Snow flurried like pale ash across the wind-lashed plain as the party approached the wooden gates of Morin's Stand. Frost clung in icy beads to cloaks, brows, and the furs of exhausted men and women. Behind them lay the treacherous plains and the ruins of the watchtower, now a nest for the goblin horde that had ravaged Lady Syboril's caravan. The smell of iron and pine danced in the wind.
From the watchtowers above the palisade, citizens wrapped in boiled leather and wool coats raised a shout. "Survivors! Open the gates!"
Cairvish moved forward, his noble bearing intact despite the grime and exhaustion that clung to him. Lady Syboril and Harnok, the rescued dwarf, flanked him with equal urgency.
The gates opened to the creak of frozen hinges. Beyond the palisade, villagers stared in wonder as the weary group stumbled into the safety of the town. The narrow streets were lined with snow-covered cottages, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. Children clung to mothers. A few hounds barked.
Lord Morlen waited at the steps of the Lord's Lodge, wrapped in a deep green cloak lined with fox fur. His beard was silver and well-trimmed, and the sword at his hip had seen use. He strode forward, relief breaking across his face when he saw Cairvish.
"By the blessed branches," he said, embracing Cairvish. "What wind carried you here? We feared the worst after the northern messengers fell silent."
Cairvish inclined his head. "We bring grave tidings, my lord. The road south has fallen. The last caravan north was sacked, it's goods carried to the old watchtower ruins east of the bridge. A goblin horde camps there now."
"And these are survivors from the caravan. Harnok Stonemantle, and Lady Syboril of Syboril's Mercantile," added Grey.
"I know the name. You are kin to Aldren of Stonehearth?" Morlen asked Harnok.
"Aye," the dwarf rumbled. "My cousin."
Lord Morlen's brow furrowed. "Then come inside. All of you. We've much to discuss."
---
The council room inside the lord's lodge was lined with hunting trophies and aged tapestries. Maps of the region lay unrolled on a long oak table. The fireplace roared, and the warmth was almost a shock.
Morlen listened quietly as the group recounted the fall of the caravan and the state of Ereny. When Cairvish mentioned the name Hithion, Morlen paled.
"I know of him. Whispers, mostly. A southern name. If he's involved in Hark's court, then things are worse than I thought."
Grey leaned forward. "And there is more. We are tasked—perhaps foolishly—with finding the Black Spore."
"A ghost tale," said Morlen. "Something whispered in the darker halls of cities."
"The merchants believe he's real," Lady Syboril offered. "They say he commands a network that feeds on fear and influence."
"My guild thinks he's an idea," Nixor said dryly. "An excuse for why power slips away."
"And what do you think?" Morlen asked Grey.
Grey's gaze was distant. "I think the world hides more than it reveals. And that some ideas wear skin, in time."
The conversation turned grave as a shout echoed from the walls. Morlen stood sharply.
"Scouts."
---
From atop the wall, the plains stretched white and endless. A dozen hunched figures moved across the snow. Goblins. Scarred and tattooed, with rusted blades and crude bows. Behind them, the wind carried the sound of drums.
"Testing our strength," said Morlen. "They want to see our mettle."
He ordered the militia to prepare. Most were farmers with spears and hunting bows. A few had swords, older men who had once served in the wars of the Duchy.
The militia met the scouts in a skirmish in the lower fields. It was a brutal, icy fight. The goblins fought like feral dogs, and their archers were deadly in the snow-blind wind. Several villagers fell. The goblins lost more, but the message was clear:
We are not afraid.
The survivors dragged back the wounded. Morlen's eyes were storm-dark.
"The horde will follow. They'll come tonight."
---
Torches were lit along the palisade. Barricades hastily built. Every able-bodied soul stood ready. The townsfolk huddled behind the Lord's Lodge, prepared to flee into the woods if the worst came.
As the moon rose like a bone eye in the sky, the horde arrived.
Goblins poured from the tree line like a dark tide, accompanied by larger shadows—hobgoblins in crude armor, their snarls echoing.
The assault began with fire. Flaming arrows struck the palisade. Then came the battering, crude siege ladders, and swarms of screaming invaders. Morlen fought beside his people, cleaving with an old sword still sharp.
Krashina stood atop the wall, cutting down invaders with brutal efficiency. Cairvish held the breach, slashing with the grace of a court-trained swordsman.
But they were too many.
A great roar sounded as the gate cracked. Hobgoblins swarmed inside. The town was falling.
"We're split!" Grey shouted. "We have to go!"
He and Nixor were near the east wall. Grey grabbed the rogue's arm, hauling him toward the rear gate.
Cairvish yelled for them to regroup, but it was no use. A burning house collapsed between them.
"Find the Black Spore!" Grey shouted before vanishing with Nixor into the night.
Krashina and Cairvish regrouped at the river with Lady Syboril and Harnok. The dwarf was bleeding but still swinging his axe. Together, they led a handful of survivors to the north gate, breaking free into the woods beyond.
They did not look back.
Morin's Stand burned.