A heavy rain poured over Targost, a deluge that covered the land like a curse. The torrent lashed the rooftops in endless fury, the wind howling through the crooked alleyways like a beast sniffing for its prey. Somewhere in the dark, a shutter slammed open and banged against stone — a relentless, unsettling beat.

  In the heart of the city, a tavern stood still and silent. Once it rang with music and laughter. Not tonight. The hearthfire crackled low, casting long shadows over vacant chairs and silent figures—ghosts of merrier days. The few who lingered nursed their cups like mourners at a funeral, their joy long fled.

  The door burst open with a crash. For a brief moment, lightning lit the world in a ghastly, pallid white. Every shape in the room was illuminated for a split second: the pale-faced girl behind the counter, the slump of the drunk in the corner, the fire caught mid-flicker—and then all fell back into gloom.

  Three large, hooded men stepped through the doorway and entered, their boots soaked and heavy with rain. They made their way toward one of the larger tables, where a fourth man already sat — a twitching, wiry creature who looked up with irritation as they approached.

  “You’re late,” the scrawny man hissed, his voice sharp and shrill.

  “What’s the rush?” said one of the newcomers, voice low and gruff. “We’re here. That’s what matters, eh?”

  “The master has no time to waste,” the smaller man snapped. His features, though shadowed beneath his hood, were sharp and narrow, with large, crooked teeth protruding from beneath thin lips. He fidgeted constantly, fingers tapping, leg bouncing, eyes flicking to every movement in the room.

  He slid a large leather pouch across the table.

  “The timetable’s changed. The master wants to accelerate the plan.” He glanced over his back nervously, voice lowering. “I trust this will be sufficient.”

  One of the big men hefted the pouch and weighed it in his palm. Coins clinked softly.

  “It’ll do.” He tucked the pouch away in a measured gesture. “But if the plans change again, we’ll want double next time.”

  “The master is generous enough already,” the scrawny man replied, jaw tightening. “But… I’ll pass along your demands.”

  A serving girl walked by, tray in hand. One of the thugs grabbed her arm.

  “Drinks, sweetheart.” He leered at her with jagged teeth and eyes that glittered like knives. “For me and my fine friends.”

  The girl gave a strained smile. “Coming right up.”

  She moved quickly, eager to escape their presence, and the tavern returned to its hushed unease.

  But not all eyes were blind to what had transpired.

  In a far, darkened corner of the room, a hooded figure sat alone, unmoving, wrapped in shadow. His cloak obscured almost all of him; only the faint shimmer of his eyes caught the dimmed firelight, revealing the storm that simmered beneath his stillness. On the table before him, a grey cat lay curled, its body rising and falling with the soft rhythm of sleep, a gloved hand moving across its back, slow and gentle, as if the chaos raging outside had no power here.

  His aura was dangerous, quiet, watchful — yet his touch upon the small creature was gentle, reverent. The fingers that could snap bone like dry kindling moved now with the softness of a gentle stream. He had the silence of a hunter, the stillness of a predator lying in wait, but the tenderness of a man who understood the worth of guarding the gentle things of the world.

  None of the rowdy figures at the table had noticed him.

  The four men continued murmuring among themselves for a time, their words low and guarded. But at length, the largest of them — a thick-necked brute with a golden mane cut to his collar, a rugged beard and a black patch over one eye — broke the silence with a grunt.

  “Begone, now. I’m expecting someone.”

  The scrawny man furrowed his brow. “Expecting? You have a mission to—”

  “I know what I have!” the brute snarled, slamming his meaty fist on the table with a force that rattled the cups. “And we’ll see it done. Have we failed your master yet? This’ll be no different. Now, get out. Our business is finished.”

  The pale man sniffed disdainfully, gathering his cloak with a twitch. “Be careful, Rorik, it wouldn’t do to get reckless,” he said coldly. “Not so close to the endgame.”

  With that, he pulled his hood lower, shrinking into shadow, and slipped out into the rain — swallowed at once by the night.

  The three remaining men lingered, drinking deep and with growing restlessness. Rorik shifted in his seat, broad frame tense, his single eye flicking toward the door again and again.

  “Where is she?” he muttered under his breath, barely able to stay still. His fingers drummed the table impatiently, and though he tried to maintain an air of control, the drink had begun to erode what little restraint he had.

  The others were not far behind. As their mugs emptied, their eyes grew hungrier. Every time the serving girl passed, their gazes clung to her like thorns.

  “Well now, aren’t you a pretty one,” slurred the shortest of them — a burly, thick-limbed man with arms like knotty oak branches and a voice hoarse from too much smoke and stronger drink. “How much for a bit o’ private company?”

  “I don’t do that,” she replied quickly, forcing a brittle smile. “I just serve drinks.”

  She turned away in haste, but not fast enough to avoid the muttered grumbling behind her.

  “Not fair,” the shorter one mumbled. “Why does the boss get all the fun?”

  “That’s the way of things,” Rorik answered, his words now thick and slurred. “Some are born to lead, and others… to follow. But if you know your place, there’ll be a reward. One fit for your station.”

  They gulped down their drinks like beasts, and the next time she passed, Rorik’s patience snapped.

  He reached out and seized her by the wrist, yanking her down into his lap with a sudden, brutal motion.

  “I’ve had enough waiting,” he snarled, his voice low and full of heat. “You’re not as fine as her, but you’ll do. I will not be denied this night.”

  His face pressed close to hers — breath rancid with ale and rot, his lone eye burning with possessive hunger.

  She froze. Her eyes wide, her limbs stiff with fear.

  They did not notice the tall, cloaked figure who now stood silently beside their table. He had moved from the shadows without a sound. His eyes burned — calm, steady, and full of wrath.

  The men turned.

  “What do you want?” sneered one of them. “Come to join the fun, have you?”

  The cloaked man did not move. His voice came low, and firm.

  “Let her go.”

  The laughter that followed was ugly.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” the biggest one barked. “I’ll teach you not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. Boys — get him!”

  But before the nearest thug could even rise, the hooded stranger slammed his head down against the table with such force that the wood cracked. The man collapsed in a heap, unconscious before he hit the floor.

  The other two leapt to their feet, swinging wild, drunken fists.

  The girl slipped from the brute’s lap in the chaos and scurried behind the counter, her hands trembling.

  The hooded man moved like a wraith. He ducked, weaved, and sidestepped every blow with effortless grace. One of the attackers sprang forward — and the stranger caught him mid-swing, twisted his arm, then struck him in the throat with an open palm. The man gasped. In the same motion, the cloaked figure lifted him clean off the ground and hurled him over his shoulder. The man crashed through a nearby table in a splintering roar and did not rise again.

  The stranger’s hood fell back as he turned — and beneath it was revealed the sculpted face of Baronsworth. Grim, yet fair, his visage was hewn by war and wilderness. A beard framed the sharp lines of his jaw, and his long, dark hair fell to his back. His eyes — clear and azure as a mountain lake — burned now with restrained fury.

  The last brute lunged at him, roaring, fists raised, single eye bloodshot with rage. Baronsworth met his charge, and for a breath, their strength locked in a furious, grinding contest. But the struggle was decisively brief.

  With a guttural cry, he lifted the man and slammed him into the floor — all the force channeled through the back of the man’s neck. The crash echoed through the silent tavern like a great tree toppling. The brute twitched, groaned once, and lay still.

  The fight was over.

  Baronsworth let out a long sigh, brushing off his cloak as he paused for a moment. He then turned to the serving girl, who was crouched behind the counter, weeping softly. Beside her stood her father — a broad-shouldered man with flour on his apron and a butcher’s knife clutched in one hand, having rushed out from the kitchen at the sound of violence.

  “Find some rope,” Baronsworth said with calm. “Tie those two up and stash them in the cellar. Their friends won’t come looking for hours, so for now, you’re safe. But I’d recommend you close early, summon the city guard, and bar your doors. The chill of death is in the air tonight.”

  He turned the fallen brute with an eyepatch, knelt, and bound his wrists and ankles with practiced ease. Then, with no more effort than hefting a sack of grain, he slung the unconscious man over his shoulder.

  “Thank you, master…” the serving girl stammered, wiping her tears with her sleeve.

  “Magnus,” he replied.

  She gasped at the mention of this name, for she knew it well. But he was already gone, vanishing through the back door into the rain-drenched night.

  The downpour had not let up. Baronsworth stepped into a narrow alley slick with runoff and made his way to the waiting cart — a covered, horse-drawn wagon sat patiently in the shadows. He laid the limp body in the back and climbed onto the bench beside the driver.

  It was Karl who held the reins — his face mostly hidden beneath a heavy hood, shielding him from the rain and the world beyond. Time had left its quiet marks upon him: deeper lines at the brow, a silvery streak threading through the beard that once held no color but black. And yet, his presence remained as it had always been — familiar, grounded, deep and steady as a mountain.

  “So you got Rorik, eh?” Karl asked, eyes on the road ahead.

  “Yes,” Baronsworth replied.

  Karl chuckled softly, rain thrumming on the canvas above. “How do you do it, Magnus? You enter the Wolf’s den, and each time, you emerge unscathed. You’re as comfortable in the meat grinder of the battlefield as you are in stealth and secrecy.” A sharp, amused breath escaped him. “Your renown precedes you, the mighty Landless Baron. Your face is recognized from here to Sidonia, yet you pass unseen in the middle of the city, mere feet from our sworn enemies!”

  Baronsworth offered a faint smile, weary but amused. “My father used to say the goddess Sophia grants her chosen the power to hide in plain sight.”

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  Karl scoffed. “But of course! The Highborn Son of Sophia, slipping by unnoticed with the favor of his patron goddess.”

  Baronsworth’s smirk faded into something colder — a curl of bitterness at the edge of his mouth. “If she favors me, she has a strange way of showing it. Letting my family be slaughtered. Forcing me to roam the world like a vagabond.”

  “A vagabond?” Karl said, feigning offense, though his tone remained warm. “We’ve hot food in our bellies and shelter over our heads. Steel in hand and coin in our purses. That, my good friend, is no small blessing.”

  Baronsworth gave a quiet nod. “Indeed.”

  For a long while, the only sounds were the soft creak of the wheels over wet earth and the steady rhythm of rain pattering against the cart's sheltering hood. Baronsworth leaned back, exhaling through his nose. In the quiet, his mind reflected on the turn of events that had brought them here.

  For now, the Gryphons found themselves in Targost — a city once hailed as one of the jewels of the northern marches of the Holy Empire. Its name had long been spoken with reverence by merchants and nobles alike, a proud beacon of trade, learning, and cultural splendor. It was the pride of Count Varador, Lord of Valmeria — a man of vast lands and deeper pockets, whose court once gleamed with feasting and splendor.

  But no longer.

  A shadow had crept across the land, and with it came fear—and silence. Trade had slowed to a crawl. The roads that once rang with caravan bells and cheerful voices now echoed only with wind — and an unsettling quiet. Guards no longer patrolled these routes — their posts taken by jackals in iron: brigands and highwaymen with no allegiance but gold.

  Count Varador responded with an iron fist. Martial law was declared. Targost’s gates were sealed, weapons banned within the walls, patrols in the surrounding domains tripled. But the rot only deepened. His knights were men of order — trained for battle beneath banners, where trumpets blared and honor held the line. Yet their enemy followed no such code. These were foes without heraldry or rules, striking from trees, mist, and shadow — swift, disciplined, merciless — vanishing before steel could be drawn in retaliation. And the ruin they brought upon Valmeria was great.

  Realizing he could not face this threat alone, Count Varador sent a missive to Argos, the Holy Capital, appealing directly to the Emperor. Months passed in silence. And when a reply finally came, it was long-winded and full of pleasantries — broadly mentioning the ongoing efforts to foster stability, the continuous evaluation of all pertinent factors, and the imperative of ensuring long-term prosperity across the realm. Yet it meticulously avoided any concrete solutions or direct commitments. Not a single soldier was sent.

  So, desperate, the Count now turned to the Golden Gryphons.

  Their renown had grown immense in recent years. Tales of their victories in the Forlorn Kingdoms had spread far and wide, and their exploits in the Eastern Holy Empire had further cemented their reputation as an elite force. Their name had become synonymous with triumph, and indeed, they had made Valeria, the goddess of victory, their patron.

  Varador scraped together what remained of his treasury—the last of his coin, grown thin from constant raiding; silver that had once graced his father's halls; even the jewels pried from his own fingers. Everything but his wedding band and the glowing signet ring—proof of his pureblood lineage—he offered to Siegfried, a desperate gamble staked against the ruin that had swallowed his realm. He had marked their quarry: the Black Wolves.

  They were among the largest — and most ruthless — mercenary companies in the land: savage men clad in no colors but blood and ash. Where the Gryphons upheld honor and valor, the Wolves dealt only in cruelty and coin. They took their payment not just in contracts, but in plunder, fire, and flesh. Slavers, raiders, marauders — the Black Wolves were a stain on the land.

  For years, the two groups had clashed in shadow and steel. The Wolves had undercut Siegfried’s contracts, arrived early to spoil negotiations, spread lies, bribed officials, and had even ambushed Gryphon scouts, demanding ransom for their safe return. These vile actions weren't merely an affront to honor; they had been a direct threat to the Gryphons' very means of survival, especially during their leaner, less established days.

  Though the gold collected by the Count was not enough to hire their services, the feud with these brigands ran deep and personal. For there was one more crime, a transgression so heinous it overshadowed all the rest.

  They had learned that the Wolves’ leader — a vicious fiend by the name of Wulf — had once taken gold from the Church to serve in the Great Purge. As the Western Holy Empire crumbled, the Black Wolves had roamed the land unchecked, preying upon the weak beneath the cover of chaos. They dragged infants from cradles, torched villages, and left only smoke and ruin in their wake. In Baronsworth’s eyes, they were not men, but beasts in human skin — monsters that reveled in suffering, that fed on helplessness like carrion.

  And so Baronsworth hated them with a cold, enduring fury.

  He had never suffered tyrants gladly. There was no sin he loathed more than cruelty dressed as strength — no evil more vile than power used to trample the defenseless. It lit something inside him — not rage that burned hot and reckless, but a relentless, smoldering wrath. It simmered like coals buried deep, ready to flare when the moment called. He took grim pleasure in breaking such men — in reminding them that there existed still those who would stand between wolf and lamb.

  And being himself a child of the Great Star, born during the passage of the comet, the hatred ran even more deep and personal. Had he not been born in the safety of the Sunlands, he too might have been among the slaughtered — just another soul silenced in the dark.

  So when the contract came, the Golden Gryphons accepted it without hesitation.

  To them, this was not merely business. It was justice.

  Baronsworth was brought back to the present by a sudden jolt — the cart lurching slightly as its wheels struck a rise in the cobbled road. His musings slipped away like mist, and he realized Karl had been speaking for some time.

  “It’s amazing, Baronsworth,” Karl was saying. “Time and again you face impossible odds — and every time, you emerge victorious. Like near Caedmun, when they laid that trap for us. We were surrounded, outnumbered... and yet, you led a dozen men behind their lines, carved through their ranks, and cut down their commander. They scattered like frightened deer.”

  “Cut off the head of the snake,” Baronsworth replied, “and the body withers.”

  “Yes. Just like you did with that Orc chieftain. That was a battle to remember! I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many soldiers in one place — or so much blood.”

  “A tide of doom set upon the world,” Baronsworth said, voice cool. “And the moment we drove it back, the petty kings returned to their petty slaughter.”

  Karl chuckled darkly. “Some things never change. But I’ll say this — we’ve had a better life since coming east. The Forlorn Kingdoms were savage. Like that night we were ambushed in camp. They broke through the gates, and there you were — already at the threshold, sword in hand.”

  “As I recall, you and Siegfried stood beside me,” Baronsworth said.

  “Aye — once we heard the fighting. But you faced them alone at first. How did you even know they were coming?”

  “I woke from uneasy dreams,” Baronsworth murmured, his gaze distant. “Stepped out to breathe, to clear my thoughts... The wind was howling, tearing at the tents. That's when I saw the shadows by the gate. No time to raise an alarm, no sign of our sentries. I ran to meet them.”

  “Baronsworth, slaying the invaders in nothing but his nightclothes,” Karl laughed. They shared the moment, the memory a steady flame — forged in blood, but warmed by brotherhood.

  Karl leaned back, rain dripping from the brim of his hood. “It’s truly something, all you’ve done. You’ve overcome odds that would’ve crushed lesser men. I tell you — the gods must favor you, Magnus.”

  Baronsworth’s expression hardened, his voice low. “The things I’ve seen — the horrors I’ve lived through — they haunt me still. If such is their favor... they can keep it.”

  Karl nodded solemnly. “Those trials made you what you are. I’ve no doubt the Fates have something grand in store for you, oh mighty Baron,” he added with a crooked grin.

  At that moment, the prisoner stirred in the back of the cart — groaning and muttering curses, his voice slurred with drink and rage.

  “Where is she? She said she’d come!” he cried, writhing in his bindings like a hooked fish.

  “Hand me the reins,” Baronsworth said, reaching forward. “And do me a favor... shut him up.”

  Karl answered with a swift, well-placed punch that silenced Rorik mid-blasphemy, and the brute slumped into merciful silence. Karl gagged him without ceremony.

  The rain had stopped a while ago. The sky hung low with fog, and the world was quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of wheels on wet stone. Up ahead, the mist thinned — and torchlight flickered through the gloom.

  The camp of the Golden Gryphons lay before them, ringed in palisades and shadow, its fires glowing like embers of hope against the encroaching darkness.

  A sentry called out from atop the gate. “It’s Magnus and Karl. Open up!”

  The gates creaked open, and the cart rumbled through. Baronsworth steered it to the great bonfire that roared before Siegfried’s command tent. Without a word, he hoisted the prisoner over his shoulder and stepped inside.

  Siegfried and several senior Gryphons were already gathered.

  “By the gods, Magnus,” Siegfried said, eyes wide with admiration. “You’ve done it again. I admit, I had doubts about this plan — but you always find a way.”

  Baronsworth dropped the prisoner unceremoniously to the floor. “The gods had nothing to do with it,” he stated, voice cool. “We can thank Isabella for this golden nugget of information, and the sheer stupidity of these drunken fools.”

  He nudged the groaning captive with his boot, forcing him onto his back as he yanked the gag free. “May I present Rorik,” Baronsworth announced, a cruel edge to his tone, “—the Black Wolves' esteemed second-in-command.”

  “Curse you, Magnus!” Rorik spat, struggling to rise.

  Karl stepped forward and drove a boot into his gut. The man folded with a wheeze.

  “Show some respect, filth.” Karl growled.

  Siegfried approached Rorik, kneeling beside him with composed grace. “Listen, my friend,” he began calmly. “I’ve no desire to resort to… unpleasant methods. Barbarity offends my stomach more than my conscience. But not all here share my disposition. Some of my men would relish the chance to exact payment for the hardship you’ve caused us.”

  Rorik sneered and spat in Siegfried’s face. “Shove off, blondie. You’ll get nothing from me.”

  Baronsworth’s jaw clenched. Without a word, he seized Rorik by the hair and dragged him outside. Rain had left the earth slick and steaming; the bonfire still crackled hot and tall. He shoved Rorik’s face close to the flames, the heat curling at his skin.

  “I’ve no time for fools,” Baronsworth said coldly. “Answer our questions, or I swear the beating you received at the tavern will feel like a lover’s caress compared to what’s coming.”

  “Alright, alright!” Rorik choked. “I understand! Please — no more. Mercy, Magnus! Please!”

  Baronsworth threw him back inside the tent like a sack of grain.

  Siegfried approached again, kneeling once more — no malice in his tone, only resolve. “Tell me now, dog. Where is your camp?”

  Panting and defeated, Rorik relented. He gave them the location: a ruined keep, weathered by time and abandon, deep within the woods. When they unfurled the map, he pointed to the exact spot.

  “How many of you?” Siegfried asked.

  “Thousands!” Rorik hissed, a venomous grin splitting his face. “More than enough to gut your sorry little band. But it’s already too late for that. Even if you kill us, a greater plan is in motion. A new Lord rises. Soon all will kneel, or burn.”

  Baronsworth's fist slammed into his face, knocking him cold. Karl stepped forward and hauled the unconscious Rorik out.

  Inside the tent, a low murmur rippled through the Gryphons as the ominous words sank in. Whispers of “a new Lord” and “a greater plan,” coupled with the swollen ranks of their enemy, unsettled even the most seasoned among them.

  “Leave us,” Siegfried commanded. One by one, the men filed out, until only he and Baronsworth remained.

  Siegfried’s voice was low and grave. “This confirms what I feared. The rising banditry across the region — it’s no coincidence. There’s coordination behind it. An invisible hand guiding the chaos.”

  Baronsworth nodded grimly. “An envoy was with them in the tavern—a figure cloaked in shadow, furtive and unnerving, dispensing their instructions and their gold.”

  Siegfried’s eyes narrowed. “An envoy? From whom, I wonder? It would have been… informative to capture him as well.”

  “I have only two hands,” Baronsworth replied, “fully occupied by the matter at hand.”

  “But of course, Magnus.” Siegfried placed a palm on Baronsworth’s shoulder. “I was merely thinking aloud. You did a great job as is; capturing Rorik is already a significant achievement.”

  “Don’t thank me.” Baronsworth shook his head. “The credit belongs to Isabella. Without her, none of this would’ve been possible.”

  “Indeed,” Siegfried chuckled. “Though she’s been brooding around the camp, you know. Upset you wouldn’t let her attend the meeting she so expertly arranged. She was quite determined to deliver Rorik herself.”

  “Not a chance.” Baronsworth shook his head. “She’s capable — but still na?ve. She is unaware of the madness of men such as Rorik. Her charms will only get her so far. For all her guile and cleverness, she is still a child.”

  Siegfried chuckled softly. “Careful not to say that where she might hear you. She’s far more clever than you give her credit for.”

  “She may be clever,” Baronsworth replied. “but she still has much to learn about the world.”

  “Don’t mistake me — I agree with you, Magnus. Sending her into the Wolf’s den would’ve been reckless. Still…” Siegfried leaned back, thoughtful. “I doubt we’ll be able to hold her back much longer. That one has fire, coursing through her veins. Strong-willed. Truly made in your image.”

  He reached for the pitcher on the table and poured two goblets of wine — one for himself, and one he offered to Baronsworth.

  “Regardless,” he went on, “her intelligence was flawless. Rorik showed, just as she said he would. And the rumors are true — the Wolves are indeed preparing to assault Targost. I’ll admit it: I’m impressed.”

  “Men are more likely to spill their secrets to a charming lass than to a torturer in a dungeon,” Baronsworth said, raising the goblet. The wine was rich — from the sun-drenched vineyards of the southern Empire.

  “Indeed.” Siegfried’s brow furrowed, the weight of what lay ahead darkening his gaze. “But to assault Targost? That’s more than bold. No mercenary company has dared attack a walled city without the backing of a noble’s army.”

  “They have outside support,” Baronsworth said. “Gold. Information.”

  Siegfried looked toward the fire. “Yes. But from who, though?”

  “I wonder,” Baronsworth said darkly, “if the same hidden hand that paid for the slaughter of the Starborn children now moves behind these men.”

  Siegfried exhaled sharply. “Don’t lose yourself in shadows and theories. Focus on the facts, on what is — that is troubling enough already.” He drank. “The Count was right to seek us out — this is a threat he cannot face alone.” He allowed himself a thin smile. “Still — it brings some satisfaction. A reckoning long overdue. Just hearing the name ‘Black Wolves’ sets my blood to boil. And now, after all these years… we can finally bring them to heel.”

  Baronsworth’s gaze burned. “All those murdered children will be avenged — by the one they missed.”

  Siegfried raised his goblet slightly. “I like your enthusiasm. But the fact remains — the odds are grim. Even with surprise on our side, and the aid of the Count’s forces, we’re outnumbered. Two to one, at best.”

  Baronsworth turned toward him, voice cold and certain. “Numbers mean nothing when men fight for no cause other than greed. The Wolves are cowards — jackals who prey on the weak, then vanish when faced with real strength.” He smashed his fist into his open palm. “I’ll carve that lesson into their hides myself!”

  Siegfried nodded. “Spoken like a true son of Asturia.”

  The captains and commanders were swiftly summoned, with urgent word dispatched to the Count’s forces, who stood mustered and ready in Targost. The time for action was upon them. Around the map they gathered once more, firelight dancing upon their grim faces as contingencies were discussed, terrain analyzed, and the final plan laid bare.

  What had been devised was bold — reckless, perhaps — but with the information Rorik had unwillingly provided, they had a narrow chance of striking first, and striking true.

  It would be a night remembered — one of blood and glory. The hunt for the Wolves had begun.