The cliffs loomed like jagged knives above Duskwatch, black and sheer, the wind howling along their ridges as if the stones themselves protested the coming bloodshed. Allen stood at the base, head tilted back, eyes narrowed against the rushing gusts. His cloak snapped behind him, the newly-oiled fabric repelling the rising spray from the distant sea below.
It would be a steep climb to the top- narrow footholds, crumbling rock, and nothing but air to catch him if he slipped. He tightened the straps of the fresh armor Ortolan had given him, adjusted the weight of the harpoons slung across his back, and reached for the jagged stone face.
Each pull upward was a gamble, each inch another test. His boots scraped for traction; his fingers, numbed by the cold, gripped stone that felt ready to betray him. Wind buffeted him, nearly tearing him free more than once, but Allen climbed with the quiet determination of a revenant- one more step, one more breath, until he finally hauled himself over the lip of the cliff.
The plateau was bleak and wide, wind-swept and sharp with cold. Grey moss clung to the rock like mildew, and the sky above churned with storm-colored clouds. This was the hunting ground of the nightdrake.
Allen knelt low behind a boulder, heart steady despite the sting in his arms and legs from the climb. He pulled out a vial of pale green liquid-his second successful brew of paralytic toxin-and coated the tips of the two iron harpoons.
"Not much, but enough to slow you," he whispered.
The poison glistened in the light, wicked and beautiful. He braced the harpoons in the rocks ahead, cords coiled and anchored with pitons he'd driven into the cliffside minutes before. The wind keened like a dying beast through the crags.
And then it came.
A shriek- high and predatory- cut through the air. Wings the size of sails erupted from the shadows as the nightdrake descended, scales glistening like obsidian in the dawn light. It landed hard, claws cracking stone beneath its feet. Its eyes glowed faintly amber, searching, smelling.
Allen didn't move.
Not until it turned.
Then-
Thunk!
The first harpoon flew, slamming into the drake's left shoulder. It shrieked, reared up, flapped its wings- but the cord held. The beast bucked wildly.
Allen dashed from cover and loosed the second harpoon.
Thunk!
This one sank into the right thigh. A snarl tore from the drake as the poison went to work. Not a full paralysis- not enough to drop it- but enough to sap its speed, dull its reflexes.
It turned on him.
Allen drew both blades- his new shortswords gleaming.
The nightdrake lunged.
He ducked low, barely avoiding a swipe that shattered the boulder behind him. He slashed for the soft belly- but the angle was wrong. The blade glanced off the armored plating.
Wind roared around them, almost deafening. Dust, debris, even bits of moss were flung like knives. Allen's cloak snapped wildly behind him, his footing unsure. The drake charged again.
He rolled left.
Its jaws snapped shut where he had just been. He brought his blade up, cutting across its exposed neck. Blood sprayed- dark, thick- but not deep enough.
The cords were holding, slowing it, but not stopping it.
It snapped its tail toward him.
Crack!
He went flying. His back slammed into stone. The world tilted, breath knocked from his lungs.
Get up.
He forced himself up, staggered. The drake charged again. Allen dropped into a crouch, sliding under its lunge. His sword flashed—he cut deep into the wing root.
A roar of pain.
He climbed onto its back, plunged both blades into the wing joint. With a cry of effort, he dragged down- sinew tore, bone cracked.
The wing ripped free.
The beast shrieked, shaking him loose. He tumbled across the plateau, came up limping- his thigh torn open by one of its claws in the scuffle.
Blood poured down his leg.
Pain. Blinding. Cold.
The drake hobbled toward him, one wing limp, one eye half-blinded. It was still massive. Still dangerous.
Allen spat blood.
He charged.
They collided- blade to claw, fang to steel.
He screamed as the drake's claw raked across his side. He slashed its neck again- deeper this time. It roared. He stabbed up, through its open jaw, into the skull. The blade stuck.
The beast reeled.
He reached for the second blade.
The drake collapsed, but not dead. It thrashed weakly.
He drove the second sword into its heart.
Silence.
The wind howled. The cliff was red.
Allen fell to his knees, panting. The gash on his thigh throbbed like a second heart. He fumbled for the healer's potion he'd looted- popped the cork, drank. Fire down his throat. Sweet numbness.
He stitched his thigh crudely, hand shaking, breath shallow. It took three tries to thread the needle. Each stitch burned like betrayal.
He bound it, weak but functional. Packed everything he could carry into the enchanted pouch. Then dragged himself to his feet.
The swords were sheathed at his waist, the torn cloak hiding the worst of the wounds. He limped back down the slope
The nightdrake carcass safely tucked inside his enchanted pouch, convenient.
He couldn't even begin to imagine how it would be without it.
He wouldn't make it down that day-thats for sure- not with his wounds. A nights sleep would help.
Allen then crawled to the furthest corner, under a rock, that would give him cover from the harsh wind and hopefully camouflage him from any attackers lurking in the clouds.
****
The morning after the nightdrake hunt crept in like a whisper through fog. Duskwatch stirred slowly, its alleys and chimneys still shrouded in a gray hush, as though the city sensed a storm had passed but didn't yet know what kind.
Allen moved through the quieter streets at a limp, his newly stitched thigh protesting every step. Beneath the cloak that hugged his shoulders, the scent of dried blood, swamp water, and smoke clung stubbornly. The weight of his enchanted pouch bounced against his side with every step- light as air, but filled with a monstrous secret.
He reached Ortolan's forge just as the first rays of sunlight lit the soot-covered windows. The dwarf was already at work, hammering away at a curved blade glowing orange at its core. Sparks danced into the air as Allen stepped through the gate.
"Back so soon?" Ortolan called without looking.
Allen didn't answer.
He opened the pouch.
A moment later, the full corpse of the nightdrake slid out onto the anvil yard with a heavy, wet thud. A gust of wind followed the corpse, fluttering soot and ember like ash from a funeral pyre.
Ortolan turned- and froze.
By the gods, the thing was huge. Sprawled out and limp, the creature's wings covered nearly half the yard. Blackened scales shimmered with a faint oil-slick sheen. Blood crusted the base of its wings, and one had been cleanly severed at the joint. Its head lolled to one side, throat gaping from a deep, fatal cut.
Ortolan took a step back, mouth slightly open.
"I..." he said, then swallowed. "By the Black Forge. You weren't lying."
Allen remained silent.
The dwarf walked forward, boots crunching over gravel. He reached the severed wing first, running thick fingers over the edge.
"This is... surgical," he muttered. "No hesitation. Clean through the bone. Do you know the kind of skill that takes?"
Allen finally spoke. "I know what it cost."
Ortolan gave him a sideways glance and whistled. "I don't know if I should be afraid of you or start praying to you."
He gave the corpse another once-over, tapping its hide with a knuckle, examining the teeth, testing the curve of a claw. "Good profit here. Real good. And that hide... gods, that hide'll work like arcane-treated leather. Might even hold a rune or two."
Allen slowly untied his swords and laid them beside the body.
"You'll need to replace the hilts. And the sheaths."
The dwarf nodded. "Aye. Nightdrake leather'll do just fine for that. You'll have your pick of handle cores, too. Bone, steel, ashwood... I'll make 'em fit you like a second skin."
"And the armor?"
Ortolan grinned beneath his beard. "Oh, I've already got ideas."
He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing against stone. "Bone daggers. Scale-reinforced chest piece. Lining the inside with padded drake hide. Might even fashion vambraces or a backplate. This much material? We'll be working with surplus."
"How long?" Allen asked.
"Two days. Maybe three. Depends how the drying goes."
"Two," Allen said firmly.
Ortolan gave a grunt of reluctant agreement. "Fine. Two. But leave those swords with me. I'll get started on the hilts tonight."
Allen gave a curt nod and stepped back. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The corpse loomed between them like a dead god, silent and heavy.
"I'll need to clear space," Ortolan muttered. "And close the yard. Don't want too many eyes seeing this."
"Do what you must."
Allen turned and limped away, boots dragging slightly now.
***
The walk back was slow, every step a reminder of what he'd endured at the top of that cliff. The stitched wound on his thigh pulsed like a second heartbeat. But there was satisfaction in the pain. A measure of survival.
Back in the quiet room he called home, Allen stripped off the cloak, peeling the bloodied fabric from his sweat-stained back. He hung it on a hook by the window and opened the tome Shardu had lent him- this one detailing paralytic toxins.
He lit a low lamp and sat cross-legged, flipping pages with the same care a priest might give to scripture.
He read for hours, learning how venom derived from stone lily roots could be stabilized with distilled quicksap to create a contact agent. He studied ratios, absorption rates, exposure times. And when the words began to blur, he turned to meditation.
He drew a shallow breath and sat in silence, letting his thoughts settle like ash in a hearth. His fingers traced a small glyph from memory- a focusing sigil Shardu had taught him.
Arcana didn't surge this time. It flowed.
Faint, yes. But smoother. No longer trying to rip him apart from the inside. Like a thread unraveling from a spool, energy circled through him and back again. Controlled.
It was meager, a trickle instead of a tide. But it was his. It was working.
He sat there for some time, breathing in slow cycles. The pain in his thigh dulled. His chest no longer felt like it was weighed down by stone.
Then, he rose.
Not long after, he collapsed onto his bed, letting the silence of his room wrap around him.
The weight of the nightdrake hunt still echoed in his bones. The howling wind at the cliff's edge. The sting of his wound. The moment the final blade had plunged through scaled hide.
He closed his eyes, and for just a moment before sleep took him, he whispered:
"What a tough beast!"