Dungeons & Dragons Honour Among Thieves Doric Novels & Stories

"What? I can't hear you! The director is calling for me. I have to go!" I hung up. But of course, I still went to the Corealis Grand Hotel. Watching Tristan's world implode was a spectacle I wouldn't miss for anything. By the time I arrived, the barrage had already narrated the entire scene. Unable to wait for me, Tristan had fallen to his knees, begging Roger for mercy. In a final, pathetic act, he had even licked Roger's shoes, babbling apologies. Roger's lover had laughed at the pitiful display. In the end, Roger showed "mercy"—he only shattered both of Tristan's legs and ensured he would never father another child.

Torin walked silently beside her, his presence a steadying pressure against the psychic currents. They reached the armory, a cavernous space smelling of hot metal, oil, and old sweat. Doric stood at the massive anvil, hammer raised, muscles bunched under his leather apron. Sweat glistened on his shaved head. He brought the hammer down with a deafening *CLANG* on a glowing sword blade, sparks flying like angry fireflies. The air around him vibrated with his frustration. *Anger. Doric.* It wasn't just hot now; it was a furnace blast.

The folds of his dark cloak ad leather straps are rendered in detailed texture. The distant looters continue walking down the street, carrying sacks of their own, reinforcing the idea that groups of scavengers are moving through the city. The sight of common thugs looting abandoned buildings and stalls brough a sharp, frustrated curse from Luz’s lips. His amber eyes narrowed at the pathetic spectacle. “Darm,” he commanded without slowing his pace. “A quick demonstration. Show these fools what happens when they get in our way.” Darm did not hesitate. A single bold of purple lighting shot from his fingertips, striking the lead thug’s shoulder and sending him sprawling into a pile of broken pot

He was about to climb back up when he picked up new, fleshly scents. Fenrir closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. What luck. “Aye, those apples looked fresh! I reckon there’s more in those crates, eh?” One spoke with a thick Southern accent. They approached, leaving the blanket of the woods. There were four sets of footsteps that approached, the clinging sound of steel hitting their palm and reaching his ears. With sagging shoulders, he exasperatedly walked to face the thieves. His eyes slit with impatience. “This is food for my dragon just past the forest. Would you care letting me pass, gentlemen? Lest I let my dragon loose here.”

Clawed fingers wrapped around my throat, yanking me up off the ground. I choked, gasping as my feet left the floor, my bound hands useless. "You're a thief," Darius hissed, his voice a growl. "But you are not just a thief, are you? You’ve taken something more than mere gold, more than trinkets." I struggled, thrashing in his grip, but his hold was like iron. His words came out in a snarl, each one laced with anger. "Not someone like you. Weak. Helpless."

Ash lifted his head. When he spoke, the words sounded layered—as if two voices came from his mouth at once: “They’ve found me.” A low, rising roar echoed through the trees. Darkthorn had arrived. Hundreds—no, thousands—of warriors moved like a black tide just beyond the camp’s border, their torches bobbing in the dark. Their crest—a crimson thorn wrapped around a wolf’s skull—gleamed like fresh blood. Tyla sucked in a breath beside me. I stepped closer, shielding her with my body even though her power surged so fiercely she didn’t need me to.

I just have to make sure that they want to hire me first. When I walk in, nobody takes a second look at me at first. Not until I pull down the hood of my cloak and they see my long brown hair flowing down my back. Nobody but nobility normally grows their hair long as it just gets in the way of the commoner's lives. I have always been a thief so as long as I pull my hair back it has never bothered me much. It is not much but it is the only thing of mine that is truly mine and I do not want to see it go.

The Xyloria Tirta said, “Now that a hero has emerged, he will undoubtedly elevate the Supreme Path to its pinnacle. For this very reason, not only would our lineage be willing, even the Five Evolutions will sacrifice.” Herodias took a deep breath and nodded in agreement. At that moment, Thea suddenly interjected, “Sir, I’m curious. Morgott can also be considered a hero, so why did you…” “The Yin governor?” The Xyloria Tirta turned to Thea and scrutinized her. “Ah…you’re incomplete.” Thea bowed respectfully and extended her hands toward him. The Xyloria Tirta came to a realization. He sighed and asked, “The Morgott you speak of, it’s Havelock Darrow, right?”

Liora’s hands moved with the practiced calm of someone who had learned to steady storms: methodical, sure, quiet. “He has debtors inside our walls,” Thorne said. “He has men who will be paid enough to sell a name and enough terror to accept the coin. There are three detachments he plans to use: the river thieves, hired to stir a fight and take goods; the eastern men, skilled at disappearing with what they take; and a group of mercenaries who will ride with false flags if needed.” Liora nodded. “And the plan to poison—”

Because this time, we managed to defeat one of Uncle Garson’s forces. When our lips finally part, Alaric smiles against my mouth. “That’s my mate. No one will ever touch you or hurt you again.” Alaric’s fingers gently brush against my cheek. I lean my face into his palm. “We’ll never be separated again, Alaric,” I whisper. “Never, Princess.” From behind the smoking ruins, Dorian steps out carrying a bag full of stolen supplies and a rolled parchment in his hand. His eyes move between us before he lets out a quiet scoff.