Secrets
The marketplace was alive with noise and movement. Merchants shouted to advertise their wares, the scents of fresh bread and roasted meats mingled with the crisp morning air, and children darted through the crowd, their laughter ringing above the din. Arren walked with purpose, Fri trotting at his side, his eyes scanning the vibrant scene.
His magical pouch rested securely at his waist, the dragon egg within a constant reminder of the secrets he carried. Though he appeared calm, Arren's senses were sharp, his attention focused on the people around him. He had learned long ago that danger often lurked where one least expected it.
As he passed a fruit stall, Fri let out a soft growl. The dog's eyes darted toward a narrow alleyway to Arren's left. Arren paused, pretending to inspect a basket of apples while his gaze flicked toward the alley. Three men lingered there, their cloaks drawn up and their faces partially obscured.
Something about them felt wrong.
"Stay close," he murmured to Fri, slipping into the shadows of the alley with practiced ease.
The men noticed him immediately. One stepped forward, his greasy hair falling over a scarred face. "Lost, friend?" he asked, his tone mockingly polite.
Arren didn't answer. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes remained steady.
Another man laughed, his voice rough. "Look at him, acting all noble. What's a knight doing in a place like this? Searching for trouble?"
"Maybe he's carrying something valuable," the third one said, his grin revealing yellowed teeth.
Arren sighed, stepping forward. "I don't have time for this," he said. "Step aside, and no one has to get hurt."
The leader barked a laugh. "Brave words for someone outnumbered."
Arren moved before they could react. His sword flashed as he disarmed the first man, the weapon clattering to the ground. A swift kick sent him sprawling. The second man lunged, but Arren sidestepped, using his momentum to slam him into the wall. The third tried to draw a dagger, but Fri leapt at him, his teeth bared in a ferocious snarl.
Within moments, the fight was over. The men groaned on the ground, their weapons scattered. Arren knelt beside the leader, his blade pressed lightly against the man's throat.
"Who sent you?" he demanded, his voice cold.
The man's eyes darted nervously. "No one! We—we're just trying to make a living!"
Arren pressed the blade closer. "Don't lie to me. I've heard whispers of dark forces at work. If you know anything, speak now."
The man hesitated, then stammered, "We—we've heard things. About... about the Ashen Order. They've been moving through the shadows, taking people, animals. Nobody knows why."
Arren frowned, his grip tightening. "Where?"
"Near the southern farmlands," the man gasped. "That's all I know, I swear!"
Arren studied him for a moment before standing. "Get out of here," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "If I see you again, I won't be so merciful."
The men scrambled to their feet and fled, leaving Arren and Fri alone in the alley.
"Dark forces," Arren murmured, his mind racing. The Ashen Order's name had surfaced again, a thread that seemed to tie the strange events together.
Fri nudged his leg, and Arren reached down to scratch the dog's ears. "Good work," he said softly.
He stepped back into the bustling market, his thoughts heavy. The southern farmlands were far from where he had encountered the shadow wolves and the winter dragon, yet the connection felt undeniable.
As he walked, his eyes caught sight of a small, dusty shop tucked between two larger buildings. The sign above the door read Antiquities and Tomes.
Curiosity tugged at him. If he was to understand the significance of the winter dragon and the egg, perhaps this shop held answers.
Arren pushed open the door, a bell tinkling softly as he stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and polished wood. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with books, scrolls, and trinkets.
An elderly man sat behind the counter, his spectacles perched on the edge of his nose. He looked up, his eyes sharp despite his age. "A knight, in my humble shop?" he said, his voice tinged with amusement. "What brings you here, young man?"
"I'm searching for information," Arren replied. "About dragons. Specifically, ancient winter dragons."
The shopkeeper's expression grew serious. "A rare topic," he said, rising slowly. "Most would consider it foolish to delve into such matters. Dragons have not walked this land in centuries."
"Yet their legacy remains," Arren said.
The man studied him for a moment before nodding. "Follow me."
He led Arren to a section of the shop filled with leather-bound tomes and faded scrolls. Selecting a thick, weathered book, he handed it to Arren.
"This is The Chronicle of Frost and Flame," the man said. "It speaks of the ancient bond between winter dragons and their chosen. A bond forged through trust and sacrifice."
Arren opened the book, his eyes scanning the intricate illustrations and flowing script. One passage caught his attention:
"The egg of a winter dragon is not merely a vessel for life. It is a fragment of their essence, tied to the balance of the land. To nurture such an egg is to accept a great burden—and a great destiny."
He traced the words with his finger, his thoughts heavy.
The shopkeeper watched him closely. "Whatever you're seeking, be cautious. Dragons are beings of immense power and mystery. To meddle in their affairs is to walk a dangerous path."
Arren nodded, closing the book. "I understand."
He purchased the tome and left the shop, the weight of his discoveries pressing heavily on him. As he stepped back into the sunlight, Fri trotted at his side, his tail wagging.
"Looks like we've got more questions than answers," Arren said, glancing down at the dog. "But at least it's a start."
The marketplace buzzed around him, but Arren's mind was elsewhere. The Ashen Order, the winter dragon, the egg—they were pieces of a puzzle he was only beginning to understand. And he couldn't shake the feeling that his role in this unfolding story was far greater than he had ever imagined.