He jolted awake, gasping for breath. His skin was slick with sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum. He sat up, running a trembling hand through his hair, his pulse still caught in the throes of a nightmare that felt more like a memory. Flames.
They licked the sky, turning night into a hellish dawn. The air was thick with smoke, choking screams, and the sound of timber collapsing into embers.
From the highest watchtower of Marsh Town, a lone figure stood—his father. The mayor, the protector, the man who swore to shield his people from any threat. With desperate precision, he adjusted the great ballista, its steel bolt aimed at the monstrous shadow soaring through the flames. Varkhaz'gor.
The Elder Dragon, the scourge of the Grey Mountains, its scales glinting like molten gold under the inferno it had unleashed. It roared, and the earth itself trembled in terror. The ballista fired. A deadly projectile, a sliver of hope— it missed.
One after another, arrows rained from the walls, from rooftops, from the hands of desperate defenders. None found their mark. The dragon weaved through the air, unchallenged, its wings casting a shadow over the doomed city. Then came the final breath.
A torrent of flames erupted from its maw, engulfing the watchtower, the gates, the streets—everything. People fled, but there was no escape. The town burned, its screams swallowed by the roar of the firestorm.
And in the chaos, a child watched—helpless, terrified—as his father perished in the blaze, along with the town he swore to protect. Now, that child had become a man.
He sat in the dim glow of his chamber, rubbing his face with calloused hands. Sleep had never been kind, but tonight, it felt like a curse. His father's failure haunted him again, an unshakable weight pressing down on his soul.
The weight of memory dragged him further, pulling him into the abyss of his past. His breath slowed, his gaze unfocused as his mind drifted back to the moment his father fell—not by dragon's fire, but by the hands of his own people.
The flames of Varkhaz'gor had barely died when the screaming began anew. Not of terror. Of rage.
The survivors of Marsh Town, the ones who had hidden in the ruins or clawed their way from the ashes, turned their grief into fury.
"He failed us!" someone shouted.
"The mayor let the town burn!" another voice roared.
The mob formed before the embers had cooled, their faces blackened with soot and streaked with tears, their hands gripping weapons once meant for defense—now turned inward.
The boy—no, the son of the mayor—stood frozen as his father's body lay in the shattered remains of the watchtower. The air was thick with the stench of burnt flesh, charred wood, and betrayal. Then the first stone was thrown. It struck his father's lifeless form. Then another. And another.
By the time the boy found the strength to move, the mob had descended. They tore at the corpse, spitting curses, howling vengeance upon a dead man.
"Coward!"
"Liar!"
"You let our children burn!"
He wanted to scream. To tell them that his father had fought. That he had tried. That no man, no army, could have stopped the dragon.
But his voice was swallowed by their hatred. Then, as if summoned by the chaos, another force arrived. The dwarves.
Refugees—no, scavengers. Once proud warriors, now desperate and starving, they came like carrion birds to a rotting feast. They stormed the broken gates, weapons drawn, eyes gleaming with the hunger of men who had lost everything.
The town was already dead. Now, they came to pick the bones. They raided what little remained.
They dragged the wounded from the ruins, not to save them, but to strip them of anything of value. Rings, boots, even the clothes from their backs. They tore children from their mothers' arms, taking them for servants.
They looted the houses that still stood, smashing walls, overturning beds, searching for gold, food—anything to fill the void of their ruined lives.
The townspeople, already shattered, fought back. A new war began, born from fire and hatred. Blades clashed. Blood spilled over the ashes of the first massacre. The streets ran red. The boy ran.
He ran through alleys choked with corpses, past homes turned to tombs, past the ghosts of the only life he had ever known.
All that memories is nothing more than dread from the past. Then, he stepped outside, the cool morning air brushing against his face as he took in the sight of Marsh Town reborn.
At first glance, it seemed alive. The marketplace bustled with merchants haggling over spices and cloth, fishmongers shouting prices as they hauled their catch from the river. The docks were lined with boats, their nets heavy with fish, while craftsmen shaped wood and metal, hammering life into their trade. Yet... it was too quiet.
Not in the way of sound—there was plenty of that—but in something deeper. Something missing.
Before the fire, before the dragon, before the riot and the massacre, Marsh Town had been different. Louder.
Children had once darted between stalls, their laughter ringing like bells in the humid air. Street performers had drawn crowds, their songs and tricks a part of the town's heartbeat. The taverns had overflowed with voices, drunk and merry, singing until dawn. Now, the laughter was forced. The voices subdued. Every smile felt like a mask.
The people had rebuilt. The walls stood strong again. The rivers ran clean, the marketplace thrived, but the soul of the town—the old Marsh Town—was gone.
He saw it in the way merchants clutched their coins a little too tightly, as if expecting them to be snatched away. In the way people glanced at the watchtowers, as if waiting for another disaster to descend from the skies.
He saw it in the eyes of the fishermen who sat by the docks—not talking, not laughing, just working.
He kept walking, his boots scraping against the stone road, until the scent of fresh bread pulled him toward a small bakery at the market's edge. The warmth of the oven seeped into the street, mixing with the crisp morning air, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine simpler times—when his father would bring home warm loaves, breaking them at the dinner table, the laughter of his family filling the room. But that was long ago.
Stepping inside, he picked out a few pieces of bread—just enough for himself and his children. Nothing fancy, just simple, hearty loaves that would keep them full for the day.
He placed them on the counter. "How much?"
The baker, a woman with flour-dusted hands and tired eyes, barely looked at him. "1,000 dun."
His heart sank. Too much. He frowned, shifting slightly. "That's double what it used to be."
The baker wiped her hands on her apron, exhaling. "That was before."
Before. That cursed word again. Before the dragon. Before the war. Before the town had turned into what it was now.
"I can't pay that much," he said, his voice low but firm.
The baker glanced at him, finally meeting his gaze. "Then buy less."
He clenched his jaw. Less? Less for his children? He was already giving them less.
"Come on," he said, keeping his voice steady. "It's just bread."
"And flour is harder to get. Water costs more. Everything costs more," the baker replied, crossing her arms. "You think I enjoy charging this much?"
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. She wasn't wrong. Everyone was just trying to survive. Still, 1,000 dun was too much. Reaching into his pouch, he counted his coins carefully. "800. That's all I have."
The baker hesitated. A moment of silence stretched between them, the only sound the crackling fire of the oven. Then, with a sigh, she pushed the bread toward him. "Fine."
Relief washed over him. He nodded, handing her the coins before gathering the loaves.
As he turned to leave, the baker muttered, "If things keep going like this, even 1,000 won't be enough."
He didn't answer. Because he knew she was right. He stepped outside, gripping the wrapped bundle of bread tightly in his calloused hands. The warmth seeped through the cloth, a fragile comfort against the cold morning air. He unwrapped it slightly, counting. Four loaves. Four loaves for six hungry mouths.
He exhaled through his nose, pushing aside the familiar weight of guilt. It would have to be enough. It had to be. As he walked, his thoughts drifted to the faces waiting for him at home. His Children;
Jad (14 years old) – The eldest. Tall for his age, with lean muscles from long days working the docks. His black hair curled slightly at the ends, always falling into his deep-set brown eyes—eyes that held too much weight for a boy his age. He didn't complain much, but he noticed everything.
Sami (11 years old) – Quieter than his older brother, but sharp-witted. Too sharp. His small frame made him seem younger than he was, but the way he observed the world—calculating, cautious—made him seem older. His hair was lighter than Jad's, a dusty brown, always messy no matter how much he tried to comb it down. He was the one who asked the hardest questions.
Noura (9 years old) – The only girl. His light. She had their mother's soft features, her wavy dark hair always tied into a loose braid. Her eyes, large and golden-brown, held an innocence he fought desperately to protect. But even she had started to understand the world wasn't fair. She never asked for more, even when she was still hungry.
Tariq (6 years old) – The wild one. His little troublemaker. Always running, climbing, laughing, even when there was nothing to laugh about. His round face still carried the softness of childhood, his big brown eyes always filled with mischief. He never stopped moving—unless he was asleep, curled up beside his older siblings, dreaming of a world where they never went hungry.
Bassam (4 years old) – The quiet shadow. His little observer. He clung to Noura most of the time, his tiny hands gripping her sleeve whenever he felt unsure. His curls were softer, lighter than the others', his dark eyes always watching, always waiting. He didn't speak much, but when he did, it was in whispers.
Amir (2 years old) – The baby. Too young to understand hunger, but old enough to feel it. His chubby fingers would reach for food without knowing why there was never enough. His small voice, still learning words, often called out for his mother at night, not understanding why she never answered.
He adjusted the bread in his hands, his fingers tightening slightly around it. Would it be enough?
Jad would take the smallest piece, he always did. Sami would pretend he wasn't hungry. Noura would try to split hers with Bassam, even if it meant she barely ate. Tariq would eat fast, without thinking. Amir… Amir wouldn't understand why there wasn't more.
His smile wavered. It had to be enough. With a deep breath, he continued walking home, forcing himself to believe that.