* * *

  The torches burned low in the stone hall of the Bloodswords’ headquarters, their flickering light casting long, restless shadows across the war table. The air carried the scent of damp wood, sweat, and stale ale—a mixture Greg had grown all too familiar with. He stood there, arms crossed, his heavy brow furrowed in restrained frustration as Captain Jorik paced in front of him. The grizzled sellsword’s chainmail clinked with every step, his deep scowl betraying his thoughts.

  “You’re a damn fool, Greg,” Jorik finally muttered, shaking his head. “A damn stubborn fool.” He gestured at the map sprawled across the table, detailing the Bloodswords’ next contract—a skirmish job against a minor noble’s private guard in some dispute Greg neither knew nor cared about. “You’re just gonna walk? After everything?”

  Greg’s fingers twitched at his sides, his muscles tensed. He had thought about this moment for weeks, but now that it was here, the weight of his decision pressed hard against his shoulders. “Aye,” he said simply, his voice steady but firm. “I’ve had enough.”

  Jorik let out a sharp exhale, rubbing a calloused hand down his beard. “You’re one of the best damn fighters we’ve got. You earned your stripes—hell, you saved my hide more than once. You’re throwing it all away for what? Some road to nowhere?”

  Greg’s jaw clenched. The Bloodswords had been his home for years, but they were nothing more than another chain around his neck. It was the same story with every contract—dirty work, pointless grudges, and gold that never seemed to make it into the right hands. He had bled for these men, and yet when it came time to move up, to earn something beyond another risky job, he was always overlooked. Just another blunt instrument to be swung at someone else’s problems.

  “I joined this company to fight, not to be some noble’s attack dog,” Greg said. “I do the work, take the risks, but when it comes to moving up, I get passed over. Again and again.” His hand flexed instinctively, as if grasping the handle of his greataxe. “I’m done playing their pawn.”

  Jorik sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “Dammit, Greg. You think you’ll find something better out there? You know how it goes—without a banner, without a company, you’re just another blade in the wind. And the wind doesn’t pay.”

  Greg smirked, though there was little humor in it. “Then I’ll make my own way.”

  The silence that followed stretched thick between them. Jorik stared at him for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. “You’re a stubborn bastard,” he muttered. “Fine. You’re free to go, but don’t expect a hero’s sendoff.”

  Greg nodded, already expecting as much. “Wasn’t looking for one.”

  He turned and made his way toward the armory, where his personal gear was stashed. A few of the other mercenaries had gathered near the doorway, whispering among themselves. Some looked at him with pity, others with disdain. Greg ignored them all. He strapped his greataxe to his back, adjusted the worn leather straps of his pack, and without another glance behind, stepped out into the cold night air.

  The road stretched ahead, dark and uncertain. But for the first time in a long while, Greg felt something stir in his chest—something close to freedom.

  He took his first step south, toward whatever fate had waiting for him.

  * * *

  The Misty Forest loomed like a wall of shadow against the last dying embers of twilight, its dense canopy swallowing all but the faintest glimmers of moonlight. Nestled between the towering trees, the worn dirt road stretched ahead, barely wide enough for the caravan of merchant wagons that trundled along its path. Torchlight flickered along the train’s edges, illuminating wary guards gripping spears and crossbows, their eyes scanning the darkness beyond the trail’s borders.

  Hidden within the underbrush, beyond sight and sound, a different set of eyes watched.

  Cullen Drake adjusted his grip on the worn hilt of his longsword, his breath slow and measured despite the anticipation crackling in the air around him. The scent of damp earth filled his nostrils as he crouched low, his hardened gaze shifting toward his men, each one waiting in the thick cover of the woods. The Crimson Claw had long since perfected the art of ambush, and tonight would be no different.

  "Hold until the wagons hit the marker," Cullen murmured under his breath.

  He felt rather than saw the figure shift beside him—Garrick, his second, a burly brute with a cruel scar running the length of his jaw. "You sure the bastard’s got the goods?" Garrick asked, voice barely above a whisper. "All this effort ain’t worth spit if it’s just bolts of silk and barrels of grain."

  Cullen didn't look away from the road. "The informant was sure. Vannis had something special on this run. The locked wagon, the extra guards—doesn’t take a sage to figure it out."

  Garrick grunted but said nothing more. He trusted Cullen, and that was enough.

  The wagon train rolled forward, oblivious to the noose tightening around it. The first two wagons passed the split tree stump—the marker. Cullen raised a gloved hand. The attack had to be fast, decisive. If Vannis or his men got too much time to react, things could turn messy.

  He let the next heartbeat stretch before dropping his hand in a sharp motion.

  Chaos erupted.

  A shower of arrows rained from the darkness, striking true. A guard at the caravan’s flank barely had time to cry out before a shaft punched through his throat, sending him tumbling from his horse. Another fell as a crossbow bolt buried itself deep in his gut. Then came the charge—Crimson Claw bandits surged from the treeline, screaming war cries as they crashed into the disoriented defenders.

  Cullen was among them, his longsword flashing as he closed the distance with a guard still fumbling for his weapon. A quick parry, a sidestep, and then steel bit into flesh. The man collapsed with a gurgling gasp. The air filled with the clash of metal and the sharp cries of the wounded.

  Garrick’s axe cleaved through the wooden side of a wagon, sending splinters flying as he wrenched the blade free. "Where’s the locked one?" he barked, kicking aside a merchant who scrambled to flee.

  Cullen scanned the chaos. The caravan was breaking—several wagons already abandoned, some drivers desperately whipping their horses to escape. But the center wagon, the one reinforced with iron bands, remained. A trio of guards formed a tight line before it, their weapons steady despite the carnage.

  "There," Cullen called, pointing toward the prize. "We break them, we take it."

  Garrick gave a savage grin. "On it."

  As the fighting raged, Cullen advanced toward the locked wagon, cutting down another defender in his path. A bolt hissed past his cheek, close enough that he felt its heat. He snarled and turned in time to see a wiry guard reloading his crossbow, face set in grim determination. Before the man could fire again, a dagger sprouted from his chest—one of Cullen’s men, quick and efficient.

  The locked wagon’s door rattled, something—or someone—moving within. Vannis.

  "Get that door open!" Cullen barked. "Move, damn you!"

  Garrick was already at the back, hacking at the reinforced wood, while another bandit worked at the lock with a set of tools. The last of the defending guards fought like devils, but they were outnumbered. One by one, they fell.

  And then—

  A scream. Not from a merchant. Not from one of his men. Something... else.

  The sounds of battle faltered for the briefest moment as a new presence made itself known. Cullen turned sharply toward the treeline, his instincts screaming danger.

  From the darkness beyond, figures emerged—not men, not living. Their forms were grotesque, twisted things of sinew and shadow, their hollow eyes glowing with an unnatural hunger. The scent of rot flooded the battlefield.

  "What—?" Garrick’s voice barely registered before one of the creatures lunged, knocking him to the ground with inhuman strength.

  Then the real slaughter began.

  The Crimson Claw were killers, but they were still men. They bled, they panicked, they fell. The creatures tore into them with claws like jagged bone, rending flesh and snapping limbs as if breaking kindling. Bandits screamed as they were dragged into the underbrush, their cries cut short in sickening gurgles.

  Cullen barely had time to react before one of the monsters turned its gaze on him. He raised his sword just as the creature lunged, its movements unnatural, almost insectile in their jerky speed. He barely got his blade up in time to block its strike, but the force sent him staggering.

  Every instinct screamed at him to run. To leave the caravan, the treasure—everything. But years of leadership kept him rooted. "Fall back!" he bellowed, cutting into the monster’s outstretched limb. "Regroup at the den! Move!"

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Garrick scrambled free from a corpse, his face pale, his axe forgotten. "We gotta go, boss! We can’t—"

  Another bandit was ripped apart before his eyes. Blood sprayed across the dirt road.

  The remaining men broke. Cullen didn’t dare stop them.

  They all just ran.

  The woods swallowed what remained of the ambush, only echoes of death chasing the bandits into the night.

  * * *

  The town of Daggerford bustled with the usual midday traffic, the air thick with the scent of fresh bread, damp river water, and the acrid tang of iron from the blacksmith’s forge. Merchants called out from their stalls, and laborers hauled crates to and from the docks, their voices mixing into a constant hum of activity. Vannis adjusted the cuffs of his finely woven sleeves, standing at the edge of a warehouse lot near the riverfront, where his caravan was being prepped for departure.

  "Everything accounted for?" he asked, his voice smooth but edged with quiet tension.

  Trevor, the caravan’s hired sword, gave a curt nod. The broad-shouldered warrior stood with arms crossed, his chain shirt gleaming under the midday sun. "Wagons are loaded. Guards are ready. But I still don’t like this, Vannis."

  Vannis turned slightly, his well-groomed features barely betraying the irritation in his sharp eyes. "You’ve voiced your concerns."

  "And I’ll voice them again," Trevor pressed. "A locked wagon? Extra security? We’re drawing attention. The wrong kind."

  From the side, Aren, the young spellcaster and healer, adjusted the straps of his pack. "Trevor isn’t wrong. If we needed to move quietly, we should’ve taken fewer wagons, less hired help. Instead, this looks like a prize waiting to be plucked."

  Vannis exhaled through his nose, steeling himself before replying. "I do not have the luxury of subtlety. This cargo must reach Ormstead."

  Brenner, one of the younger guards, adjusted his grip on his spear and glanced between them. "Then we best be moving before any more eyes start watching."

  Vannis gave a final glance toward the distant city walls, then turned toward his caravan. "Mount up. We leave now."

  * * *

  The ambush came without warning.

  The first arrow struck a guard clean through the throat. He toppled from his horse before anyone had time to react. The second volley followed in an instant, cutting into the mounted warriors and sending the caravan into a chaotic frenzy. Horses screamed, wagons lurched, and the air filled with shouts of alarm.

  Trevor roared orders, raising his shield to deflect an incoming strike. "Form up! Keep the wagons moving!"

  Aren was already casting, his hands weaving quick sigils as a protective ward flared to life around one of the remaining guards. "We need to get out of the open!" he shouted over the din.

  Vannis, caught between the locked wagon and the nearest overturned cart, barely had time to react before the first bandit lunged for him. He stumbled back, his dagger clutched in white-knuckled fingers. A brutal shove knocked him to the ground, the weight of an attacker pressing against his chest.

  Brenner, still gripping his spear, saw the chaos unraveling in mere moments. The bandits were everywhere, cutting down the guards with brutal efficiency. His instincts screamed at him to fight—but another voice, quieter and more insistent, whispered the truth: they were losing.

  His grip tightened, then released.

  Brenner turned and ran.

  Vannis saw him flee just before rough hands seized him, yanking him to his feet. "You’re coming with us, merchant," a scarred bandit sneered, binding his wrists with thick rope. Vannis opened his mouth to argue, to bargain—but a sharp blow to his stomach silenced any protest.

  Trevor fought on, cutting down one bandit, then another. But even as he swung, his eyes tracked the locked wagon. The bandits weren’t just looting—they were after something specific.

  Aren staggered back as a crossbow bolt barely missed his shoulder, his protective ward flickering. "Trevor, we have to—"

  Then, the air changed.

  A deep, unnatural cold spread through the clearing, and the coppery scent of blood was drowned beneath a sickly, decayed rot. A guttural growl rolled through the trees—low, inhuman, and wrong.

  The battle slowed as figures emerged from the darkness. Not men. Not bandits. Twisted forms of sinew and bone, their hollow eyes glowing with an eerie hunger. Their movements were jerky, unnatural, as if they had forgotten how to be human.

  Vannis barely had time to register them before the first creature struck. It moved faster than expected, lunging at a bandit and ripping into him with clawed fingers. The man didn’t even have time to scream. The bandits scattered in panic as the creatures tore through them with terrifying efficiency.

  Trevor swung his sword, catching one of the monsters in the side. It barely staggered, its head snapping toward him with a sickening crack. "They’re not going down easy!" he bellowed, kicking the creature back.

  Aren, realizing what they were dealing with, summoned a flame into his palm. "Fire!" He hurled the glowing orb, and it struck one of the undead square in the chest, igniting its rotting flesh. The creature screeched, writhing and snarling as the fire consumed it, but quickly shook it off, undeterred, eyes now locked.

  Trevor and Aren could barely see Vannis being dragged off before the battle turned into a slaughter. Then the wave of the creatures surged between the last two guards, forcing them to retreat lest they be overwhelmed too. Each fled in opposite directions, the darkening forest swallowing them whole.

  The caravan was lost.

  * * *

  Brenner ran.

  The night pressed in around him, thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhalation a dagger in his lungs. The shouts of bandits faded behind him, but he knew better than to slow down. He had stolen something valuable—something that would make them hunt him to the ends of the earth.

  Clutched tightly in his hand was the crumpled note, its message burned into his mind. He had no illusions about what it meant. This was no ordinary raid. These bandits weren’t just after coin or cargo. There was something more, something deeper, and now he was the only one outside of that damned camp who knew the truth.

  His legs burned as he pushed through tangled underbrush, branches clawing at his face and arms. The dense forest gave no mercy, but he couldn’t afford to stop. He had to reach Ormstead. Someone—anyone—had to see this note. He had to warn them. Maybe then, this whole mess could be put to rest before it was too late.

  A snap of twigs behind him sent a jolt of terror up his spine. He risked a glance over his shoulder—only darkness. But he knew better. He wasn’t alone.

  Brenner forced himself forward, weaving between trees, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The bandits wouldn’t chase him this deep into the woods. They feared this place, and after what he had seen, he understood why.

  The air grew colder.

  A sickly scent, like damp earth and decayed flesh, drifted past him.

  His foot caught on an exposed root. He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs. The note slipped from his grasp, fluttering into the undergrowth.

  No time—he had to move.

  He scrambled onto his hands and knees, searching blindly for the parchment. His fingers brushed the edge of it when the forest went silent.

  Too silent.

  He felt it before he saw it—the unnatural stillness, the weight in the air, the creeping sense of wrongness that coiled around his gut like a vice.

  Then came the sound. A low, guttural rasp.

  His blood ran cold.

  Brenner turned his head ever so slightly. And there it was.

  A figure stood just at the edge of the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. It was humanoid, but only barely. Its limbs were too long, its fingers twisted like gnarled roots. Its head lolled to one side as if the neck had been partially severed, empty eye sockets staring into nothing—and yet, he felt its gaze pierce him.

  His body refused to obey. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but fear held him paralyzed.

  Then it moved.

  A blur of motion, impossibly fast. Clawed fingers closed around his throat, lifting him off the ground with unnatural strength. He tried to scream, but only a choked rasp escaped as the creature’s grip tightened.

  Spots danced before his vision. His flailing hands scrabbled against the creature’s arm, fingers digging uselessly into clammy, dead flesh.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had grabbed him, the creature dragged him away into the darkness.

  The note lay undisturbed in the brush, half-buried beneath dead leaves, waiting for someone—anyone—to find it.

  Brenner was never seen again.

  * * *

  The Misty Forest was silent, save for the rustle of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures. The canopy stretched high above, a twisted weave of branches that filtered the moonlight into jagged slivers across the damp earth. Sienna moved with the practiced ease of a seasoned tracker, her golden eyes flicking over the ground for any sign of passage.

  She had been tracking Vannis for three days now, shadowing his caravan from a distance. He was careful, that much she expected—hiring extra guards, keeping his locked wagon under tight watch. But careful men still left traces, and Sienna knew how to follow them.

  Why was a merchant like Vannis suddenly so cautious? That was the question she intended to answer. The coin for this job had been good—too good. And Sienna had learned long ago that good coin always meant bad secrets.

  She crouched beside a disturbed patch of earth, fingers tracing the deep indentations left by heavy wheels. The caravan had passed this way less than a day ago. But something was wrong. The tracks were erratic, uneven. Wagons swerved, horses scattered. She pressed her palm against a darker stain in the dirt—blood, still fresh.

  Sienna tensed.

  Moving quickly, she followed the erratic path forward. The scent of smoke drifted through the trees, acrid and clinging. Soon, she came upon the remains of the caravan.

  Wagons lay broken and burned, their contents spilled across the road like the bones of a gutted beast. Bodies littered the ground—mercenaries and merchants alike, some still clutching weapons in stiffened fingers. Arrows jutted from the corpses, their shafts dark with dried blood. But it wasn’t just men who had died here.

  Sienna’s keen eyes found the signs immediately—deep, unnatural gouges in the wood, claw marks that did not belong to any bandit. She knelt beside a corpse, inspecting the wounds. The flesh was torn in long, jagged strips, as though something had ripped it apart rather than cutting it down.

  “This wasn’t just a raid,” she murmured.

  The Crimson Claw. She had heard of them before—cutthroats, slavers, the kind of filth that preyed on the weak. This had been their doing, at least at first. But something else had joined the slaughter. Something worse.

  A chill ran down her spine as she followed the devastation further, stepping over the wreckage. The locked wagon was missing. Either taken—or whatever had been inside it had left on its own.

  She found signs of survivors. Tracks leading away from the road, hurried and scattered. Some went into the forest. Others vanished entirely.

  A little further ahead, she found the veritable fork in the path, the signs of a struggle evident in the churned-up earth and the discarded remnants of someone’s belongings. A broken satchel, a snapped-off spear shaft, and the unmistakable pattern of something being dragged through the dirt. Blood smeared across fallen leaves.

  Sienna crouched, touching the edge of a deep boot print. "Someone ran from here," she muttered under her breath. "And something followed."

  She scanned the treeline, ears sharp for any sounds beyond the usual nocturnal stirrings. The forest had an eerie stillness about it, the kind that made her skin prickle. Then—voices. Low, cautious.

  Sienna reacted instantly, slipping into the underbrush, her form melting into the darkness as she pressed low against the damp earth. Her breathing slowed, controlled. She had learned long ago how to become nothing but a shadow in moments like these.

  From her vantage point, she watched a pair of figures emerge onto her trail. The first was a half-orc, broad and battle-worn, his greataxe resting at his side. He moved about cautiously as he surveyed the ground. The one behind was a human warrior, injured yet alert, his posture tense but controlled.

  They had come looking for something—or someone.

  Sienna remained perfectly still, watching. Listening.

  She would not reveal herself. Not yet.

  - short story about Greg quitting the Bloodswords

  - a Vannis's perspective of preparing his caravan

  - the caravan ambush

  - the escapee who's note Greg and Trevor found during Session 0

  - Sienna tracking what happened

  Attempts to get the AI to worldbuild around the story.