Date: April 8, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Ligra saw off the departing day with the ringing of bells, which carried over the tiled roofs, calling artisans to close their shops and the guard to light torches on the bastions. After the skirmish with the "Iron Collars" on Justice Square, the city seemed especially cramped to Dur. The stones pressed down, the whispers in the alleys resembled the hissing of snakes, and the cleanliness of the central quarters now seemed to him only a thin layer of whitewash hiding rust and blood.
He walked towards "Onion Yard," feeling the copper token on his belt thumping against his thigh. Horn was waiting for him in his office. This time, the old soldier wasn't sharpening his dagger. He stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the darkening forest beyond the city walls. On the table lay an unfolded map of the surroundings, marked with red charcoal.
"You've come," Horn said without turning. His voice was hoarse, saturated with fatigue and smoke. "I saw the Central Garrison patrol's report. They wrote that you 'showed disrespect.' If it weren't for my token, you'd be in a pit now, Shadow."
"They were interfering with the job," Dur replied calmly, stopping by the table. "You said time was precious."
Horn finally turned. In the dim light of the oil lamp, his face seemed even more furrowed with wrinkles.
"True. Time is now more precious than gold. Listen to the task, Dur. Those 'shadows' I mentioned… they're not just petty thieves. A band has set up in Black Grove, a day's march north. They call themselves the 'Broken Fangs.' They used to be simple deserters from Alvost, but now someone more dangerous has joined them. They've intercepted three convoys with tools and hides. And yesterday… yesterday they slaughtered a patrol. Five of my men, Dur."
Horn slammed his fist on the map.
"Rumor has it their leader has a Spirit. Nothing special, something from the—'Spirit of Boar Bristles.' Makes his skin tough as oak bark, and his temper insane. My men can't track them in the thicket, they keep running into ambushes. I need you. Find their lair. Don't engage if you're not sure, just track and come back."
"Ten silver coins," Horn laid a heavy purse on the table. "Half now, half when I see smoke over their camp. And another thing… take your friend along. That clever one, Maël."
Dur narrowed his eyes.
"Why do you need him? Maël's no fighter."
"Maël's a sly one," Horn smirked out of the corner of his mouth. "He knows what Alvost signs look like and can tell military loot from simple plunder. Besides, I've seen him move. In the forest, he won't hinder you, and in the city, it's better for him not to show his face right now—the 'Iron Collars' hold grudges."
***
Dur found Maël in their cubbyhole. He was sitting on the floor, sorting through some gears from old clocks, and seemed to have completely forgotten about the recent humiliation on the square. Hearing Horn's offer and seeing the silver, Maël jumped up, his face lit by a wide, almost childlike smile.
"A hunt for bandits in Black Grove?" Maël rubbed his hands, mischievous sparks dancing in his eyes. "Dur, this is the perfect adventure! Finally, we'll escape this stone sack. Besides, for ten silver, I'm ready to learn the habits of every boar in that forest."
He didn't consider the danger for a second. His optimism was contagious, though Dur saw that Maël was packing his hunting knife with particular care.
"Maël, this isn't a walk," Dur said seriously, watching his friend cheerfully sling a light bag over his shoulder. "Horn said they have a Spirit user. In the forest, creatures like that, even if they're people, become three times more dangerous. Are you sure you want to go?"
Maël stopped and looked at Dur. For a moment, that very depth flickered in his gaze—a mix of cunning, high intelligence, and something very ancient, familial. But a second later, he smiled again.
"Dur, I'm the most adaptable guy in this part of the world. If it gets hot, I'll turn into ice. If it gets cold, into fire. We're a team, remember? You're the eyes, I'm the brains. Without me, you'd just bring Horn a report; with me, we'll figure out who's really behind these 'Fangs.' Bandits don't slaughter patrols for no reason; they needed a pretext or… something the soldiers were carrying."
Dur sighed, but deep down he was glad. The loneliness of the forest frightened him less than the loneliness of the city, but Maël's company made the journey meaningful.
***
They left the city at dawn, while Ligra still slept under thick fog. The guards at the northern gates, seeing Dur's token, silently opened the wicket.
The forest met them with wary silence. Black Grove fully lived up to its name—ancient oaks and elms intertwined their crowns so densely that even at noon, eternal twilight reigned under their canopy. The moss on the trunks was dark, almost black, and the undergrowth was thick and thorny.
Dur walked first, Maël following two paces behind. Dur noticed that in the forest, Maël was transformed. He stopped chatting, his movements became cautious, he seemed to absorb the rhythm of the trees. His Spirit of Adaptability, though not visually manifesting, worked at full capacity—Maël instinctively chose the quietest spots for his steps, synchronizing with Dur's pace.
"Feel that?" Dur whispered after several hours of travel.
They froze by the fallen trunk of a birch. Somewhere ahead, beyond a dense thicket of raspberries, came rough laughter and the crackle of a fire.
"Smell of cheap tobacco and burnt fat," Maël grimaced, sniffing. "Horn was right. They feel like masters here. Dur, look at that tree on the left."
Dur followed his friend's gaze. On the bark of an old ash tree, a sign was carved—two crossed fangs filled with dried blood. But beneath them was another sign, barely visible, resembling a stylized wave.
"That's the mark of one of Alvost's minor houses," Maël whispered, his face becoming unusually serious. "These aren't just deserters. They're mercenaries. And they're guarding something here."
Dur felt a chill run down his spine. A simple bandit hunt was turning into something bigger. He checked his bow. Torm's knife was at hand.
"We need to get closer," Dur decided. "If they're mercenaries, they'll have lookouts."
They began to creep forward, using every bush, every fold in the terrain. Dur felt his senses sharpening. He saw every hair on a leaf, heard the beating of Maël's heart behind him. He was a hunter. He was a Shadow.
A clearing appeared ahead. Four men sat around a large fire. They looked like typical cutthroats—scars, dirty leather armor, heavy axes close at hand. But one stood out. A huge, almost square-shaped man with thick bristles that seemed unusually stiff and sharp, as if made of wire. His Spirit was active—a faint gray haze hung around him, and the air smelled of wild boar.
"The leader," Dur mouthed silently.
At that moment, Maël stepped on a dry branch hidden under moss, producing a short, sharp crack.
Everything in the clearing instantly fell silent. The leader slowly rose, and the bristles on his face began to lengthen, turning into real bone needles.
"Who's there?" he roared, his voice like the grunt of an enraged beast. "Come out, city rat, before I tear out your liver!"
Dur looked at Maël. He smiled apologetically, but there was no fear in his eyes. Only that same cunning, telling him: conflict was unavoidable. They had to fight.
"On my command," Dur whispered. "Aim for the eyes. His skin will be tough."
Maël nodded, his Spirit beginning to prepare his body for a sudden burst. Optimism vanished, only the will to survive remained. The battle in Black Grove had begun.