Chapter 1
Part One
Chapter 1
The Ashes of Oakhaven
The north wind swept down the slope with the icy breath of Talamhra's peaks, bringing with it the scent of damp pine and the constant rustle of dry leaves. To Wolfgang, that sound was an ancient language—a melody he had known since childhood that used to speak to him of peace, hunting, and the natural turn of the seasons.
That night, however, the forest whispered warnings.
Wolfgang stopped at the edge of the cliff, resting a hand on the rough trunk of an ancestral oak. His figure, tall and solemn, looked carved from the very stone of the mountains. He wore tunics of heavy linen beneath a doublet of hardened leather, and a dark wool cloak hung from his shoulder, fastened by a bronze brooch in the shape of three intertwined spirals. On his back rested a tempered steel broadsword with a hilt worn by use and Celtic runes engraved along the fuller.
Below his feet, at the bottom of the valley, the village of Oakhaven should have been a picture of tranquility. At this hour, smoke from the chimneys would normally rise in thin columns toward the night sky, and the distant lowing of cattle would mark the end of the day.
But there was no smoke. Nor were there lights in the windows. Only a dense, heavy silence that clung to the air like fog.
"Something broke the balance," Wolfgang whispered to himself.
He tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword and began the descent down the steep slope. His steps were agile and silent, trained in the art of tracking. As he drew near the first timber and stone huts, a harsh odor began to permeate the breeze—it was not the scent of wood burned by a common fire, but a rancid, metallic stench, akin to dried blood and bitter herbs consumed by flame.
Upon reaching the village's central square, the scene confirmed his worst suspicions.
The doors of the houses hung wide open on their hinges. In the center of the settlement, the large stone of the community well was covered in a thick, greenish soot that seemed to have erupted from the earth itself. There were no corpses or signs of a fierce battle; working tools, carts, and daily belongings lay scattered on the ground as if the villagers had abandoned everything in a matter of seconds.
Wolfgang knelt beside the curb of the well. He ran his gloved fingers over the surface of the stone and felt a sting of biting cold travel up his arm. The stone was not frozen from the night—it was dead. The vital force that used to flow through Talamhra's underground springs had been severed all at once.
"Who came looking for the vein?" a voice echoed from the threshold of the local forge.
Wolfgang rose in a single movement, drawing his broadsword with a hiss of steel.
From the shadows of the forge emerged not a warrior, but an old man. Or what remained of him. The master blacksmith of Oakhaven—a man Wolfgang remembered as broad-shouldered with a frank gaze—stumbled forward with awkward, rigid steps. His clothes were torn, and his eyes... his eyes lacked iris and pupil. They were pits of absolute black, traversed by tiny purple veins pulsing beneath the skin of his face.
"They took them all," the blacksmith said. His tone lacked inflection, pain, or fear; it was a hollow voice, dictated by an alien will. "The northern mines need hands. The earth must yield its heart."
"Master Breogán..." Wolfgang uttered, maintaining his distance and lowering the tip of his blade slightly, recognizing the man yet feeling the horror of the corruption inhabiting him. "What have they done to you?"
"They have freed us from doubt," the blacksmith replied, taking a step forward and raising a heavy smithing hammer with supernatural ease. "The pact of ancient blood is broken. Talamhra now belongs to the true masters."
The old man lunged forward with unnatural speed, bringing the hammer down with a blow that would have shattered a rock. Wolfgang dodged the strike to the side, feeling the rush of air displace his cloak. He did not want to kill one of his own people, but looking at the blacksmith's face, he understood the bitter truth: the forbidden magic had not merely ensnared his mind, it had destroyed his soul. The man he knew was no longer there.
As the blacksmith turned to strike a second time, Wolfgang's sword traced a precise arc through the air. The steel of Talamhra, engraved with the protection of the ancient clans, cut through the shadow.
The blacksmith's body fell onto the grass. No red blood spilled from his wound, but rather a dark mist that dissipated into the icy air with an anguished hiss.
Wolfgang stood alone in the middle of the empty square, sword still in hand, his chest heaving. He looked toward the northern mountains, where the peaks stood silhouetted against the stars like dark fangs. The sect was no longer a rumor or a legend of the elders; it was a plague spreading through the heart of Talamhra, devouring its people and plundering its depths.
He wiped the blade of his sword on the hem of his cloak, sheathed it decisively, and adjusted the straps of his Celtic brooch.
The battle for the land of Talamhra had just begun, and he would not rest until he tore the web of shadows out by its roots.
