Part - 1
Night smothered the land in silence, broken only by the screeches of bats wheeling through the air. Clouds smothered the moon, and below them rose a black spired fortress, a twisted thing of stone and shadow, more mausoleum than castle, its windows like hollow eyes staring into the void.
Inside its halls, the torches burned sickly green, and the air reeked of iron and incense. Chains rattled faintly.
A little girl hung suspended, wrists bound by iron shackles, her bare feet dangling above a ritual circle carved deep into the stone floor. A pentagram of crimson lines spread below her, waiting, hungry.
She whimpered softly, her small voice trembling through the chamber.
"P-please… I just want to go home. I… I lost my way, and I woke up here. Aunty… can you help me?"
The word aunty echoed.
A figure bent over a line of unlit black candles paused. Slowly, she turned.
The Blood Witch Ysolde Kaerrin also known as The Dream-Eater. Her skin was pale as bone, a dark mole beneath her lip only sharpening the cruelty of her crimson gaze. Two curled horns crowned her head, and when she smiled, faintly visible fangs pressed against her lips. She held a slender ritual knife in one hand, a needle in the other, her long black gown whispering like spilled ink across the stone.
Her laughter was a low, broken thing.
"You didn't get lost, little one. Your parents dropped you here themselves."
The girl's eyes widened. She shook her head, tears welling.
"No! Mama would never… she promised me sweet bread tomorrow. She promised…"
Ysolde's grin widened, cruel delight shining in her eyes.
"Sweet bread? Hah. Your parents sold you, child. A debt paid in blood. Your blood."
The girl's small cry cracked into sobbing, her body trembling in the chains. She tried to be brave, but the terror was too much.
Ysolde stepped closer, dragging the knife along the girl's leg. A thin red line opened, spilling warmth. The witch's laughter rang loud in the chamber, echoing like a hymn to madness.
The child screamed.
"Please, aunt… stop! Please… it hurts!"
Her pleas only fueled Ysolde's pleasure. The blood streamed down, dripping into the carved grooves of the circle. The lines flared, pulsing as if alive, feeding their mistress. Ysolde inhaled deeply, eyes half-lidded in ecstasy.
Ysolde's eyes gleamed. She raised the needle she had been holding and pressed its tip against the girl's trembling face. The child's terrified gaze darted left and right.
"Eyes," Ysolde whispered, almost lovingly. "So pretty. But you don't need them where you're going."
Before the girl could beg again, Ysolde drove the needle into her eye.
The scream that tore from the child's throat was raw, ragged, animal. Blood welled instantly, running down her cheeks in thick streams, staining her face crimson. She thrashed in the chains, her feet kicking helplessly.
Ysolde leaned in close, inhaling the scent of fear, then repeated the cruelty with the other eye. Another scream. Another fountain of blood. The girl's world went dark forever, her sobs breaking into pitiful whimpers as the witch laughed in delight.
The blood dripped steadily, feeding the lines of the circle below. The symbols pulsed brighter, swelling with power.
Then, almost lazily, she pressed the blade to the girl's throat and drew it across. Not deep enough to sever, just enough to silence. The sound of choking filled the room, the girl's breath breaking into desperate gasps as she drowned on her own blood. Tears carved tracks down her cheeks, her eyes wide with terror… and then the light inside them guttered out.
Her body stilled. Only the slow drip of her lifeblood filled the ritual circle, its glow burning brighter.
Ysolde let the knife fall with a clatter onto the stone and walked to her throne-like chair of black steel and bone. She reclined into it, satisfaction curling across her lips.
And then, a shiver. A pulse not her own.
Her crimson eyes widened. Her body turned cold. She knew.
The Blood Confinement, the curse she had woven on Drosvain Marr by slaughtering five hundred souls, was gone. Broken in an instant. Not weakened, not unraveling. Shattered. Even if another sorcerer had tried, it should have taken a year of constant labor to scratch its edges. And she would have felt it.
But now it was gone.
Her smile faltered. For the first time in years, fear slid into her bones.
She snapped her fingers. From the shadowed doorway, a cloaked cultist of the The Blood Crucible hurried forward, bowing low.
"You will find him," Ysolde commanded, her voice shaking the walls. "Drosvain Marr, The Weaponmaster. Bring me word of his steps, no matter the cost. Do not fail me."
The cultist bowed deeper, then vanished into the dark corridors.
Ysolde sat in silence, her long nails digging into the arms of her throne. The girl's lifeless body still swung gently above the glowing pentagram. But Ysolde did not look at it anymore.
For the first time in centuries, her laughter was gone.
Part - 2
Half the journey passed, and the group of Orren, Rahim, Nadir, Selvara, Velra, and last but not least, Lethan, pressed onward toward their next destination.
On the road, Lethan, dragging his feet a little, finally spoke:
"Sir Orren… why didn't Sir Weaponmaster even tell me goodbye? Did he forgot about me?"
Orren barked out a laugh. "Boy, sometimes we forget you're even here! Hah! It's like you don't exist."
The laughter stung. Lethan lowered his head. "Really… then I should talk more, maybe hold a conversation. That way I won't be so easily forgotten… Miss Velra, what do you think?"
Velra glanced at him, her brow furrowed with concentration. "That would certainly help, but…" she trailed off, clearly distracted.
Rahim, arms crossed, smirked. "You're still trying to use Rha while walking, aren't you?"
Velra turned, surprised. "You noticed? Yes… I was circulating my Rha to see what happens."
"Stop it now," Rahim ordered. "Do it later, when you're not tripping over your own feet."
Velra, ignoring his tone, shot back, "Then tell me, Rahim, what type of Rha do you use?"
Rahim puffed up with pride. "Well, it's about time you asked! I use Rha of..."
"Leave it, don't start showing off again," Velra cut him off.
"W-what?!" Rahim's jaw dropped. "You didn't even let me... fine, listen carefully then. I use Rha of Fury."
"Fury?" Velra tilted her head. "And what does that entail?"
"In short?" Rahim grinned. "It makes me stronger in combat. The more rage, the more desperation… the greater the strength."
Velra nodded thoughtfully. "So it's best for close combat."
"Good catch," Orren said from the front of the group. "But Fury requires iron control. One slip, and you're more danger to yourself than your enemy."
They continued on until the sun began to sink. When they stopped to rest, Selvara turned to Lethan.
"You never told us where we're headed next. Where exactly are we going?"
Lethan perked up. "Oh! To the Republic of Velmora. It's nearby."
Nadir hummed. "Then it will be quite a sum we'll receive. Velmora always pays in gold." His eyes glittered at the thought of coin.
By nightfall, the group entered Velmora, a republic bathed in lantern-light, its wide avenues bustling with vendors, guards, and banners. But one thing stood out: guards were posted at every corner, far more than usual.
Rahim frowned. "Why so many guards?"
Nadir answered with a knowing look. "Because Velmora is in the midst of a power struggle. Multiple factions are vying for dominance, but only two truly matter: the House of Araveth, the current ruling faction, and the rising Iron League. While they tear at each other, the Republic keeps outsiders in the dark. To the world, they appear united, but within… it's chaos."
Velra looked troubled. "I never knew things were this bad."
"That's because they don't let anyone know," Nadir said firmly. "It would risk foreign intervention. Still, Velmora's strength has always been their unity against outside threats. That's what keeps them stable."
Rahim raised a brow. "You know a lot about Velmora, old man."
Orren smirked. "That's because Nadir's wife is from Velmora, you bastard. Didn't even know that, did you?"
"W-what?! You're married?!" Rahim's eyes went wide.
Ignoring him, Lethan asked, "Should we stay the night, then go to the government in the morning?"
Orren nodded. "Aye. There are things I've missed while rotting in Zahakar. Tonight… I intend to enjoy myself."
Everyone split off to their own errands. Orren and Nadir went together—though it was clear Nadir's job was to keep Orren from draining their purses. Rahim went straight to the inn to sleep. Velra and Selvara, dragging poor Lethan as their pack mule, headed to the markets to buy supplies. They all agreed to meet later at The Sleeping Pig Inn.
As expected, Orren made straight for the brothel he had once haunted in his adventuring days: The Velvet Lantern. It was a renowned establishment, a den where adventurers, mercenaries, and nobles mingled freely. Deals were struck, lies traded, and fortunes lost behind those silken curtains.
But just as Orren pushed through the doors, two guards blocked his path.
"Stop. Identification," one barked.
Before Orren could speak, a short, round man waddled over, his face red with fury. "Idiots! Do you not recognize this man? This is Warden Orren Zahad!" He smacked one guard on the head. "Apologize at once!"
The round man bowed hastily. "Forgive us, Warden, these are new recruits."
Orren waved a dismissive hand. "Forget it." He turned, grinning at his companion. "This is my advisor, Nadir Sulehn."
The brothel keeper gave a courtesy bow, and Nadir returned it stiffly.
Soon enough, Orren was swallowed by smoke, laughter, and soft hands, surrounded by women pouring him drinks and leaning close with painted smiles. Nadir sat nearby, looking like a man suffering divine punishment.
"Another drink!" Orren shouted, his arms spread wide. "Velvet Lantern, I missed you!"
A courtesan leaned against him, giggling. "And we missed you, Warden. Where have you been hiding all this time?"
"Locked away in Zahakar, like a jewel in a box," Orren said smoothly, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "But tonight, I'm free."
Nadir pinched the bridge of his nose. "Orren, for the love of all that's sane—control yourself. We came here with coin, not a kingdom's treasury."
"Bah!" Orren laughed, tossing a coin into the air. A girl caught it mid-spin and kissed his cheek. "Don't worry, Nadir. I'll only spend half."
"Half of what? Half of all we own?" Nadir snapped.
"Half of my patience, old friend," Orren quipped, raising his cup again as the women laughed and the music swelled.
Part - 3
On the other side of Velmora, the night was no quieter. Selvara and Velra moved through the bustling lantern-lit streets with Lethan trudging behind, his back bent beneath mountains of bags.
"Do you really need another dress?" Lethan groaned as Selvara held up a flowing crimson gown.
"Yes," she said flatly, eyes sparkling as though she hadn't heard him at all. "And don't complain, we are helping you too, aren't we."
Velra shook her head with a faint smirk, already trading coins for alchemical vials and charms. "Keep up, Lethan. Consider this training so that you can become strong too."
Lethan muttered under his breath but obeyed, his arms quivering beneath the weight.
As they made their way through the winding lanes, Velra's gaze caught on a narrow, weathered shop wedged between a tavern and a spice merchant. The sign was nearly faded from time, but the faint outline of crossed blades still remained. Something about it tugged at her instincts.
"Take all this back to the inn," Velra ordered, dropping the pile of purchases into Lethan's already trembling hands. "Selvara and I will have a quick look here."
Lethan staggered backward, nearly toppling, but managed a strained nod before limping off.
The two women stepped into the shop. From the outside, it looked forgotten. Inside, it was a different world. Racks upon racks of weapons gleamed in perfect condition, steel so polished it reflected the lantern-light like mirrors, blades with balanced weight, hilts wrapped with meticulous care. Each piece radiated craftsmanship that whispered of mastery.
Velra drifted toward the wall of rapiers, fingertips brushing hilts that seemed alive with history. Selvara, meanwhile, found herself drawn to the rows of staffs inlaid with silver runes.
Then they heard it, clang, clang, clang, the unmistakable rhythm of hammer striking anvil from somewhere deeper inside.
"Is anyone here?" Velra called.
A moment later, a stocky figure emerged. A dwarf, sweat-streaked and broad-shouldered with black braided hair, carried a greatsword in his arms. And not just any sword.
The weapon seemed to glow with its own radiance. The blade was golden, etched with divine markings, its surface so brilliant it seemed untouchable by mortal hands. Even the air around it seemed to hum faintly.
But what froze Velra's breath was the pommel.
Her eyes widened, her heart skipping. She knew that sigil, burned into her memory like fire.
On the sword's pommel was the unmistakable mark of The Sunbrand.
End of Chapter.