Bucrok and his family, accompanied by Jaquawe, forged their way through the eerily empty streets of the city, the air thick with a sense of impending doom.The once-bustling thoroughfare lay desolate, as if life had been drained from it overnight.

  A thunderous explosion suddenly echoed above shaking the city below. A wave of heat descended, reminiscent of a scorching summer day, making sweat trickle down everyone's backs. Fear swept through the crowd like a swift breeze, especially among those who could see the chaos in the sky. Flames rained down around the city, resembling a scene from an apocalypse described in sacred texts. Thankfully, due to a protective yellow barrier, much of the fire was diverted, preventing even greater devastation.

  A few lingering souls, tired and disheartened, seemed to have surrendered to hopelessness, their eyes vacant, while the frenzied mobs that had once populated the streets were now gone without a trace. Almost everyone was trying to get out of the city not wanting to be there once the dragon arrived. Some city guards could be seen trying to escape among the mobs.

  The Westgate was their target since it was the closest, the beacon of salvation that promised a way out. A challenge they had not anticipated—a wildfire, fierce and unyielding, roared to life. It crackled hungrily, sending fiery tendrils high into the sky, becoming a menacing barrier that barred their exit from the city. The once-fragrant trees lining the outskirts of the Westgate were now ablaze, transformed into torches of despair, and the rapidly increasing crowds complicating their path.

  "What’s going on here? How did the fire escalate so quickly?" Bucrok asked, his commanding voice momentarily piercing the confusion. A few people glanced his way, looks of uncertainty on their faces; it was clear they weren't expecting the question, and their thoughts were scrambling to comprehend the chaos around them. An elderly man, slightly hunched, approached Bucrok. He looked to be in his seventies and was dressed in plain red and white attire typical of a commoner.

  “The fire rained down without warning,” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with a trembling trauma. “It was as if the heavens themselves conspired against us, raining fire down upon us! Before anyone realized what was happening, the flames had surrounded the city. Some onlookers have said the dragon is responsible. I’ve spoken with others—rumors are swirling that the other gates are suffering the same fate.”

  “This... this can’t be true!” Bucrok spluttered, disbelief painting his features with shock.

  “Indeed, it is all too real. The winds must be spreading this quickly almost like an act of god. Just this morning, I was working in my woodshop, minding my own business, and then—chaos! The city is going mad!” The old man gestured to the gathering crowd, where panic and confusion hung in the air like a thick fog. Just then, a large, rotund man clad in opulent blue silk made his entrance into the fray. He strode towards Jaquawe, who was momentarily distracted by Bucrok’s conversation.

  “Hey, you there, Orc!” The man said while snapping his fingers. Get your bird and have him fly me over the flames!” The man’s voice was gruff, brazenly demanding, his eyes glinting with a mix of desperation and entitlement. He traced his eyes over the woman cradled in Jaquawe’s arms, a smirk of greed creeping onto his face as he added, “Actually, I’d prefer it if she took me instead.”

  A surge of anger flared within Jaquawe’s chest, a protective instinct igniting like a fire of its own. He took a deliberate step backward, shielding his wife from the bulky man’s unwelcome presence. “Get away from me! I don’t belong to anyone and she damn well is spoken for!” Jaquawe hissed, his voice low and dangerous, shaking with barely contained fury.

  Bucrok, still observing the tense standoff, fell silent, his eyes keenly focused on the unsettling exchange that was rapidly escalating. He looked over to his wife and she met his gaze. Nita then looked down and saw Bucrok’s hand tightly knotted in a ball. She reached over and pulled Nieesha from Bucrok and continued to watch the situation.

  “Well then, if you think you don't belong to anyone, that works in my favor,” the pudgy man replied, his grin wide and full of malice. “In fact, I’ll say your services are now mine. I declare that on this day, I, Demitri Sinclair, have allowed you and that woman to the Sinclair household. You of course won’t be in any position of authority but you should feel honored nonetheless. ”

  “Why would I ever work for you?” Jaquawe snapped back, gravelly disdain lacing his words. The man merely chuckled, his amusement barely concealed as he cleared his throat. At that moment, four towering, muscular men emerged from the crowd, donning impressive armor that glinted ominously in the fires' flickering light, their weapons on the ready by their side.

  “I don’t think I was asking,” Demitri retorted, glancing back over his shoulder at the imposing figures that flanked him. “Was I asking?”

  “No, not a chance in hell,” one of the henchmen gruffly chimed in with a chuckle, his voice like gravel.

  “So, you mean to let us die in this city just because you won’t help us escape with those pretty feathers of yours? We’re all just trying to survive here, and it looks like you’re our only ticket out.” The crowd around Jaquawe began to murmur restlessly, the atmosphere heavy with discontent and desperation.

  Suddenly, a woman pushed her way to the front, clutching her child close to her heart. She fell to her knees, her voice trembling with desperation as she urged, “Please, please—get my son out of here! I’ll pay whatever you want! I’ll do anything you ask!” Her vulnerability, coupled with her selflessness, struck a chord deep within Jaquawe, tugging at his heartstrings. The raw energy of her emotion ignited a flicker of empathy within him.

  As if her plea unleashed a tidal wave of hope, more people began to kneel, each one clamoring for sanctuary, their voices overlapping in a chorus of panic and desperation. Before he could gather his thoughts to respond, the pudgy man’s voice sliced through the rising tide of pleas, dripping with entitlement. “You all need to get in line! He saves me first! I paid already, the going rate is 2 gold a person!” He emphasized his claim with a patronizing wave of his hand.

  “Hey, bird brain! Wake that woman up!” Demitri said, pointing at Jaquawe's wife. The pudgy man’s demeanor reeked of arrogance as he maneuvered through the mob, pushing past the desperate faces crowding around Jaquawe.

  Demitri seized a handful of hair from the sleeping woman, and tugged like she was a stubborn dog on a lease. Rage bubbled up within Jaquawe. With a swift kick, he struck the man in the stomach, forcing him to loosen his grip and stumble backward, his eyes wide with shock. That was all the opening Jaquawe needed. With a powerful leap, his wings unfurled majestically as he took flight, hovering momentarily over the crowd.

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  “You see,” the pudgy man crooned, his voice mocking, “this one has the capacity to help, but instead of lending a hand, he flaunts his ability to escape this madness at his leisure.” His words resonated through the assembled masses, igniting murmurs of discontent among them.

  “Are you really going to just stand there and let us all perish in this city?” Demitri’s henchman voiced out, piercing through the chattering commoners. Suddenly, a projectile whizzed through the air, striking Jaquawe squarely in the face. He felt the warm trickle of blood slide down his cheek.

  “Look I can't save everyone alone, but if we all work to-” Jaquawe started to say before another projectile hit him on the forehead. Another Rock came hurling but this time he dodged to the side this rock aimed at his wife. Before long most of the crowd below were throwing rocks. It seemed like they were taking their frustration out on Jaquawe. Confusion and disbelief washed over him as he lowered his gaze, scanning the sea of anxious faces for a familiar one—Bucrok and his family—but they were nowhere to be found.

  A wave of sadness washed over Jaquawe, the bitter reality settling in. He had just met the orc; he couldn’t burden Bucrok with a plea for help. No favors were owed, and perhaps he had misjudged the bond they had begun to form. Just when he thought of taking flight and escaping this turmoil, a painful yell pierced through the crowd, followed by the heavy thud of a body collapsing to the ground. Jaquawe looked down just in time to see one of the pudgy man’s henchmen writhing on the floor, agony etched across his face.

  Bucrok was standing next to the man with his powerful fist thrust forward. In a swift motion, he then charged at a second man, who seemed caught off guard, as if the realization that an attack was imminent barely had time to settle in his mind. The henchman, sensing danger but not quite prepared, hastily pulled a small shield up from his side. He braced himself behind the makeshift protection, steeling himself for a counterattack, hoping it would provide enough defense against Bucrok's onslaught.

  But Bucrok was fast. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, arriving before the man with the shield and spinning like a whirling top. He armed himself with his formidable battle hammer. With a powerful swing fueled by sheer force and intent, he struck the shield with a thunderous crash. The impact was so tremendous that it not only lifted the unsuspecting henchman off the ground but sent him sailing backwards, crashing spectacularly into a nearby wooden guard post that splintered upon impact.

  Bucrok then turned his attention to Jaquawe, who was observing the chaos unfold. With a decisive gesture, he pointed in a different direction. “Go! Fly! I'll catch up,” he exclaimed, steadying himself and slipping into a fierce battle pose. At that moment, Demitri locked eyes with Bucrok. His gaze burned with a hatred so intense it was almost perceivable. But then, in a tone laced with command, he turned to Jaquawe and hissed, “Don't let those birds escape. The dragon is almost upon us, the city is already damned.”

  The crowd, which had initially hesitated, began to stir. One by one, their faces hardened, and their resolve grew as they felt compelled to step forward. Each of them sensed the gravity of the situation, slowly realizing that survival hinged on their collective action.

  In the midst of this turmoil, one of the henchmen attempted to mount a sneak attack from behind Bucrok. With the intention of cleaving the large orc in two, he swung his sword horizontally. But without skipping a beat, Bucrok’s heightened battle senses kicked in. He could feel the malevolent intent radiating behind him, prompting him to spring into the air with remarkable agility, easily dodging the lethal blade.

  Just as he landed, another henchman rushed in to join the fray, swinging his sword with murderous intent, aiming for the orc’s neck with fervor. The air was thick with danger, and the blows rained down upon Bucrok like a relentless storm. Yet the orc remained nimble as ever, swaying and dodging with an almost graceful precision, like a gentle breeze dancing between the aggressive strikes. His years of experience kicked into full motion.

  Meanwhile, Jaquawe was frantically searching for a way to assist but was suddenly interrupted by a barrage of rocks, hurled by the increasingly agitated crowd. From somewhere in the mass, one man bellowed, frustration lacing his words, “Come down and help us!” The anger in his voice was intense, echoing the sentiments of those around him. More people joined in, ducking down to gather stones, their frustration amplifying the tension in the air.

  “Every second you waste, a person could have been saved!” another woman yelled, hurling yet another rock. “Arrogant bastard!” shouted a disembodied voice from the crowd, adding to all the noise. The multitude of voices began to blur together, creating an overwhelming tidal wave of anger and desperation that washed over Jaquawe.

  Demitri couldn’t help but smirk, relishing the sight of Jaquawe being pelted relentlessly by rocks. Feeling the weight of the crowd's fury bearing down on him, Jaquawe realized he had no choice but to retreat. He turned to fly away, but could still hear the uproar of shouting behind him, the dull thuds of stones impacting the walls. The stampede of frantic feet echoed in the air, chasing after him like a pack of mad dogs, each step a desperate bid for survival.

  Jaquawe raced through the dimly lit streets, heart pounding as he frantically searched for a safe place to hide. The adrenaline coursing through his veins made him acutely aware of every sound and movement around him. He caught a glimpse of Nita. She was standing by a partially crumbled wall, waving her arms with urgency, trying to catch his attention. Jaquawe darted towards her, wings working into overdrive as he quickened his pace.

  Nita had chosen a spot that was almost concealed within the shadows of an abandoned building, its windows shattered and the door hanging off its hinges, but it offered some semblance of refuge. As Jaquawe reached her, he noticed the mob of pursuers was still hot on their trail, a seething mass of faces driven by a primal instinct to hunt him down. Their shouts echoed through the alleyways—wild, chaotic, and utterly terrifying.

  Just when it seemed they were cornered, a deafening sound erupted from above, causing everyone to freeze. Glass shattered like thunder causing silence to envelope everything, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as if time had paused. Then, without warning, the ground beneath them began to tremble violently, an earthquake shaking the very foundations of their world. The horror of the moment intensified as people began to scream; chaos reigned as everyone abandoned the chase to escape the terror.

  Jaquawe stood there, eyes wide and filled with confusion, alongside Nita and her daughter, Nieesha. The sounds around them faded for a heartbeat, and in that eerie stillness, everything came crashing down in a wave of realization. A low, guttural rumble reverberated through their chests, sending a chill down their spines. It was a sound so foreign and heavy that it felt as if it were invading their very minds. Then, they heard it—a deep, resonant voice that was unfamiliar and taunting.

  “Such fragile creatures,” it boomed, the condescension weaving a sense of dread into the very air they breathed. Nita’s thoughts spun like a whirlwind; the one thing that terrified her more than the chaos around them was the chilling thought of Nickolas—the only person she believed could save the city—being dead. A wave of overwhelming dread washed over her, stealing her breath and leaving her hyperventilating. She instinctively reached for Nieesha, clutching her daughter tightly, while Jaquawe stood beside her, grappling with a similar sense of hopelessness that tangled around his heart like a vice.

  Just then, Bucrok emerged from the shadows, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, and startled both Jaquawe and Nita. The three of them exchanged brief but worried glances filled with unspoken fear.

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to get us out of here,” Bucrok declared, his voice steady as he reached out to gently rub his daughter’s hair, a small gesture meant to reassure her amid the chaos. Yet beneath his brave facade, he couldn’t shake the gnawing uncertainty that bubbled beneath the surface. Though he offered those words with conviction, the truth lingered in his mind. He didn’t entirely believe himself.