Sorry

High above the deepest valley, the Hero Party runs in silence.

The wind grows colder as they get nearer Skaraden Peak - the dragons’ throne, and perhaps their final chance to beg for a ride.

None of them speak, but Arthur holds the map tighter.

Then, arrows whistle before anyone sees the archers.

Arthur barely ducks, the shaft slicing a line across his cheek. Behind him, Spidaract hisses and throws out a web, yanking Asa away from another volley. The trail that Vellithar promised was safe is now crawling with Dragonborn wardens - sleek, long-limbed cephels with armor colored made from leftover scales and bows strung taut with dragons’ hair wire.

“Ambush!” Asa shouts, her staff already channeling a gale. “Did Vellithar lie to us?”

“No,” Arthur growls, blocking an arrow with his bracer. “I…focus on the battle first!”

From the cliffs above, dozens of cephel archers drop into position. Their movements are silent and efficient.

Spidaract leaps forward, hurling a thick web across the ledge. It catches three archers, pinning them to a rock, but ten more appear in their place. “Too many,” he says. “We’re surrounded.”

Arthur twists his fingers, shifting the color of his body, glowing blue, then brown, then a white that makes him almost completely invisible.

A moment later, a cephel screams as Arthur stabs him from behind, stealing his bow and arrows.

“Don’t get cocky!” A dragonborn yells. “You have just finished three of us! We still have twenty more!”

Another volley rains down. Spidaract deflects most of it with silk shields, but a single arrow pierces through and sinks into his left upper limb. He grunts but keeps fighting.

They retreat into a narrow pass, rocks closing in on both sides.

Big mistake.

From above, another team drops down, close-range fighters this time. All of them have bladed limbs and reinforced armor.

One swings at Arthur. He dodges, then punches, but his fist does nothing against the hardened carapace.

Spidaract hurls a web between two cliffs, trapping a pair of attackers. Asa touches the ground to quickly turn it into gas, then turn it back to solid to trap the cephels. For a moment, it seems they can hold the attackers off.

Then the real volley comes - a coordinated rain of shock arrows, each tipped with a small mana-filled core.

The forest explodes in various colors.

Arthur coughs, eyes tearing, limbs burning. Asa is on the ground, her arm twisted at an odd angle and her face shows clear pain. Spidaract tries to rise, but a dragons’ scales net wraps around him, dragging him down.

Heavy steps close in. Metal cuffs click into place.

The Hero Party has been caught.

…

They are dragged through twisting tunnels beneath the mountains while being blindfolded and chained. They can’t say a single word because their wounds are left unattended.

When the blindfolds are removed, they stand before the throne of Draventhur - inside the largest house of the Cephel capital. The air hums with strange electricity. Crustacine crystals glow along the carved stone walls. There are no stairs, the Hero Party is dragged through rough vertical surfaces that the guards scale with ease.

Arthur’s legs wobble from blood loss, but he glares at the throne regardless.

A cephel hits Asa in the stomach to wake her up. She coughs blood, but is now conscious about the situation.

Spidaract is too dangerous to bring here, so he is held outside.

Vellithar stands beside Agragon.

Her posture is stiff, but her eyes are wet as if she has just cried.

Agragon gently rests a tentacle on her head. “You have made the right decision,” he says, voice as smooth and deep as the mountain.

Vellithar doesn’t smile although the emperor has given her things that she has always dreamed of.

“I…I want to talk to them,” she says, barely audible.

Agragon nods. “As you wish.”

She trembles and walks forward, her expression feels like a taut string ready to snap. Her gaze meets Arthur’s.

“I didn’t want this,” she begins, voice shaking. “I swear I didn’t. But you don’t understand, even I didn’t understand.”

“We know more than you think,” Asa says despite the exhaustion.

“No!” Vellithar shouts. “You don’t know what it’s like…to be born a cephel and feel like one of the humans. To watch others hear the voices of trees, of rivers, of wind…while knowing you’ll never hear a thing!”

She clutches her bow tightly, as if drawing strength from it. “All my life, I’ve tried to be one of them. But I’m not, I’m useless. Even my own kin sees me as meaningless. I…I…”

Then comes a silence.

Arthur, still tied up, whispers, “You’re not useless.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. Seriously, my blood loss has made my brain unable to think of a plan.”

She blinks. “What?”

“You think you’re lesser because you’re different,” Arthur says. “But we are all the same, as I’ve told you.”

Vellithar stares at him. Her bow shakes.

Arthur’s voice softens. “We just have different roles.”

And that’s the last straw.

With a cry, she raises her bow and fires straight at Agragon’s head.

But the ruler moves because he has already read Vellithar’s mind. He tilts his head slightly, the arrow whistling past.

Before anyone can react, he steps forward and pushes Vellithar with one swift motion.

She stumbles, then falls.

Straight off the edge of the royal terrace - down the vertical shaft toward the lower caverns.

“NO!” Arthur screams.

But it’s not him who moves first.

Drok, the little lizard, bolts past the guards and dives after her - his small wings flaring, tail twisting as he follows his only friend into the abyss.

Agragon watches them fall, then lets out a small sigh.

“I’m sorry, my people.”

Then he turns back to Arthur and stares at him with killing intent.

“But it’s not my fault, after all.”

Arthur doesn’t answer. His fists are clenched. His face burns with fury.

But for now, he is bound.

And Vellithar is gone.