The dawn rose clear and sharp, cutting away the mist that clung to the grasslands. Ruvan rode between Kellan and Elion, the three of them moving west beneath a sky so blue it hurt his eyes. Each hoofbeat felt like a hammer strike against his weary bones.
They had not spoken much since dawn. Kellan rode ahead, scanning the horizon for threats. Elion remained silent beside Ruvan, lost in thought.
Finally, Ruvan spoke.
"Where is Iron Hold, exactly?"
Elion blinked out of his reverie. "A fortress city at the edge of the western highlands. Built within the cliff face itself. It was once a dwarven stronghold before humans took it centuries ago."
"Why are we going there?"
Elion's golden gaze flicked to him. "Because it houses the greatest archives left in this land. If anyone knows what Solrend truly is… it will be the scholars of Iron Hold."
Ahead, Kellan snorted without turning around. "Assuming they don't slit our throats for carrying a cursed blade."
Ruvan frowned. "They'd kill us for that?"
Kellan shrugged, glancing back with his roguish grin. "Depends which Lord Marshal is ruling now. Last I heard, Iron Hold's laws on cursed artefacts were… flexible."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning if it's dangerous but profitable, they'll keep it under guard and use it. If it's dangerous and useless, they'll execute the bearer to keep the city safe."
Ruvan felt a cold knot form in his gut.
By midday, they passed through a village burned to blackened timbers. Smoke still rose from collapsed huts. Corpses lay twisted in the dirt streets, faces contorted in final agony. Crows circled overhead, their caws harsh in the silent ruin.
Ruvan dismounted and walked among the dead. An old woman slumped against a stone well, her thin arms wrapped around a baby who would never wake.
Elion murmured a prayer under his breath. Kellan checked the bodies for signs of who had done this.
"No clan markings," he said grimly. "But their wounds… burnt. Like fire, but not normal flames."
Ruvan knelt beside a man whose torso was seared open, blackened to bone.
"Magic?" he whispered.
"Possibly," Elion said. "Or a weapon infused with it."
Kellan cursed under his breath. "Whoever did this, they're days ahead. Let's move before carrion wolves catch the scent."
As they rode away, Ruvan couldn't tear his eyes from the smoke curling into the sky behind them.
How many more will die while I wander, lost and clueless?
He felt Solrend pulse faintly at his side, like a silent heart beating beneath steel.
Was this you? Did someone like me do this?
No answer came, only the steady rhythm of the horse beneath him and the wind whispering across endless plains.
That night, they camped beneath a stone arch carved centuries ago by forgotten hands. Kellan cooked a simple stew of lentils and salted rabbit, adding crushed wild garlic for flavour.
"You ever been to Iron Hold before?" Ruvan asked him.
Kellan chuckled. "Once. Guarding a merchant caravan. Ended badly."
"What happened?"
"Turns out the merchant was smuggling dreamroot powder. They caught him, seized his goods, and threw us all in the pit for 'due process.'"
"What's the pit?"
"An underground gaol. Damp, rat-infested, crawling with plague beetles. We were there a week before they realised we weren't part of his operation."
Elion winced. "How did you get out?"
Kellan smirked, stirring the stew. "Made friends with a jailer's daughter. Taught her to throw knives. She taught me where they kept the spare keys."
Ruvan laughed softly despite the day's horrors. "Of course you did."
Later, as Kellan snored by the fire, Elion sat polishing his staff with a rag of oiled cloth. Ruvan sat opposite him, staring into the dying embers.
"You believe Iron Hold will help us?" he asked quietly.
Elion's golden eyes met his. "I don't know. But I do know wandering aimlessly will only lead to more deaths. At least there, we might find truth."
"Even if that truth condemns me?"
Elion paused, then spoke with quiet certainty. "Truth never condemns, Ruvan. Only lies do."
Ruvan looked down at Solrend lying across his knees. Its chipped edge caught the firelight, flickering red and gold like a serpent's tongue.
That night, he woke to a presence. Not a sound or shadow, but a feeling – as if unseen eyes pressed against his soul.
He rose silently, hand on Solrend's hilt, and stepped beyond the circle of firelight. The plains stretched out beneath moonlight, silver grass rippling in the cold breeze.
Nothing moved. Yet the sensation of being watched did not fade.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
No answer came. Only the sighing wind and the endless sea of silver grass.
He returned to camp, but sleep eluded him. Long into the night he sat awake, Solrend across his lap, watching the darkness for shadows that never came.
Approaching Iron Hold
By dawn, their supplies ran low. Hunger gnawed at Ruvan's belly, and even Kellan's easy grin faded under the weight of exhaustion.
Then, as the sun rose high, they crested a final ridge and saw it:
It rose from the cliffs like a black iron crown. Massive stone walls carved with ancient dwarven runes encircled the city, their battlements bristling with ballistae and smoke-belching cannon turrets. Towers jutted from the cliffs themselves, bridges spanning between them like stone spiderwebs. Far below, a river wound through a deep ravine, feeding into a vast waterfall that vanished into mist.
The gates were open. Merchants, pilgrims, and armoured riders streamed in and out beneath banners emblazoned with a black hammer over a red sunburst.
Kellan whistled low. "Home sweet home."
Ruvan stared in silent awe. He had seen cities before, but nothing like this fortress carved into living mountain.
"Do you think they'll let us in?" he asked.
Kellan grinned. "Only one way to find out."
They approached the eastern gate. Armoured guards clad in steel half-plate and crimson cloaks eyed them with bored suspicion.
"Halt," one barked, stepping forward. "State your names and business."
"Kellan Drave," Kellan said smoothly. "Mercenary. Here to sell my blade if needed, but mostly escorting these two."
The guard's gaze flicked to Ruvan and Elion. "And them?"
"Elion Karr, healer and scholar," Elion said calmly. "We seek audience with the Archive Masters regarding artefact research."
"And you?" the guard asked, eyes narrowing at Ruvan.
"Ruvan. Just… Ruvan."
The guard frowned. "Purpose?"
Ruvan hesitated. "Seeking answers."
For a moment, the guard's gaze lingered on Solrend's hilt at his hip. Then he shrugged.
"Pay the entry toll – three silver per head."
Kellan dug coins from his pouch and handed them over without complaint. The guard waved them through.
They passed beneath the iron portcullis into cool shadowed streets. Stone buildings rose high on either side, carved with dwarven reliefs of warriors, miners, and kings. Steam vents hissed from grates in the cobblestones, filling the air with sulphur and warmth. Merchants hawked spices, metalwork, and exotic wares from all corners of the continent.
Ruvan stared around him, overwhelmed by the noise, the colours, the sheer mass of humanity crammed into these stone corridors.
Kellan clapped his shoulder. "Welcome to Iron Hold, kid. Let's find you those answers."