The road wound through ragged fields of frost-burnt grass, rising in slow bends towards the horizon where Iron Hold loomed like a slumbering giant. Its towers pierced the pale dawn sky, each crowned with flickering orange beacons that cut through the early mist.
Ruvan adjusted the strap of his satchel, feeling Solrend's weight press against his spine with each step. The blade pulsed in quiet rhythm with his heartbeat, as if sensing the fortress ahead. Each echo reminded him of the dream's darkness, the Devourer's promise still coiled like venom in his veins.
Beside him, Kellan whistled a jaunty tune despite the morning chill, eyes darting between tree lines and the road's empty bends.
Ahead, Elion walked with quiet purpose. His staff clicked against stone as he murmured a healer's prayer under his breath. Ruvan caught scattered words – protection, clarity, mercy – drifting into the cold air like breath fog.
"Praying we won't die before breakfast?" Kellan teased.
Elion didn't break stride. "Praying you find humility before lunch."
Kellan chuckled softly. "That's crueler than death itself."
They crested a low hill and paused. The morning fog parted like torn cloth, revealing Iron Hold in its grim majesty.
Walls of black iron and stone circled the fortress city in layered rings. Towers rose at each compass point, lit with lantern fires that burned day and night to guide travelers. Over the tallest gate arched a sigil of flame-wreathed hammer and anvil – the mark of the Iron Lords who ruled this place since before the last Devourer War.
Even from this distance, the gates bristled with armored guards. Merchant wagons queued along the road, flanked by soldiers checking cargo crates and searching for smuggled arcana.
Elion let out a slow breath. "It's been years since I last walked these streets."
"Homecoming?" Ruvan asked.
Elion shook his head. "Prison. The healers' sanctum here exiled me when I failed my oaths."
Kellan clapped him on the back. "Then let's keep your hood up. We don't need another mob chasing us down the gates."
Burning Towers, Burning Memories
Ruvan's gaze drifted to the tallest tower at the city's heart. Flames flickered from its pinnacle brazier, casting restless shadows down its length. Smoke curled skyward into the pale morning.
For a moment, the smell of burning wood and flesh filled his nostrils. His chest tightened. He blinked, but Iron Hold vanished, replaced by the charred wreck of his village. The forge collapsed in flames. The girl's screams. The scent of scorched hair. Ash raining like winter snow.
I ran.
"Ruvan?" Elion's voice cut through the memory. "You're trembling."
He swallowed hard and shook his head. "I'm fine."
Kellan glanced at him. His playful smirk faded. "No one's fine after losing what you lost," he said quietly. "But Iron Hold isn't your village. We keep moving forward. That's how we survive."
Ruvan didn't reply. He watched the towers flicker in the distance, smoke twisting towards the sunless sky, and wondered if survival was the same as living.
They passed a moss-stained stone shrine on the roadside, half-buried in frost grass. A carved relief of the Dawn Mother – eyes blindfolded, mouth sewn shut – watched over travelers with silent judgment.
Elion bowed his head as they passed. Kellan spat into the dirt.
"Blind bitch never helped me," he muttered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Prayed to her every night after the raids. Next morning, my brothers were still dead."
Elion sighed but said nothing. Ruvan lingered by the shrine, reaching out to touch its weathered surface. The stone was cold beneath his fingertips.
Was she blind… or did she just choose not to see us?
They joined the line of merchants waiting to enter Iron Hold. A fruit seller's donkey brayed impatiently behind them, tugging at its rope. Two armored guards moved down the queue, checking cargo crates and levying silver entry taxes.
When they reached Ruvan's group, one guard – a heavyset man with a scar down his cheek – tapped Solrend's wrapped hilt sticking from Ruvan's satchel.
"What's this?" he demanded.
"A broken blade," Ruvan answered truthfully.
"Broken blades don't pay taxes," the guard grunted. "What's it worth?"
"To me?" Ruvan met his eyes. "Everything."
The guard snorted. "Poetic types annoy me." He moved on to Kellan, rummaging through his pack until he found a flask of bitterleaf wine. He uncorked it, sniffed, and took a deep gulp before tossing it back. "Entry fee paid. Next."
Kellan forced a smile, retrieving the empty flask. "Glad to contribute to the Iron Hold militia's breakfast."
The city swallowed them whole. Towers rose on all sides, iron-bound and etched with warding sigils against siegecraft and spirits alike. Smoke belched from forge chimneys lining the outer district, mingling with aromas of roasting meats, fermented grain stew, and molten metal.
Merchants hawked wares from covered stalls: glass vials of firepowder, shadowsteel arrowheads, coiled serpent belts that writhed slightly in their own skins.
Children chased stray dogs through narrow alleys. Beggars with branded cheeks reached out with cracked hands, their eyes vacant with hunger or opiate dreams.
Ruvan felt Solrend's pulse grow sharper, angrier. As if the blade resented being surrounded by so many fragile mortals.
Killing them would be easy, it whispered in his mind.
He flinched and tightened his grip on the satchel strap. No.
Weak. Always so weak.
The voice coiled behind his thoughts like smoke in a closed room.
You could end their suffering. Their petty cruelties, their endless greed. Just one sweep. One burst. Burn them clean.
Ruvan clenched his teeth. Shut up.
You will beg me for power when the darkness comes.
He forced the voice down, locking it behind the iron walls of his mind. His breath came ragged. Cold sweat dampened his brow despite the forge heat radiating from open workshops lining the street.
"Ruvan," Elion said, touching his shoulder. "You're shaking."
"Just… tired."
Elion's gaze softened, but he didn't push further. "Come on. The Archive's east wing closes at dusk. If there are answers about Solrend's forging, they'll be there."
Kellan grunted. "Assuming the scribes don't charge us two gold coins per page just to read the title."
They moved deeper into Iron Hold's maze of streets, following weathered signs etched in runic script towards the fortress heart.
As they passed a wide plaza, Ruvan's eyes drifted upwards again. Smoke curled from braziers along the high battlements, orange flames flickering like watchful eyes. The towers themselves seemed to hum with restrained menace, built of black iron mined from the Devourer's ancient prison beneath the northern wastes.
He wondered if the iron remembered. If it felt the Devourer's chains breaking. If it recognised the blade hidden against his back.
One day, he thought, these towers will burn.
And for the first time since fleeing his village, he felt a flicker of resolve sharpen into certainty.