The tavern, known locally as The Broken Tusk, smelled of spilled ale, unwashed wool, and the bitter tang of cheap tobacco. It was the heart of Oakhaven, a place where adventurers came to forget the horrors of the Forest of Monsters or to celebrate surviving them.
Kein pushed through the heavy oak doors, his small frame nearly knocked over by a departing mercenary. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on a corner booth shrouded in shadow. There sat Soren.
In his past life, Kein had only seen Soren as a slumped corpse in the mud. Now, he saw the man in his "prime"—though that was a generous term. Soren's left sleeve was tucked into his belt, empty. His right hand gripped a tankard with white-knuckled intensity. His beard was matted, and his eyes were bloodshot, staring at the table as if it held the secrets of his ruined career.
Kein took a deep breath. He needed this man. Soren was a former candidate for the 10 Swords of the Continent, a master of the blade. Even one-armed and drunk, he was the most dangerous thing in this village.
Kein hopped onto the bench opposite him, putting on his best "innocent village boy" face.
"Mister! You look like a real hero!" Kein chirped, widening his eyes and tilting his head. He leaned into the "Child Cuteness Technique," hoping the simple charm of a commoner lad would disarm the veteran. "Could you tell me a story? My papa says you've seen the whole world!"
Soren didn't even look up. He just let out a low, gravelly growl. "Go away, brat. The only world I've seen is the bottom of this mug. It's cleaner than the one outside."
Kein blinked, his smile faltering. Tougher than I thought. He tried again, reaching for the tankard. "But mister—"
Soren's right hand moved like a viper, slamming the tankard down and catching Kein's wrist in a grip of cold iron. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's despite the alcohol, bored into Kein's.
"You're too quiet, kid," Soren hissed, his voice dangerously sober. "Your feet don't make noise when you walk. You're looking at my belt, measuring my reach. Who sent you? A debt collector? The Iron-Skalds?"
Kein felt a cold sweat. He had forgotten that even a broken sword is still sharp. He couldn't play the child anymore; it was making Soren suspicious. He had to pivot to the only thing that would move a man like this: a threat he couldn't ignore.
Kein lowered his voice, dropping the act. "I wasn't sent by anyone. But I saw something. Deep in the North Pass, near the Forbidden Grotto."
Soren snorted, releasing Kein's wrist. "Kids shouldn't play in the Grotto. Monsters eat kids like you for breakfast."
"There were no monsters," Kein said firmly. That caught Soren's attention. "That's the problem. It was too quiet. I found a cave... one I've never seen before. It felt cold. Not winter cold—death cold. And on the stone at the entrance, there was a mark."
Kein took a piece of charcoal from the hearth nearby and drew a symbol on the damp wooden table. It was a Crescent Red Moon, tilted at an unnatural angle.
Soren's face went pale. The alcohol seemed to evaporate from his system in an instant. That symbol was an ancient omen, a mark of the demonic vanguard. In the legends of the old wars, the Red Moon appeared where the veil between worlds was thin.
"It was faint," Kein whispered. "I had to squint to see it. It looked like the air was... shimmering. Like a veil was draped over the mountain."
Soren grabbed Kein by the collar, pulling him close. "If you're lying to me, boy, I'll personally throw you into the forest. You're sure? A red crescent?"
"I'm sure," Kein said, holding the veteran's gaze. "I'm scared, mister. It felt like something was breathing inside that cave. Something that hates us."
Soren stared at him for a long moment, searching for the lie. Finally, he shoved Kein away and stood up, reaching for the battered sword leaning against the wall. He didn't say a word. He simply walked out into the freezing Varkas night.
The wind howled through the pines like a dying animal. Soren moved through the underbrush with the practiced silence of a predator, despite his missing arm. The alcohol was a dull throb in his temples, but the image of that red crescent kept him moving.
The boy is either a genius or a curse, Soren thought. To see a demonic seal with the naked eye... he's either touched by the Gods or lying through his teeth.
He reached the Forbidden Grotto. At first glance, it was just a wall of solid granite and frozen moss. To any regular scout, there was nothing there.
Soren closed his eyes and focused. He felt a jagged, rotting rhythm in the air. He opened his eyes and pushed his vision to the limit.
There it was.
The air shimmered like heat rising from a summer road. A massive, invisible barrier was draped over the mountain face. Beneath the veil, a dark, jagged maw of a cave was visible, and etched into the keystone was the faint, pulsating Red Crescent Moon.
"Demons," Soren spat, the word tasting like ash. "The kid was right. This isn't a monster migration. It's an incursion."
He didn't dare approach. A barrier of this magnitude meant a High-Level Gate. If he tripped the alarm now, Oakhaven would be leveled before dawn. He backed away slowly, his heart hammering. He needed the Crown. He needed the Iron-Skalds.
Kein stood by the communal well, his breath hitching in his chest. For three days, he had lived in a state of agonizing tension, watching the forest and waiting for the screams to start. Every time Marcus or Elara left the house, he felt a knot of terror.
Then, he heard it.
The heavy, rhythmic beat of armored hooves.
From the southern pass, a forest of spears appeared. At the front flew the banner of the House of Iron-Skald—a black iron gauntlet crushing a dragon's skull. These weren't just scouts. This was the Elite Vanguard of Varkas, a troop of heavy cavalry and battle-hardened mages.
Soren stood at the village gate, no longer the drunkard from the tavern. He was wearing a suit of worn but polished leather armor, his sword strapped firmly to his hip. He looked like a soldier again.
Leading the troop was a mountain of a man in dark plate armor: Commander Kaelen Iron-Skald, a distant cousin to the Royal Family.
"Soren," the Commander boomed, dismounting. "Your letter was... alarming. A demonic seal in the North? Here?"
"See for yourself, Commander," Soren said, his voice flat. "The boy I mentioned—the one who found it—is over there."
Kaelen glanced at Kein. The young boy looked small and fragile against the backdrop of a hundred armored killers. The Commander gave a stiff nod. "If the lad's eyes are as sharp as you say, he's saved us a massacre. Men! Secure the perimeter! Mages, I want a suppression ward around this village immediately!"
Kein watched as the soldiers began to move. They set up barricades, sharpened stakes, and began to chant protective spells that hummed with a low, blue light.
Kein leaned against the well, his legs finally giving way. He slid to the ground, a massive weight lifting off his shoulders. In his past life, by this hour, the fires would have already started. He could hear Elara in the kitchen of their hut, humming a tune as she prepared dinner, safe and oblivious.
I did it, Kein thought, his eyes stinging with tears of relief. They're here. The village won't burn.
But as he looked toward the Forest of Monsters, a small, nagging doubt remained. He looked at his shadow. It remained silent, but the golden spark the Goddess had left behind thrummed with a sudden, sharp warning.
Don't be relieved yet, Kein, he told himself. The war hasn't even begun.