Welcome To Throxx

[DDMFiction]

A little prompt from the beginning of my book, I hope you guys like it!

Throxx


In Memory of Thomas Warren Ouellette, the man who raised me.

The Lands of Throxx

Part one​

It’s slow. Falling hundreds of feet down a cliff, jagged teeth waiting below.
A fitting end. I thought.

To think, it was done by someone young—too young. A mere boy. I hated his smile. It was ugly in its own way. I hated how he could keep smiling despite everything. I broke him in every way a man can be broken, yet he still stood. Proud. Defiant. Until my death.

He reminds me of myself, in another time. Fractions of seconds stretch into a lifetime of memories. Past all the bloodshed that drowned my hands and stained my boots beyond cleansing. Somewhere beneath it all, I see smiles. Laughter.

Red hair.

My heart aches. The hundred feet dwindle to ten in mere moments. Funny how death teaches you why you do bad things in the first place. My hand clutches the only thing still human about me: a small pendant. The string snaps as it slips from my neck, tumbling into the void with me.

I feel nothing. The water greets me like stone, shattering me upon impact. Somehow, I miss the jagged rocks, but the water offers no mercy. My body breaks, blood pooling around me in crimson clouds. The waves pull me under, deeper into the cold, the sound of the surface fading.

Her smile flashes again. Those defiant eyes. Light, radiant and pure.

"I'm sorry, Thyra."

Not that it matters. Apologies mean nothing now. I was not a good man. I didn’t keep my promise. I failed her—again and again. I want to scream, to curse this as my end, but there’s nothing left. No afterlife will welcome me. I’ll drown, buried in the thick sands below.

Her smile haunts me as I sink. My blood trails behind like a crimson thread, leading me into the dark.

Danez Ironborn—perhaps you’ll walk a better path than I did.

With that, my eyes close. The light disappears, swallowed by the waves. My final conquest, my last trial—finally returned.

Death.

1.

Falcon​

Throxx is a small place compared to most places in Spira—small, yet vast in all the ways that leave a mark.

A kingdom of wind-stripped plains where tall grass shivers against lifeless dirt, where mountains erupt from the earth like the jagged teeth of some ancient god. Our lakes run cold enough to butcher breath; the monsters beneath their surfaces never bother to hide. And our seas—full of old leviathans—rise and fall with tempers no sailor without a death wish would dare test.

But none of these are why it is feared.

It is feared because something lives here that shouldn’t.

Beyond the ruins and bone-quiet fields, past the stones that whisper with the breath of ghosts, is a hunger older than nations. Those who come to Kaldus come for one thing—power.
The strong gather here. The ruthless. The broken. Those who believe ambition is enough to steal the world from its rightful owners.

The wind carries tales of fallen champions. The ground swallows countless weapons, rusting under the weight of men who once thought themselves gods. And in pursuit of strength, Kaldus takes its tithe—always in blood, never in mercy.

But the greatest treasure this land offers is not soil, nor gold, nor any gem carved by mortal hands.

No.

Here, a force dwells—wild, color-born, a relic from the gods’ own screaming mouths. A force no man has ever captured. Except me. And even now, with that impossible power coiled in my grasp, I feel nothing. The world fears me. Champions fail to make me bleed. Prophets come offering kingdoms and leave trembling. Magic clings to me like a curse I never wanted.

How pointless it all feels.

My ambition has decayed into a dull, gnawing boredom. The blood that once thrilled me now dries on my hands like old paint. Every treasure I’ve claimed, every land I’ve carved my name into—each sits on my wall like another piece of clutter.

So I sit here, alone, in this circular dueling chamber. A stone throne behind me, its frame pinned with the weapons of all who failed to take my life. Sand carpets the pit, hiding more blades beneath its surface—silent bones of long-dead battles.

Sometimes, if I shut my eyes long enough, I still hear them. Crowds roared. Shields clashing. Metal shrieking against metal. But when I open my eyes again, the silence devours everything.

Then—steps. Slow at first, then growing in weight, echoing through the dark hall leading into the arena.

“Another challenger?” I murmur.

Light leaks through the ceiling grates, pale and reluctant, revealing a Spirian soldier stepping into the pit. Big. Broad. His armor coated in dark steel. Gauntlets thick enough to crush bone. Greaves dented from battle. His black hair is whipped rough by the wind. His jaw, sharp. His eyes… those, I know well.

A killer’s eyes.

A long, tattered cape of deep red drags behind him, shifting like blood caught in a storm. He carries a steel long-axe, polished enough to gleam like frostbite’s smile. He plants the blade into the sand and rests both hands on its throat.

“Kaelrick Snow,” he announces. His tone is deep, respectful.

“Spirian soldier,” I reply, rising from the throne.

He looks around the chamber, brow lifting. “No elite warriors? No guards?”

I drop from the platform into the sand, dust blooming around my boots. “I don’t need soldiers for matters like these.”

He studies me—unafraid, unarrogant, unreadable. Strange. Most who come for my life wear their greed openly.

“Your name,” I say, circling him. My blades itch against their sheaths.

He smirks faintly. “That is earned—like all the other trophies you’ve taken.”

“Trophy?” My curiosity stirs. “Are you offering yourself as one?”

He chuckles. “You’ll find some prizes don’t come so easily.”

My dagger and shortsword flash into my hands. “They always say that.”

I close the distance in a heartbeat.

Steel screams as my blades cut through air—swift, lethal. He’s fast for his size—my shortsword skitters off his armor, my dagger meets the haft of his axe. His cape flares as he spins, his counterattack slicing toward my neck with vicious precision.

Impressive.

I slide under the strike, aiming to catch him off balance—but he slams his shoulder into me, shoving me across the sand. His axe snaps upward, hungry for blood. I twist aside. He presses forward, relentless, weapon moving with impossible speed for a brute of his size.

His strength is unreal.

I weave, parry, absorb the storm. He closes the gap again. No arrogance. No grin. Pure, focused danger.

He swings wide. I redirect the blow, sparks hissing between our weapons. The sand erupts beneath us.

My dagger snaps forward, grazing his jugular—but he jerks away, only a shallow cut marking him. His fist surges toward my ribs.

I block, kick his axe aside. It skids across the sand as he loses grip. I follow, attacking fast, efficient, but he shields every strike behind armor or forearm. He parries my shortsword and cracks a heavy hook against my skull.

My vision rings. I spit blood.

“Not bad,” I mutter.

He tries to press, but I bury a brutal uppercut into his chin. Bone cracks. He staggers—but doesn’t fall. I drop my blades and unleash a flurry of blows—fist to ribs, elbow to throat, knee to gut—each impact hammering flesh and bone.

He clamps his hands together and smashes them down onto my back. Pain spikes through my spine. He grips my shoulders, slams an elbow into me, then a knee, then a clean, savage punch.

I block, but blocking him hurts just as much as taking the hit.

He wipes blood from his lip, stance resetting, hands lifted for another exchange.

I have no patience for it.

My hand cannon is drawn before he finishes breathing. Three shots thunder. Two break through his chest plate but do not pierce. The third rips into his shoulder—his skin thick as stone. I have three bullets left, and I aim at his skull.

He looks at the wound, nods. “Not bad,” his eyes slide to my gun. “So this is the Spiran creation said to level armies. I see the legends of Kaelrick Snow are not exaggerated.”

“Unfortunately for you,” I say, “your story is nearing its end.”

“Perhaps.”

He stands straighter—not cowed, not shaken, simply waiting. For something. For me.

“What is your name?” I ask again.

A long silence. Then:

“Falcon Spearheart. Soldier of the Old Spira Reign.”

“You take defeat rather proudly.”

“Defeat is rare for me,” he says mildly. There is no insult in him. No poison. Only truth. “Why have you come here?”

“For the treasure you hold.”

A lie. And a poor one.

I press the barrel to his forehead. “Try again.”

He doesn’t blink. “I came for strength.”

“How poetic,” I say dryly.

He meets my eyes. “I walked across Kaldus following the trail of corpses your enemies left behind. They killed my men—every last one. I came to stand with the only warrior strong enough to kill them.”

“The Beastmen,” I mutter.

He nods. “I want your leadership.”

“You want revenge.”

He exhales, jaw setting. “I want justice for the Old Reign.”

“Your empire fell because it was weak,” I say. “I know. I killed many of your soldiers myself.”

He flinches—but he does not look away.

“Strength is the price of survival in Kaldus.” I lower the gun. “So I’ll ask again: do you want revenge?”

The soldier returns—the quiet, disciplined one who first walked in.

He retrieves his axe, resting it across his shoulders.

“Yes,” he says. “I think I do.”

“Good.” I turn toward the dark corridor leading deeper into my fortress. “Follow me. Show me what you can do on the battlefield.”

I do not look back.

“We depart soon,” I say. “The Beastmen will not conquer themselves.”