The sun pressed down like a smelter's fire, heat searing Ithan's skin until sweat stung his eyes and traced bitter lines across his face. His arms trembled, but the rhythm of his strikes never faltered. He drove his spear out, pulled it back, drove it again—over and over, just as the motion had been etched into his bones since childhood.
He shoved forward, boots grinding into the packed earth, each step dragging but steady. The rough stick in his grip jolted with every thrust, its splintered edge far from the balance of a true spear. Still, he treated it as if it were steel.
The hut's yard was little more than a patch of dirt, hemmed in by a single tall tree whose branches cast a wavering screen of shade. Even so, the sun slipped through in shafts that burned across Ithan's shoulders as he moved. His fingers ached from clutching the crude weapon, knuckles whitening with each thrust. Slash, thrust, recover. Again. Again.
At last his legs gave, and he collapsed against the trunk, the bark rough against his back. Sweat pattered onto the earth, darkening it in irregular spots. His chest rose and fell like bellows, ashen gray hair clinging damp to his face. He brushed the strands aside, amber eyes glinting through the weariness, still sharp, still unwilling to yield.
Fourteen summers carved his frame lean and wiry, though the village would count him a man before long. Fifteen was the age of mercenaries, the age of contracts and coin. He spat in the dirt at the thought. Let the elders draw their lines—he was ready now. Ready, if only they'd let him choose for himself.
Ithan pushed himself upright, the stiffness in his limbs dragging at his every step as he slipped through the backdoor of the hut. Inside, the air was stale and heavy, walls patched with mismatched boards, the roof sagging just enough to groan whenever the wind pressed against it. He leaned the makeshift spear into a corner—its wood scarred and splintered from hours of abuse—and crossed to the crude excuse of a kitchen.
A single clay cup sat on the wobbly table. He took it in hand and moved to the row of buckets against the wall. The water inside them shimmered faintly in the dim light, but the bottoms showed bare wood, the level nearly gone. His jaw tightened. Another trip to the well, then. He dipped the cup, scooped what little remained, and downed it in one hard swallow. The water was lukewarm, carrying a hint of grit, but it slid down his parched throat like salvation. Setting the cup aside, he reached for one of the empty buckets, the wood rough against his palm.
Stepping outside again, Ithan started down the packed dirt road. Around him, the village hummed with late-afternoon life—traders hawking vegetables, women hanging clothes, children darting between huts. But the moment eyes found him, the noise changed. Whispers snaked from mouth to mouth, carrying words he didn't bother to catch. A man shifted his cart aside to avoid him. Mothers drew their little ones close, some even shooing them indoors. A pair of boys, bold enough to glance at him, broke into nervous laughter and bolted.
Ithan kept walking, face carved into stone, the bucket swinging loosely at his side. Fourteen years had taught him to let the stares wash over him like rain. Their disdain was as much a part of the village as the mud underfoot.
The well came into view, its stone mouth ringed by weather-worn timbers and a winch that creaked whenever the rope was drawn. The line had only begun to form, a scattered cluster of villagers waiting with their buckets in hand. Good. He had timed it right, as always. But as he approached, shoulders stiffening against the sun's glare, he caught the shift in their bodies—the murmurs rising, heads turning away, eyes dropping to the ground. A woman clutched her bucket tighter and stepped back. A boy whispered something to his father, who shushed him and tugged him close.
Ithan stopped a few paces short of the well, the air between him and the others heavy with unspoken words. He held back from the cluster of villagers, letting the line crawl forward. The murmur of buckets scraping stone, ropes creaking on the winch, and low voices carried in the heat. When at last his turn came, he stepped into the open space before the well.
Two men stood by it as always—Fred and Basil. Basil leaned on his spear, the faint glint of his mercenary band's insignia catching the light where it was stitched to his leathers. He watched the crowd with the weary sharpness of someone used to drawing blood when disputes rose. Beside him, Fred, broad-shouldered and self-important, kept his hands on the rope as though the well itself answered only to him.
The moment Fred spotted Ithan, his mouth twisted. "Back again, Curseblood." The word slithered into the air like rot, and a few villagers chuckled under their breath.
Basil shifted, straightening from his lean. His voice was flat, carrying no warmth but no malice either. "Let him take his water."
Ithan lowered his bucket to the ground. His face betrayed nothing—no anger, no shame. He stared at the rim of the well as though Fred weren't there.
The winch groaned as Fred yanked the rope, hauling the bucket up with exaggerated effort. He tipped the water into Ithan's vessel, letting it splash shallow. Only half full. He spat at Ithan's boots. "That's it, Curseblood."
Still silent, Ithan bent, lifted the handle, and straightened. His grip whitened on the wood, but his expression didn't shift. He turned and walked back through the muttering crowd.
For a moment, the whispers swelled—sharper now, daring to be crueler in the safety of numbers. But his silence pressed heavier than their words. Faces turned quickly aside as he passed. Children who had laughed first hid behind their mothers. Even the boldest smirks faltered when his amber eyes slid past them, cool and unbroken.
By the time he left the well behind, the chatter had dwindled to nothing but Basil's low grunt and the creak of the winch. The villagers stared after him, more uneasy than triumphant, as though the boy's refusal to break had stolen something from their jeers.
By the time Ithan lugged the bucket back to his hut and set it in its place, the weight in his arms had settled into a dull ache. He left without resting, slipping through the village until the sound of rough laughter and clattering mugs reached him.
The mercenary hall stood squat and weather-beaten at the edge of Ravenstone, its timber walls scarred with old blade marks and patched where fists had gone through in drunken brawls. Smoke leaked from a crooked chimney, carrying the tang of roasted meat mixed with the sharper bite of cheap spirits.
Inside, the air was thick—torchlight bleeding against a haze of pipe smoke, the smell of sweat and iron never quite gone from the floorboards. Tables overflowed with scarred men and hard-eyed women, cards slapped down in heated games, dice rattling across the wood. A merc cursed when he lost a hand; another threw his head back in laughter that shook the rafters.
These were not good people. Ithan knew it—their hands stained with coin bought in blood, their morals as frayed as the banners that hung on the walls. And yet, here, no one turned their face from him. No one whispered "Curseblood" behind his back. A few nodded as he passed, some with a grunt of recognition, others too lost in their drink to care who he was.
For once, Ithan's shoulders loosened. The constant weight of scorn that clung to him in the streets eased here, drowned by the rowdy noise of men and women who lived without shame. In this hall, amid crooked laughter and the smell of steel, he wasn't the boy with ash-colored hair. He was just Ithan. A mug slammed down on the table nearest him, sloshing froth onto the boards.
"Ithan, you little shade," a voice boomed. Garrick, a scarred veteran with a nose broken more times than it was straight, leaned back in his chair. His leather jerkin was stained with grease and smoke, a pair of short axes crossed at his hip. "Thought I smelled smoke—must've been your hair burning in the sun."
A few nearby mercs barked laughter. Ithan only smirked, sliding into an empty chair. "If it were smoke, old man, you'd have fainted before I walked through the door."
That drew another round of laughter, this time at Garrick's expense. The older man's grin widened, showing gaps where teeth had been lost. He raised his mug in salute. "You've got a sharper tongue than blade, boy. Careful where you swing it."
From behind the counter, Marta—the hall's keeper, stocky and sharp-eyed—threw a rag at Garrick's head. "Leave the boy alone, Garrick, before he cuts that tongue of yours right out." She turned to Ithan with a rare softness in her voice. "Water, bread, or meat?"
"Bread's fine," Ithan said.
"Meat it is," Marta replied, already heading back to the kitchen.
A younger merc, no older than twenty and still nursing a half-healed cut across his cheek, leaned forward. "You practicing with that stick again? We'll get you steel one day, Ithan. Then you'll stop looking like you're about to chase chickens with it."
The table roared. Ithan didn't flinch at the jab. Instead, he met the young man's eyes, amber glinting beneath the smoke. "When I do, you'll be the first I test it on."
"Ha! Hear that?" Garrick slapped the table hard enough to rattle mugs. "The Curseblood's got fire. Best not cross him, or we'll be burying you next to the last loudmouth who mocked him."
The laughter was rough, the words harsher still—but in their tone was no venom, no whispered curse of his birth. For the first time all day, Ithan felt the corners of his mouth tug upward in something real.
Here, among killers and cutthroats, he belonged. Martha arrived with a steaming plate balanced on one arm and a dented mug in her hand. She slid them onto the table in front of Ithan. The broth was thick and brown, greasy meat bobbing in it, steam carrying a bite of spice that made his nose tingle. For an instant, the smell tugged him backward—his mother ladling stew from the hearth, her laugh mingling with Martha's sharp bark at some drunk mercenary. He blinked, letting the memory fade with the rising steam.
"Eat before it cools," Martha said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze before bustling away.
"Thank you, Martha." His voice was low, almost swallowed by the din of the hall. He picked up the battered spoon, dipped into the broth, and let the heat burn across his tongue.
The table's conversation pulled at his ears—Garrick's gravel voice and Lason's higher, restless one.
"…telling you, they've been sighted closer," Lason said, jabbing a finger at the wood for emphasis. "Another village gone. Smoke in the trees, just two days north."
Garrick grunted, unconcerned as he drained his mug. "And?"
"It's the Dionians," Lason pressed, his cheek scar pulling tight with the scowl. "Savage bastards are pushing out of their forest again."
Ithan slowed his chewing, listening. The Dionians. Raiders. He had heard the whispers too. His spoon scraped the bottom of the plate before he spoke.
"That doesn't make sense."
Lason's head snapped toward him. "What doesn't make sense, brat?" The word dripped with irritation—Lason never liked being corrected, especially not by Ithan.
Ithan set his spoon down carefully. "The Dionians raid by season. Fall, to stockpile before the winter solstice. Then winter itself? They forbid it. Sacred law." His amber eyes flicked up, calm, steady. "It's not time yet."
For a beat, silence hung between them, broken only by the clatter of dice at another table.
Then Garrick barked a laugh, slamming his mug down hard enough to slosh ale over his hand. "The brat's right, Lason. Dionians don't budge from their rituals. Damn near the only thing reliable about 'em." He leaned back in his chair, grinning at Ithan. "Sharp ears, sharper head. You'll live longer than most of us if you keep watching like that."
Lason muttered something under his breath and took a swig from his cup, refusing to meet Ithan's eyes.
Ithan just picked his spoon back up, the corner of his mouth twitching, though whether it was pride or bitterness even he couldn't say.
Garrick's grin faded as he wiped the spilled ale from his hand. "Still, if they're moving early…" His brow furrowed, scar tissue tugging at the skin above his eye. "Something's stirring them."
"Or they've finally lost their minds," Lason muttered, though the edge in his voice betrayed unease. He rolled the dice in his palm without throwing them, gaze fixed on the table. "Maybe the savages don't care about their rituals anymore."
Ithan shook his head slightly. "They care. Too much. Rituals are the spine of their tribes. For them to break it…" He let the thought trail, spoon hovering over the broth. "It means someone—or something—pushed them."
Garrick leaned forward, lowering his voice as though the smoke-hung rafters might be listening. "Rumor says a new warlord is rising in the Dionian forests. One who doesn't kneel to the old rites. If that's true, the Iron Marches are about to bleed."
The younger merc snorted, but it was thin. "Rumors. Always rumors."
"Rumors keep you alive," Garrick said, his tone flat, final. He turned his gaze back to Ithan, studying him with a half-smile. "And the brat here's got sharper instincts than most. Mark my words, boy—if the Dionians are breaking tradition, Ravenstone won't stay quiet for long."
The words clung to Ithan as he finished his meal. Around him, the hall roared with laughter and drunken boasts, but in his ears, Garrick's warning lingered. The Dionians were stirring, and with them, something larger than raiding smoke and steel.
When the last of his meal was gone, Ithan lingered in the mercenary hall. He played a few rounds of dice with Lason, winning more often than the older boy liked, and bore the muttered curses with a faint, private satisfaction. Garrick, half-drunk but still sharp-eyed, later dragged him outside and showed him how to adjust his stance with a spear, kicking at Ithan's heels until he found balance. Between the games and lessons, Martha pressed him into carrying plates or fetching barrels from the cellar, cuffing him on the ear when he lagged.
By the time the sun dipped, the hall's windows glowed with orange firelight, and Ravenstone's streets had taken on their nighttime pulse. Lanterns swayed on crooked posts, their smoke mixing with the ever-present scent of pine from the bordering forest. The dirt roads were narrow and uneven, marked by cart ruts that turned into mud with the first hint of rain.
Ravenstone was no grand settlement—just a frontier village pressed up against the Iron Marches, the empire's crumbling eastern edge. The huts leaned close together, patched with thatch and clay, the newer ones built around the old timber bones of the first settlers. Chickens scattered from underfoot, and the occasional goat bleated from a pen too small to hold it.
At the center of the village loomed the well, where disputes were settled as often as thirst. The marketplace spread around it in a ragged circle: stalls of dried meat, coarse cloth, and dull steel. During the day, the place was alive with bargaining, but by night it emptied quickly, leaving only the faint stink of fish and the distant growl of mercenaries spilling from their hall.
Beyond the market rose the chieftain's longhouse, the tallest structure in Ravenstone. Its beams were dark with age, and a carved raven sat perched on its gable, wings spread wide. The villagers looked to it with a mix of pride and resentment—the chief's word still carried weight, but less than it once had.
As Ithan walked, villagers pulled their doors shut, the glow of hearths flickering behind thin shutters. Some watched him pass, eyes glinting in the lantern light before turning quickly away. Their whispers carried, though he ignored them as always. He kept his gaze forward, his hands swinging lightly by his side, his shadow stretching long across the uneven road.
This was Ravenstone—neither prosperous nor dying, perched uneasily between the order of the Imperium Arkanis and the chaos of the Dionian forests. To Ithan, it was both prison and home, a place that hated him by daylight and yet cradled him in the arms of the mercenary hall by night.
Ithan moved down the lantern-lit road; the glow of the mercenary hall faded behind him, replaced by the quieter pulse of Ravenstone at night. Doors thudded closed one by one, the smell of woodsmoke thickening as families tucked themselves inside.
He passed the market square, now a ghost of itself. The stalls stood empty, their canvas covers fluttering in the night wind. Earlier, they had brimmed with haggling—salted fish from the river, coarse furs from hunters, dull iron tools beaten out by the village smith. Now, only the ravens lingered, pecking at scraps and flapping noisily when Ithan strode too close. He remembered his mother standing at one of those stalls, bartering with a smile the villagers never gave him. The memory tightened in his chest, but he walked on.
The well stood at the heart of the square, its stones worn smooth by countless hands. By night, it was quiet, but Ithan could almost hear the day's jeers echoing against its rim. He kept his eyes forward, refusing to let the weight of it drag at him.
Ahead loomed the longhouse, its timber frame hunched like an old soldier who had weathered too many wars. A carved raven spread its wings along the gable, a symbol of the chief's authority—or what little remained of it. The real power in Ravenstone lay behind him, in the mercenary hall with its steel and coin. Still, the longhouse cast a shadow over the square, a reminder that once this village had belonged to itself.
The further Ithan walked, the rougher the streets became. The newer huts gave way to the oldest, patched with clay and moss, their roofs sagging low as if the years pressed down on them. Chickens darted across his path, clucking indignantly, and a dog barked from a pen, teeth flashing in the lamplight.
Finally, the road thinned into a narrow track at the edge of the settlement, where the huts stood small and mean. His hut waited there, half-swallowed by weeds, its tree rising over it like a crooked guardian. The forest pressed close behind, black and vast, its treeline always whispering with secrets.
Ravenstone was not much—half village, half fortress, straddling the border of empire and wilderness. But for Ithan, it was the only world he had ever known. A place that spat his name by day and smothered him in silence by night.
At the edge of the village, Ithan's hut crouched in the dark, its crooked tree swaying gently in the wind. He was nearly to the door when he heard the scuff of feet behind him.
"There he is."
Ithan turned just as three boys slipped from the shadows, fanning out to block his path. He recognized them—sons of farmers and smiths, all older, stronger, carrying the same sneers they'd worn since childhood.
"Curseblood thinks he's a merc now," the tallest jeered, spitting in the dirt. "Drinks with killers, eats their scraps, and forgets what he is."
Ithan said nothing, his amber eyes fixed on the one in front. That silence only enraged them. The first boy lunged, shoulder slamming into Ithan's chest. He staggered but didn't fall, driving his elbow into the boy's ribs. The others surged in—fists, knees, curses filling the narrow lane. A blow split his lip, another rattled his jaw. He swung back, catching one across the cheek, but there were too many.
The dirt scraped his palms as he hit the ground. Boots hammered into his sides, his legs, his back. He rolled, blocking one kick with his arm, and lashed out, catching another boy's ankle and yanking him down. The two crashed together in a tangle of fists before another heel drove into Ithan's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.
"Hold him!" the tall one barked. They pinned Ithan's shoulders, his cheek pressed into the grit. His chest heaved, bruised and burning, but his eyes still blazed with cold defiance.
The tall boy crouched, drawing his fist back with a grin. "Let's see if ash-blooded brats bleed the same as the rest of us."
The punch never landed.
A sharp whistle split the night. An instant later, an arrow punched clean through the boy's temple. His grin froze, eyes going glassy before his body toppled sideways, dead weight slamming into the dirt beside Ithan.
The other two shrieked, scrambling back. One slipped in panic, the other bolted. Somewhere beyond the huts, past the treeline, the bowstring thrummed again.
Ithan rolled onto his back, chest heaving, blood and sweat stinging his eyes. His gaze flicked toward the dark forest, unblinking, as the village night fell into silence broken only by the thud of the corpse beside him.