The Fiery Crown Cycle: A Dragon's Rebirth

Chapter 150

Garruk hefted the heavy waterskin onto his back and rose from his crouch. His lupine head tilted upward, green eyes scanning the sheer cliff face looming above.

It had been some time now. Had the Master abandoned him?

He pushed the thought away and began to trudge forward, his gait uneven and halting. His peripheral vision drifted to his left arm. It hung limp at his side, swinging with the dead weight of a pendulum as he walked.

Since the battle, the limb had been devoid of sensation. It was still attached, the flesh whole, but it might as well have been a phantom limb. Time had forced Garruk to accept the cold reality: the arm was ruined. It would not heal on its own.

There were legends, whispered around campfires, that those who became Dragonblood—the kin of true dragons—underwent a metamorphosis. He did not know if the tales were true, but he clung to them.

He wanted to become Dragonblood. To be a warrior, one needed a body capable of violence, and right now, he was half a cripple.

He made his way back to the base of the cliff.

In front of the stone cavern, a rough wooden ladder stood propped against the rock—his own handiwork. Inside, the space was now cluttered with crude tools and supplies. The Red Lord had carved this hollow himself; the lingering draconic presence seemed to deter the forest’s vermin, making it a safe haven. Garruk had claimed it without hesitation.

He bypassed the small fence and began to water his garden. The plants, previously wilting in the heat, drank greedily. Almost immediately, they seemed to perk up, drooping leaves lifting toward the sun.

The patch had grown. What started as a handful of seedlings was now thirty strong, nearly filling the cleared earth. Garruk looked at the small red and green berries budding on the stems, then cast his gaze toward the surrounding brush.

Perhaps it is time to clear more land.

Snap.

The sound of breaking undergrowth cut through the silence.

Garruk’s triangular, grey-white ears swiveled instantly. His right hand blurred, drawing the dagger from his waist in a fluid motion. His green irises narrowed, locking onto the brush.

Movement.

A green-skinned figure emerged from the foliage.

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Garruk’s eyes flared with a faint, pale green luminescence—his Magic Eyes activating instinctively. He analyzed the intruder: humanoid, verdant skin, grotesque features, stunted but corded muscle.

A goblin. But not the feral scavengers he was used to.

More rustling followed. Within seconds, a dozen more goblins poured out of the treeline.

Garruk’s heart sank. This wasn't a wandering stray; this was a squad. And they were elites. He could see the malice burning in their jaundiced eyes.

He adjusted his grip on the dagger. Whatever their intent—whether to kill him or eat him—he would make them pay for every drop of his blood. He centered his breathing, and a dark haze began to coat his blade as he ignited his Martial Aura.

Across the clearing, the goblin leader froze.

The leader, a scrawny creature distinguished by a necklace of beast fangs, stared at the crippled gnoll. His yellow eyes darted to Garruk’s useless left arm, then to the glowing green eyes, and finally to the aura-wreathed dagger.

Is this the one? the goblin thought. A cripple?

But the location matched the Red Lord’s description perfectly.

Garruk stepped away from his garden, putting himself between the intruders and his crops. He locked eyes with the central goblin. The creature looked weak, physically inferior to the soldiers behind him, yet they stood deferentially at his back.

Kill the leader, break the pack, Garruk thought.

It was a desperate gamble. He noted the strange weapons strapped to their backs—silver, elongated tubes he didn't recognize. But he couldn't worry about that now. His powerful hind legs coiled, muscles tensing to launch a suicide charge.

The goblin elder saw the shift in the gnoll’s stance. He realized violence was a breath away.

The elder didn't bark an order to attack. Instead, he dropped to his knees.

"We harbor no ill will," the goblin croaked, his voice rasping but intelligible. He stared fixedly at Garruk. "We follow the command of the Great Master. We await your orders."

Behind him, the dozen elite soldiers dropped to the grass in unison, heads bowed.

Garruk froze, his momentum arrested.

He blinked, confused. This was wrong. A chaotic monster like a goblin speaking fluent Common? Speaking of orders?

"Who is your master?" Garruk growled, his dagger still raised, his Magic Eyes boring into the elder’s soul.

The goblin elder looked up, noting the ethereal glow in the gnoll's eyes. Magic Eyes. Rare in the ancient days, and even more precious now. Perhaps the Red Lord saw potential in this cripple after all.

"The Great Red Dragon," the elder replied reverently.

Garruk let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The dagger slowly lowered.

It was true. These weren't enemies.

But intelligent, disciplined goblins? Where had the Red Lord found such creatures? Garruk scrutinized them closer, and then he saw it. Snug against the neck of every goblin was a band of silver metal.

Rings of Enslavement.

It made sense. Only the Red Lord would enslave an entire tribe and bend them to such rigid will.

Garruk sheathed his blade. He stood to his full height, looking down at the prostrate force.

"Rise."

The goblin elder scrambled to his feet, dusting off his knees. The soldiers followed suit.

"What are the Red Lord's instructions?" Garruk asked.

"The Master has commanded us to build a settlement here," the elder said, bowing slightly. "We are to establish a tribe. You are our new Chieftain. We live to serve your will."

Garruk felt a jolt in his chest. The dormant wolf within him howled in triumph.

The Master had not abandoned him. He had given him an army.