The nights grew restless after the fall of Frostpeak. Though Dawnspire's banners flew proudly over the northern passes and Grimblade's victories echoed across the land, peace never settled on his shoulders. He was not a man meant for idleness, and even in triumph, his instincts warned him of something stirring beyond the horizon. The east had grown too quiet. Villages that once traded freely with Dawnspire sent no caravans. Forests that once rang with the cries of hunters now lay silent. And rumors, poisonous and persistent, slithered into the guildhall: raiders cloaked in bone, fire without flame, shadows that cut men down like blades.
Grimblade stood upon the eastern wall one moonless night, his cloak snapping in the wind. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's and cold as forged steel, swept the forests beyond the river. With him was Kaelen, the scout whose instincts rarely failed. The man knelt against the parapet, bow in hand, gaze fixed upon the treeline.
"There," Kaelen whispered, pointing with the tip of his arrow.
Grimblade followed his line of sight. At first there was nothing but the gentle sway of branches. Then he saw it—too tall, too still, the outline of a figure masked in the shroud of the trees. The instant Grimblade's eyes locked on it, the shadow slid backward, dissolving into the darkness as though it had never been there.
The guildmaster's jaw tightened. "They are watching us."
A horn sounded. Riders thundered out from the gates to flush the intruders, but the forest swallowed them whole. Moments later, the night carried back only the shrieks of horses and the echo of men cut short. Three steeds returned alone, saddles empty, eyes rolling with terror.
Grimblade gave the order to prepare the walls. Arrows were nocked, spells whispered by guild mages shimmered along the battlements. Yet the enemy did not charge like barbarians from the north. They came as phantoms.
The first wave erupted from the treeline—figures masked in pale bone, their movements unnervingly perfect. Arrows struck them down, but half dissolved into ash, reforming further up the slope. Others fell real enough, their blood steaming black against the grass. The defenders cursed and fired again, every volley answered by shrieks and vanishing smoke.
When the attackers reached the gates, they did not batter it with rams. The iron twisted as if gripped by invisible hands, screaming as it bent. The gates burst open, and Dawnspire's courtyard flooded with masked warriors.
Grimblade was there to meet them. He leapt from the parapet, his blade a flash of cold light. Steel clashed, shadows shrieked, the cobblestones ran slick with blood. His fighters formed around him, shields raised, holding the line as the enemy pressed in like a tide. Each blow struck by the masked warriors sparked with violet fire, strange and searing, as if the steel itself despised the living.
Kaelen fought nearby, daggers flashing, cutting masks from faces. "They're not here to win!" he shouted over the roar. "They're testing us!"
Grimblade knew it even before Kaelen spoke. This was not a conquest, but a measure of strength. Each feint, each spell, each shriek of shadow was designed to probe Dawnspire's defenses. Somewhere behind this first wave, a greater mind directed the assault.
And then the ground itself betrayed them. From beyond the gates stepped robed figures etched with glowing runes, their skin burning with symbols that writhed like living serpents. They raised their hands as one. The earth split and black fire burst forth, flinging soldiers and shadows alike into the air. The courtyard cracked, walls trembling under the force.
"Fall back to the keep!" Grimblade roared, voice carrying above the chaos. Horns answered, wounded dragged back by comrades, fighters retreating in formation. Grimblade remained at the rear, his blade a shield for those who stumbled. He cut through two warriors in one swing, shattered another's mask with his gauntlet, then shoved Kaelen ahead of him.
The battle raged until the inner gates were sealed. When the last of Dawnspire's soldiers crossed the threshold, the attackers did not pursue. Instead, they stopped, every masked head turning toward the walls as one. They hissed in unison, a sound that chilled the marrow. Then, as quickly as they had come, they retreated into the woods, their forms dissolving into the night mist.
Silence fell over the ruined courtyard. Bodies of men and ash alike littered the ground. The walls smoked where the runes had burned. Grimblade stood tall amidst the wreckage, his chest rising and falling with iron restraint. He did not sheathe his sword. He knew this was no end, only the beginning.
Kaelen approached, his face pale but steady. "They could have pressed the attack. They could have bled us dry tonight."
"They wanted us to see them," Grimblade said coldly. "This was not a battle. It was an introduction."
And from the shadows of the eastern woods, the enemy's eyes still lingered, patient, calculating, promising that Dawnspire's true trial had only just begun.
The nights grew restless after the fall of Frostpeak. Though Dawnspire's banners flew proudly over the northern passes and Grimblade's victories echoed across the land, peace never settled on his shoulders. He was not a man meant for idleness, and even in triumph, his instincts warned him of something stirring beyond the horizon. The east had grown too quiet. Villages that once traded freely with Dawnspire sent no caravans. Forests that once rang with the cries of hunters now lay silent. And rumors, poisonous and persistent, slithered into the guildhall: raiders cloaked in bone, fire without flame, shadows that cut men down like blades.
Grimblade stood upon the eastern wall one moonless night, his cloak snapping in the wind. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's and cold as forged steel, swept the forests beyond the river. With him was Kaelen, the scout whose instincts rarely failed. The man knelt against the parapet, bow in hand, gaze fixed upon the treeline.
"There," Kaelen whispered, pointing with the tip of his arrow.
Grimblade followed his line of sight. At first there was nothing but the gentle sway of branches. Then he saw it—too tall, too still, the outline of a figure masked in the shroud of the trees. The instant Grimblade's eyes locked on it, the shadow slid backward, dissolving into the darkness as though it had never been there.
The guildmaster's jaw tightened. "They are watching us."
A horn sounded. Riders thundered out from the gates to flush the intruders, but the forest swallowed them whole. Moments later, the night carried back only the shrieks of horses and the echo of men cut short. Three steeds returned alone, saddles empty, eyes rolling with terror.
Grimblade gave the order to prepare the walls. Arrows were nocked, spells whispered by guild mages shimmered along the battlements. Yet the enemy did not charge like barbarians from the north. They came as phantoms.
The first wave erupted from the treeline—figures masked in pale bone, their movements unnervingly perfect. Arrows struck them down, but half dissolved into ash, reforming further up the slope. Others fell real enough, their blood steaming black against the grass. The defenders cursed and fired again, every volley answered by shrieks and vanishing smoke.
When the attackers reached the gates, they did not batter it with rams. The iron twisted as if gripped by invisible hands, screaming as it bent. The gates burst open, and Dawnspire's courtyard flooded with masked warriors.
Grimblade was there to meet them. He leapt from the parapet, his blade a flash of cold light. Steel clashed, shadows shrieked, the cobblestones ran slick with blood. His fighters formed around him, shields raised, holding the line as the enemy pressed in like a tide. Each blow struck by the masked warriors sparked with violet fire, strange and searing, as if the steel itself despised the living.
Kaelen fought nearby, daggers flashing, cutting masks from faces. "They're not here to win!" he shouted over the roar. "They're testing us!"
Grimblade knew it even before Kaelen spoke. This was not a conquest, but a measure of strength. Each feint, each spell, each shriek of shadow was designed to probe Dawnspire's defenses. Somewhere behind this first wave, a greater mind directed the assault.
And then the ground itself betrayed them. From beyond the gates stepped robed figures etched with glowing runes, their skin burning with symbols that writhed like living serpents. They raised their hands as one. The earth split and black fire burst forth, flinging soldiers and shadows alike into the air. The courtyard cracked, walls trembling under the force.
"Fall back to the keep!" Grimblade roared, voice carrying above the chaos. Horns answered, wounded dragged back by comrades, fighters retreating in formation. Grimblade remained at the rear, his blade a shield for those who stumbled. He cut through two warriors in one swing, shattered another's mask with his gauntlet, then shoved Kaelen ahead of him.
The battle raged until the inner gates were sealed. When the last of Dawnspire's soldiers crossed the threshold, the attackers did not pursue. Instead, they stopped, every masked head turning toward the walls as one. They hissed in unison, a sound that chilled the marrow. Then, as quickly as they had come, they retreated into the woods, their forms dissolving into the night mist.
Silence fell over the ruined courtyard. Bodies of men and ash alike littered the ground. The walls smoked where the runes had burned. Grimblade stood tall amidst the wreckage, his chest rising and falling with iron restraint. He did not sheathe his sword. He knew this was no end, only the beginning.
Kaelen approached, his face pale but steady. "They could have pressed the attack. They could have bled us dry tonight."
"They wanted us to see them," Grimblade said coldly. "This was not a battle. It was an introduction."
And from the shadows of the eastern woods, the enemy's eyes still lingered, patient, calculating, promising that Dawnspire's true trial had only just begun.
That night, the guildhall burned with argument. Commanders demanded retribution, mages debated the nature of the runes, healers screamed for more time to tend the wounded. Grimblade listened to all, but spoke little. His thoughts were elsewhere, circling the same truth: the enemy had shown their hand too deliberately. No raider risked losses only to retreat. No mercenary carved runes into his own flesh. This was a faction with a creed, a plan, and the discipline to wield fear as a weapon.
When the council finally fell silent, Grimblade rose. His shadow stretched long across the chamber, dark against the candlelight. "From this night forward, the east is no longer forgotten. Double the patrols. Strengthen the wards. And send word to every ally still loyal—we face not bandits, but a storm. If they wished to make themselves known, then we will answer."
The hall trembled with his words. Some nodded in grim resolve, others paled at the thought of another war so soon after Frostpeak. But none dared defy him. For Grimblade was more than a leader now. He was Dawnspire's shield, and the storm from the east had chosen him as its foe.