As the first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, the weary travelers stirred from their makeshift camp at the mouth of the cave. The cold of the mountain still clung to them, biting at their exposed skin as they checked their supplies. They had gathered all they could from the dwarven vault—packs heavy with dried meats, preserved fruits, flatbread, and hard cheese. Water skins sloshed, filled to the brim, but they all knew that rationing would be key.
Gorim adjusted the straps of his pack, his weathered hands tightening the leather bindings of his boots. He turned to the others, his gaze stern. "Two days down," he muttered. "No turning back once we start. The Grey Mountains don't forgive the careless."
They stood at the edge of a sheer descent, where the dwarven trails had long since faded into ruin. The path before them was treacherous—narrow switchbacks winding down the mountainside, some crumbling into nothingness where time and nature had reclaimed the stone. Great jagged peaks loomed above, their snow-capped tips vanishing into mist, while below, the distant valley sprawled like a dark, endless sea of rock and ice.
The first few steps were cautious, boots crunching over loose gravel that skittered and tumbled down the slopes. Each step had to be deliberate, placed with care, for the wrong footing could mean a deadly fall.
An hour into their descent, the wind picked up—icy and sharp, slicing through their cloaks like unseen daggers. Gorim led the way, his experience in the mountains evident in how he maneuvered the treacherous terrain. Khaltar and Yaraq followed closely behind, their movements sure, but the others lagged, struggling against the steep inclines and shifting ground.
Nadra, always bold, leapt over a crumbling ledge with ease, landing with a grin. "Come on," she called back. "We're not made of glass!"
Zahra, gripping the rock wall beside her, scowled. "Easy to say when you weigh as much as a feather!"
Further down, the path narrowed into a precarious ridge, a sheer drop on one side and a towering rock face on the other. They moved in single file, pressing their backs to the cold stone as the wind howled like a living beast.
Then, without warning, the ground trembled. A deep, groaning sound echoed through the peaks. "Rockslide!" Gorim bellowed.
A cascade of boulders thundered down from above, shaking the mountain with its fury. The group scattered—some diving for cover beneath outcroppings, others running for stable ground. Dust and debris filled the air, choking their lungs and blinding their vision.
Soraya barely managed to leap aside as a boulder crashed where she had stood moments before. Hadeefa, the elder of the group, was slower—her foot caught on a jagged rock. Yaraq seized her arm and yanked her forward just as another stone tumbled past, missing her by inches.
When the dust settled, silence fell once more. They coughed, brushing grit from their faces, their chests rising and falling in uneven breaths. Gorim spat into the dirt. "That won't be the last one."
The rest of the day was spent navigating crumbling paths and collapsed bridges. Twice, they had to climb across fallen rock formations, using ropes and sheer determination to pull themselves to safety. The sun dipped behind the peaks, casting long shadows over the treacherous landscape.
As night fell, they found shelter beneath a rocky overhang, hidden from the biting wind. They built no fire—the risk of attracting predators was too great. Instead, they huddled together, the cold seeping into their bones as the distant cries of mountain wolves echoed through the peaks.
Sleep was restless, filled with the uneasy knowledge that one wrong move could end them all.
The morning brought a biting chill, and the travelers forced themselves onward, stiff-limbed and weary. The path grew even steeper, forcing them to use their hands as much as their feet, scrambling over crumbling ledges and jagged outcroppings.
It was mid-morning when they spotted the first sign of movement—a flash of white against the rocks. A snow leopard, sleek and silent, prowled along the cliffs above, its piercing gaze locked onto them.
Zahra stiffened. "We're being hunted."
The leopard wasn't alone. Two more slinked from the shadows, their fur blending perfectly with the snowy peaks. Predators of the mountain, patient and deadly.
Gorim reached for his axe, his voice low. "Don't run. If we panic, they'll strike."
The tension was thick as they inched forward, every step measured, every movement slow. The leopards prowled closer, muscles coiling, eyes glinting with hunger. Then, a snarl. A flash of movement.
The first leopard lunged—lightning-fast. It went for Hadeefa, but Yaraq was faster. He swung his blade in an arc, catching the beast mid-air. The creature twisted, landing with a yowl, blood staining the snow.
The others attacked, but now the group was ready. Arrows flew, blades slashed, and in mere moments, the snow leopards lay lifeless against the rocks. The travelers stood panting, weapons slick with blood, their hearts pounding in their chests.
Gorim wiped his axe clean. "That's the mountains' way of reminding us—we don't belong here."
By midday, they saw the end of their descent—a narrow pass leading down to the valley. They stood at the edge of the Grey Mountains, gazing upon the desolate wasteland stretching before them. The Ashen Plains—once a fertile valley, now a graveyard of scorched earth and lifeless ruins. The soil was blackened, cracked like an old wound that had never healed, and petrified trees stood twisted and broken, their limbs reaching skyward like the frozen screams of the dead.
Gorim exhaled sharply. "Three days to cross. No rivers, no shade, no mercy."
Khaltar adjusted his pack, tightening the straps. "Then we move now. Before the heat worsens."
They descended into the barren landscape, their boots sinking slightly into the brittle ash. Every step sent up small clouds of dust, the smell of charred earth clinging to their clothes. The sun, unrelenting and merciless, burned overhead, baking the ground beneath them. The heat was a living thing, wrapping around their bodies like a vice, drawing sweat from their skin only to steal it away in the dry wind.
By midday, the temperature was unbearable. Soraya shielded her eyes, scanning the horizon. "We need shade."
Gorim scoffed. "You see any?"
The only things breaking the monotony of the wasteland were the skeletons of trees and the remains of long-forgotten battles. Rusted weapons lay scattered in the dirt—broken swords, shattered shields, and the occasional glint of metal armor half-buried in the ash. The war between dwarves and humans had raged here long before the Elder Dragon's wrath finished what they had started. A distant cry echoed above them.
Nadra looked up, squinting. "That's no ordinary bird..."
They followed her gaze and saw giant carrion birds, their wingspans massive, circling high above. The creatures were patient, watching, waiting—for what, they did not know.
"Means something's dead ahead," Yaraq muttered.
Or dying, Khaltar thought grimly. They pressed on, the heat draining their strength. Water was precious, and each sip had to be rationed. They wrapped cloth around their faces to keep from inhaling the dust, their steps slow but steady.
By evening, the sun dipped behind the distant horizon, and with it came the cold. The temperature plummeted within minutes, the once-blazing desert turning into an icy wasteland. Their breath misted in the air, and the sweat on their bodies chilled them to the bone.
They huddled together near the remains of an old dwarven outpost—a crumbled watchtower with barely enough stone left standing to block the wind.
Hadeefa rubbed her arms. "The plains are cursed. No land should burn like this by day and freeze like this by night."
Gorim, seated against a broken wall, grunted. "It's dragon fire. The land remembers."
As the others tried to sleep, Nadra sat awake, staring at the skeletal remains of an old battlefield. The wind whistled through rusted armor, carrying ghostly echoes of a war long past. She shivered—not from the cold, but from the feeling that they were being watched.
By the second day, they had found what remained of the old trade road—a cracked and crumbling path that once connected the Grey Mountains to the human settlements beyond the plains. The dragon's wrath had reduced most of it to rubble, but parts remained intact, winding through the wasteland like a scar. It was here they encountered scavengers.
They spotted the first signs from a distance—footprints in the ash, tattered cloth fluttering from old ruins, and the unmistakable stench of unwashed bodies. Then came the first arrow. It struck the ground inches from Soraya's foot.
"Ambush!" Yaraq shouted, drawing his blade.
From behind broken pillars and sunken ruins, figures emerged—thin, ragged men and women, their faces covered in makeshift cloth masks, their eyes hollow with desperation. They carried rusted swords, crude spears, and bows scavenged from the dead.
One of them, taller than the rest, stepped forward. "Leave your packs and go." His voice was hoarse, cracked from years of breathing dust.
Gorim gripped his axe. "Not happening."
The scavengers charged. The battle was chaotic. The air filled with the clash of steel, the grunts of exertion, and the screams of the dying. Khaltar parried a spear thrust, driving his opponent back before slamming his shield into their face. Soraya moved with deadly precision, her blade flashing as she cut through two attackers. Yaraq wrestled with a scavenger, driving a dagger deep into their ribs before shoving them aside.
Gorim, despite his age, fought like a dwarf possessed—his axe cleaving through flesh and bone, his laughter wild and fierce.
In mere minutes, the scavengers lay dead or dying. The survivors fled into the ruins, disappearing into the wasteland like ghosts.
Hadeefa wiped blood from her cheek. "They were desperate."
Gorim spat into the dirt. "Desperation makes men foolish."
They searched the bodies, finding little of value—some dried rations, a few water skins, and rusted weapons. But they did find something else—a map.
Yaraq unrolled it, his eyes narrowing. "They had a hideout. Not far from here."
"And if they have supplies?" Khaltar asked.
Gorim cracked his knuckles. "Then we take what we need."
By the third day, exhaustion gnawed at them. Their food supplies were holding, but the constant struggle against the elements and enemies had left them drained.
The scavenger hideout was nothing more than a collapsed temple—but inside, they found a miracle. Water.
Barrels of it, collected from condensation traps and stored underground. Enough to fill their skins and more. They drank greedily, the relief washing over them.
As they prepared to leave, Zahra hesitated. "What about the rest?"
The surviving scavengers, mostly women and children, watched from the shadows—silent, hungry, afraid.
Soraya sighed, setting down a small bundle of food. "Take it. You need it more than we do."
They left without another word, continuing their journey. By the end of the third day, they saw it—a thin line on the horizon, dark against the fading light. A great river, marking the edge of the Ashen Plains.