The ancient, dark elm trees of Shajara Forest loomed, their thick branches interwoven like gnarled fingers, blotting out the morning sun. Larice Whitewind moved with practiced ease over the soft, mossy soil, the scent of damp earth and wild herbs filling the air. Her rapier, ‘Grey Viper,’ was sheathed at her hip, a comforting weight. She dragged a freshly hunted deer behind her, its body leaving a faint trail on the forest floor.

Another morning, another hunt, another day wrestling with the bitter irony of her life: a dragon hunter who dreaded the very mention of fire. Her thoughts, as usual, drifted to the burning village, the screams, the thick black smoke that choked out the sky, and the image of her parents consumed by the inferno. The memory, a persistent phantom, drove her every step, every choice. She needed answers. She needed vengeance.

Ahead, the faint sound of laughter broke the forest's serenity. Larice slowed, catching sight of three bearded hunters. They were jovial, sharing camaraderie she had long since lost, if she ever had it. Her grip on the deer tightened. Then she saw the small figure between them: a young girl, sobbing, her ragged clothes dirty, a tiny wooden-handled blade clutched in her hand.