The sound of boots on stone broke the quiet.
At first it was faint at first, a disturbance carried by the damp air—but it sharpened quickly, multiplying. Lirien's eyes flicked toward the treeline bordering the clearing, her posture shifting at once from weary vigilance to alert readiness.
Dozens of silhouettes emerged from the shadowed woods, fanning outward with practiced precision. Steel caught the last dying light of dusk, blades and hammerheads glinting like cold stars amid the rain-dark leaves.
Garruk let out a low groan, more tired than surprised.
"And there's the trouble I promised."
Eryndor turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite the situation. "You weren't exaggerating."
The hunters advanced in a loose crescent, boots crunching softly against grit and broken stone. Most wore heavy armor stamped with the sigil of the Guild—a stylized anvil wreathed in flame. Their eyes gleamed cold in the dusk.
One of them stepped forward, voice carrying easily through the drizzle.
"Garruk Ironthane," he called. "Found you at last, you damn traitor."
The dwarf spat blood into the sand and laughed, short and bitter.
"Must be my lucky night."
The hunter didn't respond to the taunt. He lifted a gauntleted hand and made a sharp gesture.
"Take him," he ordered. "Alive if possible. Dead if necessary."
Garruk tightened his grip on the shattered haft of his hammer. "I'd like to see you try."
Eryndor rolled his shoulders, rising to his feet with an easy, unhurried motion that belied the tension coiling beneath his skin. He cracked his neck once, then glanced toward Lirien.
"Do we have time for this?" he asked lightly.
She assessed the encircling figures in a heartbeat, eyes cold and calculating.
"Can you fight?" She asked.
His gauntlet caught the dim light and gleamed in answer.
"I have got some of my mana back" he said. "Let's make it quick."
The battle simply quickly happened.
Eryndor moved first—an abrupt flare of gold and shadow as the scripture beneath his skin ignited faintly, as he intercepted the first attacker, catching the downward arc of a war hammer with his forearm. The impact rang like a struck bell. He twisted, redirecting the force, and drove his elbow into the dwarf's helm. Sparks burst outward as metal met metal, and the hunter collapsed in a heap.
Lirien was already moving.
She flowed between the advancing hunters with lethal grace, her blade tracing arcs of black light through the rain. Each step was precise, measured. Her shadow split and stretched unnaturally, peeling away from her form and dancing along the ground, mimicking her movements out of sync. The enemies struck at phantoms only to find steel biting back from impossible angles.
Garruk roared and surged forward.
Despite still battered and there was stiffness in his movements, he refused to yield ground. He swung his broken hammer with raw, furious strength, each blow ringing with the unmistakable sound of true steel. One strike shattered a shield; another sent a fully armored hunter skidding across stone, leaving cracks spiderwebbing in his wake.
When the dust and rain finally settled, only three hunters remained standing. The rest lay scattered across the clearing, groaning or unmoving. The clash was brief but brutal.
Eryndor exhaled and wiped wet sand from his brow.
"Well," he said between breaths, "I think we're officially past introductions."
Garruk leaned heavily on his hammer, chest heaving.
"You two fight like devils."
"We've had practice," Eryndor replied.
Lirien didn't join the exchange. She turned toward the distant mountains, eyes narrowing.
"We can't stay here. There will be more."
"Aye," Garruk grunted. "If you're heading east, I know a way. Old forge-paths beneath the Bastion. Tunnels. Dangerous—but safer than open ground."
Eryndor arched an eyebrow.
"You sure you're fit to walk?"
Garruk snorted.
"If I weren't, I'd still be swinging."
That earned a brief grin.
"Then it's settled," Eryndor said. "Welcome aboard, Master Ironthane."
Lirien sheathed her blade with a soft hiss of steel.
"Another stray," she murmured.
"Aren't you—" Eryndor began, then stopped when her glare sharpened like a drawn edge.
"Right. Never mind."
He cleared his throat and clapped Garruk lightly on the shoulder.
"Strays make fine company anyway especially the ones who know how to swing a hammer."
Night crept in fully as they departed, clouds swallowing the last scraps of color from the sky. Rain thickened, drumming softly against leaves and stone. The forest whispered behind them, and the downpour erased their tracks as though the world itself wished to bury their passage.
The night settled into a low hush of rain and smoldering embers.
Mist curled thickly through the ravine as Eryndor and his companions pressed eastward, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the guild's hunters. The rain thinned gradually to a cold drizzle, but the air remained heavy, damp with the scent of earth and iron.
Garruk limped at the rear, jaw clenched. Though the worst of his wound had been sealed, pain flared with every step. Memories clawed at him—the clang of iron doors slamming shut, the cold stares of his guild-brothers, the word traitor spoken without hesitation.
Ahead, Eryndor walked at a measured pace, glancing back now and then with quiet concern. The golden script beneath his skin pulsed faintly, like embers stirring beneath ash.
"You can still walk?" Eryndor asked, not turning.
"I've walked through worse," Garruk muttered.
"That makes two of us," Eryndor replied with a thin grin.
"Three," Lirien said from behind them. Her voice cut cleanly through the quiet. She kept her watch to the rear, eyes sharp, posture unyielding.
"Though unlike you two, I don't feel the need to brag."
"That is a fair assessment," Eryndor said solemnly.
She ignored him.
"The Guild will tighten their patrols once they realize how many they lost. We should move carefully."
Garruk frowned.
"Those tunnels were sealed decades ago. Dangerous besides. They won't bother."
"Not necessarily," Lirien said. "If they're serious about hunting you, they'll consider every option."
"If they're that smart," Eryndor murmured.
Her lips curved faintly.
"Large guilds employ people who think ahead."
Then, softly—so softly he almost missed it—
"Unlike you."
Eryndor slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder.
"Unlike me?"
"Lirien, if you're going to insult me," he continued, "at least project. Otherwise it feels like you're just whispering sweet nothings."
"I assure you," she replied without looking back, "absolutely nothing about you is sweet."
Garruk let out a rough chuckle.
"She's got you there, lad."
Eryndor pressed a hand to his chest.
"Betrayed by the knight and stabbed by the dwarf. Truly, I suffer."
"Not half as much as I do listening to you" Lirien muttered, moving ahead to scout the narrowing path.
The ravine tightened as they climbed, mist thinning into pale tatters that clung to their boots. The sky lightened to a dull silver-gray, and the scent of redstone cliffs drifted down from the east—a sign they were nearing the old forge-paths.
"So," Eryndor said, falling in beside Garruk, "how far to these tunnels?"
"Half a day if luck favors us," Garruk replied. "Longer if you keep talking."
"My talking improves morale."
"It diminishes mine," Lirien called ahead.
Eryndor spread his hands.
"See? Always so supportive."
They made their way along the ridge, boots squelching in the softened earth. Birds stirred awake overhead, and somewhere far behind them a horn sounded a distant, muffled note swallowed by the rain-damp trees. The three exchanged a glance but said nothing, whatever hunt the Guild sent out, it was still far enough not to press panic.
"Tell me again," Eryndor said after a moment, "why your Guild hides passageways under mountains? Seems… excessive."
Garruk snorted. "It is not hidden, The tunnels weren't hiding anything. They are just old. Those tunnels were built when the first Ironthanes settled the Bastion. Old forges, transport shafts, escape routes during the Siege of Ashfall. We sealed most of them when the upper city expanded."
"Old and abandoned passage" Lirien repeated. "Which means collapsing ceilings, blind turns, possibly creatures nesting."
Garruk gave a grunt that might've been a laugh. "Aye. But it's still safer than giving the Guild a clear shot at our backs."
"I wasn't complaining," Lirien said. "Just assessing the idiocy ahead."
"She supports us. In her own bleak, soul-crushing way." Eryndor said.
Lirien didn't turn, but he could swear her shoulders shifted in the faintest hint of a suppressed smile.They walked on, climbing toward reddish stone that jutted from the earth like broken teeth. The air grew warmer, tinged with the metallic tang of old iron and sulfur—the scent of long-abandoned smelteries buried beneath.
"How will we know we're close?" Eryndor asked eventually.
"When the stone turns red and the trees thin," Garruk said. "You'll see the old runes. We will follow them to the Maw Gate."
"The Maw Gate?" Eryndor asked. "That sounds welcoming."
"By dwarven standards," Garruk replied, "it does."
Despite the cold air and looming danger, a fragile warmth threaded between them—not trust, not yet, but something adjacent. Three strays bound by necessity, bruised pride, and the quiet understanding that survival, for now, meant staying together.