Chapter I
Valdheim — The Human Realm
Outside a Certain Town
The farmer had been up since before dawn. He was standing in the near field when the sky tore open.
He ran. He didn't stop to understand what he was seeing — the rift widening, an impossible structure falling through it, towers and walls and stones of a place that had never existed in the human world, descending towards the earth with a sound like the end of something.
He ran, and behind him the mage-city of Hidenheim struck the ground like a falling star. The impact erupted into a thunderous avalanche of stone, dust, and fire. A blazing cloud climbed into the sky, visible from every hill for miles around, as the land itself seemed to burn.
Minutes later came hoofbeats.
A man swung down from his horse and moved through the wreckage without hesitation, stepping over broken stone and splintered timber, until he found what he was looking for: a boy, barely recognisable, his body knitting itself back together with impossible slowness, arms wrapped around someone he refused to let go of.
The man lifted him gently and held him close.
"I promised," the boy whispered, eyes still shut. "I promised."
Three Years After the Fall
Year 800 A.F. — After the Fall
The Outskirts of Greenwood — A Tavern on the Road
Rough wooden tables, worn smooth by years of elbows. Lanterns that flickered more than they lit. The honest smell of ale, sweat, and the end of long days.
At a corner table, a young blind man sat beside a boy working through a plate of roasted meat. The blind man was lean and weathered, somewhere past forty, his close-cropped hair gone grey at the temples. A plain sword rested against the bench besides him, its scabbard worn smooth in all the places that mattered.
Besides him sat Julius — fourteen years old, slight and straight-backed, with quick, dark eyes. His travelling clothes were plain and road-worn, his hair cut close to the scalp, giving him, for a boy his age, an oddly deliberate look.
The tavern owner's daughter set a mug down in front of him and smiled as she turned away.
"This isn't ale," he said.
"You're too young for that."
"The world's at the edge of ending. Surely that earns me a proper drink."
His companion laughed quietly into his own mug.
A grizzled mercenary at the central table looked over — broad, sun-darkened, and armed with easy arrogance.
"The world ending? Where'd you hear that, boy?"
Julius stood. The blind man's hand found his arm.
"Julius. Sit."
Julius didn't sit.
"Hidenheim has fallen. The mage realm is gone. Demons grow stronger in its absence. Cities are failing." He paused. "These aren't rumours."
"You believe in demons, boy?"
"I believe what I've seen."
The tavern erupted in laughter.
"Sit down, boy," someone called.
"Come on," the blind man said, rising. "We have a long road ahead." He steered Julius towards the door, paused to apologise to the owner, paid in gold, and pushed out into the evening.
Two hooded figures waited just outside. They gave no acknowledgement as the pair passed.
Back inside, the first mercenary raised his tankard.
"Now then. Where were we? Ah—the job." He grinned. "Clean off, one stroke. The big shot's daughter. Pretty little thing. A real pity." He shook his head, not meaning a word of it. "A fat bag of coins for a little neck."
The tavern roared. Tankards clashed together.
"Drinks on us!" the second mercenary announced, rising to his feet.
The owner's daughter wove through the celebration with fresh tankards. As she turned to leave, the first mercenary's hand closed around her wrist.
She pulled back. "Let go of me. Please."
"Relax." His sneer was practised. "Sit on my lap for a while — I might tip you well."
The owner stepped forward. "Please. Let her go."
"Shut your mouth, old man, I swear to the golds I'll have your head."
"It's god's you idiot," the second mercenary muttered, correcting him – he was uncomfortable now. "Just let the girl go."
"Don't tell me what to do."
He yanked her onto his lap.
The tavern door opened.
Cold air moved through the room. The lanterns guttered. Several went out.
The room fell silent.
The first figure pulled back his hood. A scarred face — not one scar, but many, each earned separately, over years. Hard, patient eyes swept the room once and stopped, having already seen everything they needed to.
A short beard, dark and going grey at the jaw. The handle of a large blade rose over his shoulder, its grip worn to the exact shape of one hand.
A drunk at the bar set his mug down carefully. "That's—that's the drought."
The second figure lowered his hood. A broad-shouldered young man, black hair falling forward across his face, dark and practical clothes layered for work and weather. Short blades rode at both hips, sheaths angled for speed.
His companion Dot
Dren Chaster crossed to the mercenaries' table, unhurried.
The second mercenary felt sweat gather at the back of his neck. They're here for us.
The first mercenary still had the girl.
Dren stepped closer, looked at her. "Go."
The mercenary grip tightened. "And who are you to —"
The blade came out and went back in what looked like a single motion. Between those two moments, the man's hand opened. Blood struck the floor. The girl ran. He screamed.
Dren regarded the sword with mild irritation. "Didn't plan to draw this early. You made me." He sheathed it, took the man by the hair, and dragged him across the floorboards like a sack of grain. With his free hand, he lifted the nearest full tankard and drained it.
The second mercenary bolted for the door — straight into Dot, who didn't move. The man changed direction, threw himself onto the nearest horse, and kicked it into a run.
"Dot, my horse!" Dren called.
Dot was already at the door. He picked up a loose stone without breaking stride, turned, and threw. It caught the man across the skull. The horse reared. He hit the road.
Dren watched, quietly approving.
The remaining patrons found their feet and their weapons.
"Dren Chaster," someone whispered, sweat beading on his brow. "The Drought."
The bleeding mercenary screamed, twisting his face towards the room. "Five million! Five million to whoever takes his head — right now —"
Someone cried out, half in fear, half in disbelief. For the four drunks still standing, the price settled the matter. They reached for their weapons.
Dren kicked a table into the first man and, without looking, cracked his tankard into the next one's temple. The man dropped.
Another swing came. Dren ducked beneath it, closed his hand around the man's wrist, and turned his body. A crack. A scream.
He drew his greatsword. It moved with an effortlessness that belied its weight, and one stroke opened two chests at once. The men fell in different directions.
He stood over the last man, blade at his throat — less than a shave, more than a touch.
"You were celebrating a beheading earlier," he said. "Funny how an evening turns."
The door opened again. Dot dragged the second mercenary in by the collar and dropped him at Dren's feet.
"Which one do you need?"
"Not that one."
The first mercenary looked up, hand gone, bleeding badly. "Please—I'll pay you anything. Everything. Just—"
Dren raised the sword.
One stroke. Clean.
The head rolled.
The owner and his daughter stood frozen in the corner. The surviving patrons pressed themselves against the walls, eyes on the floor.
"Thank you," the girl said quietly, holding her father.
Dren sheathed his blade and set two silver coins on the bar. "A room, if you have one."
The owner pointed upstairs, his hand shaking. "Take the whole floor. Please."
The room was simple — one bed, one chair, a window over the dark road. Dot dropped the bound prisoner and the sack against the wall and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Dren leant against the wall. "We take them to the crossroads at first light."
"I know how it works."
"Right. The floor's yours, then."
Dot didn't answer. His mind was already somewhere else — an old memory, a girl with silver hair, laughing.
"Liora," he said, almost to himself, and gradually fell asleep.
Dren watched him a moment, then crossed to the bed, lifted him, and laid him down properly. He draped the blanket over him and returned to the chair.
Dot dreamt of fire. He saw Hidenheim falling, and himself at its heart, plunging with it. A silver-haired girl reached for him as the mark on her forehead darkened. Then there was nothing.
He jolted awake in the dark, breathing hard, the dream already dissolving into feeling with no shape left to hold onto.
He lay still and waited for morning.
The Next Morning
He smelled the food before he was fully awake. Dot padded downstairs in yesterday's clothes.
Dren was already at a table, deep into a bowl of something, laughing with the owner and his daughter as though he hadn't burned the room down the night before.
"Boy, come and eat. They cook well here."
The daughter flushed at the compliment.
Dot sat, pulled the bowl towards him, tasted it, then finished it fast and without ceremony.
"Hungry," the owner observed.
"Yes", Dot glanced at a good sentence.
"It's good," he added taking more bites
They settled up and walked out into the cool morning, the daughter's eyes following Dren to the door.
A rider met them on the road. The bound mercenary and his companion's head, still in its sack, changed hands for a heavy purse and a sealed letter. The rider left without a word.
Dren broke the seal, read, and smiled slowly. "Looks like we'll be sleeping in a castle soon." He held up the letter. Call to Greenwood.
Dot looked at it, then at Dren, and said nothing.
They'd been riding perhaps half an hour when a voice called down from above.
"Help me!"
A woman sat on a tree branch over the road, relaxed, waiting to be noticed. Small and sharp-eyed, with dark hair loosely pinned, her travelling clothes were worn with complete indifference to their condition. She dropped and landed behind Dot on his horse before he'd fully registered her.
"Long time, Dot." Her voice was close to his ear, her hands finding his cheeks and squeezing them.
"Ysmay", Dren said.
"Coming," she said cheerfully, not moving.
"Ysmay."
She released Dot and brought her horse alongside Dren's. He passed her a folded note.
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"I just got back, Dren." She hit his arm. "No — no, no —" Another hit, playful this time.
"I'll treat you to something when it's done," Dren said, already riding ahead with Dot.
She stared after him, then folded the note away and turned her horse onto a side path into the trees.
Dot watched her go. "She's not coming?"
"You're stuck with me," Dren said and laughed.
"Cruel."
They rode on towards Greenwood, its great trees already visible above the horizon – vast, dark, and patient. The trees grew larger as they rode, until the road curved once and disappeared into shade beneath them.
To Be Continued