Chapter 1: The Edge of the Blade

The cold wind howled through the narrow streets of Valeshire, a bustling town nestled at the edge of the kingdom’s borders. A thin mist clung to the cobbled roads, creeping into the alleyways like a silent assassin. It was a place where the smoke of the smithies mixed with the scent of fresh bread, and the cries of merchants hawking their wares mingled with the chatter of common folk. Yet, despite the town’s noisy surface, something beneath it all felt wrong.

A shadow moved through the mist. It was a man—tall, with a coat of weathered leather and a face obscured by the collar turned high. His footsteps were slow but deliberate, his eyes scanning the buildings, the passersby, and the rooftops above. He moved like someone who had learned to blend into the shadows, as though his very presence was an intrusion upon the world around him.

Orin’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword, and for a moment, the faint weight of steel gave him comfort. It was a cold comfort, though. His sword had been his constant companion for years, ever since that night when everything he had once cared about had burned to the ground. His thoughts drifted, but he shook them off. He wasn’t here for that. Not today.

“Orin,” a voice called out, low and cautious.

He turned to face the speaker, his expression unreadable. A young woman stood before him, wrapped in a faded cloak. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty, but there was no mistaking the determination beneath them.

“Kira,” Orin said, his voice a low rasp. “What are you doing here?”

She hesitated for a moment before stepping closer. “I heard they were looking for you. The men from the east.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes darting to the shadows. “They’re not far behind.”

Orin nodded, his gaze drifting briefly toward the distant town gate. It was late, and most of the market had already closed. Only a few stragglers remained—drunkards, thieves, and those who didn’t mind the darkness. He was used to being hunted. He’d been hunted for years.

“I thought I’d be safe here,” he said, the words more to himself than to Kira. He was lying, of course. There was nowhere in the kingdom where he could truly escape them.

Kira stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “You have to leave, Orin. They’ll find you if you stay. They always do.”

He looked at her, his gaze softening for a brief moment. She was young, too young for the dangers that surrounded them both. But Kira had proven useful, had shown courage when others might have faltered. He had come to trust her, though he often wondered why. What did she see in him? A protector? A companion? Or just someone with a skill set that could keep her alive?

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But that wasn’t the question now.

“We don’t have time,” he said sharply. “Get back to the inn, Kira. I’ll handle it.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you to face them alone.” Her voice was firm, defiant even, but Orin could hear the fear in her tone. She was scared. They both were.

Orin ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing the strands back from his forehead. He had known this was coming. The whispers had been getting louder for weeks—the mysterious figure known only as The Huntsman, a man with a ruthless reputation who served the powerful guild pulling the strings in Valeshire and beyond. They had been watching him, waiting for him to slip. Orin had made too many enemies in his time, and now, one of those enemies had finally tracked him down.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But stay out of my way.”

Kira nodded and backed away, though the concern in her eyes remained. Orin didn’t like it. He didn’t like anyone caring about him. It made things more complicated. And complications had a way of getting people killed.

As he turned to walk down the misty alley, his hand again rested on the sword at his side. There was something about this night that felt different—he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was no ordinary pursuit. These men weren’t just after him for his past mistakes. They were after something much bigger.

The clang of metal against stone echoed from behind him. Orin’s heart skipped a beat. The unmistakable sound of booted feet following too closely. The Huntsman’s men.

They had found him.

Orin’s pulse quickened, but his face remained impassive. He had spent his life preparing for moments like this, though he had always hoped they would stay in the realm of possibility, not reality. A whisper of regret brushed his mind, but he suppressed it. There was no time for second thoughts.

He moved quickly, his feet silent on the cobblestones as he slipped into a narrow street that led deeper into the town. He needed to think. Where could he hide? Where could he lose them?

But the answer was always the same—nowhere. Not in Valeshire. Not with them watching.

His eyes darted to a nearby building. The old blacksmith’s shop, long abandoned, its windows boarded up. It could be a good place to make a stand, to fight. Or maybe it could be a trap. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. The fight was coming either way.

Without another glance back, he pushed through the door of the blacksmith’s shop, his movements swift and practiced. The inside was a mess of rusted tools and remnants of the shop’s once-thriving trade. The smell of iron and coal still lingered in the air, though the forge had long been cold.

The door creaked behind him. Orin froze.

"Come out, Orin," a voice called from the street. Deep, familiar. It was the Huntsman’s voice.

Orin gritted his teeth. They knew exactly where he was. They had been following him, studying him, waiting for him to make a mistake.

“You don’t have to die tonight,” the Huntsman said, his voice sliding through the cracks of the shop. “You’re a man with skills. Useful skills. Join us. Serve the Guild, and we’ll let your little family be. Resist, and you’ll see what happens to those who stand in the way.”

Orin didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He didn’t have time to indulge in negotiations. Not when he knew what the Huntsman really meant. The Guild didn’t just want his skills—they wanted him to become a tool, a pawn in their web of power. It was what they did with everyone they could control.

And Orin would never be their pawn.

He drew his sword, the metal gleaming faintly in the dim light. His grip tightened on the hilt, his stance steady.

“You should leave, Huntsman,” he muttered under his breath. “Before you force me to make you leave.”

Laughter echoed from the other side of the door. It was low, mocking. “You’re brave, Orin. But bravery won’t save you tonight.”

The door burst open with a deafening crash. The Huntsman’s men poured in, their heavy armor clanging as they rushed toward him. But Orin was already in motion, his sword a blur of silver in the darkness. He struck first, his blade slicing through the air with precision, cutting down the first of the attackers before they could even raise their weapons. The fight was messy, brutal, and short. Orin’s instincts took over, his body moving like it had been trained for this very moment. But even as he struck down the men one by one, his mind remained sharp. He knew this wouldn’t be enough. It never was.

And then, just as the last man fell to the ground, Orin heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the shadows behind him.

The Huntsman had arrived.

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