Dragon Rider

A cloaked figure, draped in black with a hood shadowing his eyes, surveyed the cave. The air was warm and dry–perfect for the Ritual. His black boots crushed brittle leaves on the cavern floor as rain thundered outside, relentless, as if the gods themselves mourned. His yellow eyes flickered with feverish intensity. He beckoned to his companion, claw-like hands tipped with long, dirt-brown nails.

A second figure entered, taller and broader, his presence filling the cave. Behind him, a third–shorter, younger–slipped in, eyes darting with suspicion.

“Come on,” the first man snapped, waving an impatient arm. His scowl left no doubt: patience was not his virtue. “We don’t have all night. If we’re going to finish the Ritual before dawn, we need to move. Darren, stop dragging your feet.”

Darren halted, anger flashing in his eyes. “Kryan, don’t talk down to me. I chose to be here, remember?”

Kryan’s lips twitched, almost a smile. Chose? He remembered Darren as a four-year-old, snatched from his village a decade ago. The boy’s training had been brutal. Volunteer? Hardly.

Gallan, the big man, moved with reverence, placing candles around the cave. His brow furrowed in concentration. Soon, a gentle glow revealed scarred walls, boulders scattered across the floor, and dark recesses where even the light seemed to hesitate.

Kryan appreciated Gallan’s silence–he preferred action over empty words. He inhaled the dry air, thick with the dust of centuries. This cave was ancient, perfect for summoning the dead. Gallan handed Kryan a knife–silver, with a hilt inlaid with gold wire. Costly, but Ryoch demanded nothing less. Kryan gripped the weapon and turned to Darren, tension crackling in the air.

Darren’s hands trembled, his brown eyes darting with uncertainty. The bravado he’d shown earlier had vanished, leaving him looking every bit his fourteen years.

“Your shaol is strong, Darren. There’s nothing to fear,” Kryan said, his voice edged with a subtle reproach, reining in the younger man.

Darren’s fear flickered out, replaced by a spark of anger. “I told you, old man,” he snapped, his voice sharp. “Watch your tone, or you’ll be the one on the ground, not me.”

Kryan almost laughed, but kept it inside. He exchanged a knowing glance with Gallan–Darren’s training had been excellent. Arrogance would push him exactly where they wanted. Arrogance, and his faith in Ryoch.

“My apologies, Darren. You’re right. I overstepped,” Kryan said, bowing slightly, the gesture just shy of mockery. “Come here. Kneel.”

Darren’s eyes narrowed, rebellion simmering beneath the surface.

“Don’t worry. You’re not kneeling to me,” Kryan continued, his tone softer but no less commanding. “Can’t you feel it? The presence in this cave?”

For the first time, Darren’s gaze swept the cavern. He seemed to sense its ancient power, and a look of reverence crossed his face.

“He’s here?” Darren asked, his voice suddenly small, almost childlike. “Here with us?”

“Ask your shaol what it sees,” Kryan said. “You’ll get a better answer from the spirit world than from me.”

Darren didn’t close his eyes–he didn’t need to. In truth, Kryan felt a flicker of fear at the strength of Darren’s bond with his shaol. Given time, the boy would be powerful. But the experiments had to continue. If Drachar was to be served, he needed an army–an army of invincible warriors, stronger even than the Priests of Ryoch. Ryoch, a god in name only, created to serve a greater one: Drachar. Until the time was right for Drachar’s return, his name would remain a secret among the trusted. Ryoch would suffice for now–a convenient lie, nothing more, nothing less.

Darren’s eyes hardened, as if he was seeing something beyond the cave. Kryan felt a chill crawl down his spine–something was wrong. He reached for his shaol, the connection faint but present, warning him of danger he couldn’t name. Fear surged through him as he scanned the cave’s shadowy corners, searching for the evil he sensed lurking, ready to burst forth like a plague.

Kryan broke the silence, voice low. “Stay alert. Something’s not right.”

Darren’s jaw clenched. “You think I don’t know that?” His words were sharp, but his bravado was slipping.

Kryan ignored the retort, focusing on the ritual. He knew they were playing with fire–imps, demons, devils. One mistake, and his soul would be damned forever.

Suddenly, Kryan felt the weight of his years. His hand, gripping the ornate knife, looked frail and wrinkled. Mortality pressed in on him, and for a moment, his fear of death eclipsed everything else. He clung to life with desperate intensity, wondering why the threat felt so close.

Darren dropped to his knees, eyes wide with reverence–almost worship. Kryan stiffened, uneasy that Darren might see his fear. A smile crept across the youth’s face, unsettling in its confidence.

Kryan straightened his shoulders, glancing at Gallan for reassurance. But Gallan’s face was unreadable, his heavy brows and long fringe shadowing his eyes. He might as well have been carved from stone.

Darren’s smile twisted into something feral. Kryan, cornered by the unknown, defaulted to what he knew best–bullying and tyranny.

“Here, take the knife,” Kryan said, his voice low and urgent as he pressed the weapon into Darren’s hand. For a moment, both men’s fingers lingered on the hilt, the cold metal a silent promise between them. Kryan’s gaze flicked to Gallan. “Do you have the cloak, the belt, and the scabbard?”

Gallan nodded, silent as ever. Kryan wished, just once, that Gallan would speak–anything to break the tension that pressed in from the cavern walls.

Turning back to Darren, Kryan’s tone hardened. “You know what to do. Ryoch demands your soul.”

Kryan expected fear, maybe even pleading. Instead, Darren’s eyes were steady, almost calm. It was Kryan’s own hand that trembled as he let go of the knife. He glanced at Gallan again, but Gallan’s face was unreadable, carved from stone.

“Ryoch,” Kryan called out, his voice cracking despite himself. “Ryoch, your servant kneels before you and offers you his life.” Inside, his shaol screamed Drachar’s name, echoing in his mind louder than ever before. Something was wrong. This was going too smoothly. Doubt crept in, cold and unwelcome. Kryan scanned the cavern, half-expecting to see Drachar’s shade grinning in the shadows.

Darren, meanwhile, had already bared his chest, unbuttoning his jerkin and shirt with deliberate slowness. That feral grin never left his face. He pressed the knife’s point to his skin, locking eyes with Kryan–a silent challenge. There was a flash of pain, a grimace, a low moan as Darren collapsed to the cavern floor, the ritual complete before Kryan even registered the movement. It was over. Kryan stood frozen, awed and unsettled by the power of his false god.

Shocked, Kryan stared as crimson pooled beneath the body. Gallan approached, silent and deliberate, a cloak draped over one arm.

“There’s no need for that,” Kryan sneered, forcing bravado into his voice as adrenaline surged. But Gallan ignored him. He lifted the cloak and let it settle over empty air above the corpse. When Gallan stepped back, the cloak hung suspended, as if worn by an invisible figure. Unseen hands adjusted the fabric, tying it around a throat Kryan couldn’t see. The hood rose, and Kryan’s knees nearly buckled–he had to fight to stay upright.

Gallan’s eyes, dark and brooding, fixed on Kryan. “You never believed,” he said, voice low and accusing. “That’s why it’s taken so long to reach this moment. Your failure.”

Without another word, Gallan strapped a belt and scabbard around the ethereal form. The figure stooped, drawing the knife from the dead boy’s chest. Kryan’s shaol screamed warnings in his mind, but he reacted too late. He spun, desperate for escape, but agony exploded in his back–a pain so fierce it stole his breath. He collapsed to his knees, head spinning, searching for the source of his doom.

A hollow voice echoed behind him. “I told you not to use that tone with me.”

Kryan pitched forward, vision darkening. He gasped for air, but none came. Life ebbed away. Behind him, Gallan’s voice issued cold instructions to the abomination. What had he done? In his mind’s eye, a phantom loomed, terror blooming as he recognised it. His master was calling, and behind him, the creatures–demons of hell–waited. His master’s arms opened wide, welcoming Kryan to eternal punishment. Even after death, Kryan’s wail of remorse haunted the cave, echoing through the darkness.