Tragold and the Price of Mercy

Gray spray hangs over Border City’s broken bridge. New timbers jut from the half-finished span, tied with rope and iron clamps, but one section sags over the churning water below. Tragold reaches the repair site as voices fall silent.

On a mound of splintered stone and planks, a nobleman's child crouches rigid with fear, pale hands gripping a beam. At the bridge’s edge, a wolf-pack prowls in a loose ring, noses low, claws testing the loose boards.

A broad-shouldered guard in a rain-dark cloak stands half-hidden by a scaffold post, one hand on a spear, watching Tragold and the wolves with the look of a man who has already spent too much courage.

The nearest wolf lifts its head and bares its teeth, then pads onto a loose plank. Wood creaks sharply under its weight.

The child looks straight at Tragold, hope and terror locked together in his face, while the wolves tighten their circle and the guard waits for an answer he cannot supply.

Tragold snaps his blade free, the steel flashing against the gray spray.

The shout cracks across the repair site, and every wolf head turns toward him instead of the child.

The nearest wolf stiffens on the loose plank, ears pinned, then lowers its shoulders toward Tragold.

The child’s grip loosens on the beam as he looks to Tragold, fear giving way to a thin, startled hope.

The guard hears and drops into a crouch, hauling the child down behind the broken beam as spray lashes over them.

Tragold steps wide on the planks, blade high, and gives the wolves his full front instead of the boy.

The pack shuffles after him in a rough crescent, claws scraping, noses low, testing the bridge and his nerve at once.

Tragold squares himself to the pack, lifting blade and shoulders alike until he seems bigger than the broken span can hold.

The wolves hesitate, ears flattening as spray and wind slap his scales and make his silhouette hard to read.

One wolf barks a warning, then another backs a pace, claws skittering on wet plank.

The pack gives ground in a slow, unwilling shuffle, their crescent loosening as they decide the bridge and the kobold are both too much trouble.

Behind the beam, the child peeks out with bright, shaken eyes fixed on Tragold, while the guard tightens his grip and waits for the wolves to commit or flee.

Tragold answers the pack with a snarling kobold bark, slashing his blade in rough, flashing arcs that bite the spray apart.

The wolves flinch as one, ears pinned flat, and their loose crescent breaks under the noise and motion.

One wolf turns its head first, then the others follow, giving the bridge a final wary look before retreating toward the far end.

Behind the beam, the child’s eyes stay locked on Tragold, no longer searching for escape, only protection.

The guard eases his spear down a fraction and shifts closer to the boy, while the pack backs out of striking range.

The last wolf disappears into the spray, and the bridge stops shaking under fresh paws. Tragold keeps his stance a moment longer, watching the far end until the pack is only a memory of gray motion.

Only then does he slide his shortsword home and turn back toward the broken beam, palm open and low, careful as if approaching a startled hatchling.

The boy steps out from behind the beam by half a pace, eyes wide on Tragold’s outstretched hand instead of the drop beyond the bridge.

The guard gives a small, tired nod, and the wind tugs at his cloak as he waits for the child’s answer with visible relief.

Tragold reaches down and braces the child by the arm, easing him from the broken span onto firmer planks. The guard shifts in beside them, close enough to catch a stumble.

The child gives a shaky laugh and grips Tragold’s hand with both of his. The guard’s mouth twitches despite his exhaustion.

As they move, a city patrol horn answers from the near side of the bridge, and two distant figures on the repaired road raise lanterns to guide them home.