The throne room felt colder without its usual fanfare.
King Aldren sat stiffly on the throne, his posture carved from habit rather than comfort. His advisers hovered around him like moths drawn to worry, their murmurs trailing into silence as Lila stepped forward.
She looked worse than anyone had seen her, with sunken eyes, silver hair pulled back in a half-tangled braid, robes wrinkled and faintly scorched at the cuffs. Her voice cracked from too many hours whispering into the magical ether.
"I was able to extract fragments from his memories," she said. "The process wasn't clean. His mind was severely traumatized, the memories scattered and fragmented. It took considerable effort to piece together anything coherent."
Jace stood at the back with the other heroes, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Lila stepped closer to the map laid across the table, her fingertip landing on a small, mostly-ignored mark on the eastern fringe. "Marcus Thorne. Merchant. He's from Blackmere. The town was hit last night. Brutally."
The king's fingers curled around the throne's arms. "What could do that to a town that size?"
Lila didn't answer, her gaze stayed on the map.
The room held its breath. Even the king looked like he'd been sucker-punched.
"More troubling," she added quietly, "is how Marcus got here. Blackmere's a hard day's ride from the capital. He showed up during the masquerade—barely hours after the attack. There's no way he made that journey on horseback."
Jace felt a chill settle between his shoulder blades. He didn't know Marcus personally, but he remembered the way the man had burst into the ballroom. That kind of terror didn't come from fantasy. It clung to the bones.
"So either the attack happened earlier than he thought," Lila said, "or someone—something—brought him here fast."
Lord Castellan stepped forward, "Your Majesty, if Zorak is moving on our borders, we can't sit idle. Let's strike. Hit his stronghold now while we still have the advantage."
A few others murmured agreement.
Then Lila raised one hand, palm up, slow and steady. The room quieted.
"They're not ready."
Jace blinked. He wasn't sure who she meant until she looked directly at him. Then the others. Tor. Elliot. Zara. Kael. Dren.
"They've fought corrupted beasts. Survived ambushes. Trained. But Zorak's no corrupted wolf skulking in a forest. He's a rot that eats kingdoms from the inside out. They've never seen anything like him. Not yet."
A silence fell heavy and awkward. The confidence in the room deflated slightly.
King Aldren shifted in his throne, thoughtful. "Then what do you suggest?"
Castellan bristled. "So instead of going on the offensive, we send our champions to clean up after some massacre—"
The king's hand rose, halting him mid-rant.
"Lila is right," the king said. "You don't send unproven swords into the heart of shadow. Arrogance has slain more kings than blades have."
He turned to face the heroes fully for the first time.
"You'll leave at once. Take a detachment of soldiers, healers, and scouts. Secure Blackmere. Help who you can. Find out what truly happened."
******
Mistwood wasn't usually this quiet.
Even with the crunch of hooves and boots on the narrow dirt trail, the forest around them felt hushed in an unnatural way. The only sounds heard were the valley of birds and the whistle of the wind.
Jace rode near the front, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, the other on the reins. His thoughts wandered, drifting from the briefing to the flash of Marcus' haunted eyes as he collapsed. The man had barely managed to whisper the word "heroes" before he'd hit the floor.
Now they were headed toward whatever had done that to him.
They crested the last ridge by dusk. Blackmere came into view—and stopped the entire convoy.
It looked wrong.
From the ridge, the town resembled a smoldering scar. Roofs had caved in like crushed eggshells. Smoke stains climbed the stones like black veins. Blood dried in sweeping arcs and spatters across streets that were otherwise deserted. The wind carried a sharp, metallic tang that clung to the back of Jace's throat.
No movement. No dogs. No voices. Just the echo of their arrival bouncing off broken walls.
"Sweet gods," Elliot muttered beside him. "That's not a town. That's a graveyard."
They rode in cautiously, boots sinking into the blood-hardened dirt. Then, slowly, shapes began to emerge—people.
Filthy. Eyes wide and glassy. A boy no older than ten peered out from behind a ruined cart. An old man shuffled forward on a cane that looked more like a snapped rake handle. Each face carried the same haunted stillness.
A woman stepped forward from the ruins of what might've once been the town hall. Her hair was gray and matted with ash. Her tunic was torn and stiff with old stains. But her back was straight, and her voice still worked, barely.
"Thank the gods you came," she rasped. "We didn't know if Marcus made it."
Jace dismounted, trying to keep his voice calm. "He did."
"Just In time too, the woman replied."
Tor stepped beside Jace. "In time for what?"
Her gaze flicked between them.
"They're coming back tonight."
A pause.
"He said he'd keep killing us until the heroes came. Said he wanted you here. Said it made the game more interesting."
Zara's jaw set. "Who is he?"
"I don't know his name. Black armor. Voice like a noble, but rotten underneath. Like he was… playing pretend."
"Why didn't you leave before they returned?" Zara asked
The woman hesitated. "We tried leaving. He forbade it. Said we had to stay… until the heroes arrived."
She didn't wait for more questions. Just turned and motioned for them to follow.
They walked past hushed buildings and burned thresholds. The deeper they went, the more it became clear: this hadn't been a skirmish. It had been a message.
They reached the town square—and everything stopped.
Six bodies, impaled on sharpened stakes. Two adults. Four children. Arranged deliberately. Faces twisted in agony. Their hands still bound. The smallest child's toy—a splintered wooden bird—lay in the dirt like a forgotten punctuation mark.
No one spoke for a long time.
Jace's breath hitched. His stomach twisted hard, bile rising before he forced it down. Not here. Not now.
Tor clenched his fists, the thick cords of muscle in his arms twitching. Even Dren turned away for a moment, jaw tight, hands trembling faintly.
Kael broke the silence first. "This is beyond cruelty."
Elliot shook his head. "No. It's strategy. He's showing us what he thinks of resistance."
"The Hendricks family," the village woman whispered. "They tried to leave. He brought them back."
Jace swallowed hard. "Message received."
Kael turned to the soldiers. "Get the survivors food and blankets. Move the wounded. And take care of this. Carefully."
They regrouped inside what was left of the inn. Burned rafters, scorched floorboards. The smell of smoke still clung to the walls. They cleared a space and spread a map across a cracked table. Elliot began pacing.
"I've questioned the survivors. They came at night. From the north. Descriptions vary, none of it consistent."
"How many?" Tor asked.
"Too many. Dozens. At least."
"And the leader?" Dren pressed.
"Looks human. Speaks like one."
They circled the map, marking fallback points and cover spots. It wasn't perfect. But it was what they had.
"I and Elliot, north perimeter," Tor said, "Dren and Kael cover east. Zara and Jace will take west and reinforce where needed."
The others nodded. Quiet. Focused. No one had anything left to say.
As the sun dipped behind the horizon, they moved into position.
Jace felt it. That thin wire of tension coiled in his gut.