I am cold.

At least this is what I remember it feeling like.

They snore in their tents. I hear them over the tempest.

Has it been so long since I was in a similar tent?

Older. Much older. They speak in a language that I know not.

A storm is coming. A raging blizzard will sweep them from this cliff. I can smell it in the air like foregone judgement.

I would warn them if I had a mouth. It has been a millennium since I spoke. Since I drew breath.

She will claim them as she claimed me.

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Darkness.

Darkness and pain.

How long have I been here? An hour? A day?

Pain flares like hot needles in my skin as my heart races. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears. A staccato thump of panic rising.

I try in vain to move my shoulders. The limestone walls tear at my skin like sandpaper on an open wound.

I start to weep.

Flashes of light play across my vision; I am running out of air.

I try to cry out but my throat is too dry.

I cease to struggle. They will not hear me

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This one kinda creeped me out to write. I hope you are enjoying Thoughts from the Cave! Throw me a like if you enjoyed it and thanks for being here!

We hunger…what was that?

It moves. We feel it on our claws. It moves again.

We move closer. Slowly, mustn’t spook, mustn’t scare it away from us.

It stops. We stop. We can wait. We are patient. It has no idea how patient we are.

The fleshling…we can see its blood, it smells sweet.

Closer…closer…wait.

It breathes harder, it looks at its metal box… its blood moves harder.

It is looking for us, but it can’t see us.

Yes, mother…we are being quiet, we are patient.

Closer…

We jump.

It wails.

Its blood is sweet, we are no longer hungry.

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Another dose of the crazy stuff that comes out of my brain! If you like what you see please subscribe, share, like or comment. Thanks for stopping by.

Lightning lashed the skies above the steel and mirror skyline of Vanta City. The harsh actinic bursts interwove through seas of neon that stretched for kilometres below.

Ember Wake stood upon the precipice. Neon luminescence playing across the chrome circuitry of her arms and face.

A voice, human but with the tell-tale drone of voice augmentation spoke. The voice carrying over the tempest.

“Please…they will zero you…no one messes with Shroud 9 and lives.”

Ember smiled sadly. Her eyes already clicking. Her brain absorbing the metrics below.

“There is no one else.”

Raising her arms she fell into the storm.

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Samuel worked the rusted winch handle as the Maidens Mist rocked gently, the near black water lapping wetly at her keel. The dark iron chain links started to feed onto the spool as his eyes scanned the water for the tarred trap net to break the surface. One of the other men directed a paraffin lantern across the water, the light eerily illuminated the ever-present mist.

The net broke the surface off the starboard side. Samuel frowned as he continued to turn the winch handle. He signalled to the helmsman to cut the roughly idling diesel motor as he continued to bring in the net. Small breaks in the net had begun to appear that were soon followed by larger tears.

How do the nets keep breaking? Samuel wondered. His thoughts were interrupted as he noticed the tell-tale ripples appear on the surface, the water started to churn and the unmistakable flash of scales began to appear. The fish were popping out of the gaps. He frantically began to work the winch, all thought to the net damage cast aside as he attempted to salvage the catch. The net slowly rose from the water; among the smaller shapes of perch, something broad-bodied thrashed, the tangled net holding it tight.

“Dammit hurry up!”, boomed the deep rasping voice of Mathias. Samuel turned his head up to the slender captain of the Maidens Mist and yelled back, “Aye sir!” He snapped his head back to catch another glance at the odd fish. It was big, though hard to discern at this distance.

He continued to crank the winch as the last of the net rose from the dark water, the majority of the fish and eels that remained cascaded out of an even larger tear in the base. Samuel locked the winch in place and pulled a small lever to move the net into place above the deck. Pulling a second lever he lowered the ravaged net down, the small forms of perch and the occasional eel continued to spill through the undamaged sections.

Samuel groaned and looked up at Mathias with an exasperated look. Mathias returned the look as he angrily made his way down to the deck, swearing colourfully the whole time.

“That’s three this week”, Mathias grumbled.

Trying not to look at the thing among the catch, Samuel could only nod as he and the others set to work salvaging what they could from the deck. In quick order the perch were tipped into shallow wooden crates, while the eels went into a sloshing galvanised tub. The few remaining fish that were undersize were thrown back in the murky blackness. He examined the outer ends of the net.

The ropes were thick.

Purposefully so.

The net, just like the others had ragged slices through the quarter inch thick rope. Perch and eels were not capable of this sort of damage. He gazed down at the strange thrashing shape that remained locked in the nets embrace.

Another one. He cautiously approached the damaged net, the other deckhands trying their best to ignore what should not have been there. He glanced up at Mathias, and nodded to the weathered-faced captain.

“Secure that thing in the hold, let’s get back to shore.” Mathias looked out over the water and started the engine. The sharp tang of diesel smoke met his nose and he shivered in the evening cold.

The Maidens Mist pulled into the fishery docks as the sun started to set, a familiar smell of salt and fish mixed with the ever present pine tar met Samuel’s nose as he disembarked making fast the lines. The other men transported the catch down the rickety jetty to the processing yard as he joined Mathias in the captain’s office near the processing yard.

Mathias sat wearily down upon a faded green couch in the corner of the room as Samuel put on a kettle of strong coffee. Both gazed at each other, waiting for the kettle to come to boil. The whistle of the kettle soon broke the tension and Samuel poured out two drinks into small ceramic mugs. He passed a cup to Mathias as he sat down.

The captain nodded his thanks before speaking. “In all my years of dredging this lake, I have never seen anything like it.” Samuel nodded.

Mathias continued. “It’s just like the last one but they are getting bigger.” Samuel looked out the window towards the hold, remembering how large the tears in the net were.

A knock at the door interrupted the men.

“Enter!” Mathias spoke.

An aged fisherman entered to room, a look of confusion on his face. “Sir the strange fish in the hold…it’s gone.”

All three men raced out of the door and into the darkening night, looks of panic and confusion upon their weathered features. The icy wind started to pick up and the lake began to heave to and fro. The sound of sturdy boots on wet oak echoed across the fishery as they continued their approach to the Maidens Mist, the venerable ship rocking unsteadily against its moorings.

Samuel noticed it first, the ship seemed to be leaning to one side more than the other. They slowed their approach to get a better look. A hole was visible just above the water line and she was taking on water. “Hull breach!” he bellowed. He reached the edge of the jetty first and swiftly traversed the gap, his feet finding sure footing on the slanted surface. Mathias and the older fisherman soon followed, all three hurried for the stairs that led to the darkness of the hold below.

Samuel led the way with a small paraffin lantern, the light caused dancing shadows across the stained walls. The tell-tale sign of sloshing water against wood echoed up the stairs, confirming what they saw from the outside. “Dammit,” cursed Mathias. He gestured to the old man, “return above and bring some more men with pails and beams, we need to fix this leak before she sinks.” The man nodded once before running back out the stairs to shout out the captain’s orders.

The two men continued into the hold, their feet plunging into cold knee deep water at the base of the stairs. Samuel panned the lantern across the murky hold as he and Mathias scanned the area for the leak. Samuel took a few steps forward, the lantern light reaching the far side of the hold as he took two more. Floating bits of ruined hull bobbed on the surface as he approached. He picked out the breach a moment later, a two foot wide hole in the starboard side. The lake was visible through the gap, water steadily pouring through the aperture, though the flow seemed to be slowing. The water filling the hold was evening out the tilt as the ship slowly rocked back upright. Any bigger and the flow would have sunk her in minutes.

The two men cautiously continued through the murky water to the damaged hull. The boards appeared to be broken inwards. Something had hit the Maidens Mist from the outside. Before the men could contemplate the matter, a splash behind them, followed by a bright light, caused them to turn. Dazed, Samuel panned the lantern to see the light dissipate under the murky water, the after effect of ripples was all that could be seen.

“What in god’s name?” he exclaimed. He looked over at Mathias, the venerable Captain just stared in confused exasperation, before replying.

“Quiet!”

Samuel followed the captains gaze as he pointed towards the gap in the hull. He gasped as a three-centimetre-long appendage broke the inky black surface of the water and started to glow. The thing abruptly broke away and swam rapidly out of the damaged hull, the light fading from the gap as both men stood dumfounded. More splashing behind them gave a fright as they turned to find sailors and craftsman bounding into the water, wooden beams and pails in hand.

Mathias and Samuel exchanged looks and ran past the surprised men, back up on to the deck. The both scanned the pitch blackness over Pine lake, trying as hard as they could to find light.

Nothing.

Blackness.

Samuel leaned heavily on a chipped wooden guardrail and exhaled an adrenaline-fuelled breath. He looked over at Mathias and was about the say something before the Captain held out a shaking hand. Samuel followed the man’s arm as he looked out into inky darkness. The wind had died off but ripples where beginning to form off in the distance. Big ones.

Both men stared in disbelief as a deep golden light started to glow under water not fifty feet away.

The light got brighter. And brighter. The ripples intensified and an appendage rose out of the water. Bigger than the last one they saw.

The appendage rose higher.

Slowly at first, the faster.

They gaped in terrified awe as a two meter appendage broke the surface, terminating in a glistening head twice as wide as the appendage was tall.

It just kept rising.

Huge eyes gazed into theirs hungrily and the men collapsed to the deck, holding their ears as if assaulted by a deafening sound. A deep reverberation rippled across the lake and the creature submerged.

The men shook their heads and shakily stood to their feet.

Samuel looked at Mathias, a confused expression on his face. Mathias looked back at him and calmly stated.

“It has returned.”

The beard of the blade bit deep as Jerimiah swung his axe into the thick pine of the tree with a resonant crack. The corded muscles of his arms strained as he pulled the axe free and exhaled, lungs burning from exertion. He inhaled deeply, the smell of wet pine familiar to him. He enjoyed the labour. His short time in Blackwater Hollow had been hard. The people here were taciturn to the point of rudeness, and he had been met just short of scorn when he stepped off the train. He grunted at the memory and wiped a long strand of damp hair out of his eyes.

He jumped as the familiar peal of the mills whistle echoed through the clearing. “What the hell,” he said, taking a deep breath of the damp forest air. The shift still had many hours to go. A frantic shout rang out from the forest. He glanced upwards and noticed the foreman sprinting out of the woods, dirt kicking up in his wake.

“What are you doing!?” the man bellowed.

Bewildered, Jerimiah replied, “What do you think I’m doing, I’m cutting….”

“Run! The fog is blowing in, RUN!”

The man grabbed Jerimiah as he passed, almost knocking him over. Confused, Jerimiah followed. He stole a glance over his shoulder and saw that a thick fog was creeping out of the tree line. Others exploded from the edge of the fog in desperate flight, tripping over each other in their exodus.

“What the fuck is going on!?” He panted.

The foreman glanced his way before replying, his breath ragged. “No time to talk now boy, just MOVE!”

They continued their flight towards the camp, their footsteps echoed strangely in the pine-scented air. He stole another glance back to see the others hot on their heels. Behind them, the fog continued to spill into the clearing. The way it moved seemed…organic. Tendrils of fog licked out in uneven angles, as if it were crawling towards them. He shook his head and returned his gaze forward.

The camp appeared over the slight rise as Jerimiah and the other frightened men made as much haste as their tired legs would allow. The older foreman started to slow and Jerimiah eased off to help.

“Go boy I’ll catch up; you must get inside before it reaches us.”

Jerimiah hesitated before a steely glance silenced any thought of rebuttal. Pulling ahead, Jerimiah raced onwards past the piles of freshly cut pine logs. The sounds of industry and the stink of machine oil met him as he rounded the corner past the mill, smoke ever belching from its stacks. He stole another glance behind him. The foreman had paused to wait for the other lagging men, bellowing for them to move, his gaze never leaving the fog. Had it covered so much ground already? Jerimiah could have sworn the fog was moving faster than before though the wind had not changed. Thick tendrils seemed to reach out towards the closest men, eliciting yelps of fear as they doubled their efforts to flee.

Jerimiah hit the steps to the cookhouse, taking two at a time as he burst through the double doors, panting heavily. The sight of the cooks busily boarding the windows gave him the smallest of pauses before he returned his gaze back the way he came. He barely had a chance to sidestep as the remaining men, the foreman hot on their heels, burst through the gap. Two of the men frantically pushed him aside and slammed the doors shut. The foreman helped another lift and fix a heavy brace across the door with a solid thud.

“What the hell is happening? What was wrong with that fog?” Jerimiah asked, bewildered.

The men ignored him and joined the cooks in fortifying the room. Franklin, the foreman lifted his hands from his knees before replying. “It’s hard to explain”, he said guardedly.

The other men gave Franklin knowing glances.

“It’s hard to explain!?” Jerimiah replied in exasperation. “Somebody better try to explain and explain quick, what has gotten you all so spooked? It’s just fog.”

“Just fog?” One of the cooks scoffed. “Big city here doesn’t even trust his own eyes.”

The often used name caused Jerimiah to bristle. For a second, he thought of calling the cook out. Franklin took a calm step in front of him before interceding.

“Look son, there are things about the Hollow that after a while you just learn to accept. You were told when you arrived to camp that if you see The Fog, you run.” His eyes were filled with a tired patience.

“I thought…I thought that was just backwater superstition,” Jerimiah replied, swallowing hard.

His thoughts were interrupted by a terrified wail, followed by a fierce banging at the doors. All of the men froze, none moving or speaking. Jerimiah looked around in surprise before starting to make a move towards the door to help the scared soul outside. He was stopped abruptly by Franklin. The grizzly foreman, panic in his eyes and sweat dripping down his brow, held up a single shaking finger for silence.

Something in the man’s gaze made Jerimiah pause. The banging continued, louder this time. Jerimiah looked questioningly at Franklin, who pointed slowly at the windows. Confused, Jerimiah followed his gaze to the cloudy glass panes above the doors. The Fog billowed against the glass in a rhythmic undulation that made him slightly nauseous, as if he were staring into the churning waves of a storm-wracked ocean. He shook his head as a shape, more solid than the surrounding fog, licked wetly at the glass. Startled, he went to scream but a rough hand covered his mouth. Franklin urged him again for silence. A voice sounded outside the doors.

“H…help me! Why won’t you just open the door?” The voice had a deep resonance to it, and was felt as much as it was heard. The others clamped their hands to their ears and collapsed, some in the foetal position as the voice sounded again. “W…why don’t you just open the door…we are scared.”

Jerimiah started to shake. He wanted to scream at the others. He wanted to ignore the voice and at the same time it called to him as if a dear friend stood beyond the doors. A cold pit of indecision landed like a spike of ice in his stomach. He considered making a mad rush for the door while the others were down but found the fear had filled his legs with lead.

Shaking, he dropped to his knees, closed his eyes and covered his ears tight. The banging increased, the muted voices continued to plead and the doors looked like they might fly off their rusted hinges.

Abruptly the voices ceased, the knocking disappeared and the weight on his chest lifted. He stayed where he was for what felt like an eternity. Slowly, he opened his eyes and unblocked his ears. Pale moonlight shone through the faded windows above the doors.

No fog.

No voices.

Silence.

He looked around to the others, all rising to their feet. A collective sigh of relief came from all of the frightened men. Franklin walked slowly over to Jerimiah and placed a weathered hand on his shoulder. His kind eyes regarded Jerimiah as he quietly spoke.

“It is best not to think too much about The Fog lad. After a time, you will get used to it.”

The grinding screech of iron wheels roused Frank Burns from his troubled slumber. His eyes felt as if they were made of sandpaper as he slowly opened them and stretched, easing the pain out of his neck. He already regretted his attempts at economy, the older sleeping carriages were uncomfortable, but locomotive travel had become expensive of late.

He stood up and straightened his long over coat, and gazed out the poorly made windows into the woods beyond. The familiar scent of pine tar and wet saw dust. He was back in Blackwater Hollow. How long had it been? Two years, three? The outline of Blackwater station slowly emerged from the fog.

Steam haze and the ever present fog kept the platform hidden from sight until he was right upon it. He grabbed his belongings, an ornate oak cane with a pewter wolfs head handle and a dark leather valise as he headed down the narrow aisle to the dark sliding door that exited to the platform, nodding to the tired looking attendant as he opened the rickety exit.

The locomotive sighed to a stop. The mournful cry of the mill whistle pealed across the Hollow. Frank smiled. Some things never change.

Dull flickering amber light permeated the fog as he lowered his large frame and took two steps out onto the dark wooden platform, the creaking of the wood somehow echoing over the noise of the station. The station was bustling as usual. He looked down the platform as the other passengers­–mostly bedraggled loggers and a few fishermen–disembarked and scurried off into the darkening evening.

He took the set of stairs down to station street passing a rushing porter on the wooden steps, at the bottom his leather boots sank into the damp mud of the poorly maintained access road. The air was cold, more so than was usual for this late in autumn. He took in a deep lung full, the taste of coal smoke lingered on the damp air. He drew another breath of pine and steam. Blackwater Hollow hadn’t changed. He couldn’t decide if that’s was comforting, or a warning.

Station street had always been poorly lit; however the cold evening air could not hide the ominous rattle of machinery. Frank barely had time to get out of the way as a log hauler belching steam out a rusted stack lumbered ponderously down the muddy road. The hauler kicked up mud as it passed, its shadow blotting out the already dim amber lights. The heat haze from the boiler creating an ominous orange glow against the fog. An annoyed driver perched like a sentinel yelled something Frank couldn’t quite make out as the enormous machine continued noisily up the access road.

Frank took a deep breath of the oily steam filled aftermath and turned his best foot towards the town. He was tired from his journey; sleep was hard to come by these days and the dreams had become more disturbing. Shaking off the dazing imagery as it played on his mind, Frank trudged through the fog, his path leading him towards the pale glow of the distant Last Round.

Frank pushed the weathered door inwards and stepped into the dimly lit tavern. A musty smell of stale saw dust, underlaid with seafood met his nose as he made his way across the bearskin rug covered floorboards to the expansive oaken bar. The hubbub of the room withdrew as he crossed, almost as if the room held its breath for but a moment. Eyes, most of them new to him and one or two he recognised, the latter taking longer to place him than they should have, glanced up from meals of stew and stale bread. A tense moment passed before a familiar voice snapped the room back to normalcy.

“Frank you old hound!”

Frank recognised the voice, and smiled as he crossed the final steps to the bar to clasp hands with the speaker. “It’s good to see you, Arthur.” The well-dressed man smiled and replied, “You too old friend, what brings you back home? What has it been, two years?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” Frank rested his valise and cane against the bar, the wolf’s head catching the light from the crackling fireplace. Arthur looked bemused before replying, “How about a drink my friend? You look in great need.” He looked up at the barkeep and motioned for two drinks before turning his attention back to Frank.

The barkeep quickly returned and poured two fingers of whisky, his expression blank and tired, vanishing more quickly as he arrived. The two old friends raised their glasses and downed them. Frank cleared his throat and said quietly, “I have something I need to tell you.” Arthur looked quizzically at his old friend, noticing the troubled look upon his brow.

“Oh? Everything ok I hope?”

“Not exactly”, he leaned in closer as if his words might rouse attention. “I have been having these…strange dreams about home. Every night for months now. I see storms over the lake, the smell of burning sawdust and I can hear the mills whistle. That’s when I wake up. I had to come back, though I’m confused as to why.” Arthur looked pale, but said nothing.

“Frank…”

“What?”

“You said the lake? There is a light across the water isn’t there?”

Frank froze. There was a light across the lake. Arthur read his friends face, his look the confirmation. The two sat in a heavy silence for a moment. Arthur glanced up and went to gesture for another round before flinching at the appearance of the barkeep–two drinks already in hand. Had he overheard? Or was he simply attentive? Arthur smiled meekly before quickly paying for the drinks. The barkeep smiled before returning down the bar, a greasy rag in hand, and started polishing the dark oak.

Frank took the proffered drink; his nerves caused his hand to shake imperceptibly. He took a sip this time, his throat still burning from the last. “This place still does rooms I assume?”

“Indeed it does”, Arthur replied. Frank nodded almost numbly before excusing himself, stating he was tired and the news along with his journey was becoming a little too much to stay awake. He retrieved his valise and cane, smiled at Arthur and approached the barkeep.

“A room if you have one?” he asked drowsily. The barkeep nodded and held out a wrinkled hand. Not skipping a beat, Arthur paid for his key and took it from the man. It felt cold and heavy in his hands, as if the promise of sleep was soon to come.

Frank crossed to the opposite side of the room and ascended the small stair case to accommodations above. The warmth of the fire receded as he climbed causing him to shiver; he hoped his room had a working fire. He reached the oaken door of his room and fumbled the stained brass key into the ancient looking lock. With a soft click the door creaked open and revealed a sparse yet surprisingly cosy room. A bearskin rug and already crackling fire place caused him to sigh with relief as the coldness of the stairs was washed away. The smell of wet saw dust still prevailed though not as strong as downstairs.

He rested his valise and cane against the solid pine dresser that took up most of the opposing wall from the bed, and walked over to warm himself by the simple fire place. The shadows of the fire danced against the darkened walls. Looking around he found a simple switch on the wall and flicked it on. Dull amber light slowly filled the room, and banished the shadows that played upon the walls. Yawning, Frank took off his overcoat and collapsed onto the roughly sprung bed. His vision darkened as sleep took him; he began to dream of Pine Lake.

The chill night air and light rain fell icily against his face as he walked along the boardwalk from the fishery. A crescent moon was high in sky and the smell of burnt saw dust hovered in the air like a shroud. Confused, Frank walked numbly towards the end of the pier, his boots casting an ominous echo across the water.

Frank shivered against the encroaching night as the rain increased in fervour as he reached the terminus of his short walk. He breathed deep of the night air, the ever present smell of fish that Frank had grown accustomed to near the fishery, was displaced by the ever stronger smell of saw dust. Before he had time to contemplate the oddness of it all, a pale glow lit up the darkness across the water. Frank struggled to focus, his vision swimming momentarily. Just as the shape began to resolve itself, the peal of a familiar whistle echoed through the night.

The rain had stopped.

Frank shuddered; the smell of damp earth mixed with saw dust in his nose.

He opened his tired eyes.

He wasn’t in his room.

Frank stood slowly; his mud soaked boots uncomfortable on his feet. He closed and rubbed his eyes then shook his head slowly. Taking a deep breath he noticed the overwhelming smell of fish. His stomach growled and his back ached. He realised that he was very much awake. “What the fuck?” Frank frantically looked around to get his bearings. He was near the lakes edge, across the water from the fishery. How in the hell? His confused rumination was interrupted by a familiar shout from nearby.

“He’s here! Come quickly I found him!”

Frank turned, his back sending lances of pain through his spine.

Arthur rushed up to steady him as he almost collapsed. The pain momentarily making him dizzy. “Frank are you ok? Are you hurt? God dammit man you had me worried.”

“I…I had the dreams again Arthur…I fell asleep last night and…” Arthur interrupted him, a concerned look upon his face.

“Frank… you have been gone for three days now.”

Welcome, fellow travellers of dark places.

It’s time for an introduction, if you have found your way here recently, welcome. If you have been by the fire a while, a reminder of what this Stack is about.

This publication is home to the stories that refuse to leave me alone.

Some take place in forgotten kingdoms, where blacksmiths become reluctant heroes. Others unfold in dying worlds where survival is measured one day at a time. Soon, you will be walking the rain soaked Blackwater Hollow, a forgotten logging town where the ordinary and the impossible live side by side in an uncomfortable truce.

The genres may change.

The questions do not.

I have never been interested in heroes because they’re stronger than everyone else. I’m interested in ordinary people who choose to keep walking when every instinct tells them to turn back. The worlds may be fictional, but the struggle is real.

Here you will find:

Serialised fiction for my up and coming Blackwater Hollow Chronicles.

Dark fantasy in my first draft snippets of Wrath of the Sundering Horde

Post-apocalyptic fiction in my found fragment series The Fall.

You will also on occasion come across snippets of the thought process behind the Darkness. So whether you’re here Dark fantasy, horror or some weirdness in between, I am glad you have stumbled in out of the rain.

The fire is warm.

Stay as long as you like.

As always…

Stay safe in the Darkness.

SPOILERS AHEAD IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THE OTHER ENTRIES

OFFICE OF CIVIL CONTINUITY

ENTITY ASSESSMENT REPORT

Document ID: [REDACTED]

Classification: TOP SECRET

Distribution: Level 5 Clearance Only

Date: 5^th of September 2025

Subject Official Designation: SHADES

Threat Level: Continuity Threat

Executive Summary

Over the past year a series of what was thought to be isolated incidents, has escalated beyond national containment. Multiple unidentified entities are confirmed to be operating within civilian and government populations, at various levels of influence.

The Iron reach incident is flagged as the epicentre of the infestation event. Despite our best efforts to control and isolate, the entities have taken control of or destroyed multiple installations.

Known Origin

Initial confirmed appearance is suspected to be on August 24^th 2024. See attached Mining Log 7C.

Initial breach appears to be accidental. Iron reach has had multiple anomalous geological events in the 6 months leading up to The Event.

Operation [REDACTED] was launched shortly after the event in the hopes to contain. The operations success was marginal though [REDACTED] lives were lost in the attempt.

Physiology

Entities take many shapes and sizes and tend to rely on obfuscation, both mental and physical to get close to and overwhelm.

Entities have a vague black ash smoke composition, with notable ember like visual organs. Personnel repeatedly report an odour consistent with sulphur.

Entities are extremely dexterous and exhibit movement patterns that are inconsistent with human locomotion. They have been seen to close distances with great celerity and seem to not be easily contained by standard fortifications.

Mimicry

Physical replication: Entities have been observed to take and maintain almost identical properties of their targets. Including voice, movement patterns and simple behaviour patterns.

Replicated subjects frequently fail to demonstrate expected emotional responses.

Minor inconsistencies in behaviour have been noticed in those replicated as the disguise in some but not all cases are brief.

Observed Behaviour

· Coordinated behaviour in combat suggests an almost preternatural ability to adapt.

· Individuals isolated from established support structures are disproportionately targeted

· Entities seem fascinated by underground installations and equipment. See appendix [REDACTED]

· Reference: Iron reach Resources

Case References

· Incident 324A - Iron reach Resources

· Civil Advisory ECC - Redline #1387A

· Fort Freedom After Action Report

· Fort Sentinel – Scorched Earth Directive

· Frank Residence Welfare Investigation

· Wildlife behaviour logs [REDACTED]

Detection Methods

· Wildlife and domestic animals seem to be able to smell the Entities and react aggressively

· Domestic canines demonstrated the highest detection rate.

· Behavioural anomalies in Replicated Individuals, such as incorrect emotions, distance from others and heighten aggression when pressed.

· Entities are often able to be spotted by the dramatic loss of any sort of appetite

· Replicated often have a much colder body temperature than would be considered normal.

Containment Status

Regional containment no longer considered possible.

Final Observation

Initial assumptions concluded isolated replacement events.

Current evidence indicates replacement was never the objective.

August 22nd 2024

I am very depressed. My dad is always working, and mom pretends not to notice. School sucks, and I really am not enjoying senior year. Everything was supposed to change, yet here we are. Same shit, different day. I tried telling mum I wanted to go camping again, anything to get out of this god forsaken town. All I get in response is, “Your father is too busy Gabe, we will try next month Gabe”. Yeah sure we will mom.

August 23rd 2024

Dad was back from Iron Reach tonight. He has been working longer and longer hours, but at least I got to throw the football with him. Call me childish, but I’ll take whatever attention I can get.

It was kinda weird though. As much as I complain about dad always being at work, he always manages to come home with a smile… though tonight he just seems… distant.

August 24th 2024

Ok, I’m officially pissed. Dad missed family movie night. God dammit this is the third time now and he promised it wouldn’t happen again!

Mom got the phone call about an hour ago. Something about a break down at Iron Reach. I heard the last bit of the call as I was headed up to my room and mom had him on speaker.

“We must keep drilling”.

What the hell old man?!

August 25th 2024

Dad didn’t come home from work last night. I’m starting to get worried; this never happens. I really hope he is ok.

The news said something about an “incident” at the mine.

August 26th 2024

I’m kinda freaked out. Dad came through the door this morning. I was so excited to see him.

Bruce wouldn’t stop barking, even when he saw who it was.

Mom and I rushed up to hug him but he stopped us.

I kid you not he looked at mom, then me and smirked.

What the hell dad!

He walked right past us into the kitchen.

Mom asked him what was wrong and if he wanted something to eat.

He… he just stood there in the middle of the kitchen.

He said nothing.

Just stared at Bruce with that weird smirk on his face.

Dad just went upstairs.

Bruce won’t stop barking.

The TV just broadcast about some sort of emergency. Says we can’t leave the house… what the hell is going on.

Garrick awoke with a shuddering gasp. Pain lanced through his shoulder as he shakily rose to his knees, the reek of smoke and burning flesh assaulted his nose and his eyes stung from the pale grey ash that filled the air.

His eyes took in the scene before him. Fire and death. His home. Reduced to cinders. Tears welled and spilled down his dirt blackened face, leaving trails that vanished into his dark beard. He rose slowly to his feet, knees starting to shake as he realised – the suns had fallen below the horizon. How long had he been out? The smoke and ash blotted out the evening sky to such an extent that he had no point of reference for time.

Garrick rapidly blinked his dry eyes and tried to put the thought from his mind. Now was not the time for idle thoughts. He raised his hand to the wound on the shoulder and was glad to see the blood had clotted and that full range of movement remained.

A flickering of reflected light drew his eyes downward. Half buried by ash and mud Garrick spied his sword. He bent down to retrieve the blade, absently cleaning it with an oiled cloth that forever lived on his belt. He slid the blade into his waist scabbard with a soft click.

Abruptly he remembered the cart. Turning quickly on heel, he made his way back up the small slope to where he had disembarked. Upon cresting the slope, he realised to his dismay, that his horse was gone. The cart itself seemed mostly untouched. He approached with caution and made his way to the box behind the seat. He opened the small container with a creak of rusted hinges and retrieved his water skin and some dried rations. Simple fare, but he would need the energy before venturing into Oakenfall. He downed a gulp of water and some of the salted meat.

He reached behind the box and picked up his pack. With practiced motions he packed away the rest of his meagre belongings and turned back towards the grim site of destruction.

Walking up slowly to the main gate, Garrick ran his eyes over the scene before him. Bodies littered the ground. House Valcoris soldiers and a larger number of goblins and hob goblins. The stench made his stomach turn. He strained his ears and listened. The sounds of cracking fires, ruined wooden beams splitting as they gave way caused and him to jump. He could hear no sounds of life as he continued through the main gate and along the soot stained cobblestones. He followed similar scenes of carnage as he slowly wound his way into the main square.

His heart leapt into his throat at the scene before him. The macabre site of crudely raised totems. Tears freely streamed down his face as he recognised what his eyes lay upon. Men, women…and those younger still, impaled on the sharp edges of the unholy simulacrums. Faces frozen in rictus images of pain and horror. Garricks’ legs gave out as he recognised one more familiar. The bakers apprentice, a lad no more than ten winters. With a cry of anguish, Garrick dropped to one knee and wretched. Shoulders convulsed as wracking sobs heaved through his body.

A snap of broken masonry drew his attention to his right.

“Who kneels before me?” A deep resonant voice bellowed.

Garricks hand flew to the blade at his scabbard. He recognised a tall man in house Valcoris colours wielding a longsword with obvious skill and intent. The man’s black matted hair partially covered a pale weathered face, eyes the colour of tumultuous grey, appraised Garrick with sharp focus.

Raising both hands slowly, Garrick replies.

“G-g-g Garrick, Garrick Du’Maunt.”

A look of recognition played across the mans tired features. He lowered his blade. His posture suggested he could explode back into motion at a moment’s notice.

“The blacksmith?” the man asked.

Garrick nodded and slowly rose to his feet. He looked at the soldier for a moment. His blue and gold brigandine soiled with dirt and blood, how much of it was his own Garrick could not tell. He recognised the man’s face now.

“You are Erik Marshall are you not? Master at arms for House Valcoris?”

The man gave a slight smile before grunting. “I stand so named.” Erik closed the distance to Garrick, and extended a hand towards him. Garrick flinched back; his nerves shot.

Erik smiled warmly, recognising the look on Garricks’ face. “Fear not lad, we are on the same side.” Continuing forwards he placed his hand lightly on Garricks shoulder. “Have you seen any others lad?”

Garrick shook his head; a numb expression painted his forlorn features. “None at all, I-I-I- was beginning to think there were none.”

Erik nodded slowly as he cleaned the blood from his weapon. “We should go there may be more of the beasts lurking still”.

Slowly he returned the blade to his back scabbard before continuing. “Lord Tristane has commanded all survivors to be brought to the Keep. Our archers took enough of the Hordes number to temporarily rout them. Follow me, quickly now”.

The path to the keep was no less devastating. Garricks’ eyes took in the sight of broken and burnt houses, blood covered cobblestones and the occasional wail of anguish in the distance. Following the sound, his eyes fell upon the distant, smoke distorted form of the large stone structure of their destination. The keep looked ominous in the firelight and Garrick suppressed an involuntary shudder as they approached.

He began to make out shapes in the smoke that soon resolved themselves as they wound the last curve up the hill. Soldiers. They stood guard at the southern walls’ portcullis, battle weary and bloodied, yet still alert. Erik continued to lead the way up the final approach. The men came to an informal, yet still proper attention, their crossed halberds opening as the one on the right barked, “The Master at arms returns, raise the portcullis”.

A muffled yell from atop of the wall returned a curt reply. “Archers, stand down. You there, open the gate”. With and audible groan that echoed eerily through the approaching night, the portcullis rumbled on well-worn chains, as it slowly elevated.

Garrick strained his neck as he looked upwards at the imposing battlements, only just now did he see the archers above. The men looked even more bedraggled than the guards in front of him. Almost as if they expected another attack at any moment. He returned his gaze forward as the portcullis disappeared into the dark housing of the keeps upper wall, a solid clank of steel rang against stone as it stopped. Erik conferred with the guards, as Garrick wandered numbly into the cluttered interior of the bastion’s outer courtyard.

The smell of acrid sweat, and fear shit, assaulted his nose as he gazed upon the makeshift camp in front of him. So little had survived! His eyes fell upon wounded men and woman, some badly injured whilst others simple rocked upon haunches, panic and fatigue plastered upon their faces. He recognised a woman he had often seen frequent the market, clutching a wailing babe to her breast as she silently wept.

Erik broke his reverie with a hand that grasped his shoulder. The sudden touch caused him to flinch silently, as he turned to face the indomitable warrior. “Is this all that survived?” Garrick said shakily as he surveyed the scene before him.

“So far lad, yes. Slightly less than fifty souls have been found so far. The scouts we sent out in the wake of the enemy’s retreat are due back soon. It is almost nightfall, and we cannot risk continuing the search once darkness falls”.

Erik sounded almost callous to Garricks’ ears. “So we leave them to fend for themselves?” He muttered.

Erik’s steel gaze fell upon Garrick, hearing the reproach in the blacksmiths voice.

“We cannot sacrifice those we have saved, on the small chance more survived. You were the last survivor I found, and the furthest out from the keep, the chances of survival are minimal”. He softened his tone before continuing. “We will resume the search at daybreak lad, there is a chance people are still hiding in the town”. Garrick nodded numbly and followed Erik as he made his way further into the keep.

National Emergency Communications Network

Emergency Public Address Transmission

Priority Level: Civilian Advisory

Time: 8pm CST

Origin: Office of Civil Continuity

Distribution: Nationwide Broadcast

Advisory Code: ECC-Redline

Transmission ID: #1387a

- Attention. General Notice to all citizens. Due to the ongoing regional disruptions, containment measures will be put in place to isolate the incident. Coordination efforts are being put in place across all relevant government bodies.

- All citizens across the central Mid-West will receive direct contact from local authorities in approximately three standard hours. Situation remains stable and all essential services remain in operation.

- The current advisories are implemented, effective immediately;

- Travel is temporarily restricted from the affected zones.

- Domestic animals are to be kept indoors where appropriate. Any and all contact with wildlife is STRICTLY PROHIBITED until told otherwise.

- Shelter in place is HIGHLY recommended unless unavoidable.

- Temporary shelters are being established in affected zones. Information to be received from local authorities.

- All people in the affected zone are required to comply with specific identification processes. Information to be received from local authorities. Do not respond to unsolicited calls requesting entry. Families should verify household members daily.

- REPEAT, families should verify household members daily.

There is no cause for alarm as operational losses have been contained. We urge all citizens to calmly follow the previous directives. Any and all unverified reports on social media are to be disregarded. Follow ONLY the advice given to you by local authorities. The reports circulating online regarding impersonation incidents are unfounded.

In this time of uncertainty, we must remain calm and unified. The stability of the nation is of the utmost importance in this time.

End Transmission.

Subject: Receipt and Verification of Scorched Earth Directive

Time – 0530

Date – 7^th July 2025

Event – Scorched Earth Directive received

Logger – Rear Command Sergeant Rogir

Fort Freedom requested immediate fire mission; Scorched Earth Directive, complete compromise suggested.

Infiltration not reported from more distant Forts, attempting reconfirm with Fort Freedom immediately. Scorched Earth Directive seems unlikely.

Time – 0535

Date – 7^th July 2025

Event – Attempted Hail to confirm Scorched Earth Directive

Logger – Rear Command Sergeant Rogir

Something is jamming the comms. Fort Freedom unresponsive to hails. Scorched Earth…it can’t be correct. That base has over fifty men at arms.

Sending contact to HQ for confirmation of directive. I dare not make this call… so many souls.

[Personal objection logged and overridden]

Time – 0550

Date – 7^th July 2025

Event – Scorched Earth Directive Confirmed

Logger – Rear Command Sergeant Rogir

HQ confirmation received. Independent validation deemed unnecessary. I will confirm regardless.

Validity of request confirmed by Forts Threshold and Bastion. Attempted infiltration thwarted at both sites…barely.

Time – 0605

Date – 7^th July 2025

Event – Scorched Earth Directive Initiated

Logger – Rear Command Sergeant Rogir

I… I can’t believe it has come to this. Use of thermobaric warheads authorised. Launch codes received from HQ.

Authorisation has been granted. Initialise Scorched Earth Directive.

Report Terminated.

For internal use only

Following the Sector 4 deep-core drilling anomaly

Document time stamped 36 hours after Sector 4 incident…

Date – August 26 2024

Time – 1400

Regional Compliance Officer – E. Constantine

- Last report with Sector 4 at roughly 2am on August 25 2024. Foreman R. Jericho suggests irregularities with the drill line followed by sensor malfunction.

- Reports from Senior engineer F. Barnes conflicts with R. Jericho. Mr Barnes has assured us that “acoustic anomalies”, are common at that depth and that foreman Jericho was given the go ahead to “keep drilling”.

- Records suggest that conflicting sensor data has been a problem in Sector 4 from the outset of mining Operations.

- F. Barnes has also reported on three separate occasions of R. Jerichos’ stress - induced misreporting.

- Internal audit notes indicate Senior engineer F. Barnes logged remote readouts prior to the activation of Sector 4’s updated sensor array, despite records showing the array was not yet operational.

- It is my firm recommendation that Foreman R. Jericho be brought in for psychological evaluation.

- Pending further review Sector 4 mining operations deemed safe.

- F. Barnes will, effective immediately, be reassigned to consult across multiple sites. Operations must continue.

- Appendices A-C withheld pending site stabilisation.

Iron Reach Resources

Mining Log 7C – Event 324A

Date – August 24 2024

Time – 2200

Foreman – R. Jericho

- Deep core drilling proceeding as planned in sector 4. Read outs show small cavern at 500 meters. I don’t imagine this will be an issue, proceeding to drill through.

Date – August 24 2024

Time – 2300

Foreman – R. Jericho

- Drilling stopped abruptly at 550m. External imaging suggests the cavern is [REDACTED] times larger than initial estimates. Strangely much colder than the surrounding area.

Date -August 24 2024

Time – 2330

Foreman – R. Jericho

- Drill is reading an …obstruction. Better get engineering onto this fast or the boss will have my head.

Date – August 25 2024

Time – 0030

Foreman – R. Jericho

- Frank over at engineering has told me their remote read outs conflict with ours. Apparently, I am quote “reading the instruments wrong.” The nerve on these guys.

Date – August 25 2024

Time – 0140

Foreman – R. Jericho

- God dammit! The Drill piece is fragged. I told him, I told Frank that there was resistance! Still he insists its fine. “We must keep drilling”, is all he drones about on the walkie.

Date – August 25 2024

Time – 02**

Foreman – R. Jeric**

- There is movement! Sensors are picking up [REDACTED]. This can’t be happening… [REDACTED] line is in pieces, external cameras showing silhouettes streaming up towards…

-Transmission interrupt-

What follows is an after action report set in the world of The Fall.

Time – 0430

Date – 7^th July 2025

Event – Sighting on the perimeter

Logger – Forward Command Sergeant Bragg

Contact spotted at 0430, prowling just outside of Quadrant Alpha, south of the tree line. Non responsive to hails.

As per revised protocol, Squads Epsilon and Omicron dispatched. I will not have another morning like incident #413Alpha

Time - 0450

Date – 7^th July 2025

Event – Omicron Falls

Logger – Forward Command Sergeant Bragg

Heavy weapons fire detected in Quadrant Alpha, fifteen seconds of ordnance discharge and then silence. Omicron has failed to respond to hails. Will try Epsilon.

Epsilon short radio burst detected.

- “…fire into the tree line… Omicron falling rapidly… what the hell… Shades sighted… retreat by twos… holy shit!” – end transmission

Time – 0510

Date – 7^th July 2025

Event – Quadrant Alpha breach

Logger – Forward Command Sergeant Bragg

Omicron K.I.A.

Epsilon non responsive to further hails.

Executing Lockdown of Fort Freedom as per Shade Defence Protocol Alpha.

Time – 0530

Date – 7^th July 2025

Event – Execute Scorched Earth

Logger – Forward Command Sergeant Bragg

Multiple breaches detected at defence barriers to Quadrant Alpha main towers. Shade infestation detected.

Sending signals to nearby Forts. Requesting immediate fire mission this on location. Scorched Earth Protocol recommended; Fort Freedom is compromised.

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Human history has always been bleak. Up until several generations ago, the default setting for mankind had been war and misery. The wars eventually subsided, at least the major ones did, and Mankind ushered in a new Golden Era. We knew a time of relative peace and plenty, unknown in our whole violent existence. So much so, that people began to think life in the modern world was difficult. Entire generations that never had to fight for anything, decided to find hardship and difficulty in basic day to day tasks. They saw problems in their simple lives, that paled in comparison to what our ancestors experienced.

Society began to get comfortable, too comfortable. Blind to what real struggle actually was. So, we created films and books that glorified the hard times our society lacked. We trivialised it, had conversations about how, if the world ended, that we would be the ones to survive, in whatever apocalyptic hell fantasy we thought the future would hold.

How wrong we were.

When society crumbled, it was not nuclear war, a zombie apocalypse or even a wide spread natural disaster. The truth was much more terrifying. Deep from within the bowels of the Earth, an ancient terror arose. A darkness so malignant and deceitful that it put all of our pre conceived ideas to shame. They emerged from the stygian depths. They copied. They adapted to every aspect of our psyche, and they tore us apart. Shredding our sanity to the core, until society and life as we knew it buckled under the weight of the infestation.

There is no hope. No escape. This is the Fall.

Challenging the Fantasy Lie

Traditional fantasy teaches us that the hero of the story is more often than not noble. I don’t necessarily mean noble by birth, but noble by action. They are put into the story with the feeling that no matter what happens, they will succeed in the end because that is right, proper and often with predictable trials.

Grim dark on the other hand flips that script. What if the heroic thing to do ends up putting someone in some form of pain regardless? What if its not about simply winning, but more about survival?

This simple change in tone is what separates traditional fantasy from Grim Dark fantasy. Sure there are other points to make, but that is the one that resonates most for myself.

Survival in its purest sense

In Grim Dark, I have found that its the collateral damage that makes for the real dread. A hero might well save the day, but what about the bystander? The protagonist that is not hero by nature? These are the sorts of characters that make the genre in my opinion.

The humble blacksmith, torn from his life of menial servitude to his Lord. His town destroyed, his friends and family butchered. The mental strain of being in such a situation without the proverbial crutch of being a might hero.

Often times in traditional fantasy this gets over looked for the more glorious aspect of the time. The knights, the magic, the court intrigue. Grim dark may well have these but it also highlights the overlooked counterpoints of the time. The smell, the drudgery, the hopelessness, the human cost.

The mere act of trying to survive to the terminus of the story leaves the reader holding their breathe and wishing for it to be over. That poor blacksmith. What other horrible trials will he have to endure?

The Emotional Cost

In traditional fantasy, often times the emotional cost of the protagonists actions is overlooked. The story focuses on the action itself and smoothes over the jagged edges. In Grim Dark that focus is flipped. The hard questions get answered. What about the guilt they feel after a terrible action that they have caused, directly or indirectly? The emotional strain, particularly if the protagonist is not a hero archetype– as is often the case in Grim Dark.

The protagonist more often than not simply survives the story. There is no happy ending, the cost of what they have done, or gone through weighs so heavily that they ask themselves—Did i really win? Was it really worth it?

Traditional fantasy sometimes steers away from these hard truths, and thats where I personally believe Grim Dark shines– for lack of a better phrase. Its great to see the hero win, we all love that. But to see them broken, depressed and often times feeling like that have lost, that is Emotional Cost.

Heroism Redefined

So we have come to the conclusion of my point. Grim Dark redefines heroism not— because it needed it at its core— but because Grim Dark stands apart as a meaningful counter point to the traditional hero.

Most of my experience has been writing traditional hero’s. Larger than life characters that the reader just knows are going to win—eventually. Grim Dark has changed how I view this.

Give me the lowly blacksmith, the struggling peasant. Let me see them struggle, let me see them fail. The simple fact that the protagonist may not survive—that is the sort of thing I like to read.

I would love to hear your opinion on this. Let me know in the comments below and remember—in the end the darkness comes for us all.

The Signal

Our fundamental understanding of the age-old question, “Are we alone in the universe?” is answered in the most brutal way possible on July 15th, 2085 Terran Standard.

The Terran ship bursts soundlessly in a hail of light and ice from Other Space. The Signal, misread by human scientists, lured us here. We believed we were making first contact in the Proxima System. The price for our hubris is immediate.

Harken Walker, a Terran pilot, spits blood onto the deck and wheezes. Leaving Terra was a grave mistake. Everything we thought we knew dies here with the ship.

The clang of hammer on anvil rang out across the southern stretch of Oakenfall as Garrick Du’Maunt began the day’s work. Sweat already beaded on his brow, the rising sun adding its warmth to that of the coals. His shoulder-length brown hair clung damply to his neck, and his dark green eyes gleamed with quiet determination in the forge light. The Alderman was working him hard, near to breaking, it felt.

Sparks scattered like fireflies as he struck the glowing edge of a blade. “Hope he finds this to his liking,” he muttered. If the Du’Maunt iron found its way into the hands of House Valcoris soldiers, it could change everything.

He paused, wiping his brow with the back of a calloused hand. His mind drifted back to yesterday’s sermon at the Temple of Othar. Head Priest Eldrin had spoken at length of the War. Northwatch, only three days to the northeast, had fallen. The Sundering Horde had finally broken through. Eldrin implored the people to hold fast in prayer, that Othar’s light would protect Oakenfall.

Garrick had almost laughed aloud.

What chance does Oakenfall have if Northwatch fell? The Horde wasn’t just hobgoblins anymore — now orcs and giants followed Draven, the so-called War chief. Faith was fine, but steel mattered more.

He shook the thought away and struck the blade again, the sound echoing against the stone walls. Another breath, another blow. The rhythm grounded him.

Today was important.

Alderman Tristane himself was coming to inspect Garrick’s work. The man was no idle lord, he made it his business to see things done personally. Since the War began, Garrick’s forge, along with many others, had been requisitioned by House Valcoris. First, it had been horseshoes. Then weaponry. Now he was responsible for outfitting foot soldiers; a monumental task, one that left him working late into every night.

A sharp horn blast broke his thoughts. Hoofbeats thundered down the road, two house guards in blue-and-gold brigandine rode into view on broad-chested warhorses. Behind them came the Alderman himself.

Tristane of House Valcoris cut an impressive figure. Midnight-black warhorse, cloak of deep azure trimmed in gold, a look of confidence played across his features. His emerald eyes scanned the market with ease, the look of a man who knew the weight of both sword and seal.

Peasants parted, bowing low. Garrick plunged the blade he was tempering into the water barrel. Steam hissed. The Alderman dismounted with practiced grace and strode toward the forge.

Garrick took a knee and bowed his head. “My Lord.”

“Rise, Garrick Du’Maunt,” Tristane said. “No need for ceremony, this is your forge.”

Garrick stood and offered a respectful nod. “You honour me, Lord Tristane. I trust your morning ride was pleasant?”

Tristane returned the nod. “You have the order ready?”

“I do, my Lord.” Garrick stepped aside, unlatching a brass-bound case. Inside rested a longsword, gleaming in the firelight. He lifted it reverently and dropped to a knee once more, the blade balanced across his arms.

Tristane’s brow lifted with approval. “Exquisite,” he said.

The weapon was more than functional. It was art. A long blade of polished steel, a broad cross guard engraved with the Valcoris motto: Honour and Unity. The grip, oak wrapped in leather and coiled with steel, was studded with three emeralds. The pommel bore the silver cross of Othar.

Tristane stepped into the open yard and began a graceful practice form. Garrick watched silently. The man moved with precision and power. A seasoned swordsman.

When he finished, Tristane returned with a quiet smile. Garrick offered the scabbard: reinforced willow, wrapped in dark leather and studded with iron. Tristane slid the sword home with a satisfying click.

“Well, Garrick, your father taught you well.”

The praise landed heavy. Garrick bowed deeply. “It is my honour to serve House Valcoris, my Lord.”

Tristane nodded, mounted, and with his guards, cantered off through the now-busy market square toward the keep.

Alone again, Garrick wiped the sweat from his face and turned back to the forge. He still had another blade to finish. And tomorrow, he’d have to make the half-day journey downstream to the charcoal-burner’s hut. He was running low.

With a sigh, he picked up the sword-in-progress and went back to work.

A light, persistent rain stung Garrick’s eyes as he steered his creaking wagon through the south-eastern woods beyond Oakenfall. The dull roar of the nearby river ran beside him, muffled by the thick canopy overhead. Damp earth, rot, and the faint tang of charcoal filled the air, a scent as familiar to him as the weight his own hammer.

The draft horse trudged forward with unwavering rhythm, hooves squelching softly in the sodden earth. Overhead, the dual suns were veiled behind drifting clouds, their light fractured by the trees into dancing bands of colour. He could tell the storm front had been driven west over the Spine. Normally, Garrick would have waited until Storm’s End passed, these paths turned treacherous under pooling rain, but the backlog at the forge had forced his hand.

Eventually, the path widened into a clearing no more than fifty feet across. Three squat huts stood by the river’s bend, plumes of smoke drifting from crooked chimneys. The charcoal burners’ camp.

A rotund figure in soot-streaked leathers and a faded red headwrap emerged as Garrick drew near. “Frederick,” Garrick greeted, dismounting. They clasped hands briefly. “How are you, my friend?”

“As good as can be,” the man said, voice hoarse from smoke. “The passage uneventful?”

“Quiet enough,” Garrick replied, glancing toward the sky. “But slower than I’d like.”

“Aye, the rains are unrelenting. I’ve been praying to Akthos for the storm season to pass.”

At the storm god’s name, both men reflexively made a sign of warding. In the silence that followed, they got to work. Within minutes, the charcoal was loaded, and coin exchanged. Garrick made to leave, climbing back into the wagon.

“Be wary,” Frederick warned. “There’s been word of goblins near the eastern trail.”

Garrick nodded grimly and urged the horse forward. The shadows under the trees seemed to lengthen as he re-entered the woods.

The forest felt wrong.

Soundless. Empty.

No birdsong, no rustle of squirrels in the brush. The air itself seemed to hold its breath. The suns had dipped lower now, casting the world in an amber gloom. Around a narrow bend, a new scent crept through the damp: burning.

He stopped the wagon.

Descending stiffly, Garrick crept up the small hillock that marked the trail’s final rise before Oakenfall. The smoke thickened. Then, faint and dreadful, came the clang of steel and the cries of dying men.

His stomach twisted.

Peering over the crest, the breath left his lungs.

Oakenfall was on fire.

The walls that had always stood strong, wood and stone laid with generations of care, were engulfed in flame. Screams echoed from within. Shapes moved in the firelight, hobgoblins by the score, with goblin swarms flitting between them. Garrick watched in frozen horror as men in House Valcoris colours fell one by one. Blue and gold banners collapsed into mud.

There was no defence. No warning. No hope. Oakenfall was a small town, guarded by only a score of Valcoris soldiers.

A rustle in the nearby thickets snapped him from the trance.

A hobgoblin stepped into view. Rust-pocked blade in hand. Garrick scrambled back, heart hammering. The creature saw him, grinned, and approached with slow, mocking confidence.

Panic gripped Garrick as he fumbled for the short sword at his hip, barely drawing it in time to parry the first brutal swing. The blow sent shockwaves up his arms. He gasped, stumbled, fell.

The hobgoblin circled.

Another blow. He blocked. A third strike grazed his shoulder, fire tore through his nerves. He dropped to one knee, vision blurring, sword shaking in his hand.

This was it.

He raised the blade feebly. The creature laughed, toying with him. And then, a voice. Calm. Deep. Foreign. Yet known.

A great figure stood behind him in his mind’s eye, hulking, armoured, haloed in firelight, an axe in one hand, and certainty in his gaze.

Another voice now, clear and near.

“Strike. Strike now.”

On instinct, Garrick seized a handful of bloodied sand and flung it into the hobgoblin’s eyes.

The beast roared, clutching its face.

“Now!”

With a cry, Garrick drove the blade forward. It slipped through ribs and sank deep. The hobgoblin gasped, choked, and collapsed in the dirt.

Panting. Trembling. Garrick turned.

He vomited.

Then everything went black.

Just before the dark claimed him, he heard it again:

“Well struck, Sojourner. Well struck.”