I: HOMECOMING

The road to Blackridge had grown desolate and dark, much like the lives of those who walked it. Gareth pulled his cloak tighter, hoping it would shield him against the cold wind that swept down from the mountains. It did not. The air smelled of smoke, faint but unmistakable, and with it awoke memories he wished had remained sleeping. The fires, the screams, the charred bodies of the innocent trapped inside their homes as the king's soldiers did his bidding. Villages reduced to ashes in the name of a crown not worth its weight in blood.

Gareth clenched his fists. They had followed orders, one village after another, until there was nothing left of their souls to barter. When they finally turned on their captain, it was already too late. But before the burnings, there had been cheers. He could still hear them, sometimes, though the sound grew more faint with each memory. The voices of Blackridge raised in celebration as he and his band of heroes marched proudly through the village, red and black banners raised high, the bards singing their praise in every inn and tavern.

That was before they learned who they were fighting for. There would be no cheers this time.

At the crest of the hill, the village came into view. A collection of crooked rooftops huddled together beneath the shadow of the Spine. Blackridge, their home—though it didn’t feel like home anymore. Not after what they’d done. They could bathe a thousand times and fail to remove the filth, stains of the soul irremovable. 

Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys ahead, blending with the early morning mist, giving the village an eerie, half-forgotten feel. Dirt roads crossed the small settlement, leading to the scattered farms dotting the surrounding landscape, though much of the land had been barren for a while now. The wooden palisades encircling the village had seen better days, sagging in places where time and neglect had worn them down. Beyond the walls, the forest stretched toward the mountains, dense and shadowed. Gareth knew those woods well. He and Calder used to chase each other through the trees as boys.

Calder strode up beside him and spat into the dirt, breaking the silence. “Still reeks of goat piss,” he muttered, his voice bitter. “Feels like we never left.”

Gareth didn’t answer. They had left, in more ways than one. Now, they returned with nothing but bloodstained coin, and ghosts to haunt their dreams.

Behind them, Calder’s sister Loren walked in silence, her hood drawn low. Gareth watched her eyes scan the treeline, as if she expected Dain and his mad dogs to appear from the shadows at any moment. Sera followed, her face hollow, lost in her own thoughts. She’d barely spoken a word since they left Croston.

Their home was close now, the trail winding down toward the outskirts where they could already see a few villagers moving about. Gareth felt their stares before they even turned their heads.

“They’ll know,” Loren said softly, her voice barely audible above the wind. “News of Croston has surely reached them by now. They will hate us for it.”

"Let them." Gareth said under his breath, though the words felt hollow. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or the others. Either way, it didn’t work.

The first villager to meet their eyes was an old man tending to a broken fence. His gaze lingered on them for only a moment before he spat at their feet and turned his back. One by one, more faces appeared—some curious, some hateful—but none welcoming. The road ahead felt longer than it ever had before. They carried on in haunting silence, broken only by the occasional crunching of their boots against the dirt and the distant clatter of tools and livestock.

What tales of Croston had reached their ears, Gareth wondered. Did they speak of Dain and his commands, how the orders came down and they had no choice but to follow? No, Gareth could see it on their faces - the truth had become twisted in their absence, into something more damning. Their minds were settled. They would not care to hear Gareth's account, not now.

Calder let out a bitter laugh, cutting through the silence like a rusted dagger. "Funny, isn't it? How swiftly we go from hero to villain in their eyes.”

Gareth clenched his jaw, but said nothing. The people of Blackridge had already decided their guilt, and maybe they were right. 

Loren's voice came as a soft murmur from beneath her hood. "They weren't there. They don't know what happened."

"Does it matter?" Sera's response was sharp and cold. "We still killed them."

Gareth made to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Whatever part of him believed in their cause burned away at Croston, along with everything else. 

They reached the village square, where the old well stood where it had always been. Gareth remembered the days that children gathered around, playing at war with their sticks and stones, begging him to regale them with tales of his adventures. Now they cowered behind their mother's skirts as he passed.

As they moved deeper into the village, the stares grew sharper, each one cutting deeper into Gareth’s soul. He knew these faces, each one of them, and in their minds he had betrayed them all. All he could do was keep his gaze down, and hope to pass in peace.

But that was a fool’s hope. They did not deserve peace.
The crowd continued to grow, pressing in on them as they passed. Men, women, and children lined the edges of the narrow road, muttering curses and casting judgment on each of them in turn. Gareth did his best to keep his eyes forward, but it took all of his strength not to engage.

"You should've stayed gone!" A shrill voice shouted from the crowd.

Then came another, "Butchers! Traitors!"

Calder grunted under his breath, and let out a low growl to show his disdain. 

"Ignore them," Gareth commanded. They did not need trouble, not now.

A clod of dirt struck Gareth’s shoulder, followed by another that hit Loren square in the back. She flinched, but said nothing. Gareth’s jaw clenched, and he could feel his blood beginning to boil beneath his skin. The voices grew louder, and soon he could not make out what they were saying, only that each shout was more hateful than the last.

Indignation thawed his guilt. Damn them. Damn them all. Had they forgotten their cheers, when they sent them on their way? The way they waved them off with pride, their greedy hands begging for a share of the spoils upon his return, their cries for glory in Blackridge's name?

Gareth stopped in his tracks, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, fingers curling around the worn leather grip. The crowd quieted, as if daring him to draw steel against his own people. 

"Keep moving," He commanded, and his band followed.

The crowd parted before them, but the fury in their eyes never left. There was no welcome for them here, and this was no longer their home. They reached the northern edge of the village, where the old inn stood, the sign above the door faded by long years of wear. He pushed the door open without a word, the others following him inside. 

The familiar scent of smoke and ale enveloped the tavern, mingled with the stench of sweat and fear. Flickering candlelight danced across the scarred wooden tables. In one corner, a low fire crackled in the stone hearth, its warmth drawing patrons closer and further away from Gareth and his company. The bar, polished smooth from years of service, boasted an impressive array of bottles - some gleaming with rich amber liquid, others dark and others clear.

Scattered about the place were mismatched chairs and benches. A battered lute lay in a corner, waiting for a minstrel to coax melodies from its strings, while the walls were lined with faded banners and weapons of heroes past. 

That's all it was now, though. The past. Blackridge was no longer home to legends. It had become a shadow of its former self - poor, crumbling, its people beaten down by years of hardship. The banners that once celebrated victories were tattered and faded, the weapons that adorned the walls rusted and rotting.

That was why they signed with Dain and his Bloodhounds. They believed they would be the ones to bring glory back to Blackridge. They would return as heroes to feasts in the square, and songs sung in their honor - or so they thought. Instead they brought only shame. There would be no songs, no feasts, no celebrations, only the bitter curses and cold glares of a village that wanted nothing more to do with them.

They made their way over to the bar. Harlan, the innkeeper - a burly man with a greasy apron and a scowl etched permanently into his features - barely paid them any mind. He was a hard man, but kind where his friends were concerned. They called him Halfinger, for an injury sustained in a tavern brawl during his youth. He never liked the name, truth be told, but somehow it stuck.

"Thought you'd have the sense to stay away," he grumbled, his back turned to them. "You're no longer welcome in Blackridge, Gareth."

"We aren't staying long." Gareth replied coldly. “We’ll be gone by morning.” 

“See that you are.” The innkeeper wiped a dirty mug with an even filthier rag, and poured a cheap ale inside, passing it to Gareth.

“That’s all you get. Can’t waste good ale on the likes of you. Folks would hang me if I did.” He gestured to a table in a corner far from the hearth. “You and your friends can take that one there. I want no trouble while you’re here, understand?”

Gareth nodded, and made his way over to the table with his band. Calder sat first and wiped the condensation from his ale mug with the back of his hand. 

"What a warm welcome," Calder said, glancing back at Harlan. "So good to be home, eh?"

"They've good reason to mistrust us." Loren replied, her gaze fixed on the table, never looking up as she spoke. “We left with promises of glory, and instead we brought them shame."

Gareth took a long swig of the bitter ale, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. "We didn't bring them shame," he muttered, his voice low. "Dain did. We just followed orders."

Sera shot him a sharp look, her green eyes flickering with anger. "It doesn't matter who gave the command, Gareth. It was our swords that did the killing."

Calder grunted in agreement. "Sera’s right. Dain's a bastard, a rotten one, but we made our choice, as he made his. Their blood is on our hands too."

An oppressive silence hung over their table for what felt like hours. Gareth stared into his mug, too ashamed to look at his comrades. He had told himself they were only doing what was necessary, that they were serving the crown, doing what they were paid to, keeping the king's peace. But those were really just excuses - no, lies - to help him sleep a little better at night. Not that it worked.

Calder leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "What's done is done. We need to decide our next move. Harlan made it clear, we're no longer welcome in Blackridge, and I don't plan on sticking around for them to hang us from the gallows."

"Aye," Gareth nodded, "We'll leave at dawn, make for the northern pass, cross the sea over to Lhyvain. They're not like to care about Aeric's wars."

"We're not exactly swimming in gold right now. Once we’re there, we’ll need to find work, and quickly." Sera noted.

Calder smirked, though there was no humor in it. "There's always someone looking for men like us. The world's full of bastards willing to pay for blood."

"We don't need more blood on our hands," Loren interjected. "We should head West, to the marshes. It's quiet there, and we could keep a low profile."

Calder scoffed at the suggestion. "There's ten thousand men loyal to King Aeric between us and the marshes. We'd be fools to try."

Loren shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "What of Dain?" The mention of their former captain cast a shadow over their table.

"What of him?" Gareth asked.

"I don't think he's just going to forget that we deserted him."

Calder gave a solemn nod. “She’s right. Dain’s reach is long, and the man holds a grudge like no other, from what I hear.”

“Then we make sure he doesn’t find us,” Sera shot back.

Gareth shook his head. “You’d have us run and hide, like cowards?”

“I’d have us live,” Sera snapped, her voice low but fierce. “We’ve done enough killing for one lifetime.”

The tension at the table only grew worse with each suggestion. Calder looked around, his fingers tapping the edge of his tankard. “Whatever we’re doing, we need to decide now. If Dain finds out we’re here, he’ll send more than just a few men. He’ll send the whole bloody company, and burn Blackridge to the ground, only after he’s taken our heads.”

Gareth spoke up. The others always looked to him to make decisions. He always hated that. There was only one real choice for them though, he knew. “We head for the pass at first light.” He decided.

Calder downed the last of his ale, slamming the tankard down on the table. “It’s settled, then.” He stood. “Best get some rest. We’ve a lot of ground to cover, and not nearly enough time.”

—

Gareth sat on the edge of his narrow bed, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. The room was dimly lit, a single candle flickering on the corner table. Outside, the wind howled like a restless pack of wolves, but inside Gareth felt even more restless. He ran a hand through his tousled hair and let out a heavy sigh.

He stared down at the cracked stone floor beneath his boots, his mind refusing to settle. Every time he closed his eyes, the images returned. The flames licking at the night sky, the wailing women and crying children, the faces of the men they slaughtered without hesitation. Worst of all, he could still feel the weight of his steel in hand everywhere he went.

When he finally lay back on the stiff mattress, sleep eluded him. The thin blanket did little to keep out the night chill, and no matter how much he willed his mind to go blank, it refused. He shifted restlessly, clenching the blanket in his fists, heart pounding in his chest. Sleep teased him, just out of reach, but each time it neared, the screams from his memories pulled him back into the waking world. He lay there for hours, trying to find some semblance of rest, but it never came.

Just then, there was a knock at his door. 

"Gareth?" A voice called from the other side. It was Loren’s.

"Come in," Gareth answered, sitting upright.

Loren stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. Her hood was pushed back to reveal strands of dark hair that clung to her damp skin. The candlelight cast shadows across her sharp features - hollowed cheeks and tired eyes that told of too many sleepless nights. Her cloak was worn, frayed at the edges, and the leather beneath showed signs of wear. She sat in the chair opposite the bed, and leaned back. Her eyes met his and seemed to search for the right words to say.

"Can't sleep either, huh?" she asked, staring down as she fidgeted with her hands. She tried to force a laugh, an admirable attempt, but not a convincing one.

Garrick shook his head. "Not since Croston." 

"I know the feeling." She looked over at the candle, the dancing flame reflected in her dark blue eyes. "They say war is a terrible thing, but nothing could have prepared me for that."

"That wasn't war. Not really. What we did in Croston..." Gareth’s voice trailed off. "That was a massacre. No other way to put it."

Loren's jaw tightened. "I keep telling myself it was Dain, that I was just following orders." Her fingers twisted a loose thread on her sleeve, pulling it tighter until it snapped. "But it doesn't help. Doesn't make it any easier to sleep at night."

Gareth ran a hand over his face, exhausted but far from sleep. "No, it doesn't. Dain may have given the command, but we-" his voice faltered, and the words escaped him. A long silence followed.

Loren finally spoke. "Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever be free of it. If we can ever go back to the way things were.”

"We won't." He answered. "None of us will.”

Loren sighed. “In truth, Gareth, I do not know how to live with what we’ve done. It eats away at me night after night, and time does nothing to heal me." 

"That's the price we pay," Gareth answered. "The blood on our hands never washes away, not really." He leaned in closer, his voice solemn. "Guilt's a heavy burden, aye, but it's better to feel it than not. Means you still care. It's up to you whether you let it break you, or make you stronger."

Loren gazed out the window at the starless night sky. "And what if it breaks me?"

Gareth went silent for a moment, searching for the right words to say. "Then you pick up the pieces, and you keep moving. You find your way forward."

Loren gave the slightest hint of a smile. "You always seem so certain," she said softly, a sudden spark in her eyes. "Like you know where that way forward leads."

Gareth met her gaze, but held it only for a moment before looking away. "I wish I did." His words sounded resolute, but there was something else, something fragile in the way he spoke them.

Loren leaned back in her chair, letting her eyes linger on him a moment longer than she should have. "Sometimes I wonder if you've ever let yourself stop, Gareth. You're always moving, always looking forward." Her fingers absently brushed the edge of the chair. "Do you ever let yourself rest?"

He smiled faintly. "Rest doesn't come easy for me."

The silence that followed was heavy. Loren looked away, her hands still fidgeting, but slower now, more measured. "Maybe we're both fools, to hope for peace in a world such as this."

Gareth's gaze softened. "Maybe. But at least we're not alone."

For a brief moment, the space between them felt smaller. Loren's fingers brushed the edge of her chair again, her lips parting as if to say something more, but the words died in her throat.

"We should get some sleep," Gareth finally said, breaking the silence. "Morning comes quick."  There was more he wanted to say, but there would be another time for that.

Loren nodded slowly, rising to her feet. "Yes, I suppose you're right." She hesitated for a moment, her eyes lingering on him as she reached the door. She turned, as if to say something, but then thought better of it. "Goodnight, Gareth."

"Goodnight, Loren."

II: GHOSTS

The sun hung low, and began to disappear behind the hills, casting long, dark shadows over the ancient city of Sovereign’s Gate. The city was perched on the edge of a misty river valley, its towering stone walls crowned with watchtowers bearing the royal standard. Famed for being the birthplace of royalty, the city was a place of pilgrimage for the crown’s staunchest loyalists, where cobbled streets wound through ancient estates and grand halls reserved for noble gatherings. How fitting, then, that King Aeric would assemble his armies here.

Gareth stood in the once-bustling market square, now turned training ground, where various sellsword bands gathered beneath banners of their own - ragged flags bearing the likeness of wolves, blades, and other imagery meant to intimidate their foes. Soldiers sparred nearby, while others watched and laughed, black armor gleaming in the dimming sunlight. Grizzled veterans and green boys fought for attention, shouting their pledges to any noble with the coin to hire them. A few market stalls were permitted to remain open–to supply Aeric's armies–but that was all. Recruiters paced back and forth, sizing up potential hires , but there was only one band Gareth was interested in joining.

He stood in line, waiting for his chance to meet Dain, the legendary captain of the Bloodhounds. His heart raced in his chest. This was their chance, a chance to make a name for themselvesfor real glory. He could sense the same hunger in his companions. They had come from nothing, scraping by on odd jobs and light mercenary work where they could. But this was different, a chance to be part of something larger - to share in the fame, riches, and honor that came with Dain's victories.

The Bloodhounds were no ordinary company - they were legends. Founded decades ago in the aftermath of the first Southern Uprising, they had earned a reputation for being ruthless, efficient, and loyal to their employers. Under Dain's leadership, they had never lost a battle, and their dog’s head banner struck fear in the hearts of their foes. They were carving a bloody path through history, and those who stood in their way soon came to regret it. 

Dain himself was said to be a master tactician, a man who could turn the tides of any battle, no matter the odds. Over the years he had more than tripled the company's original size with promises of gold and glory. Becoming a Bloodhound gave you more than just coin - it gave you power. Gareth and his comrades wanted both.

The line was getting shorter now, and Gareth got a good look at his soon-to-be captain. He was slimmer than Gareth had expected, but did not lack for muscle. His hair was black, and cropped short. A salt-and-pepper beard adorned his scarred face, making him look older than he really was.
Gareth studied him closely, noting a calm intensity in the captain's eyes. There was no arrogance, just the hardened look of a man who had seen - and caused - his fair share of death. A man who was cold and calculating.
"Next!" Barked the guard standing next to him. Gareth stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest. His future would depend on the words he chose.

"Name?" Dain asked, his voice low and gravelly.

"Gareth," he replied, doing his best to hide his nerves.

Dain nodded, writing his name in the ledger. His eyes flicked behind Gareth, to his comrades. "They're with you?"

Gareth nodded. "Calder, Loren, and Sera, sir. We've come to join your company."

Dain raised an eyebrow, glancing briefly at the others before turning his gaze back to Gareth. "Sellswords, then?" He asked.

"Aye," Gareth responded. "We've done some fighting - not on this scale, but I believe we're ready."

Dain gave a short, approving grunt. "We'll find out, I suppose. Why d'you want to join the Bloodhounds?"

Gareth glanced back at his comrades. “For glory, and riches, and honor.”

Dain smiled, seemingly pleased with Gareth’s answer. “That’s what they all say.” He stood, and began to pace around his wooden desk. "My Bloodhounds are feared throughout the land, and for good reason. We're the best company there is, and we're paid handsomely for it.” “But make no mistake," Dain continued, his tone sharpening. "We earn that gold with blood - our own, and others'. Glory and riches don't come free. If you want them, you must prove your worth.”

Gareth held his head high, not backing down from the challenge. He was prepared to earn his share, whatever it took. Nothing would make him turn back now. "We're ready." He answered firmly.

Dain stopped before him, looking him up and down one last time. He extended his hand, a wicked smile curling from his lips. "Then welcome to the pack."

—

The road to Croston was long and winding, cutting through thick forests and rolling hills that seemed to stretch on forever. The Bloodhounds marched in perfect formation, their red cloaks trailing behind them like banners of war. It had been days since they'd left Sovereign’s Gate, and though the skies were clear, there was tension in the air.

They’d passed through Blackridge on the way, where they received a hero's welcome. Their home, with all its humble cottages and simple people, had never been host to a procession as grand as the Bloodhounds. Farmers and townsfolk lined the streets, cheering and waving as Gareth and his companions rode through. For the people of Blackridge, this was just a taste of the glory and riches that Gareth and his friends promised to bring when they returned. For the first time in a long time, the people of Blackridge were a proud people again.

Gareth rode near the front of the procession with Calder, Loren, and Sera, their horses keeping pace with the other soldiers. Dain rode ahead, silent and brooding, his sharp gaze always fixed on the horizon. There was little talk amongst the men - save for the occasional song. They all knew their destination and their objective. They were marching to Croston to offer terms of surrender to the traitorous holdfast, and with Dain's numbers, they would have no choice but to accept.

Loren shifted uncomfortably in her saddle. "What if they resist?" she asked, her voice low.

Calder scoffed, "They'd be mad to. They're outnumbered ten-to-one, and cut off from their allies.”

"They'll fold, they've no other choice," Gareth answered.
"The Southern Lords thought they'd win this rebellion in a fortnight," Calder continued. "They didn't count on King Aeric being so damned relentless."

Loren's brow furrowed as she glanced at the long line of soldiers marching behind them. "I still don't understand why they'd rise up in the first place. There've been worse kings than Aeric, I know that for certain."

"Aye, but Aeric's fond of taxes, the Southern Lords not so much." Calder responded. "The blame lay at his father's feet, in truth. He allowed the Southerners too much freedom, taxed them too little, let them do as they pleased. When Aeric took the throne, he pulled the reins in tight. After all that freedom, the Southerners decided that they don't much like being told what to do."

"So they drag the rest of the kingdom into a bloody war, for what? More gold to line their pockets?"

Calder chuckled darkly. "Aye. As with many things, sweet sister, follow the gold, and you'll find your answer."

It was true, at least as far as Gareth knew. The Southern Lords had grown accustomed to the lax rule of old king Roderic and thought his son would be as easy to manipulate. King Aeric was desperate to crush the dissent before the winter, though. If the snows came, the fighting would come to a halt, and the rebels would have time to win more holdfasts to their cause with sweet words and promises. King Aeric did not mean to start his rule with a lengthy and bloody revolt and called all his banners the moment the Southerners rose up. He spared no expense with the free companies either, buying most of them out before the Southerners could make an offer. 

Sera rode alongside them, a thoughtful smile tugging her lips. "So, what'll you do with your share of the spoils when this is all over, Calder? I'm sure you've got some grand plan brewing."

Calder grinned, his eyes gleaming with excitement at the mere mention of gold. "Oh, I've plans. First, find the finest inn this side of the Spine and drink myself stupid and spend the rest on good food and company. No more sleeping in the dirt, no more chasing scraps, I'm going to live like a king."

Loren laughed at that. "With the way you drink, you'll be penniless within a fortnight."

Calder shrugged, unbothered. "Then it will be a good fortnight."

Sera shook her head and smiled. "So shortsighted. I plan to make my riches last a little longer, myself."

Calder shot her a curious glance. "Do you now? How do you plan to do that?"

Sera hesitated, her gaze drifting to the horizon. "Buy a farm, maybe. Some land, somewhere quiet. And far from here."

"You living the simple life, eh? Hard to imagine."

"There's more to life than coin and killing." Sera said, turning to Gareth. "What about you? What'll you do when we're knee-deep in gold?"

Gareth thought long and hard. In truth, he hadn't thought about it much. He wasn't the type to spend the gold before he had it, and he reckoned his mind would change between now and then. There was one thing he’d thought of, though. "Buy a ship. Fill it full of trade goods, and sail wherever the wind takes me. I've spent enough time on land, but a life on the sea...now that's freedom."

"You'll need a good crew to keep her afloat, won’t be cheap!" Calder added. Loren chuckled softly at her brother’s jests. "All right sweet sister, your turn now. What do you plan to do with your newfound riches?"

Loren turned to Gareth, then back to her brother, her expression turning serious. "I'd like to see the world," she said, her voice soft but sure. "I've spent so much of my life stuck in one place, working jobs that I didn't particularly like. I'd take my share and travel the lands I’ve only heard about in stories. Maybe cross the sea to the kingdoms in the East, see what life is like elsewhere in the world."

Calder laughed. "Maybe Gareth will be kind enough to grant you passage aboard his ship!" He waved them off. "You lot are full of grand ideas. Ships, farms, adventures." He shook his head, grinning. "I suppose if we're going to dream, we might as well dream big. Let's hope this war's worth all that gold we're counting on."

—

Their march came to a halt just outside the walls of Croston. It was a small village, nestled between rolling hills and dense woods, but its stone walls were high enough to offer some defense. From atop the battlements, the banners of its lord fluttered weakly in the breeze - a pale stag on a field of green. It stood defiant, even as Dain's Bloodhounds assembled below.

The Bloodhounds proved to be nothing if not efficient. Upon their arrival, they set up camp across from the city's gates. Tent poles were driven into the earth, and by the next morning, rows of red-and-black canvas tents lined the muddy ground. They made no attempt to surprise their foes, choosing instead to make their presence known. Dain's lieutenants coordinated the arrangements, issuing orders throughout the camp to mark strategic points along the village's walls and prepare the siege equipment, should it be needed. A more reckless commander might have been lax in their siege preparations, finding Croston not to be much of a threat, but Dain treated every battle the same.

Gareth and his band were stationed at the forward encampment, close enough to the walls to see the faintest outlines of the village guards peering down from their walls. Calder glanced up at the battlements, his hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword. "Stubborn, aren't they?" He laughed. "How long do you think before they surrender?"

"Lord Hart's no fool. I reckon he's with his council as we speak, drafting his terms. I give it two days." Gareth answered.

Sera knelt by the fireside, holding the edge of her dagger to the flame. "They can't hold out forever. No one has successfully repelled the Bloodhounds."

"Maybe Lord Hart means to be the first." Calder suggested. Sera laughed.

"Sooner or later the hunger will get them. That's what ends most sieges, though they don't put that part in the songs." Loren chimed in, fletching arrows on a nearby stump.

Gareth nodded, and turned his gaze back towards the walls of Croston. "My father always said a cornered beast was the most dangerous."

"Well, I'd be more afraid of a cornered hound than a cornered mouse." Calder answered.

The night dragged on, and Gareth found himself longing for sleep. Calder and Sera had already dozed off, but Loren still sat on her stump, a stack of arrows at her feet. He watched her work, her hands deftly moving as she wrapped the feathers around each shaft, each arrow crafted with precision and care. 

He approached her. "How many of those do you think you'll need?"

Loren shrugged. "Hard to say, but better to have too many than too few." She tied off the last arrow and reached for another shaft, her fingers moving with unmatched precision.

"Aye, I suppose you don't want to run out." Gareth replied. "You should get some rest, I reckon it will be an early start tomorrow."

Loren gave him a half-smile, her eyes briefly breaking away from her work. "You're probably right. Just a few more, then I'll be off." 

Gareth nodded, the chill of the night air seeping through his cloak, and settled onto his bedroll, pulling the rough wool blanket tight against his shoulders. The fire crackled softly nearby, and the camp was growing quieter with each passing hour. He closed his eyes, picturing the pale stag of Croston falling to the ground, the red and black sigil of the Bloodhounds being raised in its place. His first real victory would come soon, the first of many.

As dawn broke, the first light of day stretched across the horizon, spilling golden rays over the muddy hills surrounding Croston. The camp was a flurry of activity as the Bloodhounds paced about, preparing for surrender or siege. They had been called to parley at the gates, and Dain had accepted.

Gareth stood with his comrades, squinting into the early sunlight that flickered through the trees. Croston loomed before them now, its stone walls bathed in the soft glow of morning, pale banners fluttering in the light breeze. Dain sat atop his Destrier, beside a few of his lieutenants just a few paces ahead. The rest of the company spread out behind them, forming a line just within arrow-shot of the gates. A heavy, foreboding silence filled the air, and every hired sword watched and waited.

A creaking sound echoed from the gates as they swung open slowly. A single rider emerged, flanked by two guards, each gripping spears. The rider wore a plain tabard over chainmail, his face pale beneath his helmet. He was young, Gareth saw, and despite his best efforts could not hide the fear in his eyes. He stopped just a few paces from Dain and his commanders.

"You're from Lord Hart?" Dain's voice carried an edge of impatience.

The messenger straightened in his saddle. "I am. I bring a message from my Lord of Croston."

Gareth tensed as the man handed Dain a small scroll, his hand trembling ever so slightly. Dain unrolled it, his eyes scanning the pages as he read. Gareth tried to read his face but couldn't get a good look.

"We will not surrender," the messenger said, his voice strained but confident. "We will defend Croston with our lives, if need be. We will not bow to the tyrant Aeric or his mad dogs."

The words hung in the air between the two men. Dain's expression darkened, but he said nothing, his cold gaze fixed on the messenger. Sera exchanged a wary glance with Loren, and Calder shifted in his saddle. Gareth just watched, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

The man's fervor was admirable, Gareth had to admit. A spark of hope, albeit misplaced, laced his words. It was a dangerous hope though, one that would lead to nothing but bloodshed. Defend Croston with your lives? That was folly. No village was worth defending to the death like this, least of all Croston. Gareth clenched his jaw, watching his captain and anxiously awaiting his next move.

"Is that all your Lord has to say?" Dain finally asked, in a voice that was calm and cold.

The messenger swallowed. "Lord Hart says that if you attack, we will put you down like the dogs you are. This is our land, and we will fight to the last."

A heavy silence followed, the tension rising between both sides. Dain stepped forward slowly, and for a moment Gareth thought he might draw his sword then and there. But instead, he smiled - a thin, cruel smile.

"Very well," Dain said softly. "Go back to your lord, and tell him this: when the sun sets tomorrow, Croston will burn. And if I see you again, it will be from the walls as I watch you hang."

The messenger paled, but nodded, wheeling his horse around and riding back toward the gates without another word. As the gates of Croston closed shut, Calder let out a slow breath. "So much for a peaceful surrender."

Gareth stared at the walls, his expression grim. "Tomorrow, then."

—

The smell of burning wood and flesh hung heavy in the air, assaulting Gareth’s nostrils. Flames still flickered from what remained of the thatched roofs, casting a hellish glow over the carnage. The screams had long since faded, leaving only the crackling of embers and the occasional groan of collapsing timber. Croston, home to hundreds, was reduced to a smoldering ruin.

Garrick surveyed the destruction, his sword hanging limp at his side, slick with blood. Whose blood stained the blade - enemy or innocent - he could not say. At some point, he could no longer tell them apart.

Behind him, men gathered in silence, their expressions dark and hollow. Calder, covered in grime and soot, leaned on his axe, breath still ragged. Loren stood nearby, her dark blue eyes staring in horror at the charred corpses before her. Sera sat against a stump, her twin blades still in hand, lips pressed into a thin line.

"They were supposed to surrender." Loren said. He wasn't sure who she was talking to.

"They didn't." Calder answered, though his voice lacked its usual edge. He kicked a charred plank from the ground. "Bastards chose to fight instead."

"They were farmers, not fighters," she replied.

"Fighter, farmer, makes no difference. We all burn the same."

Gareth looked out over the ruins, where the bodies of men, women and children lay scattered, some still smoldering. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightened, his knuckles turning white. He had no words. After all, what was there to say? The orders were clear, and they followed. That’s what good soldiers did in battle.

Only Croston had been a massacre, not a battle. What was meant to be a simple surrender had spiraled into a slaughter. They began the siege at dawn, under Dain’s command,  expecting a swift surrender from the farmers and laborers too frightened to fight. The soldiers would hold out for a time, they knew, but it would not be long before they realized the battle was lost. 

Only that’s not what happened. The villagers resisted, out of fear or defiance, they did not know, and Dain had given the order to put the entire village to the torch.

Dain. The name felt like bile in his throat.

They had no choice. What were they to do, disobey their captain? Dain would have burned them too. Men, women, children - the Bloodhounds spared no one.

The sound of hooves approached, and Gareth turned to see a small retinue of black-armored riders galloping up to them. At their head was Dain. His red cloak billowed in the wind, his gray eyes scanning the destruction with a look of sadistic satisfaction. 

"Well done, Gareth." He grinned, a twisted smile that made Gareth’s stomach churn. "This traitorous village has been purged of its filth. King Aeric will be pleased with our quick work."

Gareth’s jaw tightened. "These people weren't traitors." He said.

Dain scoffed. "How not? They defied the King's orders. That makes them enemies of the crown.” He gestured towards the carnage before them. “This is the price of their treason."

Gareth shot him a challenging glare. "What is the price for murder?"

Dain’s smile faded, his expression hardening as he looked down from his destrier. "Careful, Gareth. You are in the employ of the crown. You are paid to follow orders, no matter your moral scruples. Or have you forgotten?"

Gareth could feel the eyes of his comrades on him, but none dared speak. Calder shifted his weight from his blade. Loren’s face remained haunted, but her eyes flickered between Gareth and Dain, sensing the tension. Sera stood from her stump.

Gareth weighed his words carefully. "I've forgotten nothing."

“I am glad to hear it.” Dain replied, though his tone was anything but pleased. “Rest up. We march for Dunford at first light.” With that, he trotted off.

“They’ll surrender, right? At Dunford?” Loren said. “Surely they’ll have heard-”

“Aye, they’ll surrender.” Gareth interrupted, though he wasn’t so sure. They would be fools not to, after the fate that had just befallen Croston. That was the thing with war, everyone called for it until it came. Then they have a change of heart, suddenly war was bad, not something they ever wanted. The Southerners would be no different.

Gareth turned and began to walk. He did not know where, in truth, just that he desired to be elsewhere, free from the stench of burning bodies. He kept his gaze focused on the ash-covered ground before him, a part of him hoping that ignoring the bodies would keep their ghosts from haunting him at night. The next village would be different. What happened at Croston was a tragedy, but a necessary one to prevent further bloodshed.

That was what they told themselves, at least. They seemed to believe it, in the beginning, though their faith faded quickly with each village they purged. "This time will be different," they would say, but when the orders came down, they obeyed. They obeyed like the loyal dogs they were trained to be. Every thatched roof set aflame, every dead farmer, every crying mother, was a small price to pay for the greater good - cleansing the land of traitors and dissenters, and lining their pockets at the same time.

Croston had been the first. Then Dunford. By the time they reached Pern, the darkness of their deeds had finally caught up with them. "Orders are orders," they had muttered to each other around the fires at night. Now the muttering turned to silence, and not even the fire could burn away the cold.

Gareth and his band had reached their breaking point when they came to Pern.

The village had surrendered without a fight - the women and children emerged from their homes with hands raised, and the men surrendered their crude weapons. There was no reason for bloodshed, no cause for burning, Pern had heard the tales of what had befallen Croston and Dunford and did not wish to share in their destruction. But Dain's bloodlust wasn't sated. The same orders that came down there had come down here, and every soldier followed. Not one Bloodhound stayed their hand.

Gareth and his band did not partake in the pillaging this time, only watched as the Bloodhounds moved through the village like a swarm of locusts, setting fire to homes, butchering those who begged for their lives. The people of Pern had trusted their lives to the mercy of men who had none, and Gareth could no longer stand to be a part of it. 

They left that same night, no longer content to follow Dain and his mad dogs.

III: VIGIL

The night was full of silence - the kind that set Gareth on edge, even in sleep. He'd finally drifted off on the thin straw mattress, in his cramped room above the inn, sword still leaning against the wall beside him. The candlelight had gone out, the only light now the silvery glow of the half moon in the distance. His dreams were of Croston, of Dunford, of Pern. They always were. 

A soft voice began to break through the haze of his dreams. "Gareth, wake up!"

The words were quiet, but urgent, cutting through the silence of the night like a knife. A cold hand pressed his shoulder, gentle at first, but then the fingers dug in, and shook him hard.

Gareth's eyes snapped open, heart pounding. He jolted up, blinking away the darkness, trying to focus. He instinctively reached for his sword, before he realized who had woken him.

"Sera?" He muttered, rubbing at his eyes. "What is it?"

"He's coming." She said, her voice shaky with fear. "Dain."

The name sent a shiver down his spine, and suddenly he was wide awake. Panic surged in his chest, a tight knot of dread coiling within him. He swung over the edge of his bed and grasped his sword.

"What do you mean he's coming?" He asked. 

Sera's voice cracked. "They saw his banner from the walls. He's coming for us Gareth, he'll be here by dusk."

Dread gave way to a deep, sickening certainty. Gareth cursed under his breath, and gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles went white. You damned fool. They should never have returned to Blackridge. They were fools to think that Dain wouldn't catch up so soon.

He closed his eyes, fear and regret and anger weighing heavy on his shoulders, but there was no use in lingering in it. He turned to Sera. "We need to wake the townsfolk, get them to the pass. Dain's here for our heads, but he won't spare them if they stay. They all need to leave."

Sera nodded, her eyes wide but determined. They moved quickly through the inn, Gareth's mind racing as he tried to come up with a plan. As they roused their companions, he could see the dread and fear within their eyes, their faces shifting from confusion to alarm as the news sank in.

Calder leaned against the wall, his black hair a knotted mess from sleep. "We can't fight him, not with so few."

"We need to run," Loren said, anxious eyes darting between Gareth and her brother. 

"No," her brother answered, his voice sharp. "If we do, we'll never stop. Dain will hunt us for the rest of our lives. It ends here."

Sera kept her hands close to her blades, glancing at the door as though she expected Dain to burst through at any moment. "If we're going to evacuate the villagers, we'll need to buy them time to reach the pass. Hard to do that with only four of us."

"We don't need to hold him off forever," Gareth replied. "Just long enough. We'll organize the villagers and get them moving, but we'll need volunteers to help us keep them off the retreat long enough for the others to be out of sight."

Calder rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the beginnings of a plan forming in his eyes. "I'll see to it. They may hate us now, but I know a few good men who'll stand with us if it means their families get out safe."

"Aye, that'll work," Gareth nodded in agreement, turning to Loren. "Can you rally the others, get them ready for the road?"

Loren hesitated, her face laden with fear. She looked to Calder for reassurance, then Gareth. She thought about it for a moment, then nodded firmly. "If that's what you think is best."

Sera spoke up next. "I'll see to the fortifications. They're old, but if we can control the field, it will slow them down. Anything we can do to delay the dogs a little longer."

Each of Gareth's companions looked at him, waiting for a final word. He glanced around at each of them, a grim determination building up inside him. These were his friends, his family. He would not let them die.

"All right, then," he said, his voice strengthened with resolve. "Let's get moving. There isn't much time."

And then they scattered, each with their purpose, slipping into the quiet pre-dawn stillness of the village to rouse its people and save them from the danger that lurked beyond their old walls. Gareth watched them go, his heart heavy. If tonight was to be his last, he would make it count.

—

"Gather what you can," Gareth bellowed, his voice carrying through the crowded square. "Leave what you do not need.” The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows as villagers scrambled to collect their possessions, their movements frantic and unorganized. 

Calder was busy rallying what volunteers he could to cover the retreat. Loren was assisting the women and children, and Sera was helping with the fortifications. Everything was going according to plan - for now at least.

The marketplace was pure chaos. Carts were overturned, barrels rolled across the cobblestones, and anxious voices filled the air. People pushed past one another, hands shaking as they grabbed whatever they could carry - clothing, food, tools - before abandoning the rest. "Hurry! You haven't much time," Gareth shouted.

Calder strode toward him, his face grim beneath the dust of the day's labor. "We've managed to get a handful of volunteers to stay and fight, but it's not enough. Most are farmers, smiths, or beggars - there are no soldiers here."

Gareth turned to face the ragtag group of volunteers that Calder had assembled, standing across the square. Their white-knuckled hands gripped pitchforks, spears, and cleavers - hardly weapons of war - and fear was written on their faces. "We'll do what we can," Gareth said, laying a hand on Calder's shoulder. "Once the barricades are up, take the men to the eastern wall. We don't need to beat them, only buy time for the others to reach the pass. Once they're there, they'll be out of Dain's reach.”

Calder gave a sharp nod, and turned to bark orders at his volunteers, his booming voice cutting through the chaos of the marketplace. As the militia began to form small groups, Gareth watched his childhood friend move among them, encouraging those who looked unsure of their decision. His steady presence bolstered their resolve, and Gareth felt a flicker of hope, albeit small. They would be greatly outnumbered, he knew, so they would have to control the fight.

Gareth turned his gaze to Loren, who was guiding the villagers North out of Blackridge. Her bow was slung over her shoulder, her eyes sharp and alert. Gareth strode over to her. "How do you fare?"

"Most of the women and children are on the road, but it will be some time before they reach the pass." She replied, her voice quiet but steady. "They're frightened."

Gareth glanced over the remaining villagers as they hurried through the chaos. "They should be. Dain will be here by nightfall. Fear will make them faster."

Loren met his eyes with a mix of hope and fear in her own. "What are our chances?"

Gareth didn't answer right away. He did not know what she wanted to hear, in truth. Did she want an honest answer, or a promise that they would survive the night? He couldn’t say. "We'll buy them enough time," he said finally, "they'll make it to the pass."

He could see the hope leave her eyes. It wasn’t what he said, but rather what he didn’t. "I'll see to the rest of the villagers," she said, her voice soft. Gareth gave a curt nod, and watched as she disappeared into the crowd.

Lastly, Gareth turned and started towards the barricades, where Sera was working with the stronger villagers. The makeshift fortifications were a patchwork of overturned carts, stacked crates, and hastily gathered timber. It wasn't much, and likely wouldn't hold for long, but it was the best they could do.

He found Sera atop a crate, her face streaked with sweat and dirt, but still focused. 

"How's it holding?" He called up to her.

Sera paused, wiping her brow with the back of her hand as she looked down at him. "Not well," she admitted. "But it'll be enough to slow them down so they can't all come at us at once."

Gareth nodded, stepping closer to the makeshift barricade. "Calder's gathered what fighters he could. They'll man the eastern wall once the defenses are ready."

She nodded. "As ready as we can be, aye." She hopped down from the crate, and inspected her work. "We'll make it through this, Gareth."

Gareth wasn't so sure, but he nodded anyway. "Aye, we will."

—

The fire crackled weakly in the pit, its light burning away the looming darkness. Gareth sat on a rough-hewn log, his sword balanced across his knees, the steel catching the occasional glow from the embers. Sera sat on a nearby stump, honing her daggers for the coming fight. The barricades were finished, the villagers well on their way to the pass, and there was nothing left to do but wait.

Night had finally settled over Blackridge, the only sound to be heard was the faint rustling of wind through the trees. Gareth's gaze wandered to the eastern edge of the village, where Calder's militia stood watch, dark shapes barely visible in the night gloom. They were better men than he was. There are worse men to die beside. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers tracing the blade of his sword. Dain would be upon them soon—Gareth could feel it in his bones. He thought of the villagers, those who had fled toward the pass. They would be making their way through the narrow trails by now, fear spurring their every step. If the gods were kind, they’d be far enough ahead by the time Dain’s bloodhounds arrived.

But the gods weren't known for their kindness.
"The militia is ready,”  Calder said, sitting across the fire. Gareth did not even see him approach. "As ready as they can be, anyway."

“You gave them hope,” Gareth said.

Calder's facade cracked, if only for a moment. He sighed, averting his gaze, and rubbed the back of his neck. "A fool’s hope. They’ll all be dead before the night is done. We both know that. You and I as well, most likely.” He took a long swig from his waterskin.

"Aye," Gareth replied, staring into the fire. The flames crackled, casting flickering shadows across his face. “Best not to tell them that, though.”

"You know, Gareth, I used to think that there'd be more to it than this. That we'd see the end of the war, bring glory back to Blackridge, and drink ourselves into oblivion, 'til we were old men with nothing left to fight for."

Gareth smiled. That was all he wished for now, truth be told. "Fate's never been kind to men like us, I s'pose. The gods always come out on top," Gareth replied.

Calder scoffed, leaning back against a weathered log. "Truer words were never spoken.”

They both sat in silence for a long while, the crackling fire the only sound between them. The weight of their years, their shared battles, hung between them. Both poor boys who tried to make a name for themselves and escape the monotonous life of farmers. 

"Do you think they'll remember us? Or will we still just be butchers in their minds?" Calder asked.

Gareth's jaw tightened. He didn't know, truth be told. More than likely the world would forget them, and the living would move on. They always did.

"Couldn't say," He finally answered. 

Calder stifled a laugh. "S'pose it doesn't matter what people think of you when you're gone. It's what they think while you're here that counts." He swallowed another sip of water, and stared into the fire. "Before we're forgotten, let's make them remember, for one more night." 

"Aye. We'll make the bastards remember," Gareth answered.

They sat in silence again, both digesting the hard truth that no one wanted to say aloud. There would be no dawn for them, no glory, no songs. Just silence.

IV: HEROES

The last light of day disappeared beyond the horizon, the blazing sun replaced with the silvery glow of moonlight. Gareth stood upon the makeshift walls of Blackridge, his breath misting in the chill night air as the tides of death approached them. Banners bearing the red and black sigil of the Bloodhounds fluttered in the night breeze, illuminated by a litany of torches. This was no small host, but neither was it beyond their ability to manage - at least for a time. More would not be far behind, though. They would need to make every minute count.

The distant thundering of armored footsteps grew closer, Dain’s soldiers marching in perfect formation, shields raised and spears gleaming like so many filed fangs, ready for gnashing. This was it now. There was no time for regrets, no time for second thoughts. They had made their choice, and now they would see it through.

Behind him, the village was eerily quiet. The preparations had been made - barricades hastily erected at the main road, archers posted on rooftops, every able-bodied man and woman armed with whatever weapons they could find. The air was growing thicker, and colder, and Gareth could hear the militia trembling in their boots. They were no fighters and had no such notions. They knew this was a fight they could not win. They only intended to buy time, paying with their lives.

Gareth let out a heavy sigh, and glanced back at his band - Calder, Loren, Sera - each one steeling themselves for what was to come.

Calder was the first to break the silence. "And so the debt comes due.”

“Let’s pay the bastard back, then,” Gareth answered, drawing his blade.

A distant horn sounded, its call echoing through the village. The Bloodhounds quickened their pace, the rhythmic thud of boots and hooves growing louder as they drew closer. Gareth took a deep breath, his mind racing through the plan once more. Hold the main road as long as you can. Give the villagers time to reach the pass. Delay. Distract. Survive.

"Ready yourselves!" he called out, his voice carrying through the still air. "They'll be on us soon."

His words had barely settled when the first volley of flaming arrows whistled through the air, raining down on the village. Gareth raised his shield, the impact of the arrows reverberating through his arm. The ground trembled beneath his feet as the soldiers charged, and in that moment, Blackridge became a battlefield.
The arrows struck with deadly force, embedding themselves in wooden walls and thudding into the dirt. A few found their marks - evidentby the cries of pain that rose from behind the barricades. Gareth gritted his teeth and bellowed over the chaos, "Archers, nock!" He watched, waiting for the archers to follow.

"Draw!" 

He watched the line of soldiers closing in on Blackridge. Not yet, still too far. A disciplined host might have succeeded with a volley, but with their limited supply of arrows, they needed to make every shot count. 

Not yet. Not yet. Now.

"Loose!" Gareth commanded. As soon as he gave the command, a ragged volley of arrows flew from the barricades, arcing high toward the advancing host. It was a poor match for the disciplined rain of the Bloodhounds’ forces, but it was enough to stagger the front line. The enemy slowed, shields raised to form an iron wall around their battering ram as they pushed forward with relentless hatred.
They were charging still, and would be on the gates  soon. “With me!” Gareth shouted, commanding his friends to follow as he climbed down from the battlements, and positioned himself at the first barricade. The militia shuddered as the soldiers approached, just a stone’s throw away now,  but Gareth steeled them. “Let none pass!” he shouted.

The gates didn’t hold long, but they gave the archers time to pick off a few more Bloodhounds before they were inside the walls. With a thunderous crash, the gates burst open, sending splinters flying like deadly shrapnel. The first wave of Dain's men surged through the breach, grim faces illuminated by the flickering torchlight. "Stand firm!" he roared.

The front barricade shattered as the first wave of soldiers crashed into it. Calder roared, stepping into the fray with his axe raised high. Gareth followed close behind. The clamor of steel on steel rang out, and suddenly the air was filled with the sound of battle. He swung his blade in a wide arc, cutting down the first soldier to breach the barricade. Blood sprayed across the dirt, but another came just as quickly.

One of the villagers rushed to his side, his heavy mace smashing into the charging soldier's helmet with a bone-crushing force. He swung again, and again, leaving the man's head a red ruin. But it wasn't enough; for every soldier they felled, three more seemed to take their place. 

Gareth ducked, narrowly avoiding a spear thrust and drove his sword upward into the belly of the man before him. The soldier crumpled with a grunt, but Gareth had barely pulled his blade free before the next attacker was on him. The numbers were overwhelming, and their line was buckling.

"Fall back!" Gareth shouted. "Fall back to the second barricade!"

Gareth raised his shield, and began to fall back. Loren and Calder followed, covering the retreat. Arrows flew from Loren’s bow, finding gaps in the enemies' armor, while Calder’s axe split skulls and severed limbs. Slowly they reached the second barricade, drawing the fight deeper into the village as their foes pressed harder. Gareth planted his feet firmly on the ground, cementing his stance as his foes closed in on their position, repelling them one by one.

Sera appeared beside him, her twin blades flashing in the firelight, cutting down one Bloodhound at a time with an unmatched speed. She sliced through them with lethal precision, each stroke leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Every soldier who chose her as their foe came to regret it quickly. She hissed with each kill, making her fury known. 

Gareth could sense the line beginning to weaken, though. "Hold!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse. He drove his bloodstained blade through another soldier's chest, yanking it free in a spray of crimson. His muscles were beginning to burn, the fatigue of battle settling in, but he could not falter, not yet.

Behind him, the fires were spreading. The flaming volleys had set most of the thatched rooftops aflame, engulfing the homes in a terrible blaze. The acrid scent of burning wood and flesh began to fill the air, much like the villages before. Gareth turned his gaze back to the pass. The villagers were close, now, he could see, but not close enough. They needed more time.

"We can't hold here much longer!" Calder shouted, his ax splitting the head of a charging foe in two. Blood splattered his face, and he wiped it from his eyes with the back of his hand, leaving a red streak across his cheek. "We must fall back to the square!"

Gareth nodded. As much as he wished the barricades had held longer, they didn't, and wishing didn't make it so. It was time to move. They gave the command, and the militia followed, struggling to maintain their formation. Many of their lifeless bodies littered the battlefield, strewn about between the burning debris of the shattered barricades, but twice as many remained, more than Gareth had expected.

One by one, his companions began to retreat, Loren covering them with her arrows, each shot expertly placed. Sera danced through the chaos, cutting down any Bloodhound foolish enough to get too close, while Calder's swift strikes left a trail of broken bodies in his wake. Gareth was the last to move, his shield raised to block a vicious downward strike from a Bloodhound's blade. The force of the blow sent a shockwave of pain through his arm, but he didn't let that slow him down. He slashed at the man's exposed side, putting an end to his onslaught. There was no time to relish in his deathsuffering, though. More were coming, their armored boots pounding the earth as they surged forward.

A shrill voice screamed from nearby, one of their own. Gareth looked around for the source. Sera. She was standing amidst a crowd of Bloodhounds, lashing out like a snake as they closed in on her. She moved with deadly grace, but there were too many foes and only one of her. She struck again, slashing the throat of one of the encroaching soldiers, his blood spraying across her surcoat. As she turned to face the next, a spear thrust forward. She dodged it with ease, and the next, but for each strike she managed to evade, another one came just as quickly, and from another direction.

"Sera!" Loren shouted, but her voice was drowned out by the roaring flames and clashing steel.

Sera didn't see the next strike, but Gareth did. The spear pierced her side, the jagged tip tearing through her leather armor with a crunch. She staggered, gasping, and her eyes went wide with shock. For a moment, the world seemed to slow around Gareth. Sera's knees buckled as the Bloodhounds pressed in, swords and spears raised high.

"No!" Gareth cried. He lunged forward, away from the retreat, cutting a bloody path through any Bloodhound that got in his way. Time itself seemed to slow as he watched the final blade fall. The sword came down, sinking into Sera's shoulder with a thud. She let out a strangled cry, her legs giving way as she crumpled to the ground, blood spilling from her wounds. Her blades fell to the ground with a clatter, and she collapsed, her body still and broken.

Gareth's world became a red haze, and he saw nothing but Sera's lifeless body in the dirt. Rage overcame him, hotter than the flames that surrounded them, and his vision blurred. He charged, crashing into the Bloodhounds like a force of nature. His sword cleaved through their leather and flesh and bone, blood spraying in all directions. He had left the retreat behind, but he didn't care. He had to make them pay.

Calder appeared at his side, his axe stained a deep red from his fallen foes. He buried it in the chest of a charging Bloodhound, sending him back to the dirt.

It didn't matter though. The bastards had taken Sera with them. For a brief moment, the assault relented, and Loren dropped to her knees, hands trembling as she reached for her friend. But she was already gone.

"Gods..." Loren cried, her voice breaking.

Gareth's throat tightened, his eyes stinging with tears as he gripped his sword tighter. No. There will be time to mourn. First we must win.

Calder pulled his sister to her feet and began to fall back to the square. "Gareth, now!"

Together they began to make their way back to the square. Just as they turned, a thunderous voice echoed across the battlefield, and a dozen more Bloodhounds emerged from the broken gates. At their head, draped in his crimson cloak, was Dain.

He stood like a wraith amidst the flames, black armor gleaming in the hellish light. His red cloak billowed behind him as he surveyed the field with his cold, dark eyes. He glanced over at Sera's lifeless body a few yards away, and a smile tugged at his lips - cruel and mocking. 

"I did warn you, Gareth." His voice was smooth like silk, but laced with venom. "You could have lived, could have thrived under my command. I'd have made you rich, had you only followed orders."

“The people of Blackridge are innocent, Dain.” Gareth shouted back. “Let them go.”

Dain laughed, a maniacal laugh that sent a shiver down Gareth’s spine. “Innocent? They’re harboring traitors, which makes them traitors too.” He shook his head. "No, I think I'm going to burn your wretched village to the ground and send your head back to King Aeric."

Gareth stood firm, and pointed his blade towards Dain. “Come and take it, then.”

With a furious roar, Dain lunged forward, his sword striking downward with terrifying speed. Gareth parried the blow, but the impact sent waves of pain through his body, nearly knocking him off balance. Before he regained his footing, another strike came, and then another. 

Dain was a storm, relentless and destructive, and no matter how hard Gareth tried, he could not match him. The other Bloodhounds were keeping Calder and Loren occupied as well, so Gareth was on his own. He gritted his teeth, doing his best to deflect each brutal swing, his arms beginning to tremble under the force of Dain's ferocious blows. He pressed forward, pushing Gareth back with each strike, until the flames were at his back.

"You're nothing!" Dain spat, his foot slamming into Gareth’s ribs and sending him to the ground.

Gareth gritted his teeth, and swung his sword desperately at Dain’s feet, but it was useless. He sidestepped the blow with ease and knocked the sword free of Gareth’s grasp. 

Dain loomed over him, his boot crushing Gareth’s chest and pinning him down in the dirt as the flames licked at his side. He raised his sword high. "No one deserts the Bloodhounds, no one!”

Gareth struggled to move, and felt the breath leaving his lungs as Dain raised his sword for the killing blow.

Then an arrow whistled through the air, embedding itself in Dain’s shoulder with a thud. The commander roared in pain, stumbling backward and freeing Gareth from his boot. Before he could recover, Loren appeared from the smoke, another arrow already nocked and drawn. She let it fly, only missing Dain by an inch. Gareth rose to his feet and scrambled to his blade.His hand closed around the hilt of his sword, his fingers slick with mud and sweat. His chest throbbed with every breath, but the pain was dulled by the adrenaline surging through him. He staggered to his feet, eyes fixed on his former captain.

The Bloodhound had torn the arrow from his shoulder, blood soaking his fine black steel armor. The wound slowed him, and he sneered with pain as he charged towards Loren, swinging his sword in a reckless fury. Loren evaded the blow, but Dain was too close for her to use her bow now. 

Calder came up behind him, swinging his axe in a wide arc. Dain sidestepped just in time, and slammed his shoulder into Calder's side, knocking him back. He turned, murderous gaze locked on Loren once again. But Gareth was already closing in, sword raised high. He lunged, placing himself between Dain and Loren, and brought his sword down.

Dain raised his blade just in time, and their blades clashed with a deafening ring. The force of the blow sent Dain reeling, and he struggled to regain his footing. Dain roared and lashed out again, but Gareth parried the strike, slashing at the back of Dain's legs. His blade bit into his flesh and he fell to his knees in the dirt, struggling to stand.

"You think you can defy me, Gareth?" Dain hissed, his voice hoarse as he gripped his bleeding leg. "You're nothing but a traitorous coward, scared of the sight of blood. I'll see you and your band of traitors dead by dawn!"

Gareth stepped closer. "Your butchery ends here, Dain."

Dain spat, a twisted smile creeping across his face despite his pain. "You think yourself some sort of hero? You're just a pup, howling at the heels of a true hound. I'll bury you and your dreams in this dirt. No one will remember your name.”

He lunged again, but another arrow zipped past Gareth’s head, and buried itself in Dain’s chest. His eyes widened, a choked gurgle escaping his lips as blood filled his mouth. He uttered some final curse, but Gareth could not make out what it was.

His body convulsed beneath Gareth, then stilled. 

The mad dog was dead.

Gareth fell to his knees, and stayed there for a long moment, panting, his chest heaving with exhaustion and pain. Loren ran to him. "Are you alright?" She asked, her voice steady but concerned.

He only nodded. “The others?” 

“Making their way to the pass now. We need to go,” she said through labored breaths, helping Gareth to his feet. As they neared the northern edge of the village, more Bloodhounds charged through the flames.

No, I can't leave. They would never outrun them, not without someone to stay behind. He turned to Loren, then back to Calder. "Take your sister, and run." He insisted. "Get her to the pass. I'll hold them back, but you must be quick."

Calder hesitated for a moment, and his lips parted to protest, but Gareth pulled him in closer. "Brother, please. Get yourselves out of here, now!" 

"No, I won't let you!" Loren cried, reaching for Gareth, but Calder pulled her back, and began to fall back to the northern edge of the village. 

Gareth turned back towards the approaching tide of Bloodhounds, and took a deep breath. His eyes stung as smoke filled the night sky. The sounds of swords clashing, shields splintering, and the screams of the dying had all faded away. Blackridge's defenses were shattered. What little remained of the village was being reduced to a burning wreckage, like Croston, and so many other villages before them. 

He looked back towards the pass and could see the last of the villagers disappearing beyond his sight. All that remained was Loren and Calder, and Gareth was going to buy them as much time as he could.

The first Bloodhound rushed toward him, spear thrusting forward, but Gareth sidestepped the blow, cutting the man down with a swift but brutal strike. Another soldier lunged, then another, and Gareth ended them both. The red and black banners of the Bloodhounds swarmed the now ruined village. There was no end to them, it seemed. Garrick's breath came in ragged gasps, as he fended off one soldier, then another. His sword was growing heavier, though, his arms burning with each swing. 

He didn't see his next assailant, only felt the cold steel of their spear bite through his mail. He dropped to one knee, blood leaking from his wound and staining the ground beneath him. His vision blurred, the edges of the world turning black. No, you will not take me. Not yet.

He lashed out with his blade, sending his would-be killer to the dirt. He made to stand, but an arrow buried itself in his shoulder, knocking him on his back.

A shadow loomed over him, one of Dain’s soldiers, sword raised high for the killing blow. Gareth stared up at the man through bloodshot eyes, his heart thudding weakly in his chest. He made to raise his sword, but the man kicked it free of his grasp, leaving him defenseless.

As the soldier’s blade descended, a wave of relief washed over him, a fleeting warmth amidst the cold creeping over his body. He let out a long, shaky breath, and smiled through the pain. The last of the villagers had made it through the pass, and were well out of sight now, out of the Bloodhound’s reach. Loren and Calder would not be far behind. They would be safe.

And as the fires of Blackridge raged, Gareth welcomed death's cold embrace - no longer the butcher they had named him, but the hero he had always hoped to be.

V: DEPARTURE

The road to port was quiet and calm, winding through rugged hills and misty woods. Loren and Calder rode in silence, the only sound between them the rhythmic clatter of their horses' hooves. It was a soothing sound, compared to the noise of war they had become accustomed to. It had been three days since Blackridge. Three days since they said goodbye to Sera and Gareth, and the only home they'd ever known. Loren tried her best to keep her focus on the path ahead, like Gareth told her. She found that it was hard to mourn on horseback.

The lands shifted around them as they rode onward, dense woods giving way to open fields that stretched toward the horizon. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, casting a gentle glow over the earth, but there was little comfort in it. Despite his efforts to hide it, Sera could sense her same struggle within her brother. He wanted to stop, to mourn, but they couldn’t. Not now.

Dain's forces would need to take time to regroup. There would be infighting, a struggle over who would be next to lead, but only for a time. More likely than not, the next commander of the Bloodhounds would be just as ruthless, if not moreso. Either way, it was best not to stick around. To do so would put their lives at risk and dishonor the sacrifice of those they left behind.

As they crested the hill, the port came into view, a sprawling expanse of docks and ships bobbing gently on the waves. The cries of seagulls filled the air. Nestled along the coast, the village was a vibrant mix of color and sound, a stark contrast to Blackridge. Weathered wooden buildings lined the narrow streets, their facades painted in bright hues of blue and yellow, each telling a story of sailors and traders who had come and gone. The salty breeze carried with it the scent of the sea, mingling with the aroma of fresh fish being sold at the nearby market stalls. Fishermen shouted to one another as they unloaded their catches of the day, and the laughter of children echoed through the streets as they chased each other along the docks.

As they made their way through the bustling streets, Calder turned to her. "We have enough coin for passage to Lhyvain, but will need to find work quickly once we're there." 

Loren nodded. She was not certain what work she would do, only that she had decided she would rather beg than be a sellsword any longer. In her short time as a blade for hire, she had known nothing but pain, guilt, and loss. Calder tried to talk her out of it, telling her that she'd have a hard time finding work as a foreigner in any other trade, but she didn't care. She had lived through war, now she wanted peace.

They found their passage aboard a storied vessel called the Starseeker. Its sails were worn but sturdy, a testament to the countless voyages it had taken across treacherous waters. As they approached the dock, the ship's captain - a weathered man with a thick beard and a face like a hawk - saluted them. 

"Welcome travelers," he said, his voice gruff but not unfriendly. "Seeking passage to Lhyvain, are we?"

"Aye." Calder answered. "We don't have much coin, but we don't need rooms. Just a place to lay our heads will do."

"You're in luck, friends. The Starseeker doesn't make the voyage to Lhyvain often, but there's no safer vessel this side of the sea. You can rest assured of that."

Calder glanced back at Loren, who produced the payment.

"All right, then. Make yourselves at home. Just be sure you don't get in the way of my crew."

 "Thank you." Loren said. With that, the captain was off.

As they stepped onto the ship, the wooden planks creaked beneath their feet, the scent of salt and aged timber filling their nostrils. Sailors moved about the deck, hollering orders and tying knots with practiced hands. Calder's shoulders relaxed for the first time in months, and Loren felt a strange sense of freedom.

"Let's find a place to stow our things," she suggested. The gentle swaying of the ship beneath her feet began to calm her nerves, and they stowed the few belongings they had aboard the lower decks, where they were permitted to sleep.

It was a few hours before they set sail, but Loren could feel a huge weight lift from her chest as they departed from the docks. The horizon stretched out before them - a vast expanse of blue, untouched by the darkness they had left behind. It was a promise of new beginnings, a canvas upon which they could paint their future. They would find solace in Lhyvain, she believed, far from the bloodshed that had claimed so much.

With every wave that rocked the ship, Loren felt the woes of the past wash away. The pain would always remain, but it would get easier, she knew. As long as she moved forward. That's what Gareth always told her.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and gold, Loren took a deep breath, feeling the salty breeze wash over her. Calder stepped up beside her, his gaze fixed on the ocean ahead. He could sense her shifting thoughts, the ache of loss, the glimmer of hope. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke. 

"He might have made it out," he said hopefully, as if saying it aloud would make it so.

Loren turned to him, her heart beating excitedly at the thought. "I wish it were so, but he'd be here by now if he did."

Calder sighed, the slight hint of hope in his voice fading. She appreciated his efforts, but they both knew the truth. If Gareth made it out, he'd have been close behind them. He gave his life to secure their future, and she meant to honor his sacrifice.

They stood side by side as the ship sailed further from the shores of home, the waters stretching wide and deep around them. Loren leaned over the railing, fingers tracing the worn wood as she gazed out into the endless blue abyss. Blackridge was miles behind, but the memories clung to her. She suspected they always would. There was no going back to the life she once had, no chance of reclaiming what she had lost. It was up to her whether that would break her, or make her stronger.

As the nights on the Starseeker drifted by, Loren often found herself lying awake beneath the stars, thinking of Gareth, and Sera, wondering what they would say if they were with them now. When they finally docked in Lhyvain, Calder turned to her, a mix of relief and wonder in his eyes as he took in the bustling shores of the foreign city. "What will you do now?" He asked her. 

"See the world," she answered. And she did.