dragons especially."
Thorne nodded. "Red dragons thrive in volcanic regions. Fire breath, immense physical strength, and cunning minds. They don’t just burn villages—they conquer them. They demand tribute. They sleep atop mountains of gold."
Inigo crossed his arms. "So this one’s no mindless monster."
"Not at all," Lyra said. "There are five primary types of True Dragons. Red, Blue, Green, Black, and White. Each with unique traits and elemental affinities. Reds breathe fire. Blues harness lightning. Greens use poison, Blacks are swamp dwellers with acidic breath, and Whites—frost and cold."
"There are also metallic dragons," Thorne added, "but they rarely appear, and they don’t cause the kind of destruction chromatic ones do. Reds are particularly aggressive. If this one’s claimed territory in Velnora, it’s only a matter of time before it spreads outward."
Inigo stared at the map of the south. The Emberreach Highlands lay beyond the border, a vast region of broken mountains, sulfur vents, and smoking valleys. Isolated. Remote. Perfect for a dragon.
"They asked for me by name," he said.
Thorne nodded. "Word of your success spreads quickly."
"I’ll go," Inigo said. "I don’t care if it’s a red dragon or a fire-breathing squirrel. They asked for help."
Lyra grinned. "I’m with you. Always."
Thorne leaned forward and placed a stamped mission scroll on the table. "You’ll ride south by caravan. The Guild’s arranged passage to the border outpost. From there, you’ll cross into Velnora on foot or use your own carriage, though the terrain may be difficult."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small enchanted amulet.
"This will serve as your communication link with Elandra. Keep it close. If things go south—call."
Inigo picked it up and pocketed it. "Understood."
Thorne exhaled. "And Inigo..."
He paused, voice softening.
"...don’t underestimate it. You’ve fought beasts, corrupted fiends, even demonic spawn. But dragons are something else. They think. They plan. And if this one’s been dormant for centuries, it may be hungry, vengeful, and far older than anything we’ve charted."
Inigo gave a faint nod. "I won’t."
By noon, they were packed and ready.
The JLTV had been reloaded with supplies—rations, ammunition, repair kits, and new alchemical arrows for Lyra. Her bow rested beside her seat, gleaming after a full re-polish. Inigo sat in the driver’s seat, map tucked between the dashboard and windshield.
The streets of Elandra were busy as ever. Merchants shouted their wares, street musicians played near the plaza, and children ran after the armored vehicle as it rolled down the main avenue toward the southern gate.
Lyra leaned her head against the glass. "I’ve never been to Velnora before."
"A little. I’ve read about dragons since I was a child. But this... this feels real now."
Inigo adjusted the mirrors and sighed. "It always feels real when someone burns."
They passed through the city gates, saluting the guards on duty. One of them, a young elven recruit, raised a fist to his chest.
"Good luck out there!" he called.
Lyra smiled. "They’ll need more than luck if that dragon spreads."
They traveled south through the Riverlands, the golden plains giving way to rocky foothills and the first hints of the mountain range beyond. A caravan of guild wagons rode alongside them for part of the way before veering east toward a separate outpost.
As they ascended higher, the air grew drier, laced with smoke and sulfur.
On the fourth day, they reached the border watchtower.
It was a stone bastion built atop a ridge, manned by a mix of Velnoran soldiers and Guild scouts. One officer—a grizzled knight with a half-burned cloak—met them at the gate.
"You’re Inigo?" he asked, eyeing the JLTV.
"You brought the metal beast they mentioned. Good."
He extended a gloved hand. "Marshal Cedric. Welcome to the frontier."
Inigo shook it firmly. "Show us where the dragon sleeps."
Marshal Cedric’s face was grave. "If only we knew. But we’ve got smoke trails. And bones. You’ll see."
Inigo and Lyra exchanged a look.