2 miles south of Mörlen, the City of Fire

A full-blown storm was underway. 

It was the seventh day of the monsoon that descended upon Pandemonia every five years, but not everyone had the good fortune of being huddled in their homes before a warm fire.

Upon the barren plains trudged a sole figure.

Cloaked under a hooded cape of dark feathers, the stranger made his way amidst the waterlogged grass. His leather boots, soaked through and shrunken with moisture, were far too tight for his blistered feet. Still the rain beat mercilessly, its icy cold fingers streaming past the jet-black feathers of his cloak in fat rivulets.

At first glance, one might dismiss him as just another weary traveller, lost and nearly overcome with fatigue. Lurking bandits might even be drawn to him, enticed by the promise of an easy picking.

But not all was as it seemed.

You see, in the lawless land of Pandemonia where chaos reigned, there were only two kinds of people: the prey, and the ones who prey. It was fairly apparent which of the two this strange traveller was. If anything, the sight of his unmistakeable black feathers was usually enough to stop most villains in their tracks.

The foolish ones who forged ahead, however, were cut down before they could utter their next battle cry. And before death, they were all greeted by the same chilling sight.

For beneath the shadow of the stranger’s heavy, ebony hood shone two bright orbs of gold. They glowed like mesmerising lamps on a dark night, like the eyes of a lean wolf in winter.

Like the eyes of a hawk before it struck.

And as they sang in the ballads of old, to behold the golden gaze of a Nighthawk was to look into the eyes of Death himself.

The tales, colorfully embellished but mostly true, all suited Gael Nighthawk fine and well.

The journey had been fraught with more foes and gods-forsaken checkpoints than he’d bargained for. If mere gossip deterred mindless fools from challenging him and delaying his quests, he’d gladly fan the flames himself.

A cold trail of water unexpectedly seeped past a gap in the feathers, trailing down the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth in irritation and adjusted the package hanging cumbersomely at his side. A quick glance at it assured him that the precious cargo was still securely wrapped in layer upon layer of waxed fabric, safe from the torrential rain.

Just two miles more till he reached the city of Mörlen, where he would hand the damned thing off to the Head Priestess and claim his reward. The first thing he planned to purchase with his gold was a steaming bath and a long-overdue shave.

He ran a hand over his beard, which was a matted and soaked mess by now. He likely resembled a bear instead of the warrior that he was. No—the warrior that he used to be.

To think that just over a decade ago, the Nighthawks had been respected guardians of the realm. Warriors who fought under the banners of the Gods and Goddesses of Pandemonia. No other Clan was as greatly revered or respected as the one led by his father.

He had been but a lad then, but he never once forgot how his father's face had twisted with agony when he realised they had been betrayed by their brother Clan, the Greywulfen. Nor the screams of his kinsmen, his brothers, his mother, as they were cut down by the High Elves who were once their most trusted allies.

His jaw clenched at the memories.

It had taken him ten years to get this far, but at long last, revenge is within grasp.

Upon delivering the cargo, he would receive full immunity for his past crimes. They were a long list, all of which he was admittedly guilty for, except for the one transgression of high treason.

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Once he was a free man, he would reinstate himself as last sole heir and Clanleader of the Nighthawks. Then he’ll set about clearing the tarnished names of his family.

By the time he was through, the sigil of Nighthawk will once more strike fear in the hearts of their enemies and foes. And Jorunn the Wulf, and all those who betrayed his people, will have nowhere left to hide.

Renewed by these thoughts, he strode towards his destination with strengthened footsteps.

The city itself stood in the middle of a valley, protected on two sides by mountain ranges. In the distance, he could just barely make out the silhouette of Mörlen’s famed keep. The towering limestone turrets were so tall they seemed to part the grey curtain of rain that thundered as far as his eyes could see. As he drew nearer, the castle came into starker focus, and surrounding it, the pale yellow stone buildings of the city.

He heard tales of the City of Fire before. Every warrior in Pandemonia knew of the legends that surrounded the Mörlennites and their viciousness in battle. In fact, one of the first tests as an apprentice warrior was a simulated battle with a Priest or Priestess of Fire.

In this monstrous storm, however, Mörlen looked almost...average.

He frowned. If he was to be completely honest, this city was damned disappointing.

The marketplace, for one, was utterly deserted. Large wicker baskets lay upturned on their sides, their contents spilled across the cobblestone roads. Bruises apples, tomatoes and other produce scattered the area, as though their owners had fled in a hurry.

Which they likely did, at the first sign that the monsoon storm was upon them. He knew exactly what they had seen that put them in such a state of panic. Rolling clouds of dark grey and black that obscured the sky, lower and more ominous than any other storm cloud. The sudden departure of sunlight, the swift wind that broke the trees and tore the roofs of huts.

He strode past more abandoned stalls and through the neighbourhood, where the windows of every house were tightly shuttered, probably bolted from the inside as well.

It was nearly an hour later when he finally arrived at a massive stone bridge.

Mörlen Keep stood on the other end of the bridge, where two watchtowers extended on either side of a portcullis. The enormous iron gate looked capable of holding back a thousand men, which did not surprise him in the least. The Mörlennites were famed not just for their unholy fire, but also their mistrustful natures.

The area around the castle was wrapped in an eerie shroud of grey mist, and his ears captured only the sound of rain pattering on the ground around him.

But he wasn't fooled. In fact, he’d be surprised if there were less than a hundred pairs of eyes on him right this moment.

A prickling sensation lifted the hairs on the back of his neck as he made his way across the bridge. The feeling of being watched sent his every nerve on high-alert, but still he continued, the thuds of his boots echoing in the silence.

Suddenly, he heard a soft swish. He leapt backwards and unsheathed his blade in a single motion.

Thwack! An arrow impaled itself in the stone ground before him.

He lifted an eyebrow. If it had been any other man, the arrow would have been lodged in his skull. Clearly he was dealing with a hostile bunch.

“Show your face, stranger!” A voice shouted from the top of the watchtower.

Gael pulled back his hood with his free hand. “I’m no enemy. I come bearing a prize.”

He lifted the side of his cloak to reveal the wrapped package at his side. “The sword that was stolen from your castle two hundred years ago. I have retrieved it, and I’m here to claim my reward.”

A long pause, then: “How do we know you are telling the truth?”

Gael exhaled shortly. He did not journey for months nor fight a damned basilisk only to be interrogated at the gates like a beggar.

“I can show it to you, if you insist.” Blinking the rain out of his eyes, he began to unwind the cord that holds the package at his waist. “Though I doubt your Priestess will be thrilled to learn that the Dragon’s Ember was extinguished by rainwater, of all things, just before it was to be returned after two centuries. Hell, she might even burn the lot of you alive, but that's none of my business.”

“Wait!”

His lips twisted into a smile as his hands halted in their unwrapping. “Yes?”

“Let him through!” came a call from the top of the walls.

A moment later, there was a groaning of metal, and the heavy portcullis rose just enough for a man to slip under.

Gael sheathed his blade, and made his way to the other side of the gate. The moment he was through, the gate slammed down behind him with a deafening crash.

Before him lay a stone courtyard large enough to hold an entire battalion, he had barely had time to admire it before he was approached by a lone figure in a dark red robe. The person said simply, “Come with me.”

As Gael followed him down the dark passageway to the right, a savage thrill coursed through him, so strong that he could almost taste it. The revenge he has sought for the last ten years will finally be his. Only a matter of days left before he tore Jorunn’s head from his neck.

He felt his eyes turn gold once again with simmering hate, and his heart thundered with anticipation.

For he knew that those glowing eyes will be the last thing the traitors saw, as the light in their own ones faded away.