When Fire Remembers

Chapter12 - The Guide That Faded

It had been three weeks — three desperate, dragging weeks — that Daghan had been searching for Garrad Dum.

He had heard the tales countless times. He knew it lay somewhere within these lands. And he was certain the gate was hidden in the sacred Nyvanor Forest, a once-elf territory abandoned after they sealed themselves behind the Veil. But the forest was no simple maze. It was layered with enchantments, old traps, and curses meant to ward off intruders. Entering it blindly meant death.

Daghan could be impulsive, yes — but never foolish. Without his dragon, he stood little chance in that cursed wood. He needed a guide. But finding one was proving harder than it sounded.

He wandered the urine-soaked pubs, the dim, foul-smelling taverns, chasing the shadows of mercenaries who might know the path. Elves were long gone — those few who remained supported the rebellion and would never help him. Dwarves would sooner cut off their own hands than aid the prince who burned them from their tunnels. Hippogriffs lacked the wit. Nymphs dwelled only in waters now and wouldn't lift a finger even if they could. As for humans… none had been seen in the realm for two hundred years. Not until her.

Her. The thief. The woman.

Anger surged in his chest, white-hot and sudden — but it had nowhere to go. Nothing left inside him to awaken. “First get your dragon back,” he told himself again. “Then deal with her. Then take back what’s yours.”

Still, it stung more than it should’ve. The thought of her hand holding the dagger. Of her escape.

But now, the guide. There was only one option left: the Umbrals.

They were creatures of mist and shadow, untouched by the wars. They had retreated into the in-between realms when the land burned, and unlike others, they survived. Not unharmed, perhaps, but intact. And Daghan knew they could be swayed — with enough gold, enough promise.

He started hunting for one. Every alley, every whispered lead, every underground room where shade lingered longer than it should’ve — he chased them. But so far, no luck.

The nights were long. The days longer.

And still, no dragon. No guide. Only silence, smoke, and waiting.

“Are we going to the suburbs again, boss?” Grön whined as they made their way down from the square toward the crumbling outer skirts of the city.

He had started calling Daghan boss lately — and strangely, Daghan didn’t hate it.

“Yes,” Daghan said without slowing. “Do you have an objection?”

“No… but Grön doesn’t like suburbs. They smell bad. And people treat Grön like a monster.”

Daghan gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re a half-giant, Grön. The fact that you can speak full sentences already makes you a miracle to them.”

Grön looked wounded — a bit too dramatically for someone his size — but Daghan didn’t pause to soothe his pride. His thoughts were elsewhere.

They reached the edge of a crooked street, its cobblestones uneven, its buildings leaning like drunk men. Daghan pointed at a bar dimly lit under a flickering lantern sign.

“They say there’s an Umbral who passes through here,” he muttered. “If we’re lucky, we’ll catch him tonight.”

Daghan and Grön entered the wrecked place the locals called a pub.

They had pulled their hoods low over their faces, moving slowly and quietly, slipping into the shadows along the bar wall.

There was an elevated platform at one end of the floor, used as a stage. A half-dwarf woman was up there, singing a guttural, sorrowful tune — mostly about lost friends and forgotten families.

The dim light helped Daghan blend in.

A hippogriff stood behind the counter, serving drinks in stained glasses. Its wings were tucked neatly, and it moved with a strange sort of grace, despite the grime.

Daghan approached the bar and sat on a stool without a word. He ordered a beer and began sipping it, careful not to let his face show how much he hated the taste.

It was half salamander piss, half warm ale — he could swear to that. But if the locals drank it, he would too. Just to blend in.

Grön stayed back, keeping to the shadows at the rear of the pub as they had agreed. His size always attracted attention.

After a few minutes, Daghan cleared his throat, trying to catch the bartender’s eye.

The hippogriff wandered over. “What can I get you, sir?”

“I heard there’s an Umbral hanging around here. Have you seen him?”

“An Umbral?” The barman blinked. “You mean Vor? What do you want with that drunk bastard?”

“That’s my business, not yours,” Daghan said, voice low and sharp.

The barman’s feathers ruffled in irritation, but he didn’t press. Instead, he jerked his beak toward the stage.

“There he is.”

Daghan followed the gesture.

Near the stage, slumped over a stool, was a shadow — not entirely present, not fully absent. A blur, flickering in and out of form.

Even in that haze, it was obvious: the figure was barely managing to stay upright.

Daghan knocked back the piss-beer — he was almost getting used to the taste — then stood and made his way slowly toward the man.

“Hey. Are you Vor?”

“Who’s asssking?” the figure slurred, words thick with alcohol and syllables stretching like smoke. Vor flickered in and out of focus, his form wavering like mist. Daghan knew he had to be careful — if an Umbral felt threatened, they could vanish in an instant. And no one, not even him, could follow.

“I have a job,” Daghan said, lowering his voice. “One that pays well. Very well.”

Vor’s edges sharpened slightly, gaining definition. A good sign.

“I’m Vor,” he said.

“I need to go somewhere,” Daghan continued. “Somewhere only someone like you could reach. I know Umbrals can slip through places others can’t. I thought maybe you could guide me there.”

Vor took a swig from his mug. “Where to?”

Daghan leaned in and whispered, “Garad Dum.”

Vor choked. He sprayed the beer all over Daghan’s face and burst into laughter.

Daghan flinched, wiping his cheek with a sleeve. “What’s so funny?”

“You didn’t look that dumb,” Vor said, still chuckling. “Here I was, actually thinking you might offer me a real job.”

He turned his back.

“I’m serious,” Daghan snapped.

“Go home, kid. Stop chasing ghosts.”

Calling a one-hundred-and-twenty-five-year-old dragon kid was bold — but not inaccurate. For a dragon, it was young.

“I’ll pay whatever you want,” Daghan said. “Just take me there.”

Vor didn’t turn. “You think I don’t care because I’m hard to kill — and you’re right. But if my employer dies halfway through the job, I don’t get paid. So why risk my neck? If you can’t live long enough to pay me, what’s the point?”

“I can survive,” Daghan insisted.

“No, you can’t. Not there. Even the best don’t make it through Nyvanor Forest. Elves riddled that place with traps, spells, curses — and that’s not even counting the things that live there.”

He cast a glance toward the back of the bar, where Grön loomed.

“Not even that giant will save you. And believe me, I won’t try.”

Daghan stepped closer, desperate. “What do you want? Gold? It’s yours. Land? I’ll give you whatever you want. Just name it.”

Vor raised an eyebrow. “And I’m supposed to believe you have all that? If you did, you’d be drinking wine in a velvet room — not chasing impossible s**t in a piss-soaked tavern.”

“Just… think about it,” Daghan said, reaching into his coat for a pouch of coins.

Vor sighed, long and theatrical. “Ugh. You bore me.”

And then he vanished.

Smoke.

Daghan lunged forward — a foolish instinct — trying to catch the fading trail of mist with bare fingers.

“No — wait! I can pay you! Just—”

But the Umbral was already gone.

Grön appeared at Daghan’s side, sniffed the air, and muttered:

“Told you. Suburbs smell bad. Now they disappear too.”

Daghan rolled his eyes and stood up. He could feel the shift in the tavern — people were watching them now. Too many. He realized he had shouted about money and payment in a place where gold spoke louder than caution.

They were lucky no one had made a move yet.

Daghan suspected they would have, if Grön hadn’t been standing there like a walking mountain.

“Let’s go, Grön. We’ll try our luck another day.”

They left the pub, cloaks low, steps quiet.

Later — back at the palace

When Daghan returned to his chambers, weariness pressed heavy on his shoulders. Hopelessness itched beneath his skin like a fever, and boredom chewed the edges of his thoughts.

Maybe getting his dragon back would be harder than he thought.

Grön left him at the corridor. Daghan entered alone, his steps slow and reluctant.

The moment he crossed the threshold, something felt wrong.

Not seen. Not heard.

Felt.

He paused, eyes narrowing.

The room was as he had left it — the bed untouched, the desk neat, the fire dying low in the hearth.

But the air—

It carried a weight.

Like breath held too long.

Like the echo of a presence.

Daghan didn’t move. Not yet.

He inhaled slowly.

“Someone’s here,” he murmured.