Elias Blackwood woke up in the same small room above the Broken Fang tavern in Greyholt. His head hurt from too much bad ale the night before. He was twenty-three years old, but the scars on his body made him feel older. Most of them came from mercenary jobs over the last five years.
He sat up and checked the small pouch on the leather cord around his neck. One copper coin and one black crystal shard the size of a thumbnail. The shard held concentrated Essence—something he took off a dead raider two years ago. He never used it unless he was about to die. Saving power like that was one of the few smart things he still did.
He put on his boots, buckled his short sword to his belt, and made sure the dagger was still in his right boot. Then he went downstairs.
The common room was almost empty. Torv, the barkeep, was cleaning mugs. He slid Elias a mug of thin ale without asking. Elias had cleared a pack of feral dogs from the east road yesterday. This was payment.
"Any work today?" Elias asked.
Torv pointed at the board on the wall. Two jobs were posted. One was guarding a caravan to Ironcrag. It paid decent but went through the Ashen Waste, where bandits liked to wait. The other was escorting a merchant's daughter to Blackmarsh. Sounded easier, but Torv said the girl was trouble.
Elias took the Ironcrag job. Guard work was simple: fight when you have to, get paid, keep moving.
"The caravan leaves at noon," Torv said. "Ask for Captain Marek at the east gate."
Elias finished the ale and left.
Greyholt was a border town. To the west were the safer Free Cities with walls and rules. To the east was the Ashen Waste—flat, cracked land full of dead trees and old ruins from the Aetherian Empire. Essence grew slowly here because the natural Veins in the ground were weak. Most people stayed normal strength. Elias liked it that way. Fewer people with big power meant fewer problems for men like him.
He reached the east gate. Six wagons waited with eight guards. Captain Marek stood out—tall, scarred face, red cloak with a silver wolf pin.
"You the man Torv sent?" Marek asked.
Elias nodded. "Elias Blackwood."
Marek looked him over. "You've seen fighting. Good. Twenty silver now, thirty more when we reach Ironcrag. If we reach it."
"Deal."
Marek threw him a small pouch. Elias counted the coins and put them away.
They left soon after. Elias walked beside the third wagon and kept his eyes on the empty land around them.
Three hours later they found a dead horse on the side of the road. Fresh kill. Guts still steaming.
Marek stopped the caravan. Two scouts rode ahead and came back fast.
"Ten or twelve riders," one said. "They're circling. Waiting."
"Red Hand," Marek said. "They like this stretch."
Everyone knew the Red Hand. Small group. Fast. They killed everyone and took everything.
"Push on or turn back?" Marek asked.
The lead merchant, fat with gold rings, spoke up. "The tools in these wagons are for the Ironcrag mines. We go."
No one argued.
They kept moving.
Two miles later arrows came from a low ridge. One hit an ox in the neck. The animal dropped. The wagon jerked to a stop.
"Form up!" Marek shouted.
Elias pulled his sword and moved to protect the side of the wagon. Ten riders charged down the slope. Patchwork armor. Faces painted red.
The guards made a rough line. Elias stood in the middle.
The first rider came straight at him—big man with an axe raised high.
Elias waited until the last second, then stepped sideways. He pushed Essence into his right arm. The warm current moved through his channels and made his swing faster and harder. His sword cut deep under the man's armpit. The rider fell off his horse.
Another came from the left. Elias turned, blocked the strike, then slammed his shoulder into the horse's side. The animal stumbled. He slashed the rider's thigh open. The man screamed and dropped.
Around him the fight was loud and messy. One guard went down with an arrow in his throat. A wagon started burning.
Elias felt his channels starting to burn from using Essence too fast. He focused it into his legs instead—made himself quicker.
A third bandit charged. Elias jumped forward faster than a normal person could. His sword went through the man's chest. He pulled it free.
He looked around. Three bodies near him. Marek was fighting hard. Two guards were hurt.
Then he saw the Red Hand leader—tall, red-horned helmet, short bow. The man was aiming at Marek's back.
Elias didn't think. He pulled hard on his Essence—legs and arms at the same time. Everything blurred. He ran and threw himself forward.
The arrow hit his shoulder. Pain exploded.
He crashed into the leader's horse. Both of them hit the ground. The leader rolled to his feet with a curved sword ready.
Elias yanked the arrow out. Blood ran down his arm. He forced Essence to the wound to slow the bleeding. It wouldn't heal it, but it would keep him on his feet a little longer.
They faced each other.
"Stupid sellsword," the leader said.
Elias didn't answer. He attacked.
Their blades hit hard. The leader had strong Essence in his arms—every swing felt heavy.
Elias blocked and waited. The leader swung too wide. Elias stepped in close, drove his dagger into the man's side, twisted, then stabbed him in the throat.
The leader dropped.
The other bandits saw it and ran.
The fight was over.
Marek walked over, breathing hard. "You took that arrow for me."
"It was in the way," Elias said.
Marek looked at the wound. "Get it stitched. Back wagon."
Elias cleaned his sword on a dead bandit's cloak and put it away.
They spent the next hour clearing bodies, tying wounds, and fixing what they could. Two guards were dead. One merchant was in bad shape. All the bandits were dead or gone.
They started moving again. No one talked much.
That night they camped in a small hollow near a stream. Guards took turns watching. Elias sat by the fire and stared at the coals.
He kept thinking about the fight. The arrow. Jumping in front of it without planning. It was a stupid move. But he did it anyway.
He didn't know why.
Morning was cold. They kept going. The Ashen Waste felt even emptier after the blood.
Four days later the land started rising. Low hills appeared, then the black shapes of the Ironcrag mountains.
Ironcrag was built right into a cliff. Thick stone walls. Smoke rose from forges inside. Elias could feel the Veins here—they were stronger. A faint warm pull in his chest. His channels woke up a little just from being close.
They entered the town at dusk. The merchants paid everyone. Elias took his thirty silver and added it to his pouch.
Marek found him before he walked away.
"Leaving already?" Marek asked.
"Thinking about it."
"We head back in three days. Could use another good blade."
Elias nodded. "I'll see."
He found a cheap inn called the Hammer and Anvil. Paid for a small room. Ate hot stew. Slept deeply.
The next morning his shoulder was stiff but not as bad. He walked around the town.
Ironcrag smelled like hot metal and coal. Narrow streets were cut into the rock. Lanterns hung on chains. Miners walked covered in black dust. Smiths hammered day and night.
He found a training yard behind the guard barracks. Men were sparring with wooden swords. Some used Essence—blades glowed faintly, strikes cracked wood.
An older instructor watched Elias watching.
"You fight?" the man called.
"Some," Elias said.
"Come prove it."
Elias took a practice sword and stepped into the ring.
They circled. The instructor moved fast. Elias blocked. He could feel the man's Essence—mostly in the arms, making each hit heavy.
Elias hit back. He held back at first, then let a little Essence flow. His speed went up. He landed a clean strike on the instructor's shoulder.
The man grinned. "Again."
They went for twenty minutes. Elias was sweating when they stopped.
"Raw, but you've got strength in there," the instructor said. "Name's Garrick. We pay guards here. Yard's open if you want to train."
Elias wiped his face. "I'll think about it."
He left and walked higher up the town until he reached a small square with a stone fountain. He sat on the edge.
He thought about the last few days. The road. The bandits. The arrow. The stronger Veins here.
He was tired of moving all the time. Tired of jobs that paid just enough to not starve. Tired of almost dying for pocket change.
Maybe he could stay in one place for a while. Train. Take better contracts. Let the Veins help his Essence grow. Get stronger in body and maybe in other ways too.
He didn't need to know what came after that. Not yet.
One step at a time.
Elias stood up. His shoulder still hurt, but something inside felt a little lighter.
He started walking back down the street.