VENGEFUL SPIRIT

Dawn painted the sky in muted shades of gray as Asher adjusted the straps on his satchel and tightened the belt around his waist. 

The weight of his weapons was familiar, a comfort against the unknown path ahead. 

Black Hollow lay two days' travel from the city, a place spoken of in hushed tones—a den of thieves, mercenaries, and exiles. If Rylan Graves had the answers Asher sought, he would find him there.

The night's events still lingered in his mind. Lord Kael's blood had barely dried, yet already another name had entered the fray. Selene. A woman who had watched him, tested him, and vanished like a ghost. He didn't trust her, but she had given him a lead.

And right now, a lead was all he had.

Asher stepped out from the forge, his hood drawn low. The city of Velmora was beginning to stir—merchants setting up their stalls, beggars emerging from alleyways, city guards making their rounds. He moved through the streets like a shadow, avoiding attention, slipping past watchful eyes. By the time the sun fully crested the horizon, he was already beyond the city gates.

The Wilderness

The road was long, cutting through dense forests and winding hills. Asher traveled lightly, his pace steady, his senses always alert. The further he went from Velmora, the more the world grew quiet, save for the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of birds.

Black Hollow was no ordinary city—it was a refuge for those who had no place in the world. Criminals, assassins, deserters. If there was any place that could offer him information, it was there.

Asher's grip tightened around the hilt of his dagger as he heard a shift in the trees ahead. He wasn't alone.

He stopped walking, his gaze sweeping the shadows between the trunks. Then, in an instant, he moved—diving behind a fallen log just as an arrow whistled past, embedding itself in the dirt where he had stood.

A trap.

The moment he hit the ground, he rolled into the underbrush, keeping low as another arrow shot past. His mind worked quickly. How many? Where were they?

Then, voices.

"Did you get him?"

"No. Bastard's fast."

Two, maybe three. Bandits, judging by their accents—opportunists looking for easy prey. They had made a mistake.

Asher pulled a throwing knife from his belt, steadying his breath. The moment one of them stepped into view—a man with a scar across his cheek—he let the blade fly.

The knife found its mark, sinking deep into the man's throat. He gurgled, stumbling back before collapsing to the ground.

"Shit! He's a fighter!"

A second figure rushed forward, swinging a rusted short sword. Asher ducked beneath the clumsy strike and drove his dagger into the man's ribs, twisting it before pulling away. The bandit fell with a strangled cry.

The third one ran.

Asher considered chasing him—eliminating all loose ends—but decided against it. The man was nothing. No threat. And time was not something Asher could afford to waste.

He wiped his blade clean on the fallen bandit's cloak and continued down the road.

Black Hollow

By nightfall, Asher reached the outskirts of Black Hollow.

It was not a city in the traditional sense—there were no towering walls, no grand gates. Instead, it was a sprawl of makeshift buildings, wooden shacks stacked upon each other in tangled rows. Lanterns flickered with dim light, casting eerie glows on the muddy streets. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, damp earth, and something more acrid—perhaps blood.

Asher moved cautiously, his hand never far from his weapons. He had been in places like this before, where life was cheap and trust was nonexistent. Every glance held suspicion. Every shadow concealed a danger.

He found a rundown tavern at the heart of the settlement, its sign barely hanging onto rusted chains. The Hollow Hearth.

Stepping inside, he was met with the murmur of voices, the clinking of tankards, the occasional burst of laughter. The patrons were rough-looking men and women, some with visible scars, others with expressions that suggested they'd put those scars on others.

Asher approached the bar, keeping his voice low.

"I'm looking for Rylan Graves."

The bartender, a heavyset man with a thick beard, eyed him for a long moment before nodding toward the back.

"He doesn't like visitors," the bartender warned.

"I'll take my chances."

The bartender only shrugged.

Asher moved through the crowd, toward the shadowed corner where a lone figure sat. A man in his late forties, his face weathered, his dark hair streaked with gray. He sat with a bottle of something strong, his eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched into his features.

"Rylan Graves?"

The man lifted his gaze, taking in Asher with a knowing smirk.

"Took you long enough."

Asher narrowed his eyes. "You knew I was coming?"

"Selene sent you, didn't she?" Rylan chuckled, pouring himself another drink. "Figures. That woman always had a habit of meddling."

Asher sat across from him, his patience wearing thin. "She said you had answers."

Rylan swirled his drink before taking a sip. "That depends. What exactly are you looking for, boy?"

"Names," Asher said, his voice cold. "The people who ordered the massacre of my family. The ones Kael worked for."

Rylan exhaled, setting his glass down. "You don't even know how deep this goes, do you?"

Asher's jaw tightened.

Rylan leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Kael was just a pawn. The people who pulled the strings? They don't operate in the open. They exist in the shadows, controlling everything from behind the curtain. And if you really want vengeance, you're going to have to go much deeper than you think."

Asher's pulse remained steady, but his fingers curled into fists. "Tell me what you know."

Rylan studied him for a long moment, then sighed.

"There's a man named Vaughn Mercer. He was one of the key figures in the operation that wiped out your family. But finding him won't be easy."

Asher's expression didn't change. Another name. Another target.

"Where is he?"

Rylan smirked. "That's the problem. Vaughn doesn't stay in one place for long. But I know someone who might have a lead."

"Who?"

Rylan leaned back, stretching. "An information broker named Elias Thorn. He operates out of a fortress called Ironhold, a few days' ride from here. If anyone knows where Vaughn is, it's him."

Asher nodded, committing the name to memory.

Rylan raised his glass in mock salute. "Be careful, kid. You're playing a dangerous game."

Asher stood. "I always have been."

With that, he turned and walked away.

Another lead. Another step closer to vengeance.

The hunt continued.