The icy wind howled around Ironveil Keep, carrying whispers of dread from the distant mountains. Roland dismounted, his fingers trembling as he clutched the emperor's seal. A boy of barely eighteen, he glanced up at the imposing fortress as his breath fogged in the frigid air. Despite his youth, he'd been chosen for this mission—chosen to deliver the emperor's orders to the man who was more legend than soldier.
Captain Raven.
Roland had heard the stories. How Raven had broken the Siege of Blackcliff with four men. How he'd wrestled a mountain ogre bare-handed and left it slain at his feet. How fear itself shriveled and died in his shadow. Yet, none of those tales could have prepared him for what he saw beyond the keep's groaning gates.
In the training yard, Raven stood shirtless in the biting cold, parrying two attackers at once with effortless grace. His muscles shifted like shadows beneath his scarred skin, and his movements were so fluid they seemed almost lazy. Roland froze, awestruck. The stories hadn't mentioned Raven's youth—he couldn't be older than twenty-two—and they certainly hadn't conveyed the feral sharpness in his storm-gray eyes or the jagged scar curling from his collarbone to his jaw like a serpent etched in silver.
Raven disarmed his last opponent with a flick of his wrist, the practice sword clattering onto the frosted ground. His gaze snapped to Roland, sharp and unrelenting.
"Well?" Raven's voice was crisp, a blade in its own right. "Out with it, boy."
The words jolted Roland to action. He thrust the scroll forward, his hands shaking. "Emperor Aldrich's orders, my lord. The Free Cities… they've allied with mercenaries. Ten thousand march on Stonehollow."
Behind Raven, his squad stirred. Each of them looked as much a legend as their captain. Garrett, broad as a bear and wielding a warhammer with ease. Marcus, whose smirk concealed an archer's deadly precision. Lydia, a red-haired scout with daggers sheathed across her belt, her sharp eyes always moving. And Finn, wiry with an alchemist's satchel slung over his shoulder, fingers brushing the firepowder vials within like they were old friends.
Raven took the scroll, his eyes scanning its contents with an expression that betrayed nothing.
"Ten thousand?" he muttered. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Too few."
Marcus leaned on his bow, polishing an arrowhead. "A shame. I was hoping for an actual challenge."
Raven folded the scroll and tucked it into his belt. "We move at dawn."
---
Stonehollow's valley reeked of smoke and hubris as the mercenary army sprawled beneath the cliffs, their banners flapping in the wind. Their laughter echoed upward, ignorant of the shadows watching from above. They didn't notice Lydia scaling the craggy rocks, her leather boots silent on the jagged surface. They never spotted Marcus perched high in a pine, his bowstring taut and ready. They had no inkling of the firepowder charges Finn planted at the base of the cliffs, each one carefully positioned to deliver devastation.
Raven's hand rose, a silent command. When it fell, the world exploded.
The cliffs roared as they collapsed, burying half the mercenary army beneath a rain of stone and rubble. Chaos erupted like a storm. Marcus' arrows struck captains mid-shout, their commands dying as quickly as they did. Garrett waded into the fray, his massive hammer crushing shields, ribs, and spirits alike. Lydia moved between tents like a whirlwind, her daggers gleaming crimson under the dim light. Finn hurled vials of firepowder, their sparks blooming into pillars of flame that consumed everything they touched.
And then there was Raven.
He moved like vengeance given form, a shortsword in each hand, cutting through armor as if it were paper. Soldiers screamed as he tore through their ranks, his scarred face calm—almost serene. When the mercenary king charged atop his warhorse, sword raised high, Raven didn't falter. He leapt, hooking one blade into the bridle and wrenching the beast to the ground. The king fell hard, terror writ across his face as Raven pressed a dagger to his throat.
"Tell your masters," Raven hissed, his voice low and cold, "the emperor's shadow is watching."
By noon, the survivors had fled, their banners trampled into the mud.
---
The emperor's reward was a chest of jewels and another command: *"The Outsiders stir in the Wraithwood. End them."*
Finn paled at the mention of it. "They say Outsiders aren't mortal. That blades pass through them like mist."
Lydia snorted but clutched a prayer charm beneath her tunic, her bravado not entirely masking the unease in her eyes. Even Garrett, the most unshakable of them, frowned.
Raven's expression remained unreadable as always. "We leave at dawn."
---
The Wraithwood was wrong, in ways none of them could name. The air was thick with the stench of rotting earth. Trees twisted into skeletal claws that seemed to reach for the sky. Shadows moved where they shouldn't, and the silence was oppressive, broken only by the squad's cautious footsteps.
"Something's here," Finn whispered, his voice barely audible. "Watching us."
Raven held up a hand, halting them. His eyes scanned the shadows. A moment later, they emerged.
The Outsiders.
Seven feet tall, clad in armor that shimmered like liquid darkness, their faces hidden behind featureless helms. Their leader stepped forward, wielding a scythe with a blade of crackling violet light. Its hum sent chills down Roland's spine.
Garrett struck first, his hammer swinging with force enough to shatter stone. It bounced off the Outsider's armor without so much as a dent. Marcus loosed an arrow, only to watch it splinter uselessly. Lydia's daggers sparked like flint against their armor. Finn hurled a firepowder vial, the explosion roaring like a dragon's breath—but when the smoke cleared, the Outsider leader stood untouched.
"They're herding us," Raven realized, his eyes narrowing. "This isn't a fight. It's a trap."
The Outsiders pressed closer, their scythes humming with deadly intent. Garrett stumbled, his leg bleeding from a glancing blow. Marcus dragged him upright, while Lydia and Finn flanked Roland, their blades raised despite the futility.
The leader pointed his scythe at Raven. "You belong to the Void now, little king."
Raven's hand flew to the amulet beneath his tunic—a relic from a dead sorcerer, its magic untested. This was his last gamble.
"Go!" he roared to his squad. "Now!"
Before they could protest, he crushed the amulet.
The world erupted in purple light.
When the light faded, Raven was gone.
---
Roland stared at the empty ground where Raven had stood moments before. The Wraithwood was silent, the Outsiders frozen in place.
"He… abandoned us?" Lydia whispered, her voice trembling.
"No," Marcus said, his gaze fixed on the scorched earth. "He saved us."
---
Far away, Raven materialized on a snow-drenched hillside, collapsing to his knees. His veins burned, the amulet's magic leaving its mark, but a grin spread across his face despite the pain.
"They wanted me alive," he murmured to himself, spitting blood into the snow. "Which means they need me."
Somewhere, the Outsider leader's voice echoed in his mind: "Run, little king. We'll feast on your fear soon enough."
Raven wiped his mouth, his grin turning feral. "Try."