Chapter 1: A Stranger at the Crossroads
The road to Black Hollow was never safe, but tonight, under the watchful eyes of a blood-red moon, it felt cursed.
Dain Ironvale adjusted the strap of his worn leather pack, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. The heavy mist coiled around his boots as he trudged forward, obscuring the twisted trees and jagged stones that lined the path. He had heard the rumors—of bandits, of fell creatures lurking in the dark—but it was the promise of coin that led him here, and Dain never ignored a well-paid summons.
His destination was the Frosted Stag, a roadside tavern where his contact was waiting. A nobleman had offered him a job—dangerous, as always. Dain was a sellsword, a blade for hire, and he had long accepted that his profession would see him dead before old age had a chance. But until then, there was gold to be earned, and gold to be spent.
He caught movement ahead. A lone figure stood in the middle of the road, still as a statue. Cloaked in black, their face hidden by the hood, they exuded an unnatural presence. Dain slowed, his instincts screaming caution.
"Turn back," the stranger's voice was a whisper carried by the wind, yet it echoed unnaturally in Dain's ears. "Black Hollow is death tonight."
Dain smirked, hand tightening around his sword. "I'll take my chances."
The figure shifted, as if disappointed. "Then your fate is already sealed."
Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the stranger's face for the briefest moment. Dain's breath caught. No eyes, no nose—just smooth, featureless flesh. And then the world went dark.
Dain awoke with a sharp inhale, fingers gripping the hilt of his sword before his mind had fully shaken the fog of unconsciousness. The mist had thickened around him, and the air carried an unnatural chill. The stranger was gone.
He pushed himself to his feet, his muscles stiff and aching. How long had he been out? The moon still hung high, but the oppressive silence told him something had changed. The forest, once alive with distant rustles and chirps, had fallen eerily quiet.
Dain's fingers brushed over the amulet beneath his tunic—a small silver charm, nothing special, but a relic of his mother. A superstition more than anything, yet he found himself gripping it now, as if expecting it to ward off whatever foul presence lingered in the mist.
He pressed forward. The Frosted Stag was close. Whatever that thing had been, it hadn't killed him. Which meant either it was toying with him, or something worse was waiting ahead.
Minutes stretched into an eternity as he walked. Shadows twisted at the edges of his vision, flickering between the trees, but never close enough to see clearly. Once, he could have sworn he heard a whisper—his name, drawn out in a voice he did not recognize.
Then he saw it—the dim glow of lanterns breaking through the mist.
The Frosted Stag stood just off the road, its wooden frame weathered by time but sturdy enough. A faint hum of voices carried through the air, and the scent of roasting meat and ale provided a sliver of normalcy. Relief washed over him as he stepped onto the creaking porch and pushed open the door.
Inside, the tavern was alive with warmth and chatter. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the bar was lined with weary travelers and local drunks alike. It was almost enough to make Dain believe the last hour had been a dream.
Almost.
He scanned the room. His contact was supposed to be here—a man named Aldric, a minor lord with deep pockets and an even deeper well of secrets. Dain had never met him, but the letter had been clear: Come armed. Come alone. Trust no one.
A serving girl brushed past him, balancing a tray of tankards. He caught her by the wrist. "Aldric. Where is he?"
Her brows furrowed. "Aldric? I don't know that name."
Dain's stomach tightened. He released her and strode to the bar, where the barkeep, a thick-shouldered man with a graying beard, was polishing a mug.
"I'm looking for a man named Aldric," Dain said, keeping his voice low.
The barkeep paused, his gaze unreadable. "Aldric, you say?"
Dain nodded.
The barkeep set the mug down. "You should leave."
Silence fell between them. Dain studied the man's face, searching for a sign—fear, caution, a warning unspoken. The tavern noise carried on around them, but it was as if the world had pulled away, leaving only this moment hanging in the balance.
Dain exhaled slowly. "Not an option."
The barkeep's lips pressed into a thin line. He motioned with his head toward the stairs. "Second floor. Last door on the left. But if you've got sense, you'll forget you ever asked."
Dain didn't answer. He turned on his heel and made his way up the stairs, his pulse steady, his grip firm on the hilt of his blade. The wooden steps creaked beneath his weight, but no one paid him any mind. This was a place where men conducted business in the shadows, where names were seldom spoken aloud.
At the top of the stairs, he paused. The last door on the left loomed ahead, slightly ajar. A faint candlelight flickered from within.
He pushed the door open.
The room was sparse—a single table, a chair, and a window half-covered by moth-eaten curtains. The candle on the table cast long shadows against the walls.
Aldric was slumped over the table, a dagger buried in his back.
Dain's heart didn't quicken. He had seen death too many times. But the unease that had plagued him on the road returned, creeping up his spine like cold fingers.
The window was open, the curtain swaying from a breeze that carried the scent of damp earth and something metallic.
Then, a whisper.
Not from outside. Not from the hall.
From inside the room.
"Too late."
Dain spun, drawing his sword, but the room was empty.
And the candle flickered out.
To be continued...