The night was heavy with mist when Lysara left the shelter of the mountain pass. The air smelled of wet stone and moss, but beneath it lingered another scent she had learned to recognize—smoke carried from far-off fires. She moved quickly along the narrow trail, her boots crunching against gravel, her senses alert for any sign of movement among the crags. The moon was a thin sliver overhead, its pale light swallowed by drifting clouds. Every shadow felt deeper than it should have been, and every rustle in the undergrowth made her hand twitch toward the hilt of her shortblade. She had no time to indulge fear. The Vale lay ahead, and with it the next step in a journey she had been preparing for since she was a child.
The descent into the valley took most of the night. When she reached the edge of the lower woodlands, she could see faint torchlight flickering through the trees. It was not the soft golden glow of a village's welcome but a harsh, restless light that shifted and danced as if carried by patrols. She crouched low among the ferns, studying the movement of the flames. There were at least six torches visible from her vantage, and their bearers seemed to be sweeping the forest in an organized pattern. That alone told her the rumors were true—the black-cloaked hunters had reached the Vale. She had hoped to arrive before them, but the storms in the pass had delayed her by two days, and that might prove fatal for what she intended to do here.
Slipping deeper into the woods, Lysara moved with the stealth of a predator. Every few steps she paused to listen, filtering the natural sounds from the human ones. She heard the uneven tread of boots on damp earth, the jingle of chainmail, and the low murmur of voices speaking a language she had only heard once before in her life. The memory of that day was etched in her mind—the smoking ruins of her father's hall, the broken shield lying in the mud, and the foreign soldiers sweeping through what remained to ensure no survivors remained. That was the day she learned the meaning of patience, and the day she swore she would not be caught unprepared again.
She kept to the shadows, her path winding toward a cluster of ancient oaks at the center of the forest. Beneath their roots lay the entrance to an old watchpost, abandoned for decades but still intact enough to serve as a temporary refuge. As she approached, she slowed her pace, scanning the area for signs of recent disturbance. The ground was clear of footprints, and the moss on the doorstone was untouched. Satisfied, she pressed her palm to the concealed latch and felt it shift under her fingers. The door gave way with a muted groan, revealing the darkness within. She slipped inside, closing it behind her, and lit a single candle from the kit on her belt.
The chamber was small and cold, its walls lined with crumbling stone shelves. Dust lay thick on the floor, but the air was dry and breathable. She set her pack down and pulled free a rolled parchment. On it was a map of the Vale, drawn from memory and marked with the locations of the old signal towers. If even one of them still stood, she could use it to send word to the hidden allies further east. But the hunters would not leave such a structure untouched, which meant her first task was to see if the southern tower still stood. She studied the path she would have to take, tracing it with one gloved finger. It ran dangerously close to the torchlight she had seen earlier, which meant speed and caution would need to work together.
Lysara allowed herself only a brief rest. When the candle had burned halfway down, she doused it and slipped out again into the forest. The mist had thickened, muffling sound and making the torchlight appear as dull halos in the distance. She moved silently between the trunks, keeping low when the patrols drew near. Twice she had to freeze entirely, pressing herself against the wet bark as voices passed within arm's reach. She could hear the click of crossbow triggers being checked, the hiss of orders, and the soft thud of boots receding. The hunters were thorough.
An hour before dawn, she reached a rise that overlooked the southern edge of the Vale. Through the fog she could make out the dark shape of the tower, its roofline jagged where part of it had collapsed. Relief flickered in her chest, but it was short-lived. The base of the tower was encircled by a low barricade, and at least a dozen figures stood watch around it. They were not villagers. Even at this distance she could see the telltale dark cloaks and the glint of steel beneath. The hunters had claimed the tower.
She crouched low, weighing her options. To reach the tower by force would be suicide, and to wait too long risked the hunters reinforcing their hold. That left only one path—slip inside unnoticed and find a way to use whatever remained of the signal fire before they realized she was there. It was reckless, but her mission demanded it. She could not allow the Vale to fall without warning the east.
The first rays of morning light touched the treetops as she began her approach. She moved like a shadow across the grass, circling wide to avoid the front line of guards. Every muscle in her body was tense, her breath controlled, her eyes fixed on the narrow gap between two sections of the barricade where a fallen log had left an opening. She slid through silently, her heart pounding in her ears.
Once inside the perimeter, the danger doubled. She could hear the hunters speaking in low tones just a few steps away. Their camp smelled of damp leather and burned meat, and the smoke from their small fire clung to the air. She kept low, slipping from one patch of cover to the next until she reached the base of the tower. The door was half-rotted and hanging loose on its hinges. She eased it open and stepped inside, swallowed by darkness. The air was thick with dust, and every step made the old floorboards groan under her weight.
At the top of the spiral stair, she found the fire basin. It was cracked but intact, and inside lay a scattering of old wood and ash. She reached into her pouch, pulling free the bundle of treated kindling she always carried, and began to prepare the signal. Outside, the guards moved about, unaware that a silent intruder was poised above them. Lysara worked quickly, her fingers steady despite the tension. The time for patience was over. If the east was to be warned, the fire had to burn before the sun was high enough for the smoke to be lost in the glare.
Kaelen pushed further into the crumbling hall, his boots echoing softly against the cracked stone tiles. Every few steps he glanced over his shoulder to ensure the others were keeping up. The air was thick with the smell of dust and the faint tang of old magic, the kind that clung to ruins that had been abandoned for centuries. He could almost feel the walls watching him, as if the stones themselves remembered the secrets they once protected. The torch in his hand sputtered when a draft swept through, and he tightened his grip on it, unwilling to let the fragile flame die.
The boy was at his side, eyes darting to every shadow. Kaelen noticed how his shoulders tensed each time the darkness shifted, and he placed a steadying hand on the boy's arm. "Stay close," he said quietly, his voice low enough not to carry. The child nodded, but his gaze remained fixed ahead. There was something about this place that seemed to reach for him specifically, as if the old magic knew who he was and why he had come.
Behind them, Lysara moved with a measured calm, though her eyes betrayed her alertness. She had insisted on coming despite the risks, and Kaelen had not argued. She was the only one who seemed able to read the faint inscriptions on the broken archways they passed, her fingers brushing lightly over the symbols as if they were old friends. "These markings speak of a gate," she murmured, almost to herself. "One that leads somewhere beyond this world." The words lingered in the air, making the boy stiffen again.
The corridor narrowed, forcing them into single file. The walls here bore scorch marks, and Kaelen could see faint grooves carved into the stone as though claws had raked through it. He glanced at Lysara, and she gave a small shake of her head. They both knew what that meant. Something dangerous had passed this way, something strong enough to damage the stone. The torchlight flickered again, revealing an archway at the far end, its surface lined with pale veins of crystal that caught and reflected the light in a cold shimmer.
When they reached it, Lysara stepped forward, her fingers hovering just above the surface. "This is it," she said softly. "The gate." She traced a single rune, and the crystal veins pulsed faintly. The boy shifted closer to Kaelen, his eyes fixed on the growing light. The pulse grew stronger, until the entire arch seemed to hum with quiet energy. Kaelen felt the hair on his arms rise. Whatever was on the other side was close now, separated from them only by a thin veil.
A sudden sound broke the silence, sharp and echoing down the hall behind them. Kaelen turned instantly, drawing his blade. The torchlight caught movement in the distance, shapes emerging from the shadows. The smell of ash and burning filled the air. Lysara's voice sharpened. "They found us." The boy pressed closer, and Kaelen shifted his stance, keeping the torch high while his sword pointed toward the threat.
Figures emerged, half-hidden by the darkness but unmistakably wrong. Their limbs were too long, their eyes glowing faintly, and their movements were jerky as if pulled by unseen strings. Kaelen stepped forward, his voice low and steady. "Through the gate," he told Lysara. "Now." She hesitated only a heartbeat before beginning the activation sequence, her hands moving quickly over the runes.
The creatures moved faster, their unnatural gait bringing them closer with every heartbeat. Kaelen braced himself, striking when the first one lunged. His blade cut through with a harsh screech, but the thing barely slowed, its head turning at an unnatural angle as it tried to grab him. He kicked it back and slashed again, this time severing its arm. The others kept coming, their eyes fixed on the boy.
"Kaelen!" Lysara's voice rang out. He risked a glance back to see the gate glowing fully now, the air within the arch swirling with light and shadow. "It's open!" she called. The boy darted toward it, but one of the creatures lunged from the side. Kaelen reacted without thought, cutting it down and shoving the boy forward. The child stumbled through the shimmering surface, disappearing from sight.
Two more of the things rushed him. Kaelen parried one, felt claws rake against his armor, and then drove his blade deep into its chest. The other was nearly on him when Lysara pulled him toward the gate. He resisted for a moment, unwilling to turn his back on the enemy, but she shoved him hard. "Go!"
He staggered through the arch, the light swallowing him whole. For a moment there was nothing but a cold, weightless sensation, as if he had been dropped into deep water. Then the world solidified again beneath his feet. He stood on unfamiliar ground, the air warmer and smelling faintly of rain. The boy was there, wide-eyed, staring at the strange landscape around them. Rolling hills stretched in every direction, dotted with unfamiliar trees whose leaves shimmered like silver in the light.
Lysara stumbled through a moment later, her breathing heavy. She glanced back at the gate, but the surface within the arch was already dimming. The shapes on the other side were becoming less distinct, fading as the magic waned. Then, with a sound like a sigh, the light vanished entirely, leaving only the stone frame. The silence that followed felt almost unnatural.
Kaelen lowered his sword, scanning the horizon. "Where are we?" he asked. Lysara looked around slowly, her expression unreadable. "Far from where we began," she said at last. "And perhaps far from where they can follow." The boy stayed close to Kaelen's side, his gaze darting between the two adults.
Kaelen took a deep breath, feeling the tension in his shoulders begin to ease. They had escaped, for now. But the way Lysara kept looking toward the horizon told him that this new place held dangers of its own. And somewhere, back beyond the broken gate, the things that had hunted them still waited, patient and relentless.
The air within the fortress felt colder than it should have, as if some unseen force had drained the warmth from the stones themselves. The echo of footsteps along the long corridor followed Lysara and her small band as they moved deeper into the inner keep. Every sound seemed sharper here. The scrape of boots on the stone, the faint metallic chime of a sword shifting against its scabbard, even the slow and steady breathing of the others all pressed upon her mind. The oppressive stillness was almost worse than battle, as if the fortress itself waited for something to break the tension.
Her hand never strayed far from the hilt of her blade. In the ten years since she had taken command of her own company, Lysara had faced dozens of enemies and weathered countless dangers, but the memory of what had happened to her home never faded. The enemy had been silent at first then swift and merciless, a shadow creeping across the land until it consumed everything. What had started as whispers of strange movements and disappearances had grown into a wave that had crushed cities and scattered armies. And now, after years of uneasy stability, those shadows had returned.
They passed beneath a series of arched ceilings that seemed to stretch impossibly high. Each bore carvings of figures in armor, their faces stern and unyielding. Lysara's eyes traced the weathered lines in the stone, the work of craftsmen long dead, and she could not shake the feeling that the carvings were watching them. Jareth, her second in command, kept glancing behind them, as though expecting something to emerge from the dark passage they had left behind.
"This place should not be empty," Jareth muttered, his voice low. "The watch posts are abandoned, the gates unguarded. Either the garrison fled, or something made them vanish."
"They would not flee," Lysara replied. Her voice was steady, though she shared his unease. "These walls were built to hold against an army ten times our size. If they are gone, then it was not by choice."
Their guide, an older man named Veric who claimed to have once served as a steward of the keep, motioned for them to halt. His lined face was pale in the dim light. "Beyond this hall lies the heart of the fortress. If there is any record of what happened here, it will be in the archives. But I warn you, not all doors in this place should be opened."
Lysara studied him for a moment, weighing his words. He had been useful, leading them past hidden traps and into secret corridors. Yet she could not ignore the way his eyes lingered on the shadows, as if remembering something that still haunted him. "We must search the archives," she decided. "If the truth is here, we will find it."
They moved forward again, the great doors at the end of the hall looming larger with every step. Each was reinforced with iron bands and carved with symbols that even Veric admitted he could not read. When they pushed them open, the hinges groaned, and a draft of stale air poured out, carrying the scent of dust and something else, faint and metallic. Inside, rows of shelves lined the chamber, stacked with scrolls and heavy tomes. The dim light from their torches flickered over parchment yellowed with age.
Lysara stepped inside first, scanning the room for movement. It was still, save for the slow drift of dust disturbed by their entry. She gestured for her companions to spread out and search. They worked quickly, each pulling down records and scanning for mention of the events that had driven the garrison away. It was Kaelen who found the first clue. He held up a thin ledger bound in cracked leather. "Captain," he called softly.
She crossed the room to him and took the ledger. The entries were written in a precise hand, detailing supplies, patrol rotations, and correspondence with neighboring fortresses. Then the writing changed. The lines grew uneven, the ink smeared, as if written in haste or fear. Words like breach, unnatural, and silence appeared again and again. One entry ended abruptly mid-sentence, the ink trailing into a dark blot.
Lysara closed the book. "Whatever happened here, it began within the walls."
Before Kaelen could reply, a faint noise reached them. It was like the rustle of cloth or the shifting of many feet, though there was no wind and no visible movement among the shelves. Jareth's hand was on his sword in an instant, and the others followed suit. Veric had gone pale, his gaze fixed on the doorway.
"They are here," he whispered.
The sound grew louder, joined by a low, rhythmic pulse that seemed to come from the very stones beneath their feet. Lysara felt the vibration through her boots, steady and unnatural. She motioned for the group to form a circle, torches raised high. The shadows between the shelves seemed to deepen, thickening until they became shapes that were almost human but stretched too tall, their movements unnervingly smooth.
One of the figures emerged fully into the torchlight, its face hidden beneath a mask of smooth black stone. It carried no weapon, yet its presence radiated the same threat as a drawn blade. More followed, silent and deliberate, surrounding them. Lysara tightened her grip on her sword, her mind already gauging distances, counting enemies.
There was no warning before the first strike. It moved with impossible speed, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Lysara's blade met it with a sharp ring, and the force of the impact jarred her arm. Jareth cut down another that tried to flank them, but the fallen body dissolved into a cloud of shadow that seeped back into the darkness. The fight was chaotic. Every blow seemed to scatter their attackers, only for the shapes to reform and press forward again.
Kaelen shouted a warning as one of the shadowed figures reached for Veric. The old man stumbled back, fear etched into his features, and Lysara lunged, driving her blade through the attacker's chest. It let out a soundless scream before melting away. The others hesitated at that, their movements slowing just enough for the group to force a path toward the door.
"Out!" Lysara ordered. They pushed through the doorway, slamming the heavy doors shut behind them. The pounding on the other side began almost immediately, each blow making the hinges shudder. They braced the doors with a fallen beam, knowing it would not hold forever.
Breathing hard, Lysara looked at each of her companions. "We know the fortress is lost," she said. "But we also know the enemy's form. That knowledge may be the only weapon we have left."
Jareth nodded grimly. "Then we carry it with us, and we make sure it reaches the council."
The pounding on the doors grew louder, and the sound of cracking wood filled the hall. Lysara sheathed her sword and turned toward the outer corridor. "Move," she said. "Before the shadows find another way in."
They left the archive hall behind, the sound of pursuit following them through the twisting corridors. Ahead, the faint glow of daylight marked the way to the outer gate. Freedom lay beyond it, but so did the long road to war.