The stench of damp rot filled the air, clinging to the wooden beams of crumbling houses. Marsh Town had never truly recovered.
Even after thirty years, scars of the past still festered—the streets riddled with half-sunken hovels, their roofs sagging from mold and time. Filthy water pooled in the alleys, choked with dead reeds and broken planks, the remnants of docks that had long since collapsed into the blackened swamps.
The people were as ragged as the town itself. Gaunt faces, hollow eyes, and hands that trembled from both hunger and exhaustion. They craved Dun like drowning men craved air, for it was the only currency that held any value in this forsaken land. Silver and gold were worthless here.
And at the heart of this ruin, inside a battered town hall, Mayor Grimholt Vale stood before them.
A man once strong, now withered by the weight of a dying town. His long, greasy hair hung in unkempt strands over his scarred face, his left eye milky white from an old wound. His clothes, though once fine, were now patched and stained, hanging loosely on his thin frame.
Yet, despite his frail form, his voice was firm as he pointed toward the heavens, toward the bloody red glow staining the night sky.
"We saw it," he declared, his voice rasping with age and fear. "The mark of the Elder Dragon."
A hush fell over the crowd. Whispers of dread rippled through the gathered folk, their chapped lips muttering prayers to gods who had long since abandoned them.
Grimholt's hand trembled as he gestured toward the ruin that surrounded them—toward the houses on the verge of collapse, the starving children clutching at their mothers' skirts, the men too weak to wield a blade. "We are not ready," he admitted bitterly. "We were never ready."
His blind eye glistened under the flickering torchlight as he turned back to his people. "Thirty years ago, we burned. We lost everything." His breath hitched. "And now, it returns."
Some gasped. Others fell to their knees, whispering that this was the end. A shrill voice from the crowd rang out. "What do we do, Mayor?! How do we fight a god of fire?!"
Grimholt clenched his jaw. The truth was, they couldn't. Their town was a corpse, a husk barely clinging to life, and now the reaper had returned.
His grip tightened on the old iron dagger strapped to his belt. Not a weapon fit for battle, but a relic of the last time he had tried—and failed—to protect his home.
"We do what we must." His words came slow, deliberate. "We either run…"
A pause. A silence so heavy it felt like the very walls of the hall might collapse. "…or we die screaming."
The town square buzzed with hushed whispers and murmurs, a chorus of panic weaving through the broken streets. The poor clung to one another, their fear palpable, while the few who still had wealth didn't even bother speaking. Their carts were already loaded, their oxen already harnessed. They were leaving—anywhere but here.
Grimholt watched them go from the steps of the ruined town hall, his wrinkled hands clenched into fists. Cowards. But could he blame them? Marsh Town was a grave waiting for its corpses. Then, a voice cut through the fearful murmurs. "We fight."
A strong, unwavering voice—one that did not shake like the rest. The crowd turned to see Jareth, a man in his early forties, standing tall amidst the defeated. His weathered face bore the scars of his father's legacy, his piercing green eyes locked onto Grimholt. The son of the last mayor—the man who had died the last time Marsh Town burned.
"We fight," Jareth repeated, stepping forward. "We let that monster take everything once. We won't let it take more."
The townsfolk muttered among themselves, their faces flickering between hope and doubt. Grimholt, however, chuckled dryly—a bitter, humorless sound. "Fight?" He spat on the ground, shaking his head. "Did you forget, Jareth? Did you forget that your own father was responsible for our downfall?"
Jareth stiffened, his jaw tightening. Grimholt stepped closer, his milky white eye glinting under the torchlight. He raised a bony finger, pointing it straight at Jareth's chest. "Mayor Edric the 'Stalwart,' they called him," Grimholt sneered. "The bowman who manned the great Azerite Ballista. The one weapon that could have slain the beast."
The murmurs grew louder. Some nodded in grim remembrance. "And what did he do?" Grimholt's lips curled. "He missed. Every. Single. Shot."
Jareth's fists clenched, but he said nothing. Grimholt scoffed, turning to the crowd. "You all remember, don't you? How we thought the great ballista would save us?" He gestured to the crumbling remains of Marsh Town. "How the moment Edric let that bolt fly, the dragon turned, saw where it came from, and unleashed hell?"
Silence. Grimholt's voice grew colder, a ghost of old anger slipping into his words. "Your father was the one who doomed us, Jareth." He leaned in. "And now, you want to repeat his mistakes?"
The weight of the past hung heavy in the air. A hush fell over the crowd. Then, murmurs turned to grumbles, grumbles to whispers, whispers to shouts.
"Aye, I remember!" an old woman cried, her wrinkled hands trembling as she pointed at Jareth. "The mayor stood atop the watchtower, boastin' that he'd slay the beast!"
"And what did he do?" a burly blacksmith bellowed. "He missed! Every gods-damned shot!"
"No—he hit once!" a younger man sneered. "A single, pathetic bolt that barely scratched its hide!"
Anger spread like wildfire. "And what happened after?" another voice rose. "The dragon turned its fury on us! It burned our homes, killed our kin!"
"Because of him!" A bony finger jabbed toward Jareth. "Because of your father!"
Jareth stood frozen, his face pale, his fists clenched.
The mob closed in, their voices turning cruel, their rage festering after thirty long years. "Like father, like son!" someone spat.
"Are you here to finish what he started?"
"Maybe we should throw you to the beast instead!"
The crowd erupted into laughter, cruel and bitter. "Oh? So you want us to dive into the filth of the old swamp?" Grimholt sneered, crossing his thick arms. "And what? Fish out the bolt your father lost? That's your grand plan?"
"Aye!" another man jeered. "Maybe if we all hold hands and wish real hard, it'll float right back to us!"
"I'd rather drown than go digging for your cursed legacy," spat an older woman, her face lined with grief and fury. "We lost enough to that dragon the first time."
The mockery stung, but Jareth stood his ground. He knew the truth—Azerite was their only hope. If they could find a larger shard, if they could fashion something strong enough…
"Laugh all you want," he said, his voice steady, though his knuckles had turned white from how hard he clenched his fists. "Mock my father, mock me. But when the dragon returns, when it burns your homes and slaughters your kin—who will stop it? Not your rusted swords. Not your crumbling walls. Only Azerite can pierce its hide."
The laughter died down, replaced with an uneasy silence. They all knew the truth. They were powerless. But diving into the swamp, searching for something lost decades ago? It was madness.
"Then do it yourself," Grimholt finally scoffed. "If you want to swim with the dead, be my guest."
Jareth stood at the edge of the swamp, the thick, humid air clinging to his skin. The water before him was a black abyss, its surface broken only by the occasional ripple of unseen creatures below. Nobody truly knew how deep the swamps of Marsh Town ran—some claimed they were bottomless, swallowing entire carts and houses during the great flood decades ago.
The stench of rot and stagnant water filled his lungs, making each breath feel heavy. He stared into the murk, his reflection barely visible beneath the twisting shadows. The weight of doubt pressed against his chest. "Am I truly going to do this? Dive into the unknown... alone?"
His father's failure still haunted him. The scarred ruins of Marsh Town stood as a grim reminder—one missed shot, one mistake, and an entire town burned. Jareth clenched his fists. He couldn't fail. Not again.
He took a step forward, the mud swallowing his boots, the swamp's grasp cold and unwelcoming. He exhaled sharply, gathering his resolve. "If no one else will fight… then I will."
Jareth plunged into the swamp's depths, the cold murk swallowing him whole. Darkness wrapped around him like a burial shroud, thick and impenetrable. The further he sank, the heavier the water felt, pressing against his chest, crushing the air from his lungs.
His fingers reached out blindly, grasping at nothing but the sludge coating the bottom. He couldn't see. He couldn't breathe. The silence was deafening, the weight of the swamp suffocating.
His heart pounded—too deep, too dark. His ribs screamed for air. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, and with a desperate kick, he twisted upward, fighting the water, the weight, the endless void.
Jareth broke the surface with a ragged gasp, choking, coughing, dragging himself onto the bank. His body shook, his limbs weak from the effort. His lungs burned as he spat out swamp water, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gulps.
He lay there, staring up at the starless sky, his mind reeling. "Impossible..." he whispered, barely audible between gasps.
The bolt was down there, lost in the abyss. He had barely touched the bottom before the swamp threatened to claim him. No light, no air, no way to dig through centuries of sinking filth.
Jareth clenched a handful of mud, frustration seething through his veins. He couldn't do this alone. And no one in Marsh Town would help. Meanwhile…
As the townsfolk bicker, their voices rising in frustration and desperation, a tremor shakes the distant hills. A gust of hot wind sweeps through the streets, carrying the faint scent of scorched stone and ash. Varkhaz'gor opens his eyes.
Twin pools of molten gold flicker in the darkness, filled with hunger, filled with rage. The Elder Dragon shifts, massive talons carving deep gouges into the rock beneath him. His wings unfurl, a vast span of ancient, leathery membranes stretching against the night sky.
Then—a roar. Not just sound, but a force. It splinters dead trees, sends stones rolling down the hills, shakes the very bones of the land. Marsh Town hears it, feels it.A sound of doom.
The arguments in the town square die instantly. Faces pale. Hands tremble. They know. He is coming. Varkhaz'gor crouches, muscles coiling, then launches into the sky.
Like a comet of fire and fury, he ascends, his great wings pummeling the air, kicking up storms of dust and embers. The sky burns red once more. His eyes are locked onto a distant glow. The feeble lights of Marsh Town.