Damien stood at the parapet of the ruined keep, dawn light stretching over blood-scarred fields in the distance. The battered banners of his small army flapped listlessly in the cold breeze. Only days had passed since the betrayal that nearly destroyed them, and none among the survivors was cheerful now. Liora, the tall mage with silver-streaked hair, sat on a battered crate, poring over a charred map beneath the flickering torchlight.
Beneath Damien's feet, the stones of the ancient courtyard were slick with dew, frozen in the chill of morning. Every breath tasted of smoke and iron—of the carnage that had stained this valley crimson. Tightening his cloak against the cold, he watched the sun pierce the heavy clouds with threads of gold. Even now, light struggled to emerge from the darkness overhead, much as he himself fought to preserve a spark of hope in these grim times.
"We can't stay here," said Cador, striding up behind him. The war-weary commander was clad in scorched armor, one arm in a rough sling. "Reinforcements won't reach us at this pace, and the enemy's army grows nearer every dawn. We must move. There are roads still safe—but not for long."
Damien turned as Cador came to stand beside him. They both surveyed the empty horizon beyond the river. "The people of Ashford and Warnell will join us at the river crossing," he said quietly. "But I need more than villagers in tunics with pitchforks. Allies we can rely on."
Liora slid a piece of parchment closer, the edges singed and ink smeared from earlier battles. "This shows the route to the Iron Hold," she said quietly. "High King Barendd of the Ironbeard dwarves will at least listen to reason. And beyond the Wolfwood, they say the Iron Witch in her moonlit glade might grant her aid—if you dare ask."
Damien frowned, recalling old debts. "High King Barendd," he murmured. "He owes his life to us for slaying that plague-touched drake on Sorrowspire's slopes. We saved his people once." The memory stirred in his mind: a younger Damien standing against a winged terror with only hope and steel. "I remember his gratitude. I hope he has not forgotten it."
Liora traced a path on the charred map by lamplight. "From here, we ride east through the Thornwood to the Iron Hold of Karrun's Gate. Then south through the Grey Hills, crossing the Wolfwood under moonrise to the Witch's glade near the Purple Tower."
Cador grunted approval and rubbed his arm, still sore from hacking the chimera's throbbing head the night before. "Danger at every turn, but no path is without peril. If these are our best options, we ride at sunrise."
Damien placed a steady hand on the worn map. "One more thing: Spellseed, the Wizard-Brother from Veldast Hills, said not to trust anyone right now. He'll meet us later with word of the Eastern Crown's army movements."
Behind them, Rionach—the lean scout with ash-brown hair—straightened up from tending a horse. "Spellseed's hawks see far," she said. "He won't travel here without reason. There's talk that our enemies mass like a black tide across the border. We'll need every edge we can find."
Liora exchanged a look with Damien. Spellseed's warning sounded ominous. If not Liora, then who did he not trust? Damien's jaw tightened. "We have no time for doubts," he said quietly. "Battles are coming for our very souls. If distrust splinters our ranks before the first clash, then we're lost."
The others fell silent. A tension as cold as winter settled among them. None dared voice accusations. They had seen too much to cast blame without proof. Damien glanced at Liora, who offered only a faint, almost apologetic nod. Her eyes were unreadable under her lowered hood, but Damien felt the weight of something unsaid.
Rionach tossed a bedroll over her shoulder. "As long as we've got the Ironbeard on our side, I say we're safe," she muttered, more to break the tension than out of confidence.
Damien nodded. The path ahead was set. They would ride for the Iron Hold at first light. Now, beneath the cold dawn, the valley below was quiet—no more than a grave. But to Damien it was a battleground that still had voices to answer. Allies would be raised here, beneath the misty morning sky, to challenge the darkness returning to Ashenmoor.
**
They left before the sun fully rose, leading their few mounts through the tangle of ash and spruce. Silent pine trees loomed above, black trunks dripping with frost, while morning fog drifted between them like ghostly veils. The air smelled of wet leaves and something darker, like old blood decaying under the soil.
As they walked, Damien's thoughts returned to the council at the keep. Liora's eyes had been distant. Cador had been quietly grim. Could Spellseed's warning have singled someone in their party? If a traitor walked among them, it could spell their doom.
"You don't think Liora's turned traitor, do you?" Rionach asked quietly, adjusting the sack on her back. The wind rattled the frozen undergrowth.
Damien's grip tightened on his sword hilt under his cloak. "She's been at my side longer than most of you," he said firmly. "If she were swayed, I'd know it."
Liora, riding just ahead with an obsidian staff strapped to her pack, shot a glance over her shoulder. She met Damien's eyes and gave a small, calm nod. He returned her gaze, seeing both gratitude and worry in her storm-gray eyes, but he could read nothing else.
"We may not have time for doubts," Damien said softly. "No matter what follows, we stand together. But stay alert."
They continued on. The path descended into a wide glen. A cold stream curved through it, carving the forest floor. As they followed, storm clouds billowed off the Iron Mountains. Damien urged himself to focus on the journey ahead.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a horse's whinny. Out of the mist came a rider, galloping down the trail straight toward them. Dirt sprayed from her hooves. The rider was tall and lean, garbed in russet and amber leathers, hood pulled low. She skidded to a halt before them, voice hoarse with urgency.
"Please, wait!" she called. "Quick — I have news!"
Rionach leapt aside, barely keeping the horse from knocking them over. The hooded rider dismounted with a breathless curse. She had an ashen face beneath the hood, cheeks streaked with dust and panic. Two slate-gray eyes, fierce with alarm and relief, locked on Damien.
"Damien?" she gasped, breathing hard. "Thank the heavens! They came through Greywind Pass. You were gone from the keep. I thought you'd left it undefended."
Damien stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword but not drawing it. "Who are you?" he asked. "How did you find us?"
The woman gave a shaky laugh. "Joara of Willow Cross," she said, letting herself lean against her horse. A longbow was slung across her shoulders, and a quiver of arrows hung at her side. "We ran into the same orcs last spring, remember? You and your riders saved my caravan in the Ashen Vale. I came because Barendd sent word that King Roggar's scouts were ambushed in the Red Plains. Terrible things… they spoke of monsters in the trees."
Her eyes glazed over with memory and dread. "Tall figures with shadows that moved on their own… eyes burning green. If I hadn't fought my way free, you'd all be dead."
Damien's heart jolted. King Roggar of the Blazewarden tribes was not easily rattled, and yet even he was wary. "What did you see?" Damien demanded, voice low.
Joara shivered as she spoke. "They were men, yet not. Taller than any man, with spindly limbs that shouldn't bend that way… faces that were nothing but mouth. They didn't stay to kill—no, they let us run so we could carry the word."
Liora exchanged a quick, stark look with Damien. "Wraith-touched," she breathed. They had heard rumors: once-dying warriors bound by dark magics to rise and fight on. Dead men walking, animated by vengeance.
Damien took a deep breath, calming himself. "We can only help each other," he said. "You will be safe with us. Come — we ride on together from here. The more warning we carry, the better." He put a hand on Joara's shoulder.
The archer nodded numbly. Rionach led her horse to the side and began quickly wrapping the woman's scraped arm. "Thank you," Joara whispered, giving Damien grateful eyes. "I thought… I thought you had abandoned the valley."
Damien shook off the sudden chill of foreboding. "Never," he said. "We fight as long as breath remains."
They took Joara into their small caravan of four. Rionach scanned the trees as Joara spoke in hushed tones about the horrors in the Red Plains. Liora's fingers drummed nervously on her staff. Even the horses seemed wary, flapping their nostrils as though smelling something foul in the air.
On they rode, the forest gradually thinning until it opened onto a broad valley. A rushing river snaked through tall reeds. Across the water loomed the Iron Hold of Karrun's Gate — a fortress carved into the face of a mountain, its spires dark stone jutting into the storm-gray sky.
Damien allowed himself a flicker of hope. If help was to be found anywhere, it was here. A distant clangor of hammer on anvil echoed from within the citadel walls. The melody of dwarven forges was unmistakable.
Cador grinned, rubbing his shoulder where the chimera's claws had grazed him. "Dwarves at last. My limbs have ached for their steel on an anvil instead of broken wood."
Damien didn't bother to argue. The Ironbeard dwarves were surly allies at best, but they had proved fierce in battle. If anyone could bolster their chances, it would be these stone-hearted warriors.
On the valley's far side, torches burst to life along the fortress's curtain wall at their approach. The crimson pennant of a golden hammer snapped loudly above the gates. An unshaven sentinel screamed from the battlements, halfling leather boots thudding down the stone steps.
The great wooden gates of the Iron Hold creaked open with groaning gears. Steam from forges billowed out. A band of dwarven warriors, axe in hand, converged in a half-circle before them. At the center sat King Barendd himself — a mountain of a dwarf clad in iron and fur, beard silver braided, eyes bright coals beneath a heavy brow.
The assembly went quiet as Damien guided his party inside. Torchlight danced on the polished weapons lining the walls. When he stood before Barendd's throne of carved obsidian, the tall king leaned forward, eyes fixed on Damien.
"Welcome, Ember-King," Barendd thundered, voice echoing grandly. "Friend of the Ironbeard Clan. Tell me, why have you come to the Iron Hold?"
Damien drew himself to his full height — lean despite battle's toil — and took a respectful knee. "Your Majesty, I honor your forebears' tradition of might. I come seeking counsel and aid. The armies of Kalgoran, the Shadow Empress, gather to sweep across the Southlands. If we fail, none will stand — neither hill nor mountain, neither city nor field. I ask not only for your steel, but for your wisdom and your swords."
A murmur rose among the dwarves. Weapons were slowly lowered. Barendd's heavy eyes studied Damien intently. Then he snorted, a rumbling sound of both amusement and challenge.
"Peace?" Barendd rumbled. "After vultures feast on my people's flesh, you speak of peace?" He slammed a fist on the armrest of his throne and silence followed like the pause between storms. "Twice have you slain dragons that laid waste to my clan's lands, Ember. Twice have you fought by our side. But peace? Gold in a dragon's hoard is easy to promise when you haven't been in the cave." He glanced at his council, bearded warriors who folded their arms. "We remember your blades and your oaths, but this path we must tread with eyes wide. Demands fit for ashes, stranger."
The king pointed at a tall obsidian pillar set in the wall behind his throne. Nestled in it was a clear yellow crystal — the fate stone. "This is our truth-teller," Barendd said quietly. "Step forward, Ember-King. Place your palm on it. Let fire reveal your intent."
Liora caught Damien's glance. She gave a slight, calm nod. Damien stepped toward the stone, the light reflecting in his storm-gray eyes. He took a breath and pressed the back of his hand flat on the crystal.
Gold light flared, swirling across his veins like liquid fire. Pain lanced through him for a heartbeat, then receded as quickly as it came. The fate stone probed his heart, but Damien remained still. Behind him, no sound but the beating of his own blood.
At last the light sputtered and died. King Barendd exhaled slowly, a rumble turning to a good-humored roar of laughter. "So it is," he bellowed, smiling at his council. "So it is! The ember burns clear — true resolve and noble cause. Nothing to hide there. Well met, Ember-King."
The dwarves all released breath they'd been holding. One big warrior behind Damien thumped him on the shoulder with a padded gauntlet. Cador gave a laugh that shook his battle scar.
King Barendd waved a hand to quiet his court. "By the oath of the Ironbeard Clan, we march with you. Our forges craft in your name. Our gates are yours. Speak your word and swear now, that we ride as one."
Damien bowed deeply and pressed both fists to his chest. The entire hall fell silent, listening. "I swear upon my name and my blood," he declared, voice ringing, "to stand with the Ironbeard dwarves in this war, as they stand with me."
A chorus of dwarven cheers erupted. Barendd's mustache bristled with satisfaction. The king straightened, offering a roar of laughter and approval. "Let it be known — these men carry our axes into battle. We lend them our strength. True steel and true oath, all!"
Liora's mouth curved in a thin smile of relief as she locked eyes with Damien. But behind her expression he caught a flicker of something darker, distant. Her hand rose to steady her cloak. She had known this day would come… perhaps even who would be by his side.
Barendd bellowed, raising a goblet as dwarves around them grabbed mugs. "We celebrate with ale tonight! But tomorrow, war. Prepare yourselves, Ember-King. Trust is forged here by deeds, not words. Watch the shoulders of your friends." With that warning, Barendd gave a final nod. "Rise, Sword-Bringer, and be among us as ally."
Damien straightened and took a long drink from the horn offered to him. He tasted honey and fire, and felt strength return to weary veins. Outside, horns blew and the walls rumbled to life with renewed purpose. The bond was sealed: Ironbeard steel would ride with them at dawn.
**
Under bruised skies and sheets of rain, the newly forged alliance wound south from the Iron Hold. Hammers rang from portable forges, and dwarves sang steady marching songs. Carts creaked under the weight of new arms and armor; stout oxen pulled wagons full of freshly forged swords.
All around, the Ironbeard dwarf-train was a thunder on wheels. Laughter and shouts mingled with the rain, rallying cries carried in dwarven tongues. Damien rode between two heavy-set dwarven guards, taking a moment to steady himself. Though he was glad for their loyalty, his mind was heavy. Much was decided today — a great burden lay on him, and on all of them.
By a meager campfire that night, Liora ladled hot stew into bowls for Damien and Cador. The rain pounded on their leather cloaks, steam rising in twisted tendrils from the food's surface. Cador sat nearby, sharpening his axe with a whetstone. The mood was quiet under the battered tent of branches.
Damien tested the soup carefully, letting the warmth chase away a chill. Liora sat by the fire, face illuminated by flickering orange light. After a long moment, he broke the silence. "What did the fate stone show you, Liora?"
She glanced up, one eyebrow arching. For a second, her usual serenity faltered. Quietly, she lifted his hand to pour a drop of her healing draught on a cut on his palm — he barely felt it burn. "It showed what we all already know," she murmured. "Your cause is just. Your heart is true. But the stone also has no mercy." She turned her eyes from the flame and fixed them on Damien's. "The Witch's price in the Wolfwood will be heavy. Be prepared."
A flash of understanding passed in his gaze. The Iron Witch — a seer rumored to command old magics — demanded a dreadful price for any boon. Damien clenched his teeth. "She helped me once before… cost me… everything I couldn't pay." His voice caught. "I will give what I must for victory."
Liora's fingers closed over his, steadying. "Just remember this: every sacrifice has a consequence. If we carry each other through this storm, do not blame yourself for any fate I know you fear." Her voice was calm but sad. "You could light the world aflame, Damien, but remember who you are beneath."
Outside, thunder clapped as if on cue. Cador hopped down from a wagon carrying two new dwarven smiths (he insisted on at least four guards with them through the Wolfwood). He placed a meaty hand on Damien's shoulder. "Tomorrow we enter the Witch's glen. I have a bad feeling about bargains at midnight. Let's hope her riddles don't cost us more than just words." He gave a half-grin that did little to hide his worry.
Damien allowed a short grin back. "We'll face old magics and new enemies as we always do — together."
Cador chuckled. "I suppose that's the same I told the Iron King with your oath echoing off those stone walls. A shame he couldn't forge the words quite like he does steel."
Damien took a sip of soup, savoring the heat. Outside their small fire, torches burned in scattered camps as dwarves curled in their cloaks. The steel-song that had accompanied their march earlier turned to a quiet hum of whispered talk and dripping rain.
Night deepened. The rain slowed. The distant hoot of an owl echoed through the pines. Damien felt exhaustion tug at him, the weariness of too many sleepless nights.
He rose and stretched, gazing up where the sky barely showed the crescent moon through thin clouds. Tomorrow, he would stand in the Wolfwood and listen to the Witch's offer.
But tonight, the shadows moved only in the firelight.
Liora finished her soup and gave him a gentle nod. "Rest now. Light the watch but let no one think us unaware."
As Damien lay back against a knotted tree stump, fatigue pulled at his eyes. The war was coming — and with it, old debts and new dangers.
And somewhere deep in the Wolfwood, far beyond the glow of their campfire, two bright eyes glinted in the darkness—cold, calculating. The Witch and something else waited in that silent black. The real hunt was about to begin.