Russ Talen stood at the edge of the ravine, the cold night wind cutting through his coat. Below, the dark waters of the river churned like an unending whisper, carrying the weight of the years he had tried to bury. He had been gone for too long — away from the people, the fight, and the promises he once made. But the past had a way of finding you, and now, it stood before him in the shape of an old war.
He adjusted the strap of his pack, scanning the distant glow of a settlement. Lights flickered faintly, not with warmth, but with the restless tremor of a place living under constant threat. His jaw tightened. He knew this place. He knew the streets, the smell of the earth after rain, and the sound of the market's laughter. Once, it had been his home. Now, it was enemy territory.
As Russ descended the winding trail, the memories came sharper — faces of friends who were gone, the weight of missions that had left scars deeper than bullets. He could almost hear Captain Derren's voice barking orders during the Siege of Eldrath, or see Mara's smile, the one that used to break through even the darkest days. But she was gone now. And every step he took felt like walking into a graveyard of ghosts.
The first checkpoint was less guarded than he expected. Two sentries, both young, their uniforms loose and unkempt. They didn't recognize him — his face was older now, weathered, the eyes harder. He slipped past them in the shadows, his body moving on instinct, a predator in familiar hunting grounds.
By the time he reached the inner district, the settlement's heart was beating louder — a mix of drunken shouts, merchant haggling, and the low hum of machinery. But there was tension in the air, the kind that seeped into your bones. Everyone here was watching everyone else.
Russ ducked into an alley and pulled a folded scrap of parchment from his pocket. The ink had smudged over the weeks of travel, but the message was still clear: The Falcon's Nest is compromised. Don't trust the council. The sender's mark was one he hadn't seen in years — a single raven feather.
That mark meant only one thing.
Varik.
Russ had spent half his life trying to outrun the shadow of that man, and now he was being pulled straight back into it. If Varik was here, then the war was no longer at the border. It was in the heart of the city.
He needed information — fast. And there was only one place that still dealt in truths worth buying: the Rusted Lantern tavern.
The tavern was almost exactly as he remembered — low ceilings, thick smoke curling in the air, and the sour smell of spilled ale soaking into the floorboards. The crowd was rougher than before, more desperate. He took a seat in the far corner, where his back was to the wall and his eyes could track every movement.
Minutes later, a woman slid into the chair opposite him. Her hood was low, but Russ could still see the familiar glint in her eyes.
"Thought you were dead," she said flatly.
"Close enough," Russ replied.
She didn't smile. "Varik's building something. Not just soldiers — something worse. And he's got help inside the council."
Russ leaned forward, his voice low. "Then we burn it out. Every last root."
She gave him a look that was half warning, half approval. "You'll need allies. And a lot more than you came with."
Russ sat back, the fire in his chest spreading. He hadn't come here for a fight. But now, he could feel it in his bones — this was where it began again. The war he thought was over had only been waiting for him to return.