Igfen Thennel 16th, AE 1928
Ravenspire, The Grit Marches
The morning mist clung to the cobblestones of Ravenspire like phantom fingers, reluctant to release their grip on the ancient city. Four years had passed since Emberfall burned, four years since Elric Ironheart had last worked his forge, four years since he had held his wife’s hand or heard his daughter’s laughter echo through their modest home. Now, in these foreign places thousands of centots from everything he had once called home, he stood in the courtyard of a weathered inn, his calloused hands wrapped around the leather grip of a sword that had become as familiar to him as breathing.
The blade sang through the air in precise arcs, each movement deliberate, each strike carrying the weight of his singular obsession. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cool morning air, his muscles burning with the familiar ache of relentless training. This was his ritual, his prayer, his penance—every dawn brought him to this courtyard, every dawn brought him closer to the moment when he would face the Shadowman again.
Swing. Parry. Thrust. Block.
The movements had become second nature, muscle memory carved deep through countless hours of practice. Where once his hands had shaped iron into horseshoes and plowshares, now they wielded steel with deadly precision. The transformation from blacksmith to warrior had not been easy—his body bore the scars of that metamorphosis, old burns from the forge now joined by newer marks from blade and claw, reminders of the monsters they had faced in their endless hunt.
But it was not the physical transformation that weighed heaviest on Elric’s soul. It was the emptiness, the hollow ache that no amount of training could fill, no amount of vengeance could satisfy. In quiet moments like these, when the world was still and his companions slept, the memories came flooding back with merciless clarity.
Mira’s smile as she brought him lunch at the forge, flour still dusting her clothing from the morning’s baking. Little Anya’s excited chatter about the flowers she had picked, her small hands dirty from the garden. The way the afternoon light would filter through their kitchen window, casting everything in warm, golden hues.
Elric’s grip tightened on his sword, and he drove the blade forward with such force that it buried itself deep in the practice dummy’s straw-stuffed chest. He stood there, breathing heavily, his vision blurred by tears he refused to let fall. Four years, and the pain was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.
“You’re up early again.” The voice startled him from his reverie, and he turned to see Seraphina approaching across the courtyard. His sister moved with the quiet grace that had always marked her even as children, but there was a weariness in her step now that spoke of sleepless nights and burdens too heavy for any one person to bear. Her clerical robes, once pristine white, had faded to a dull gray from years of travel and hardship, and her face, though still beautiful, bore lines that had not been there when they left Emberfall.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Elric replied, pulling his sword free from the dummy with a sharp tug. “The dreams again.”
Sera nodded, understanding passing between them without need for further explanation. They had all been plagued by nightmares in the years since the attack, but Elric’s were particularly vivid—cruel even. Sometimes he dreamed of saving them, of arriving in time to stand between his family and the Shadowman’s terrible laughter. Other times, he dreamed of joining them in whatever dark realm the monster had consigned them to. Both dreams left him hollow and aching when he woke.
“The others are stirring,” Sera said, settling herself on a low stone wall that bordered the courtyard. “Draven thinks he may have found something in the tavern last night. A merchant from the eastern principalities claims to have seen strange lights and heard laughter on the wind near the Thornwood.”
Elric’s head snapped up, hope and dread warring in his chest. “How reliable?”
“As reliable as any of the other dozen leads we’ve chased this far,” Sera replied with a bitter smile. “But it’s something. And something is better than the nothing we’ve had for the past six months.”
Six months. Their last real lead had taken them to the plague-ravaged city of Grimhaven, where they had spent weeks investigating reports of a dark figure stalking the quarantine districts. It had turned out to be nothing more than a deranged physician who had been experimenting on the sick and dying. They had stopped him, of course—their sense of justice would not allow such horrors to continue—but it had not been the Shadowman. It was never the Shadowman.
Elric sheathed his sword and moved to sit beside his sister, the familiar weight of the talisman pressing against his chest beneath his shirt. The old man’s words from that terrible night echoed in his mind, as they did every morning: “You must find the Shadowman. Before he can do this to another community. And when you do find him, you need to destroy him.”
Four years of searching, four years of following whispers and rumors across kingdoms and through wilderness, four years of growing stronger and more skilled with each passing day, and still the monster eluded them. Sometimes Elric wondered if they were chasing a ghost, if the Shadowman had simply vanished back into whatever dark realm had spawned him. But then he would remember the old man’s certainty, the weight of the talisman around his neck, and he would know that their quarry was still out there, still spreading his particular brand of horror across the world.
Yet there remains to be a whisper of any other community being targeted.
“Do you ever think about Macky?” Sera asked suddenly, her voice soft and distant.
Their younger brother. Elric felt a sting of guilt at the mention of the name. Macky had not been in Emberfall when the attack came—a stroke of fortune that had probably saved his life, though it had also meant they had no idea where he was or even if he was still alive.
“Every day,” Elric admitted. “Last we heard, he was somewhere in the Southern Empires, wasn’t he? Something about bedding a princess and having to flee before her father’s guards caught up with him.”
Sera laughed despite herself, a sound that held more sadness than mirth. “That sounds like Macky. Always too charming for his own good, always finding trouble in the most unlikely places–also wasn’t that almost 20 years ago. We’ve heard from him since then–at least I have… I think.” Her expression grew serious again. “I pray to the Light that he’s safe, that he’s found some measure of happiness in his journeys. At least one of us should have that.”
Elric reached over and squeezed his sister’s hand. “We’ll find him, Sera. When this is over, when the Shadowman is dead and buried, we’ll find Macky and we’ll be able to be family again. What’s left of one, anyway.”
“And what if we never find the Shadowman?” Sera asked, voicing the fear that haunted all of them. “What if we spend the rest of our lives chasing shadows and rumors? What if he’s already moved on to some distant land where we’ll never think to look?”
It was a question Elric had asked himself countless times in the dark hours before dawn, when doubt crept in like poison and whispered that their quest was futile. But each time, he would touch the talisman and remember the weight of his daughter’s doll in his arms, the smell of his wife’s hair, the sound of their laughter echoing through their home. And he would know that he could not stop, would not stop, until the monster who had taken them from him was nothing but ash and memory.
“Then we keep looking,” he said simply. “Until our dying breath, we keep looking. Because the alternative—letting him continue to spread his evil across the world—is unthinkable.”
Sera nodded, though Elric could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the way the years of fruitless searching had worn at her faith. She had been the strongest of them in those first months after Emberfall, her connection to the divine providing comfort and guidance when the rest of them had been lost in grief and rage. But even divine strength had its limits, and Elric could see that his sister was approaching hers.
The sound of footsteps on cobblestones drew their attention, and they looked up to see the rest of their companions emerging from the inn. Draven led the way, his bow slung across his shoulder and his hunter’s eyes already scanning the horizon for threats. Behind him came Kael, the bard’s usually cheerful demeanor subdued by the early hour and the weight of their endless quest. Thorian brought up the rear, the former criminal’s movements still carrying the fluid grace of his rogue past, though his loyalty to their cause had never wavered.
And then there was Lyra.
The sorceress moved like a shadow herself, her dark robes seeming to absorb the morning light rather than reflect it. Her pale face was serene, almost ethereal, but there was something in her eyes–something secret, something hidden—something that made Elric’s skin crawl. He had never been able to shake the feeling that she was watching them, studying their every move, cataloging every word for some purpose he could not fathom.
It was not that he distrusted her, exactly. In the four years they had traveled together, she had proven herself invaluable time and again. Her magic had saved their lives on more occasions than he would care to admit, her knowledge of the arcane had provided crucial insights into the nature of their enemy, and her dedication to their cause seemed as unwavering as his own, if not more so. But there was something about her that set his teeth on edge, something that made the talisman around his neck grow warm whenever she drew near.
Perhaps it was simply the nature of magic itself that disturbed him. As a blacksmith, he had always dealt in tangible things—iron and steel, fire and hammer, the solid reality of shaping those things by his own skill and strength. Magic was ephemeral, unpredictable, a force that bent the very fabric of reality to its wielder’s will. It reminded him too much of the Shadowman’s terrible power, the way the monster had seemed to exist outside the natural order of things.
Or perhaps it was something more specific to Lyra herself. He remembered that night in Emberfall, the way she had lingered by the fire after the others had gone to seek what rest they could. He recalled the old man’s earnest insistence that she take the talisman, and her initial reluctance to do so. Most of all, he remembered the feeling that had settled over him in the days that followed, a nagging sense that something was not quite right, that some crucial detail had been overlooked in the chaos and grief of that terrible night.
“Good morning,” Lyra said as she approached, her voice carrying that same soft, musical quality that had always marked her speech. “I trust you both slept well?”
“Well enough,” Sera replied, though Elric could hear the slight tension in his sister’s voice. The relationship between the cleric and the sorceress had always been strained, their opposing philosophies creating a friction that years of shared hardship had done little to ease.
Lyra’s gaze shifted to Elric, and he felt that familiar chill run down his spine. Her eyes were the color of winter storms, gray and deep and chaotically unpredictable. “You’ve been training all night again,” she observed, nodding toward the practice dummy. “Your form has improved considerably, still a bit brutish, but overall improved.”
“Well, you said it yourself, practice makes perfect,” Elric replied curtly, not trusting himself to say more. There was something in the way she looked at him, as if she could see straight through his soul, that made him want to reach for his sword.
If Lyra noticed his discomfort, she gave no sign of it. Instead, she turned her attention to Draven, who had been listening to their exchange with the patient silence of a born hunter. “You mentioned last night that you had found a potential lead?”
Draven nodded, his weathered face grim. “A merchant named Aldric Thornfield, traveling from the eastern principalities. He was deep in his cups when I found him, babbling about strange happenings near the Thornwood. Lights in the sky, laughter on the wind, entire caravans found empty on the trade roads with no sign of what happened to their occupants.”
Elric felt his pulse quicken. It sounded familiar. Too familiar. The Shadowman’s calling cards had always been the same—the inexplicable disappearances, the absence of bodies or blood, the lingering sense of wrongness that clung to the places he had visited like a malignant fog.
“How recent?” Sera asked, her clerical training making her focus on the more practical details.
“Within the last month, according to Thornfield,” Draven replied. “He was part of a merchant consortium that had been planning to establish a new trade route through the Thornwood, but they’ve suspended operations indefinitely after three separate caravans vanished without a trace.”
Kael, who had been unusually quiet since emerging from the inn, finally spoke up. “The Thornwood is dangerous territory even under the best of circumstances. Ancient forests, old magic, creatures that haven’t been seen in civilized lands for centuries. Are we certain this isn’t just the natural hazards of the wilderness claiming a few unlucky travelers?”
It was a fair question, and one they had learned to ask after chasing too many false leads over the years. The world was full of dangers that had nothing to do with the Shadowman—bandits and monsters, plagues and natural disasters, the simple cruelties that men inflicted upon one another in the name of greed of power. They had learned to be cautious, to investigate thoroughly before committing themselves to another potentially fruitless journey.
But something about this felt different to Elric. Perhaps it was the way Draven’s usually steady voice carried a note of uncertainty, or the way Lyra’s eyes had sharpened with interest at the mention of the Thornwood. Perhaps it was simply the desperate hope that had sustained him through four years of disappointment, the need to believe that this time, finally, they were on the right track.
“There’s only one way to find out,” he said, rising from the wall and adjusting the sword at his hip. “How far to the Thornwood?”
“Three weeks’ hard riding,” Draven replied. “Almost four if we want to arrive with our horses in any condition to be useful.”
Elric nodded. “Then we leave within the hour. I’ll settle our account with the innkeeper while the rest of you gather supplies and prepare the horses.”
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