Chapter 1: Shadows of the Past
The road stretched ahead, cutting across the land like an old scar. This route connecting the eastern and western borders of Sarathel had been used to shuttled troops toward the western battlefront—a one-way trip for many. These days, this span of packed earth was traveled by those brave enough to cross the wilds between the towns that dotted the outer rim of the realm of Sarathel.
Bryn paused to rest her legs and quench her thirst, assessing the steep hill in front of her. The spring rains had washed out parts of the path, but it looked stable enough to walk on foot. Returning her waterskin to its place on her belt, she continued her trek with a long sigh. It is better to sleep inside the walls of Thistlewood than risk what might lurk around here after dark.
The path was flanked on either side by fallen trees, toppled over by passing warbands ages ago. Beyond the mounds of rotting wood, thick foliage sprung up toward the sky. In some places, one could make out breaks where the brush was jagged and scorched—blasted apart during some nameless skirmish long since settled.
As Bryn crested the hilltop, the undergrowth thinned, and her eyes caught sight of an abandoned fortress in the distance. Its broken towers reached up through the forest canopy, consumed by creeping moss and vines. Many outpost structures still remained scattered across the land—a fading testament to what was once a grand defensive line standing guard against the darkness of Draekor.
Twenty years had passed since the great war came to a halt, and now the signs of new life spread across the countryside. Among the remains of their desiccated ancestors, green shoots and saplings reached upward to an overcast sky, blissfully unaware of the horrors that swept through this forest when it had stood tall and proud.
Bryn took a moment to admire the landscape. This place was not her home, not anymore. The land between settlements, especially this far from the heart of Sarathel, was a graveyard of memories. Every step echoed the past: shattered peace, battles lost… loved ones gone. It had been two months since she traveled this way, and the emerald flecks of new leaves were a sight for tired eyes.
She shifted her travel pack to recenter the weight as she pressed on, following the winding path into the ravine below.
A heavy smith’s hammer swayed at her side, its oak handle worn smooth from years of shaping metal and shattering bone, and a thick, fiery braid bounced against her pack. Bryn made a life traveling town to town, creating and mending metalwork. A craft she had once used for weapons and armor in service to the knights of Sarathel. However, these days, she mostly shoed horses and fixed farm tools.
The air felt heavy as she passed through the ravine at the base of the hill. The setting sun had left behind a thin fog that drifted sleepily across the path, creating shadows and gloom among the underbrush. Uppon nearing the center of the pass, she felt an abrupt shift in the wind. It cut through the underbrush, whipping the fog around her in a torrent. With it came a sharp chill—and a whiff of ozone. She froze in place as the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and senses honed from years of soldiering screamed a warning.
Her right hand instinctively slipped to her side, lifting the battle-worn hammer from its hook. Sharp blue eyes darted from left to right, scanning the shadows dancing in the thicket around her. A familiar ache spread in her chest as the smell of static, faint but present, hung in the air—the residue of magic.
“Come out!” Her voice boomed steady and commanding.
Only the wind answered, tugging at her cloak and pulling strands of loose hair across her face. The weight of possibility pressed down on her mind, dredging up visions of blood and horror from the depths of her memory as the acrid smell of arcane power flooded her senses.
Steadying her nerves, she resisted the impulse to reach out for the pendant hidden under her tunic. “Not yet...” she thought to herself, backing her mind away from the connection. Crouching instead, she searched for a loose stone in the packed dirt, and her gaze remained fixed on the forest in front of her. A moment later, a fist-sized chunk of earth and stone hurtled toward the foliage. The clod burst apart as it impacted the underbrush, raining earth onto the fallen leaves.
A sudden rush of darkness and claws burst toward her from the edge of her vision. Pivoting, she shifted into a trained battle stance, bracing for combat as every nerve in her dwarven body flared to life.
Then, with the chaos of flapping wings and snapping beaks… a murder of crows rushed past her and took to the sky. They cawed and wheeled above, slowly fading into black specks against the pale grey as raindrops began to fall.
“I’m losing my mind…” she said with a sigh, standing there in the rain. Taking one last cautious glance around the area, she realized that the smell had disappeared along with the dying wind.
The hammer was returned to its hook, and she placed a battle-scarred hand over her chest. Her fingers closed around the pendant through the fabric there before closing her eyes and steadying her breath. The adrenaline coursing through her veins slowly released its grip.
“Thistlewood isn’t far now,” she thought. Whatever might be out there could be left here—for tonight.
Thistlewood had been a thriving village a long time ago. Nestled in a clearing along the Thornfell River, it was flanked to the east and west by forested hills. It had been a popular waypoint to rest and resupply when traders still traveled between the two nations. In recent years, traders had shrunk away from the nation’s border to do business in the capital and cities of central Sarathel. The people this far west carved out a meager life for themselves, outcasts without status in a wild buffer zone between age-old enemies.
The war spared few of the settlements in this region. The homes reduced to rubble and ash, the people slaughtered and scattered by the conflict. Only a handful of fortified communities, with sturdy walls and ample provisions, weathered the devastation.
Tradesfolk like Bryn served dual roles in the armies of Sarathel, repairing weapons and armor between clashes with Draekorian foot soldiers. Many had never held a sword or taken a life before their conscription. The war exacted a heavy toll on the artisan guilds they were drawn from, leaving outlying towns without blacksmiths, tanners, and other tradesfolk.
Since the armistice, survivors slowly rebuilt their communities, erected new wooden structures, and reinforced the battered palisades around their towns. Bryn, one of several traveling metalworkers, offered her services in exchange for food and shelter as she visited each outpost, mending the tools that were slowly regrowing civilization.
As Bryn traveled along the rocky, winding path connecting Thistlewood to the main road, twilight was just beginning to deepen the shadows among the trees. Her ears perked up amid the gentle patter of rain on the fallen leaves as she approached the final bend before the town gate. A pair of raised voices echoed through the trees, and she quietly slipped off the path into the underbrush.
In flickering torchlight, two men stood arguing ankle-deep in the mud just outside the town’s reinforced gate. One was older, with a weathered face and barely taller than Bryn. The younger man towered over him, his cheeks and chin sprouting sparse blond whiskers. She took a moment to look past them, admiring the gate’s new hinges she had crafted months before, and smiled knowing they still held fast, despite noticeable scrapes and scratches. The town wall was tall and strong, made from aged timber and steel. It was nothing compared to the city walls farther east, but enough to deter the creeping things that had been birthed from the dark magic of the war.
Unnoticed, she moved behind the two guards, and with a flick of her wrist, sent a copper coin spinning into the darkness. It deflected off the wall with a metallic twang. Both men spun toward the noise.
“Oi, who goes there!” demanded the younger guard, clutching his spear defensively in front of him. The old man shuffled next to the young guard, less menacing but with all the gusto years of hardship could muster.
“I do…” Bryn replied calmly, stepping from the shadows into the glow of torchlight. Both men stole a slow glance over their shoulder in near perfect unison.
Before they could react, Bryn surged forward, nudging the older man into the younger with her shoulder, toppling them both to the ground.
“I win! That’s ten to nothing now, isn’t it?” she said, hands placed triumphantly on her hips as a playful smirk spread across her face.
Slowly, the two men got to their feet, brushing mud and leaves from their clothes.
“Bryn! Ya know it ain’t fair sneakin’ up on old Jeb,” the younger guard’s deep voice grumbled good-naturedly. “His ears ain’t quite what they used to be—though, whether they were much good to start wit is up to debate. Should’ve been a candlemaker for all the wax in them caverns,” he said, patting the old man on the shoulder firmly before flicking his earlobe.
“Phillip, you couldn’t hear a woodpecker knocking through your thick skull,” Jeb retorted, shooting the younger man a playful side-eyed glare.
Bryn’s expression softened into a warm smile. “Looks like I still have plenty to teach you two about guard duty. And Phillip—could have sworn I taught you that the pointy end goes toward the enemy, not over your shoulder.” Laughing, she embraced them both warmly. “I’ve missed you both. I’m so glad you’re safe and taking care of one another.”
Jeb had been, for better or worse, a father to Phillip since he was a child. His wife and daughters were taken in the same skirmish Phillip lost his parents. Sadly, many families in the wilds found one another in this way. After the war, parents and children gravitated toward one another to fill the void left by their loss.
They stood embracing awkwardly in the rain until Phillip broke the silence. “Bryn, would ya mind greatly helpin us close up for the night? I seem to have fell in the mud fending off a vicious beast… gotta get me some dry trousers, ya know?”
“Of course,” Bryn replied, grinning as she pushed them both gently toward the town gate.
After helping to close and bar the gate, Bryn promised to make time for combat instruction over the next few days before parting ways with her two friends. She made her way down the main road, cutting through the heart of Thistlewood. The cobblestones were one of the only features of the town that survived the war. Over the years she had been traveling, new structures had sprung up alongside them in the towns she visited—cozy cottages for townsfolk, barns for livestock, small shopfronts where villagers bartered for what they needed with what they could provide. Her favorite building here was also her destination for the night, the local watering hole which doubled as an inn for occasional travelers.
The Rusty Tankard, with its crooked sign creaking in the wind, spilled warm candlelight into the misty road as Bryn made her way across the courtyard in front of the establishment.
As she reached for the door, the thought of hot stew and spiced mead flashed through her mind. Good food, a hot bath, and a soft bed were in her immediate future, the closest thing to a spa this far out in the wilds.
She pulled the door open just as a distant howl from beyond the wall crept through the air and up her spine. She froze for a moment, forcing back the memories clawing at the edge of her mind. Blinking tears from her eyes, she shook the feeling and pushed herself inside towards the firelight, shutting the door quickly behind her, adding another barrier against whatever creature was hunting in the wilds beyond the wall.
Quantum Chronicles 