Misbegotten world

Chapter 42: Magalica

The first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, casting a golden hue over the vast, rolling plains that led toward the fortress of Magalica. The combined army of the Sacred Order and the Makaylon loyalists stretched as far as the eye could see, a force of thirty-five thousand marching in disciplined columns, the steady rhythm of boots on the ground filling the air. Banners of the Golden Order fluttered in the cool morning breeze alongside the sigils of House Duven, the Bear of Makaylon, and other loyalist houses.

On a nearby hill, King Alaric and the Demigod of War stood side by side, watching their armies from a vantage point that overlooked the approaching battlefield. The sun had just begun to rise, and its warm light painted the soldiers below in a stark contrast of gold and shadow. The sight of such a formidable force filled Alaric with a cautious optimism, but the weight of the impending siege pressed heavily on his shoulders.

The king took a deep breath, letting the cold air clear his mind. He glanced sideways at the Demigod of War, whose eyes remained fixed on the horizon. Alaric's thoughts, however, drifted to Garvath—the Dragon Slayer—and the unsettling tension his recent departure had left behind.

"Garvath," Alaric began, his voice low but curious. "How is it that you know him? He seems... untethered to the Order, and yet he's one of the most powerful beings we have. I must admit, I find it hard to understand how a man like that fits into this war."

The Demigod of War didn't immediately respond, as if considering the question while his gaze remained on the marching army below. After a moment, he spoke, his voice measured and calm, as if recounting a memory long buried.

"I've known Garvath for some time, though not as well as some might think," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "He's... different from the others of the Golden Heritage. Most of them rose to power by serving the Order, either through war, conquest, or diplomacy. But Garvath... his ascension came through blood—through dragons."

Alaric raised an eyebrow, listening intently. "Through dragons?"

The Demigod nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. "He's at least twelve thousand years old, if the records are accurate. I studied the history of the Golden Heritage—what little remains of it, anyway. The accounts are vague, scattered across centuries and mostly lost to time, but in one old tome, I found a single reference to Garvath. It said that he rebelled against the Golden Order—abandoned his duties as a demigod—just to hunt dragons. It was said to be the only thing that gave him any purpose."

The revelation hung in the air between them, and Alaric took a moment to process it. Twelve thousand years. The weight of such a life was almost unimaginable to him, and the idea that Garvath had rebelled for the sake of dragon hunting seemed almost... absurd. Yet, in light of the Dragon Slayer's recent behavior, it made perfect sense.

"And now he serves again?" Alaric asked, his tone incredulous. "For what? Has the Order tamed him, or is he still just chasing his obsession?"

The Demigod of War let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. "Tamed? No, I doubt anyone could tame Garvath. The truth is, he doesn't care about this war. Not about Makaylon, not about the rebellion, not even about the Golden Order. He serves only because it allows him to continue his hunt. His heralds scour the land for dragons, and as long as they're out there, he's content to play along with the Order's games."

Alaric shook his head slowly. "And what happens when the dragons are gone? When he has no more prey to hunt?"

The Demigod of War glanced at Alaric, his expression grim. "Then I imagine Garvath will have no further use for any of us."

The king fell silent, his mind heavy with the implications. Garvath was a powerful ally, but he was a wild card—a force that could turn as easily as it had come to their side. Alaric could not help but feel uneasy knowing that such a volatile presence was still out there, following his own path.