Ancient bones and armour rested peaceful in the lush Dromahair Forest. Bones not of armies or mercenaries, but of heroes, felled by a being of such immense strength that they would never comprehend. It had no name, no purpose.

Woodland animals pranced and chased about, ignorant to the latent power standing motionless amongst them. It towered amidst the trees, its skin delicate and translucent, coloured of grey wood, stretched tight across long, black bones. It bore no eyes, nose, ears, nor mouth, merely a hollow shell. A pair of mated birds sat on its shoulder, lulling it with their practiced birdsong. A light breeze caressed the treetops, loosing the first autumn leaf. The spindly creature watched without eyes as the leaf drifted slowly by. Summer had passed, and soon would come the harvest.

A deep croak curdled within the beast’s belly. The once playful wildlife shook and fled as the croaking grew louder—more powerful—each creak a percussive blast battering against the hardwood trees. Its body convulsed violently, flailing its elongated arms about itself until a final ungodly roar reverberated into the sky.

Worne, a broad, greying man craned his thick neck. The passing breeze bristled his full brows and moustache, but carried more than just the cold. His horse huffed as he pulled at the reins, and listened. Something stirred awake in the woods, but it was not for him to put to rest. It had been a long journey and he had a job to do.

The dwindling twilight was exacerbated this far north. Heavy fog often plagued the king’s road at dawn, and that day was no different. Worne rode through the night; he wasn’t paid to sleep, and at his age, sleep was already fleeting enough. His gaze fell slowly forward, the distant roar already in the back of his mind, instead replaced by the clattering of bottles and jars secured in the large chest mounted behind him.

Ahead, through the veil of morning fog, several figures surrounded a dark shadow. The shadow appeared submissive, showing no signs of struggle despite its circumstances. As he neared, Worne could make out the silhouettes of men mounted on horseback, overseeing the tableau from the king’s road. The men were clad in castle-forged steel, their capes brandishing the green and yellow insignia of Worne’s destination.

“Halt,” the man on the tallest horse commanded. “On your way to Gildaun, good sir?” His voice was lilted and high-pitched, not the kind Worne had expected from a high-ranking officer

“Not much else around.” Worne grunted.

“I suppose not. Well then, that’s lovely news indeed. We hardly get so many travelers up this way.” The man seemed chipper, in fact, all the men on horseback seemed in oddly high spirits.

“Don’t make me ask again, sir. Would ya spread your legs apart, if it please ya,” said another trebled voice, sounding as if spoken by a woman. Worne turned to the voice, it was a woman, dressed as a city guard along with the rest. She was crouched at the feet of the surrounded shadow; a man with skin black as charcoal. The man was young, some might say still a boy, yet his skin was rough, speckled with ash-like pockmarks. His arms were shackled, the woman still working at his feet. Worne had neither seen a female guard nor a man as black of skin before.

“Just don’t go making trouble for us like this one there. Murdered a whole village if you’d believe it,” said the man with the flowery voice.

Worne examined the young man’s sorrow expression.

“I don’t,” he grumbled, then kicked his horse, leaving the small army of city guards and the young man behind him.

The ride to the town of Gildaun was short, the sun’s light was still golden by the time of Worne’s arrival. Wooden houses with thatched roofs littered the lands as the forest thinned, and merged closer together as he drew near the town’s center. But Worne has spotted something far behind the village, something he’d have easily spotted earlier if he’d expected to see it. It was a wall—a massive one—built entirely of stone. Such a feature was typically reserved for only the wealthiest of cities and castles. By all accounts, however, Gildaun was supposed to be a small, poor town, with no more than a few hundred people. How could it be, Worne came to wonder, that such a city was unknown to him?

As he passed through the city’s gates, the town’s true beauty and scale revealed itself. Gildaun was not the home to hundreds, but thousands, possibly tens, with bustling streets, and lively trade. Most of the buildings were made of a coarse, stony, pale concrete, none the likes Worne had ever seen. The steep roofs were shingled with pale pink clay plates, sloped downward to prevent the collection of rain or snow. Even the roads were sturdy and smooth. Worne wasn’t one to admire beauty, but he appreciated a well-built road and skilled craftsmanship.

In the distance, however, stood the true beauty: a castle, white as chalk, not to be admired for its size, but for its utter absence of complication. The grace of the city would appear entirely discordant if not for the castle’s simple elegance. A fact, of which, Worne would never come to know.

There was no creak when Worne entered the tavern, the large, clinking chest secured tightly in his hands. He wanted to close the door more slowly to test its quality, but was too encumbered to do so. He made a mental note of it for when he later left. The tavern was well decorated and designed with purpose, with wide arches, sturdy wooden supports, and dried, seasonal flower wreaths.

“Oh my,” a hearty woman said, throwing a rag over her shoulder. “Almost mistook you for a bull there, big man.”

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“I’m looking for a woman named Madwen. Short, white hair, silver jewelry. Said she’d be here.”

“You’re with that omen-woman then, eh?”

“She rent one of your rooms or not, wench?”

The tavern wench flipped her thin copper hair and raised an eyebrow. “First off, big man, I’m the owner of this fine tavern, not some wench, so I’m expecting you to address me properly. Second, I offered her our private room, aye, but she insisted on using our cellar if you can believe it. Strange woman that one, but I s’pose that’s part of her kind, meanin’ no offense of course.”

Worne maintained his permanent scowl. “I have business with her.”

“You don’t say!” The tavern keeper widened her eyes mockingly. “Come, follow me then, big man. Though I doubt you’ll fit seeing as to the size of you.” A jestful fact, but an accurate one.

With heavy footsteps, Worne clambered down the cellar’s steep, narrow stairs. He squeezed his arms and shoulders down through the cellar door; one never designed to accommodate men of his stature. Worne came to rest at the bottom of the stairs, staring into the dank room.

“I take it Aston delivered my list. Did you find everything?” Madwen stood with her back towards Worne, fumbling through the pages of a large tome. She was softly lit by an unseen white light sparkling about the stone cellar, her frizzy, white ponytail glowing in the paleness of it all.

“Come, place it all on the table,” she said, sweeping several items aside. Every movement of her hands rattled the assortment of plain silver bracelets that burdened her wrists. Worne stepped over a broken line of salt at the room’s entrance.

“Still can barely read your writing,” said Worne. The chest made a heavy *thunk* as he placed it on the sturdy table.

Madwen stared at him momentarily, unimpressed. “You’ll learn.” Her eyes were heavy with exhaustion and smudged dark makeup, adding another decade to her already mature face. She rummaged though the chest.

“The darkblood weren’t where you said it’d be.”

“Nonsense, I never separate my bloods. It should have been with all the rest.”

“Was in the apothecary.”

“On the table?” Madwen asked. Worne stared. “Yes. Well, I must have left it there after the Céincéile incident.” Madwen lifted the small, brown, darkblood vial into the gleaming light, noting it’s missing label. “It’s a wonder you found it at all,” she said.

“You needed the job done. It’s done.” Worne turned to leave.

“And where are you off to?” Madwen watched Worne over her shoulder. He stopped at the salt-line.

“Been a long trip. Need a drink.”

“You can drink when we’re finished here. I appreciate it's been a long journey, but I have more need of your services.”

“Better not be another delivery.”

“Indeed not. I need you to speak with the lord of this fiefdom. He's called ‘Daithi,’ no doubt you saw the castle on your way in.”

Worne grumbled. “Not so good with speakin’. Haven’t seen him yourself?”

“If only I could, but I need to continue my research.”

“Seems like a lot o’ work to hunt fairies and pixies.”

“You should consider yourself lucky. Two moons and the worst you’ve seen is a mangy dog, but we’re dealing with something real this time.” That caught Worne’s attention.

“Go on then.”

“I wish I had more information, but I still need time to make sense of it all.”

“Huh, thought you’d have more by now.”

Madwen gestured generally to the table laden with various experiments and apparatuses. “Sometimes you need to figure out what something isn't, before you know what it is. I know what it isn't, hell I know a thousand things it isn't, but the only things left that it could be, however…” She felt a great pressure pulling down on her. “They’re dark, Worne. Sinister”

The roar in the woods tickled Worne’s mind once more. The pair’s relationship had always been professional and Madwen was never one to embellish. When he watched her speak about whatever dark evil she believed was about, with her unwashed clothes and sunken eyes, he knew there was real danger about.

“Then we should get out there. Hunt it.”

“Hmm, yes, and how do you propose we do so?”

“If it’s as dark as you say, then it should come out if we make enough noise.”

“If only it were that simple. I’m telling you, this isn’t some jealous love-sprite or mischievous humble-cat. Do you remember what we did in Slyzch?”

Worn nodded. “Paskies.”

“And do you remember the experiment?”

“You lit a powder and asked me the colour o’ the flame. Said it reacted with magic in the air.” Madwen raised an eyebrow. This felt like a test. “Blue flame, blue smoke, black residue.”

Madwen turned and dragged a flat, stone plate across the table. Worne approached, watching carefully. Most people would go an entire lifetime not once seeing a single ounce of magic, but Madwen performed it on a daily basis so casually that it had lost almost all whimsy. On the stone plate was a peppering of white powder and shiny flakes.

“Saltpeter and flakes of aluminium,” she said, bringing a dim flame close to the compound. The substances sparked and fizzled violently, then… nothing. Madwen looked to Worne, awaiting his observation.

“No flame, no smoke, no residue. What’s it mean?”

Madwen crossed her arms and leaned against the table, this was the mystery she’d been dealing with for several days now.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “Every experiment I could think of has ended like this. It's not that they're yielding faulty results, it's that they're yielding none. You may as well ask me to record the color of the air, or the taste of water.”

“And you want me to tell the lord this?”

“Now that you've brought me some proper materials, I can finally start some real research, but I'll need time. Normally, I'd investigate the city myself, but I need you to speak with Daithi. Don't tip your hand about anything we know so far. Who knows how he’d react. We need to know it he’s hiding anything, and by the looks of this city, there should at least be something suspicious about him. A place like this doesn’t get built without making a few sacrifices.”

“Fine,” Worne grunted. “Get some rest while I’m here. You look like shit.”

Madwen gave a single laugh. “Perhaps later, there’s work to be done.”

Even without the chest, Worne’s lumbering steps caused the stairs to bend under his weight. Madwen could hear the Tavernkeep’s flirtatious voice through the ceiling, accosting Worne as he left the tavern, pausing at the front door before doing so.

Madwen dragged her multi-coloured nails down her face. Finally, the supplies she’d needed so desperately were here, but she felt a fierce fatigue overcoming her.

Something shifted. The mystical, sparkling light within the cellar flickered. Madwen’s eyes darted, but saw nothing. Every day since she’d arrived had been like this; whispers in the dark, shadows just out of view. She instinctively reached for a jar of salt, but abandoned the endeavor. At every attempt, any salt-line she drew was instantly broken before her eyes. She knew none of the precious, rare minerals or herbs that Worne delivered would make any difference.

Madwen stretched her neck and pulled the last item from the chest, a thick tome titled: “Relics, Demons, and Demigods: Detection and Eradication.”