Juniper pulled up to the gates of the fantasy camp, his car kicking up a plume of dust that lingered in the air like a thick, grimy fog. The landscape was harsh, a stretch of barren land punctuated by makeshift structures and the occasional tower of machinery. The camp sprawled across the desert-like expanse, surrounded by high fences topped with barbed wire, the only access controlled by armed guards.

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he reached for the case on the passenger seat, which held the human bone claw he’d brought to show Percy. A reminder of the unsettling task at hand. But his mind drifted to Valmet for a moment, to the strange world he’d once imagined she’d inherit—and the darker one he now saw he was part of creating.

He stepped out of the car, and the searing midday sun immediately bore down on him, casting stark shadows across the camp’s rough, metal fencing. The heat was oppressive, but the conditions inside the camp were worse. From where he stood, he could already see rows of tattered tents and makeshift huts, their occupants—fantasy creatures of all shapes and sizes—moving about in silence. Orcs with leathery skin, fairies whose once-bright wings were faded and torn, and elves whose eyes bore the weight of years of confinement. They all moved mechanically, each step deliberate yet drained of life.

Juniper’s gaze hardened as he took in the scene. These camps were essential to the mafia’s operations; the dust mined here was the most valuable drug in the world, a substance that fueled addiction, heightened senses, and granted brief glimpses into realms most could only imagine. The mafia had cornered the market, distributing it through a network that spanned continents, but the cost was paid in lives. And Percy, with his relentless ambition, controlled every aspect of it.

As he walked toward the gate, two guards stepped forward, rifles slung across their chests. One gave him a nod, recognizing him immediately.

“Mr. Jones,” the guard greeted, tipping his head in respect. “Mr. Percy is expecting you inside.”

Juniper returned the nod, then cast one last look at the bleak scene inside. Rows of workers were moving deeper into the mines, their clothes torn and caked in dust, their faces hidden beneath crude masks to filter out the toxic particles that hung heavy in the air. The sight twisted something in his gut—a flicker of old memories, the feeling of being used and discarded by those with power.

As he passed through the gate, he steeled himself. The conditions here weren’t his doing, but his silence allowed them to continue. Today, however, was about finding answers—and facing Percy, the man who’d shaped him as much as he’d trapped him.

Juniper strode through the camp, ignoring the dirt and dust swirling around him, heading straight toward the main building where Percy’s office loomed like a throne room over the broken slums below. Inside, the air was marginally cooler, but the thick scent of incense mixed with the staleness of an unventilated room.

Percy was waiting for him, lounging behind an oversized oak desk, his signature smile sliding across his face as Juniper entered. The office was ostentatiously decorated with rich drapery and polished brass lamps, a small oasis of luxury in the heart of despair.

“Juniper,” Percy purred, eyeing him with a glint of amusement. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Did you miss me?” He leaned forward, resting his chin on steepled fingers. “Or is this strictly business?”

Juniper’s jaw tightened, barely concealing his distaste. “Don’t flatter yourself, Percy. I’m here to get answers. And I don’t have time for your games.”

Percy’s grin widened, and he leaned back, crossing one leg over the other in a practiced, dismissive pose. “Still so fiery. It’s why I took a liking to you all those years ago, you know,” he cooed, tracing a finger idly along the grain of the oak. “You had that spark, that fight… and, of course, the pretty face.”

Juniper felt his fists clench, but he kept his composure. “We’re not equals anymore, Percy. You don’t get to play me like you used to.”

Percy raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Oh? The mafia might see us as equals, but we both know where you started. And you’ll always have a little piece of me in you, darling.” His gaze flickered with a darker amusement, as if daring Juniper to rise to the bait.

Juniper’s patience snapped. With one swift motion, he brought his fist down on Percy’s desk, the thick oak cracking and splintering under the impact. The smash reverberated through the room, leaving Percy frozen for just a moment as he stared at the destruction.

Percy’s mouth twisted, the smile vanishing as bitterness replaced it. He looked at the fractured wood, and then back up at Juniper, a dark glint in his eyes. “Temper, temper. You really haven’t changed, have you?”

Juniper took a step closer, his voice low and deadly. “I’m not here for your commentary, Percy. I came here to ask about this.” He slid the case onto what was left of the desk, opening it to reveal the twisted bone claw. “Found in a body. You know what it is, and you’re going to tell me.”

Percy’s gaze flicked down to the claw, then back up, his amusement creeping back as he examined Juniper’s reaction. “Oh, this?” He raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to the twisted claw with a feigned expression of interest. “Yes, I know exactly what it is. But information of that caliber doesn’t come cheap, my dear.”

Percy stood and closed the distance between them, his hand reaching up to trail a finger along Juniper’s collar as he leaned in. “Maybe you’d like to… refresh my memory?” His voice was a low purr, filled with dark intent, echoing years of control he had once exercised over Juniper.

In an instant, Juniper’s hand shot out, grabbing Percy by the collar and slamming him against the wall. The impact sent a shudder through the room, and Percy’s smirk faltered as he felt the cold fury radiating from Juniper.

“I don’t play those games anymore, Percy. You’re going to tell me what I want to know, or this will be the last conversation we ever have,” Juniper hissed, his voice cold and unyielding.

Percy’s eyes flashed with anger, but he gave a reluctant laugh, his voice laced with venom. “Fine. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” He cleared his throat, the smirk returning, though it was now tinged with bitterness. “The claw came from one of our… special residents. A young elf, no more than 160 years old. A runaway, if you can believe it.”

Juniper’s grip loosened slightly, his curiosity piqued. “An elf? And how did he manage to escape?”

“Oh, he’s not just any elf,” Percy replied, rubbing his throat as Juniper released him. “A born necromancer, untrained and untested. The boy didn’t know his own strength. Dangerous little thing, that one.”

Juniper’s eyes narrowed, processing the information. A young elf necromancer with raw power, loose in the city, capable of growing weapons from his own bones… The implications were staggering. But Percy’s refusal to give this information freely only confirmed Juniper’s suspicions.

“And what else?” Juniper demanded. “Why are you so invested in keeping him a secret?”

Percy straightened, a spark of defiance glinting in his eyes. “I’ve told you enough for now, Juniper. You’ll have to dig for the rest yourself. Consider it a favor, one that reminds you of who gave you your start.”

Juniper’s eyes flashed with anger, but he held himself back. He’d gotten what he came for—for now.

As Juniper left Percy’s office, his mind churned with frustration and bitterness. The weight of the camp’s reality pressed down on him, and he walked through the rows of makeshift shelters and shacks with a heavy heart. The workers moved like shadows, each step slow and weary, their faces bearing the marks of exhaustion and despair.

Suddenly, he noticed an old orc stumbling, his gnarled hands reaching out to steady himself against a broken wooden post. Juniper rushed forward, instinctively reaching out to support him before he fell to the ground.

“Here,” Juniper said gently, guiding the orc to sit on a low, cracked bench nearby. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small flask of water, offering it to the orc.

The orc’s hands trembled as he accepted the water, lifting it to his parched lips. He drank slowly, with a cautious dignity, and when he’d finished, he looked up at Juniper with ancient, knowing eyes. “Thank you,” he rumbled, his voice deep and rough, carrying the weight of many years. “It’s rare to see a heart of kindness in these camps.”

Juniper offered a faint smile, nodding respectfully. “It’s the least I could do. I… see what this place does to people.”

The orc regarded him for a long moment, as if assessing him, and then he chuckled softly, a sound filled with both mirth and sadness. “You may be an executive, but even you are powerless here. The power in this place is darker than any blade or whip.” His eyes grew distant, his voice taking on a haunting tone. “But there are things far more powerful still, things that will awaken when the time comes.”

Juniper frowned, feeling a chill creep down his spine. “What do you mean?”

The orc shifted, leaning in close. “They call me Grumash,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Once, I was a shaman, a speaker of truths. And though my vision fades with age, I still see glimpses of what lies ahead.”

Juniper’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

Grumash closed his eyes, his hands tracing strange symbols in the air as he spoke, his voice dropping to a low chant. “Jormungandr, the World Serpent, will rise, and with it, Cerberus, the three-headed beast of the underworld. They will devour all, bound in a battle that will shake the heavens and tear open the realms. The world you know will be tested, and only those with true strength will endure.”

Juniper felt a deep unease settle in his chest. “And… when will this happen?”

The orc’s eyes opened, piercing and clear, his gaze unwavering. “When the cages break, when the enslaved reclaim their voices. It will begin with the young—the ones with fire in their blood and courage in their hearts. When they rise, the great battle will come. Those who stand on the wrong side of history will be crushed beneath its weight.”

A hint of sadness touched Grumash’s expression as he patted Juniper’s arm. “Be careful where you place your loyalties, young man. The gods are patient, but their wrath is unforgiving.”

Juniper, momentarily stunned, managed a slow nod. “Thank you… Grumash.” He placed a hand on the old orc’s shoulder, feeling a connection in that brief touch—a bond that transcended the power structures and violence around them.

Grumash gave him a small, knowing smile. “Remember what I’ve said, child of man. Your heart is kind, but kindness alone cannot change fate. Prepare yourself. When the serpent awakens, there will be no place for those who stand idle.”

Juniper watched as Grumash shuffled back toward the camp, disappearing into the sea of downtrodden figures. As he turned back toward his car, Grumash’s words echoed in his mind, haunting him with their dark promise.

As Juniper slid back into his car, Grumash’s words echoed in his mind, a lingering weight he couldn’t shake. He started the engine, letting the low hum fill the silence as he drove slowly through the camp, glancing once more at the bleak landscape. His thoughts drifted, replaying the prophecy in his mind, wondering what it might mean for him—and for Valmet.

Just as he reached the edge of the camp, something caught his eye. Near the side of the road, partially buried in the dust, was a shiny black glove. It looked new, out of place in the grimy surroundings, the polished leather catching the last rays of sunlight.

Juniper slowed, curiosity piqued, and pulled over to take a closer look. Stepping out, he picked up the glove, turning it over in his hand. It was small, lightweight, the kind worn by bikers, yet sleek and tailored—fitted perfectly for a woman’s hand. A faint perfume lingered on the leather, sharp and familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place.

He frowned, feeling a strange tug in his chest, though he couldn’t say why. It was just a glove, after all. But something about it nagged at him, a feeling he couldn’t shake. Shoving it into his pocket, he got back into the car, still glancing over his shoulder as he drove away, the glove heavy against his side.

As the camp faded in his rearview mirror, Juniper’s mind returned to the old orc’s warning, yet he couldn’t ignore the faint feeling of dread curling in his gut.