The woods were a darkness maze, their twisted trees reaching towards the sky like skeletal hands. The moonlight had trouble filtering through the dense foliage, casting pale ribbons of silver on the damp earth. The scent of moss and decay filled the heavy air, and the faint crackle of a twig felt like a warning. The strange man pushed his way swiftly through the foliage, his old knife knotted at his waist, his eyes sweeping the shadows. Beside him, Penelope stumbled, her wrists still rosy from the ropes that had bound her. Her curly brown hair was full of leaves, and her freckled face was smudged and bruised, but her jaw was set, her eyes flashing with determination.The rebels' cries had faded behind them, their bodies fallen groaning or unconscious in the clearing. The other man's heart was still pounding from the fight, his muscles aching from blows he had never learned to deliver. His mind flashed with shards of Valkoria—fire-seared streets, shattering spires—but he pushed them aw

The clearing was bathed in a colorless, otherworldly light, the massive old tree at its centre tremulous like a living heart. Its gnarled roots stretched out across the ground, thicker than a man's arm, their surfaces smooth with a strange, sap-like glaze. The air was oppressive, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something sharper, almost metallic. The dark stranger stood sentinel, his ancient sword gripping his hand, his eyes scanning the shadows that clustered at the edge of the clearing. His injured shoulder ached with pain from the rebel's battleaxe, blood stiff on his torn shirt, but he stood upright, his metal-scarred chest dull-glinting in the moonlight. Behind him, Penelope worked frantically, her grubby hands shoving earth in the tree trunk with a primitive spade—a sharp-pointed stick honed from the snap of a branch. Her curly brown hair was dripping with sweat, her freckled face stern with resolute determination.There was also an unlifelike stillness, the usual chirrin

The house of the blacksmith glowed with the warm light of the fire, its small rooms heavy with the homely scent of coal and heated metal. Shelves groaned under piles of scrap iron, corroded cogwheels, and half-finished tools, and the forge in the corner hummed quietly, casting twisting shadows on the stone walls. The mysterious stranger—now christened Druid, as Penelope had christened him—perched on a creaky wooden stool, his battered body aching from the fight in the woods. His torn shirt revealed the gleaming metal plate fused to his chest, and his prosthetic leg clattered softly as he shifted. The rusted sword Boaz had given him was spread across his lap, its blade notched and dull but still heavy with purpose. Outside, the night was silent, the eerie quiet of the woods shattered by the gentle chirp of crickets.Penelope leaned against a workbench, her curly brown hair still littered with leaves, her freckled face pink with pride. She toyed with a tiny hammer, her gaze darting to h

The storm howled like a beast, its winds shrieking through the trees, writhing branches and ripping leaves off their stems. Rain pounded down in thick, unyielding sheets, creating a river of mud that pulled at the mysterious man's boots. His cloak was sodden, clinging to his scarred frame, the metal plate over his chest cold against his flesh. The sword of The Ore felt heavy against his back, its glinting symbols hidden under the fabric but pulsing slightly, as with a heartbeat. His prosthetic leg dragged behind him with each step, the metal clink muted by the fury of the tempest. Lightning rents the air, illuminating the twisted trees in flashes of white, their branches reaching out blindly like supplicant hands.The hooded stranger pressed on, his face smarting from the rain, his hood down. The forest was a smear of shadow, the road barely discernible in the rain. His shoulder smarted with old scars, and his head reeled with fragments of Valkoria—fire, screams, a city crashing—but h

The glade of the forest was a whirlpool of blackness and fog, a place where air reeked of decay and earth. Rain dripped from the leaves and splashed on them, combining with the scarlet mud lying at the feet. The mysterious stranger had stopped in front of the old tree, his sword—the one forged of The Ore and inscribed with shining runes—grasping both of his hands. Its faint light cut through the mist, casting ghoulish shadows on his battered face and metal plate in his chest. His prosthetic left leg sank a little in the bog, but he remained upright, his eyes on the Deadman lurching towards him. The creature was a monstrosity of rotting flesh and rusting machinery, spears and swords thrust through him and protruding like bony limbs. They shone with black, hate-filled light, and out of its throat issued a low growl, something more animal-like than human.Behind the oak, hidden, Lila trembled in the leaves, her small body quivering, her blonde hair dirty, the blue ribbon stuck to one str