The dawn after the attack broke with a sky the color of bruised steel. Smoke still curled from the courtyard where black fire had scarred the stone. Men moved like ghosts through the rubble, clearing bodies, dragging away shattered beams, muttering under their breath as if afraid the shadows might hear. Dawnspire had survived the night, but not without bleeding.
Grimblade did not sleep. He stood armored upon the ramparts, his gaze locked eastward where the forest loomed. He had fought raiders, beasts, warlords, even kings—but this enemy was different. They did not fight for land or gold. They fought for something older, darker, and they fought with patience.
Kaelen joined him, his bow slung across his shoulder, eyes weary but sharp. "The men whisper, Grim. They say those things weren't men at all."
"They bled," Grimblade said flatly. "But they bled wrong."
Kaelen smirked bitterly. "Comforting."
Before Grimblade could answer, a horn sounded from the southern gate. A rider galloped in, mud spraying from the hooves of his lathered horse. His armor was torn, his face pale with exhaustion, yet he did not dismount before speaking.
"Guildmaster!" he cried. "The eastern villages burn! The Watchposts at Ironrun and Veilbrook are gone. No survivors."
The words fell heavy as stone. The men on the wall froze, gripping their weapons tighter, some whispering prayers.
Grimblade's jaw tightened. "How many attackers?"
"Dozens. Maybe hundreds. They came at night. No warning. No chance to fight."
Silence followed. Then Kaelen spat over the parapet. "They're closing the noose."
Grimblade turned, cloak snapping in the cold wind. "Summon the council. Now."
Within the hour, the guildhall was alive with clamor. Commanders argued for a counterstrike, mages demanded time to unravel the runes they had seen, healers begged for supplies. Every voice rose, but none carried weight until Grimblade stood. The hall fell into silence as his eyes swept across them, steel-gray and merciless.
"Every village lost is a wound to Dawnspire," he said, his voice calm but sharp. "But rushing blind into the east is death. They want us divided. They want us desperate. We will give them neither."
"And what will you give them, Grimblade?" one of the older captains challenged. "Words? While our people burn?"
Grimblade's gaze fixed on him like a blade. "I will give them fear."
The hall stirred. Some leaned forward, others frowned. But none could look away.
"We strengthen our walls. We patrol harder, strike faster. But most of all—we hunt. Not for armies. For answers. I want their leaders found, dragged into the light, and broken. We cannot win by numbers. We win by cutting the head from the serpent."
Kaelen grinned, his usual sharp humor returning. "So, you want volunteers for suicide missions?"
Grimblade's lips twitched in the faintest shadow of a smile. "I want wolves who will bleed the enemy before they even reach our gates. And I know who among you hungers for that work."
One by one, hands rose. Assassins, rangers, battle-mages—the guild's hungriest blades. Grimblade chose them with a glance. Within minutes, a new company was formed. The Fang of Dawnspire. His hunters.
That night, Grimblade led them to the edge of the eastern forest. The trees loomed like black spires, their branches clawing at the sky. The air reeked of ash and rot, and the silence was worse than any roar of war. Even the wolves dared not howl.
They moved like shadows, slipping between trees, every step measured. The deeper they went, the stranger the forest grew. Bark pulsed faintly, as if veins ran beneath it. Strange symbols glowed upon rocks, etched in patterns too precise for chance. The hunters muttered curses, but Grimblade silenced them with a glance.
Hours passed until they found it—the remains of a village, burned to cinders. No bodies. No survivors. Only masks of bone nailed to the blackened doors, each carved with runes that oozed faint violet light.
Kaelen bent to study one, his face grim. "They're leaving messages."
"For us," Grimblade said, his voice low. "They want us to follow."
The wind shifted. A sound rose from the trees—not the howl of wolves, but laughter. Hollow, cold, and everywhere at once.
The hunters drew weapons. Kaelen pressed his back to Grimblade's. "Hookers enough for you, Grim?"
The shadows moved. Dozens of masked figures slid from between the trees, their weapons glimmering with violet flame. Behind them, towering over all, came something worse. A giant wrapped in blackened chains, its flesh gray as stone, its eyes pits of fire. Each step shook the ground.
The hunters faltered. Even Kaelen cursed under his breath. But Grimblade stepped forward, sword gleaming in the dark.
"Hold," he said, his voice steady, thunderous in the stillness. "If they want to test us again, then let them choke on the price."
And then the forest erupted into war.
Blades clashed. Arrows hissed through the trees. Grimblade moved like a storm, his sword cutting masks from faces, sparks flying as steel met steel. The giant swung its chains, smashing trees like twigs, sending hunters flying. Kaelen's arrows thudded into its chest, each one bursting in flame, but the beast only roared louder.
Grimblade charged. He leapt onto a fallen trunk, vaulted high, and drove his blade into the giant's shoulder. Black fire burst, searing his armor, but he did not let go. He climbed the chain, blade flashing again and again, each strike carving deeper into the beast's flesh. The giant bellowed, staggering, trying to crush him against a tree.
Below, the hunters fought like wolves, Kaelen carving through masked foes with dagger and flame, holding the line while Grimblade clung to the beast. With a final roar, Grimblade tore his blade free and drove it deep into the giant's throat. Black fire gushed, the chains rattled, and the monster fell with an earth-shaking crash.
The forest fell silent. The masked warriors froze, their heads turning as one. Then, without a sound, they melted back into the trees, leaving only the fallen giant steaming on the earth.
Grimblade dropped to the ground, blood and ash streaking his armor. He looked at the beast's corpse, then at the shadows retreating into the night. His grip tightened on his sword.
"They're not raiders," he said coldly. "They're priests. And this—" he kicked the corpse of the giant "—was their offering."
Kaelen wiped his blade and spat into the dirt. "If this is what they offer their gods, Grim… what in the abyss do they pray for?"
The hunters looked to their guildmaster. And for the first time, Grimblade did not answer. He only stared deeper into the dark, where the enemy waited, and knew this was not war yet. This was only the summoning.