The city stank of rot and desperation.

Therin was a corpse masquerading as a city, its veins clogged with narrow streets where ash clung like a second skin, filth pooling in the corners, and the stench of too many bodies packed into walls that whispered of decay. The air was thick with the tang of decay, mingling with the faint, bitter traces of burnt herbs and cheap oils meant to mask the inevitable—the slow, suffocating death of a place long past saving.

The city was a patchwork of forgotten empires, its stones worn smooth by the passage of feet that no longer carried hope. Cracked statues of gods long dead watched from crumbling pedestals, their faces eroded beyond recognition, their hollow eyes staring into the void of history. Rusted iron gates hung crooked on their hinges, marking boundaries that meant nothing anymore. The markets were little more than gatherings of desperate souls trading food scraps, rusted tools, and whispered rumors. Cloth awnings, once vibrant, now sagged with mildew, and the cobblestones beneath them were slick with grime and streaked with the dark stains of old blood.

Eira moved through it like a ghost, unseen and untouched by choice. She was a shadow wrapped in worn, dark linen, a cloak frayed at the edges trailing behind her like the ghost of better days. The weight of her satchel dug into her shoulder, filled with vials of bitter tinctures, dried herbs, and small blades tucked between folds of cloth. Not for protection. Protection implied hope. No, the blades were tools—precise instruments for cutting away rot, whether in the flesh or the hearts of men.

Her figure was lean, honed by years of necessity rather than vanity, a testament to surviving rather than thriving. Dark brown hair, often tied back with a simple leather cord, escaped in loose strands around a sharp, angular face. Her skin, fair but kissed by sun and dust, bore faint scars—tiny reminders of moments she'd almost lost. Her eyes were the color of storm clouds, gray flecked with green, sharp and cold, always searching, always measuring. There was no softness in her gaze, no invitation—just the cool detachment of someone who had learned that caring was the first step toward breaking.

Hope withered faster than flesh when left out in the open.

"You got anything for this?" a ragged voice called from the shadows, a man holding up a festering wound wrapped in filthy cloth. His eyes met hers—desperate, pleading.

"Silver first," Eira said, her tone flat. No sympathy. Just business.

He cursed under his breath as she kept walking, his voice lost to the noise of the dying city.

Her apothecary shop sat wedged between a butcher’s stall and an abandoned chapel, its sign faded beyond recognition, swinging on rusted chains that creaked with every breath of wind. The sign bore the faint outline of a vine wrapped around a single droplet of blood, almost indistinguishable beneath layers of grime. "Vein & Vine" was carved into the weathered wood, the name a quiet testament to her belief that life and death were always entwined, like roots digging into the same soil.

The door groaned in protest as she pushed it open. Inside, the familiar scent of dried rosemary, old parchment, and faint traces of blood greeted her like an old friend. The walls were lined with shelves bowed under the weight of dusty jars filled with herbs, powders, and relics of forgotten cures. Bundles of dried lavender and wolfsbane hung from the rafters, their brittle stems rustling softly with each movement.

She lit a candle, the flame flickering weakly in the dimness, casting long shadows that danced like specters against the cracked plaster walls. It was quiet here. Safe in the way that only solitude could be. Outside, the muffled sounds of the city continued—arguments over worthless coin, the distant screams of someone learning too late that desperation breeds cruelty, and the ever-present buzz of flies feasting on what was left behind.

A worn ledger sat beneath the counter, its pages stained with ink and the occasional smudge of something darker. Names of the sick, the dying, the desperate—all neatly recorded beside lists of treatments and payments. Her fingers paused on one name, tracing the faded ink.

"Kaelen."

Her jaw tightened. The book snapped shut. Some things were better left in ink than memory.

A knock at the door dragged her back. A man hunched in the doorway, his face hidden beneath a hood, blood dripping from between fingers clutching his side. The faint metallic tang of fresh blood mixed with the acrid stench of sweat and fear.

"Help me," he rasped, collapsing into her arms.

She didn’t hesitate. She never did. Survival wasn’t about asking questions.

Dragging him inside, her hands were already moving with practiced efficiency. The blade wound was deep, a clean cut, likely from a soldier's sword. Dark blood seeped through the fabric of his tunic, pooling on the floor, mingling with the faint stains of countless others who had bled there before. She worked quickly, ignoring his groans.

"Hold still," she muttered sharply as he writhed. "Unless you want me to stitch your guts back in sideways."

His eyes rolled back, unconscious before she finished binding the wound. Blood always looked the same, no matter who it belonged to.

When it was done, he slept, and she watched him for a moment longer than necessary.

People always came here to bleed, and she always watched with the detachment of someone who’d bled enough to grow numb to it.

The next morning, she packed her satchel again. Therin was dying, but beyond its walls, the villages suffered worse. She could sell her knowledge, her wares. Coin was coin, whether paid in gratitude or desperation. She dressed in layers—a simple tunic beneath a thick, weathered cloak, her belt lined with small pouches and sheaths, each tool within easy reach.

The road beyond Therin was little more than a scar across the landscape, winding through stretches of barren fields dotted with the skeletal remains of trees long dead. The sky hung low, gray and oppressive, pressing down with the weight of a world trying to forget itself. The ground, once fertile, was now cracked and brittle, veins of dust running through patches of parched soil where nothing dared to grow. Forgotten relics of war littered the roadside: rusted swords buried half in the dirt, discarded helmets gnawed by time, and the occasional bleached bone poking through the earth like a finger pointing at nothing.

She passed villages that were little more than husks, their streets empty, windows dark and shuttered. The smell of decay lingered even where no bodies remained, as if the land itself had rotted from the inside out. In one, a woman with hollow eyes traded a pouch of herbs for a scrap of bread. Her hands trembled, fingers stained with dirt and dried blood. In another, a child too weak to stand watched her with silent curiosity, his face smudged with ash, eyes too old for someone so young. The world had stripped away his childhood, leaving nothing but skin, bone, and the ghost of what once was.

Signs of lawlessness crept like ivy across the countryside. Bandit markings carved into trees, crude symbols of allegiance to petty warlords claiming dominion over stretches of dying land. Eira kept her knife within easy reach, her senses sharp. Desperation made men foolish. Hunger made them dangerous.

At dusk, she reached a village called Aven's Hollow—or what was left of it. Houses burned low, skeletal frames smoldering as crows picked at bodies left unburied. The stench of charred wood mingled with the metallic tang of dried blood. Soldiers had been here, and not the kind with honor. Their presence lingered in the scorch marks on doors, the broken bodies left where they fell, and the silence that felt heavier than the ashes underfoot.

She found survivors in the remains of the town hall, their faces shadowed by fear and hunger. They didn't trust her. She didn’t expect them to. The walls were blackened with soot, and the floor was sticky with old blood. Eyes followed her, suspicious and hollow, faces pinched from too many days without enough food.

"I'm here to trade," Eira said, her voice cutting through the silence. "I have medicines, salves. For coin or goods."

An older man stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of a rusted blade. His eyes were sharp, sunken deep into a face carved by years of hardship. "And what if we just take it?"

She met his gaze without flinching. "You can try. But then you’ll be patching up more wounds than you planned for. And I don’t treat fools for free."

Tension hung in the air, brittle as dry leaves. Then the man grunted, stepping aside. The unspoken agreement was clear—she was more useful alive than dead.

Eira set up her small wares, her hands steady even as the shadows seemed to stretch longer, darker. The villagers approached cautiously, exchanging whispers and stolen glances. Transactions were swift, voices low, trust is a fragile thread ready to snap at any moment.

The wind carried a new scent now—something not of ash or rot, but colder, older, with a faint metallic tang like iron left too long to rust. It prickled at the back of her neck, a faint undercurrent beneath the familiar stench of death.

That night, she stayed in a small, crumbling house offered by a woman who traded shelter for a bundle of feverroot. The floorboards groaned under her weight, and the walls seemed to lean inward, as if the house itself was trying to listen. The hearth was cold, the shadows in the corners too deep, swallowing what little warmth remained.

She couldn’t sleep. The air was too still, the silence too sharp. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but watching.

Outside, the faintest whisper of movement. Not footsteps. Something heavier. Slower. The creak of wood under pressure, the faint rasp of breath that didn’t belong.

She rose, blade in hand, slipping out into the darkness.

In the distance, where the village met the woods, shadows shifted unnaturally, like the trees themselves were breathing. Shapes moved just beyond the reach of firelight, indistinct but wrong—too fluid, too silent.

Eira's grip tightened on the hilt of her knife. Her heart didn’t race. She’d long since learned that fear was a luxury.

And from that darkness, something watched her back.

The feeling grew, a presence pressing against her skin, like fingers tracing the edge of her thoughts. Not human. Not animal. Something older. Hungrier.

For the first time in years, Eira felt the faintest echo of something she had buried long ago. Dread.

She didn’t linger in Aven's Hollow the next morning. The village felt hollow in more ways than its name suggested, its silence pressing against her back like a shadow that refused to leave. Whatever had watched her from the woods last night hadn't followed, but its presence clung to her mind like the taste of blood on the tongue—faint, metallic, and impossible to forget.

The road grew rougher as she traveled farther from Therin's reach, the barren landscape giving way to dense thickets where nature had begun reclaiming what little remained. Trees twisted unnaturally, their gnarled branches clawing at the gray sky, and the dirt paths thinned into narrow trails, barely wide enough for a cart. Scattered ruins of stone markers and broken totems dotted the roadside, remnants of forgotten gods, their symbols eroded by time and neglect.

Eira passed another village by midday. Smaller, nameless—or if it had a name, it had died along with its people. The houses had collapsed into themselves, bones of the structures sticking out like fractured ribs. No signs of struggle. Just... absence. It was as if life had been plucked away, leaving nothing but echoes.

Why do I keep walking into places like this? Like there's anything left to save.

Further down the road, the signs of human cruelty returned. Charred bodies hung from trees, crude warnings painted in blood on tattered banners that flapped weakly in the wind. A makeshift gallows leaned drunkenly in the center of what had once been a gathering square, flies buzzing thick around the remains of those who had outlived their usefulness.

Petty lords playing gods. All crown, no spine.

By evening, she reached another settlement—if it could be called that. A cluster of shacks, leaning like drunks against one another, circled by a crude wooden palisade that seemed more decorative than defensive. The gate sagged off its hinges, guarded by two men too thin to be threatening, their rusted spears held with more desperation than skill. They eyed her warily as she approached.

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“Trader?” one of them croaked, voice brittle from disuse.

“Apothecary,” Eira replied curtly, shifting her satchel to reveal the edge of a wrapped bundle of herbs. "For coin. Or goods."

Doesn’t matter what I am. They’re just wondering if I’m worth the trouble to rob.

They exchanged glances, then waved her through without ceremony.

Inside, the village was barely alive. People moved like shadows, hollow-eyed and silent, wrapped in threadbare cloaks despite the mild chill. The air smelled of damp rot and something sweeter, fouler—the stench of untreated wounds and old sickness. A woman sat slumped against a wall, her skin mottled with dark patches, flies clustering around the corners of her mouth. No one seemed to notice her anymore. Or maybe they simply didn’t care.

Maybe she stopped screaming, and that was enough.

Eira found a space near the center and set up her wares with mechanical efficiency. Word spread quickly. People came in ones and twos, their faces etched with hunger and quiet desperation. Payment was scarce—mostly wilted vegetables, scraps of cloth, or chipped trinkets. She accepted what she could, knowing better than to expect coin.

Hope's worth less than the dirt under my boots. But it trades better when packaged as a cure.

As night crept in, the settlement grew restless. Fires burned low, their glow casting long, flickering shadows. Whispers carried on the wind, fragments of conversations soaked in fear.

“...took more last night... from the woods...”

“Not bandits. No tracks left behind. No sounds.”

“It’s the sickness, I tell you. Makes them disappear.”

Eira listened without comment, her mind returning to the thing in the dark back in Aven's Hollow. She didn’t believe in curses or ghost stories, but there was something wrong with this land—a rot deeper than famine or war.

What kind of sickness leaves no blood, no screams? The kind that doesn't just kill the body, but hollows it out first. Eira had seen sickness before—fevers, plagues, rot—but this felt different. It wasn't just in the skin or the bones. It was in the air, thick and sour, as if the village itself was exhaling something rotten.

Later, as she packed her supplies, a boy no older than ten approached her. His face was smudged with dirt, but his eyes were sharp, too knowing for his age.

“You shouldn’t stay here,” he whispered. “They come when the fires die.”

Eira raised an eyebrow. “Who comes?”

The boy glanced over his shoulder, then leaned closer.

“The hungry ones.”

Everyone's hungry here, she thought. But he doesn’t mean food. No, this is something else. Fear wrapped up like it’s part of the fucking scenery.

He slipped away before she could ask more.

That night, Eira didn’t sleep. She sat by the dying embers of her small fire, knife resting across her knees, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the flickering light.

Fear festers like rot. Ignore it long enough, and it eats everything, hollowing out even the strongest walls until nothing is left but echoes. The village was too quiet, the usual night sounds swallowed by something unnatural. Even the dogs had gone silent, their absence more telling than any bark could be.

And she waited.

Because whatever was out there…

It was waiting too.

Then she saw it—eyes glinting in the dark, not with the reflection of firelight, but with an internal, sickly glow. Shapes emerged from the shadows, hunched and wrong. Their movements were too smooth, too fast, joints bending at angles no human should. Limbs were elongated, spines arched unnervingly, patches of matted hair clinging to gray, leathery skin. Their faces were distorted, almost human but stretched into something feral, jaws lined with jagged, uneven teeth.

Eira's breath stilled. Not wolves. Not men. Something trapped between the two—like people who had been twisted inside out by hunger, shaped by hands that didn’t care if the soul survived the molding.

The villagers didn’t scream. Maybe it was the shock, or maybe some primal instinct recognized the futility. By the time they realized the danger, it was too late. The creatures moved with silent precision, slipping through doorways and windows like smoke, their claws raking through flesh with horrifying ease. No roars, no howls—just the wet, muted sounds of bodies breaking, the soft gasps of breath stolen too quickly.

Eira watched, frozen, as one creature dragged a man into the dark, his fingers clawing uselessly at the dirt, leaving deep grooves in the ground. There had been whispers of disappearances, stories told in hushed tones. Now she understood why no one had survived to tell them properly.

Eira didn’t hesitate. She moved.

Her knife flashed as one of the creatures lunged toward her, its maw filled with jagged, broken teeth. She sidestepped, slashing deep into its neck. The blood was dark, almost black, and it hissed like acid when it hit the ground.

Not natural. Not right.

The creature snarled but didn’t fall. It turned, its face too human to be a beast, too beast to be human. Eyes like hollow pits stared back at her, filled with hunger deeper than instinct. Its breath came out in ragged, wet gasps, thick with the stench of decay.

She slashed again, aiming for its throat, but her blade snagged on bone. It didn’t seem to matter. The creature moved with unnatural persistence as if the pain was just an afterthought. Eira stumbled back, her pulse thundering in her ears.

She wasn’t a warrior, just someone trying not to die.

The villagers scattered, some fleeing, some frozen by terror. Cries of agony mixed with the sickening sound of tearing flesh. The air grew heavy with iron and ash, the scent burning in her lungs.

And then, just as suddenly as they had come, the creatures retreated. Disappearing into the woods with the same eerie silence they had arrived with, leaving only blood and broken bodies behind.

Eira stood amidst the carnage, her breath ragged despite the stillness around her, her heart echoing the rhythm of distant screams she could no longer hear. She wiped her blade clean on the hem of her cloak, eyes narrowing at the dark edge of the forest.

This wasn’t random. Predators don’t play with their food.

Something was stirring in the shadows of the world, and whatever these creatures were, they were just the beginning.

Eira staggered slightly as she turned from the treeline, the adrenaline ebbing away like a receding tide, leaving behind the raw sting of pain she'd been too focused to notice. Warmth trickled down her side, the telltale stickiness of blood seeping through the torn fabric of her cloak. She glanced down, fingers probing the ragged tear along her ribs—a shallow but angry gash, likely from one of the creature's claws.

Damn it. Missed that one.

She moved quickly, pulling herself into the shadow of a crumbled wall, away from prying eyes and whatever remained of the frightened villagers. Not that any of them would care to help. They were too busy counting the dead or pretending not to. Survival was a lonely craft.

Eira dug into her satchel, retrieving a small tin of salve and a stained cloth. The sting of raw alcohol bit into the wound when she poured it, sharp enough to drag a hiss from between clenched teeth.

Could be worse. Could be deeper. Or infected with whatever made those things twitch.

Her hands worked with practiced efficiency—cleaning, stitching, binding. The process was mechanical, the pain a distant echo, dulled by familiarity. She'd patched worse, on herself and others. The flesh was just meat, and the pain was just noise.

But as she tied off the last stitch, she paused, staring at the dark smear left on her fingers. The blood from the creature had dried into a strange, flaky residue, blacker than dried blood had any right to be.

What are you?

She flexed her hand, ignoring the dull throb in her side, and stood. The night air felt colder now, pressing against her skin like a damp cloth. There was no point staying. The villagers would be too broken to trade, too scared to speak. Whatever had been here, whatever had taken root in the dark, it wasn’t done.

And neither am I.

By dawn, Eira was back on the road, her steps slower but steady. The landscape stretched out before her, bleak and indifferent, dotted with the bones of forgotten places. She avoided the main paths, cutting through overgrown fields where wild grass whispered against her legs, carrying the faintest scent of rot hidden beneath the morning dew.

Her thoughts drifted as she walked, circling like vultures around the fragile remains of memories she'd rather forget.

Magic. Could it be? The word felt foreign, even in her mind. Magic was a relic, a thing whispered about in taverns and church halls, blamed for plagues, for famine, for things people couldn’t explain. The old stories spoke of creatures twisted by it, reshaped by power they were never meant to hold.

But stories didn’t leave claw marks. Stories didn’t bleed.

As dusk crept over the land, dark shapes appeared on the horizon. A column of riders, banners snapping in the cold wind—black cloth emblazoned with a crimson sigil, a stylized flame devouring a broken crown. The Church of Ash.

Eira's heart tightened. Fanatics.

They rode with grim purpose, armored in dark steel etched with religious symbols, faces obscured by helms save for the one at their head—a man clad in crimson and black, his eyes sharp beneath a hooded mantle.

Lord Commander Dareth Valen, a name spoken with reverence and fear in equal measure.

The village didn’t stand a chance.

Without ceremony, the soldiers set to work, dragging out the remaining villagers, and branding them heretics with iron and fire. “Cleansing in the name of the Ashen Flame,” they called it. Purity through suffering. Eira watched from the shadows, fury simmering beneath her calm exterior.

The Ashen Flame—a religion twisted beyond recognition, its roots tangled with the remnants of an ancient faith. They preached of rebirth through destruction, their god a forgotten relic draped in new robes. Whispers named it Rahl-Thorin, the Ember Crown, an old god not content with memory alone.

Valen moved through the carnage like a man inspecting livestock, his dark eyes cold, calculating. His gaze swept past Eira at first—just another shadow among many. But something made him pause. A flicker of recognition, though they’d never met.

“You there,” he called, voice like gravel sliding over stone.

Eira didn’t move. But the weight of his attention was a blade of its own.

He approached, each step deliberate, his soldiers falling into uneasy silence around him. Close enough now for her to see the faint lines of old scars tracing his jaw, the gleam of something dark and hungry behind his gaze.

“You don’t belong here,” he said, more observation than accusation.

“Neither do you,” Eira replied, her voice low, steady.

Valen's faint smile twisted more shadow than expression. Without warning, his hand snapped across her face with the force of a coiled whip, the crack of flesh on flesh sharp in the cold air. The blow sent her staggering, her cheek flaring with sudden heat, the copper tang of blood blooming where her lip split against her teeth.

She didn’t fall. Her spine stayed straight, her gaze hard despite the sting, meeting his with a defiance that burned hotter than the mark he’d left.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not amusement. Interest.

“Most people kneel when the Church comes,” he said.

“Most people are fools."

Valen's expression darkened, the ghost of his smile fading like embers smothered by ash. He stepped in closer, his movements sharp, deliberate. Without a word, his hand shot out, fingers tangling roughly in Eira's hair, yanking her head back with a force that made her jaw clench against the sudden sting. His breath was cold against her cheek, sharp with the faint metallic tang of iron and something acrid beneath.

"Yes," he murmured, his grip tightening just enough to make her scalp burn. "And most of those fools find themselves cleansed in our Lord's name. Their sins burned away, their flesh made ash, purified by the righteous flame of Rahl-Thorin. Purity isn’t granted. It’s taken."

The tension tightened like a drawn bow. Valen tilted his head slightly, studying her. No mention of her hair, no lingering gaze—just a man trying to unravel a puzzle he didn’t yet understand.

“We’re searching for something,” he said softly, almost to himself. His fingers brushed the strange pendant at his neck, a crude relic of bone and metal etched with symbols Eira didn’t recognize. “Or someone.”

Eira felt it then—a faint pull, like the ghost of a memory buried deep beneath scars she'd never let heal. Not fear. Something colder, sharper, like the edge of a blade, pressed too close to the heart.

Before Valen could respond, the sharp sound of shouting broke through the tense silence. His head snapped toward the commotion, his grip on Eira loosening slightly. The thunder of hooves, the clash of steel, and the guttural roars of soldiers filled the air, growing louder with each passing heartbeat.

“Raiders,” one of Valen's soldiers barked, sprinting toward him, blood already staining his armor. “A warband, flying the banner of King Halric—they’re here!”

Valen released Eira with a rough shove, turning toward the growing chaos. His calm veneer shattered, replaced by something fierce and commanding.

“Form ranks! Defend the relics!” he roared, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade.

Eira stumbled back, her heart pounding, the sting of his earlier strike throbbing beneath the fresh surge of adrenaline. She didn’t wait to be caught in the middle. Turning on shaky legs, she darted toward the treeline, her breath ragged, blood seeping through the torn fabric at her side.

But fate had other plans.

Before she could disappear into the shadows, an explosion rocked the village. Fire and blood painted the sky as the Warband crashed into the remnants of the settlement, cutting down anyone in their path—Church soldiers and villagers alike.

Eira froze for a heartbeat, then forced her legs to move. She slipped through the chaos, her instincts screaming for escape. But everywhere she turned, there was only more death.

A soldier lunged at her, mistaking her for an enemy. She dodged, stumbling over debris, her hands clutching at nothing but air. A rough grip found her arm, yanking her back with brutal strength.

“Got you, witch,” the soldier sneered, dragging her to the ground.

She fought, but exhaustion weighed her down. His knee pressed into her chest, stealing her breath as he raised his blade.

Just before it fell, another soldier burst through the chaos—desperate and wild-eyed, not a savior but another enemy locked in a blood frenzy. Steel clashed as he collided with Eira's attacker, blades ringing out in the cacophony. The struggle was brutal, raw with survival instincts more than skill. The soldier above her let out a strangled cry as steel bit into his neck, blood spurting in thick, dark arcs.

The dying soldier collapsed forward, his full weight crashing down onto her, the heavy armor pinning her against the blood-soaked earth. His lifeless body was a suffocating shroud, the metallic tang of blood filling her nose, mingling with sweat and ash. She gasped, struggling against the crushing weight, but her strength was fading, her vision narrowing with each ragged breath.

She squirmed beneath the lifeless body, but her limbs felt sluggish, her strength drained. Blood seeped from the soldier's slack mouth, trailing down onto her cheek, warm and sticky. Trapped, she could do nothing but watch.

Through the narrow gap between his shoulder and the ground, she saw figures locked in savage combat—men screaming, blades flashing, bodies falling. There was no order, no strategy, just violence unbound. Faces twisted in pain and rage, their humanity stripped away by bloodlust. A soldier's scream was cut short as an axe split his skull, another dragged away, his hands clawing the dirt in vain.

Eira's heart pounded, not from exertion, but from something deeper—a primal fear she couldn’t explain. She clawed weakly at the dead weight atop her, desperate to move, to escape, but her body refused to obey.

Pinned beneath the corpse, forced to witness the horror unfolding around her, she felt consciousness slipping away. The world grew distant, the edges of her vision darkening, but the image of that shadow standing amidst the carnage burned into her mind.