The rain had been a constant companion, but as they trudged up the final stretch of the path, it seemed to fall with a new intensity—as if trying to scour the grave soil from their hands.
Jamandi Aldori’s manor loomed above them, a sprawling fortress of pale stone and dark timber. Under normal circumstances, approaching such a fortified hold would have set their nerves on edge; every glowing window a potential ambush, every shadow a concealed threat. But exhaustion had hollowed them out, leaving no room for caution. They didn’t care what the summons entailed, nor did they have the energy to question the politics of the Swordlords. All that mattered was that the doors in front of them were real, they were finally within reach, and they desperately wanted to get inside.
As they neared the grand entrance, a figure standing sentinel by the heavy oak doors drew their attention. She was familiar, a face seen across the chaos of campfires and the grim assembly of war councils. But where they were broken and muddied, she stood like a statue carved from granite, utterly immovable. The driving rain seemed to slide off her without consequence, and she bore no signs of the road’s weariness. She was an imposing sight—terrifying to her enemies, certainly—but here, standing guard against the storm, she looked like an unstoppable force, and strangely, a welcome one.
She was a woman of deceptively slender build, dressed in worn black hide from head to toe, her black hair braided in a single thick rope down her back. But what truly defined her was the axe. Leaning point-first into the muddy ground beside her, it was a grotesque thing of scarred, fire-hardened metal, a blade nearly as tall as she was. It looked less like a weapon and more like a tool for felling gods.
Gassi, his tattered clothes plastered to his frame, shambled forward. “Hello, Maven,” he said, his gaze fixed on the weapon. “Still have that wood-splitter, I see.”
Maven’s blue eyes glinted. With a flick of her wrist that belied its impossible weight, she plucked the axe from the ground, spun it once as if it were a toy, and rested it on her shoulder. “I do,” she said, her voice a low contralto. “You all look terrible. See a ghost or something?”
“Something like that,” Aurelio murmured, running a tired hand through his wet hair. He eyed her clean leathers with a mix of relief and confusion. “We thought you were dead. We thought… everyone was dead.”
Maven shook her head. “I was vanguard. The Captain sent me ahead to scout the northern ridge three days ago. By the time I circled back to the camp… there was no camp.” Her expression darkened, a flicker of pain crossing her stoic features. “I tracked your trail to the village, but the tracks were old. I figured the survivors would eventually make their way here, to the summons. I’ve been waiting for two days.”
“Then we are all that’s left of the banner,” Zogg stated, looking at the small group.
Maven nodded grimly. “It would seem so.”
Zogg, the green-skinned orc, stood with rigid discipline despite the news, looking every bit the warrior even through the grime. His horn-studded brow was set hard, and his fine Aldori dueling sword was a stark contrast to the mud caking his boots.
“Do you know what happened?” Maven asked, her gaze drifting toward Gassi. “Does he know?”
“Oh, he knows,” Nym grumbled. He leaned heavily on his bark-wood cane, lilac eyes narrowing against the rain. “The problem, as ever, is getting it out of him in a language that resembles mundane logic.”
“He mentioned a ‘singing thief,’” Zogg added. “If that means anything to you?”
Maven snorted a laugh. “Can’t say that it does. Sounds exactly like him, though.” Her amusement faded into a sigh. “I suppose we know nothing, then.”
“Of course we know,” Gassi said, a strange light in his flickering eyes. “It is as clear as a mirror made of water.”
“Let’s discuss mirrors and ghosts inside,” Maven said, gesturing toward the doors. “I’m tired of the rain.”
The guards at the door were polite but firm, their polished armor a world away from the company’s battered gear. Zogg presented the scroll—Jamandi’s invitation. The guards nodded, their eyes lingering for a moment on the second scroll tucked into his belt, the one with the identical wax seal, before stepping aside to grant them entry.
The warmth that washed over them was a physical shock.
The Great Hall was immense, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat, honeyed mead, and woodsmoke from a fireplace large enough to hold a carriage. Two massive crystal chandeliers hung from the high, beamed ceiling, casting a glittering light over nine long tables set for a feast. The walls were covered in painted murals of idyllic woodland scenes: nymphs frolicking by waterfalls, fawns dancing in sun-dappled glades, winged fey flitting through ancient trees.
Yet for all the preparation, no food had yet been served. The hall was filled with dozens of adventurers of every shape and size, their low chatter a restless hum beneath the crackle of the fire.
They took in the assembly. Gassi’s wandering eyes noted a cadre of warriors sitting apart from the rest, their discipline a palpable thing. Their uniforms bore the insignia of the Iron Wraiths, a mercenary company whose reputation for brutal efficiency was leagues beyond the tattered memory of the Black Banner. When the Wraiths were called, it meant the situation was dire.
Gassi watched them for a long moment, tilting his head like a bird listening for a worm in the earth. Before Zogg or Nym could stop him, he drifted over to their table.
“The angle is wrong,” Gassi said to the commander, pointing a dirty finger at the man’s hip. “Your belt. It fights the bone. If you shift it two inches back, the steel sings one second sooner. Seconds are very expensive currencies to waste.”
The commander, a man with eyes like chips of flint, looked Gassi up and down with sneering disdain. He didn’t even uncross his arms. “Walk away, vagrant, before I give you a personal demonstration of my draw.”
Gassi simply shrugged, as if the man had refused a free apple. “The bone will tell you eventually,” he mumbled, wandering back to his companions.
Moments after the party found seats, a hush fell over the hall.
A striking half-elf woman entered, followed by an aristocratic, middle-aged human. The man was dressed in the fine silks of a noble, but it was the woman who commanded the room. She wore a fine leather coat over a shirt of sparkling mail, and at her hip hung an Aldori dueling sword with a bright silver pommel. Their path to the head table was a wake of silence.
The man spoke first. “Greetings, heroes. I am Lord Iosif Salomanias, Lord Mayor of Restov.” He gestured to the woman beside him. “And this is Lady Jamandi Aldori. We thank you for answering her call.”
Jamandi stepped forward, her voice clear and strong, cutting through the hall’s thick air.
“You may be few, but we need only the best. To the south, beyond Brevoy’s borders, lie the Stolen Lands. A disputed territory, a haven for bandits and monsters. Restov intends for this to change.”
Her gaze swept across the room, sharp and assessing. “If you have the courage to drive off the dangerous denizens of those lands, you can seize the territory for yourselves. Name yourselves its barons and baronesses. Restov will recognize your rule. We will be your trade partner, your military ally.”
She raised her glass. “For now, let us eat and enjoy the evening. Tomorrow promises to be a very busy day.”
With that, servants bustled forward, and the feast began.
The hall erupted in a cacophony of clanking mugs and conversation. It was an opportunity to measure the competition, and Gassi, ever the observer, was the first to move. He pointed discreetly to a woman at another table. “There’s one with a toothpick that matches your wood-splitter,” he said to Maven.
The woman in question was a barbarian named Amiri. She was tall and powerfully built, clad in furs and hide, with a greatsword strapped to her back that made Maven’s axe look almost reasonable. She was loud, brash, and clearly unimpressed by the veneer of civility.
“That milksop?” she scoffed, jerking her chin toward Aurelio. “He’d struggle to lift a butter knife.” She then unslung her own massive blade and offered it hilt-first to the nobleman. “Here. See if you can lift it.”
Challenged before the room, Aurelio had no choice. He stood, wiped his hands on a fine, gold-threaded handkerchief, and took the sword. He strained, his face flushing, and managed to heave the weapon off the floor. But it was clear to everyone that wielding it in a fight was an impossibility. The guards shifted nervously, and Aurelio handed the sword back with as much grace as he could muster.
Nym, meanwhile, had placed a bet on Aurelio’s failure with Zogg and now pocketed a gold coin with a smirk.
Maven, seeing a kindred spirit, approached Amiri. They spoke of battle and scars, their voices low and intense. The conversation ended, as such conversations often do, with a challenge. An arm-wrestling match was declared, and coins began to change hands around the table. The contest was fierce, but Amiri’s brute strength won out. Maven lost graciously, clapping the other barbarian on the shoulder.
“A fair match. I’ll get you next time.” A nod of respect passed between them.
The party drifted, mingling and gathering information. Aurelio found a like-minded soul in a pragmatic nobleman named Maegar Varn, who spoke of building a new, civilized town in the wildlands. Zogg, meanwhile, had the misfortune of sitting with Tartuccio, a small, insufferably arrogant gnome who declared himself the only person in the room fit to rule the Stolen Lands.
Gassi, guided by his strange intuition, found himself speaking to a quiet, cloaked elf named Jae about the “ghost” that had summoned them. When he tried to share the experience more directly, placing a hand on her arm to send a flicker of his memories, she recoiled, startled by the casual invasion. Nym, ever the diplomat for Gassi’s madness, hurried over to smooth things over, his erudite explanations of esoteric phenomena calming the rattled elf and impressing a nearby halfling bard named Linzi.
It was Zogg who made the boldest move.
He strode to the head table where Lady Jamandi and Lord Iosif were seated. Without a word, he placed the second scroll—the one from the dying man on the road—before her, then turned on his heel and walked away. A faint ripple of confusion passed over Jamandi’s face as she looked at the unbroken seal, but she said nothing.
As the evening wound down, Jamandi rose once more. “My friends,” she said, her voice ringing with authority. “You honor me, but this night is for you. The heroes I hope you will prove to be. Tomorrow, I will grant the charters. A kingdom awaits its conquerors.” She smiled. “My servants will show you to your chambers. Rest well.”
The manor settled into a heavy, wine-soaked slumber. The rain had softened to a rhythmic drumming against the stone, a lullaby that effectively masked the approach of soft-soled boots in the hallway.
In their shared chamber, the fire had burned down to embers, casting long, wavering shadows across the floor. For a few hours, there was peace.
Then, the silence broke. It didn’t crack; it shattered.
The heavy door splintered inward with a violence that shook the dust from the ceiling. Wood groaned and iron shrieked as the barricade gave way. Shadows poured into the room—silhouettes detached from the darkness, blades glinting with malicious intent in the faint light from the corridor.
They had caught the party sleeping, but they had not counted on Maven.
Before the first intruder had taken two steps into the room, she was moving. Not waking, but exploding from her bedroll in a single, fluid motion. There was no conscious thought, only the pure, instinctual fury of a cornered predator. A guttural roar ripped from her throat as she entered her rage, her heart pounding like a war drum in the sudden silence.
Her great axe was a blur. The first assassin’s head left his shoulders in a wet arc, his body collapsing a moment later. She swung again at the next man, the huge weapon whistling through the air, but her bare feet slipped on the stone floor, and the blow went wide, gouging plaster from the wall.
The room descended instantly into violence.
Gassi’s hands glowed, and a nearby flowerpot lifted into the air, wobbling menacingly toward the intruders. Zogg’s hands crackled with power as he prepared a spell, the magic weaving around the steel of his Aldori blade. Aurelio, fumbling with the buckles of his breastplate in the dark, swore and reached for his flail.
From Nym’s cane, a thin, needle-like blade slid free. He was a whisper of motion, darting around the larger combatants, his small size an advantage in the close quarters. Zogg unleashed his spellstrike, his sword biting deep into an assassin’s side, the blade delivering both steel and arcane shock.
The fight was brutal, clumsy, and short. The assassins were professionals, but they were not prepared for the raw violence of five desperate survivors. In less than a minute, it was over. The only things moving in the room were the levitating flowerpot and the rhythmic dripping of blood onto the cold stone.
Stepping into the hall, they found a slaughterhouse. Dead guards lay where they had fallen. The screams and sounds of fighting echoed from the west wing of the manor. They moved as one now, a grim unit forged in ambush and confusion.
They swept through the halls, kicking in doors. One room held the corpses of five adventurers they’d seen at the feast, murdered in their sleep. Another was empty, but for the blood spattered across the beds. Gassi threw open a set of double doors and froze.
Beyond was not a room, but a garden—an impossible, indoor sanctuary of mossy stones, exotic flowers, and a gurgling stream that flowed through the center, spanned by two delicate stone bridges. And from the shadows of the strange, beautiful trees, more assassins emerged, their crossbows leveled.
Arrows flew. The party charged in, the fight spilling across the damp moss and stone pathways. Maven’s leap carried her over the stream in a single bound. Gassi unleashed a lance of divine light that struck one of the crossbowmen. The man melted with a shriek, his flesh running like wax in the sudden, holy fire. The sight was so horrifying that even Nym, who had seen Gassi’s strange power before, took an involuntary step back.
They found themselves fighting toward the north of the manor, following the sounds of the greatest commotion. Zogg kicked in the doors to a large reading room to find a scene of singular chaos.
The little halfling bard, Linzi, was crouched behind an overturned table, a bloody dagger clutched in her hand. Towering over her was an ogre, roaring in fury, blood streaming from its eyes where she had clearly stabbed at it.
The fight was a desperate thing. The ogre was a creature of brute force, its massive meathook of a weapon swinging in wide, deadly arcs. Zogg met it head-on, his spell-infused blade clashing against the ogre’s hook. Maven bellowed a challenge and charged, but the creature, blinded by its own blood, barely seemed to notice. It swung wildly, a backhand blow catching Maven in the chest and sending her crashing to the floor, unconscious.
Gassi saw her fall. He reached out, his hands radiant, pouring healing energy into her broken form. Aurelio saw an opening; he darted in and slammed his flail into the creature’s knee. The ogre buckled, turning its enraged, bleeding face toward the paladin, only to find Zogg before it.
The orc’s blade flashed—a perfect strike that bit deep into the ogre’s chest. The brute shuddered, took one last gurgling breath, and crashed to the floor.
Linzi crawled out from the wreckage, shaken but alive. “He missed you,” she told Zogg, trembling, “most likely because I stabbed him in the eye.”
Their night of blood was not over. As they helped Maven to her feet, they heard new sounds from the north—a kitchen area, by the looks of it. A crash, a roar, and a blast of numbing cold that frosted the stone doorway.
Aurelio peeked around the frame and paled. “Gods above,” he whispered.
Framed in the doorway to the kitchens, standing over the bodies of a dozen slain household staff, was a frost giant. It turned its head, its eyes like chips of ancient ice, and fixed its gaze upon them. From deep in the manor, something else bellowed—a sound like a mournful, angry elephant.