Reaper of Iron and Blood

Varrik let out a strained, bitter laugh, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. "You think you can stop them one at a time? You don't even know what you're dealing with. The Blightened Path isn't just a group of bandits or zealots. They're—" His words cut off in a sharp gasp as I pressed the blade of Skarnvalk closer to his throat.

"You're stalling," I said. "Spit out a name, a location, anything. Because the longer you talk, the more tempted I am to see how far this blade goes before it stops glowing."

His jaw clenched. For a moment, I thought he might stay silent out of sheer spite. But then he let out a defeated sigh, the fight draining from his body. "Fine. You want a name? Goryn. He's the one you'll want. Leads the eastern cell. He's set up at a place called Tharn's Hollow, deep in the marshlands. That's all I know."

I frowned. "Just one man in a swamp? You'd better hope that's not the only lead you have."

"Believe what you want," Varrik said with a sneer. "But you won't last long there. Goryn's not like me. He's more… creative. You think my toys are bad? His will make you beg for the grave."

I ignored the jab and eased the blade away, just enough to let him breathe more freely. His information would be useful, but I wasn't done with him. Not yet.

The pedestal behind him was still humming faintly, though the chains I'd wrapped around it seemed to be holding for now. I glanced back at it, then down at Varrik. He noticed, his expression twisting into a mix of fear and desperation.

"Please," he croaked, "don't destroy it. You have no idea what it could do—what it could teach you."

I knelt down so I could look him in the eye. "That's the difference between you and me, Varrik. I don't need it. I've already got the only tool I'll ever need." I tapped Skarnvalk's haft on the ground, the runes flickering brighter for a moment. "You, on the other hand, just lost the only leverage you had."

He stared at me, his face pale and drawn. "You'll regret this," he whispered. "The Path will find you. They'll—"

"Yeah, yeah," I interrupted, standing up. "They'll send their best. They'll burn me alive. I've heard it all before." I turned to the pedestal and swung Skarnvalk in a wide, decisive arc. The runes flared, the hammer's blade cleaving through the chains and the stone in one swift motion. The pedestal shattered with a deafening crack, the green light vanishing instantly. The air grew still, the oppressive weight lifting.

Varrik's eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a silent scream as the energy he'd been tied to disappeared. He slumped forward, unconscious or dead—I didn't bother to check.

The chamber was quiet now, the only sound my heavy breathing and the faint hum of Skarnvalk's runes. I stood there for a moment, staring down at the broken pedestal and the crumpled form of Varrik. He'd given me a lead, but something told me Tharn's Hollow would be more than just another ruined outpost.

With a grunt, I hefted Skarnvalk onto my shoulder and made my way toward the exit. The Path was far from finished, but neither was I. I'd take what I needed from this place—supplies, information, anything useful—and then I'd keep moving. One cell down, more to go. They wanted to bring ruin to the world? Fine. I'd show them the kind of ruin I could forge.

After the ruins of Bygrun Hold faded into the distance, I set my sights on Tharn's Hollow. If Varrik was to be believed—and I had my doubts—this swamp-bound stronghold would house the next piece of the Path's puzzle. More importantly, it would lead me one step closer to figuring out just how far this madness went. The chain-wrapped pedestal had bought me time, but time wasn't on my side. The Path was still out there, growing, and every moment I delayed meant more blood spilled.

The marshlands were a slow, grinding trek. The ground was soft and treacherous, and the air hung heavy with the smell of decay. Each step threatened to sink me into knee-deep muck, and more than once I had to use Skarnvalk as a makeshift walking staff to keep my footing. The hammer didn't complain, its runes faintly pulsing as though it understood the journey ahead.

By the second day, I came upon a narrow, moss-covered trail that led deeper into the swamp. The trees grew taller here, their twisted branches forming a canopy that turned day into a muted twilight. I kept my wits sharp, my eyes darting to every flicker of movement. Swamps had a way of hiding threats until they were too close to avoid.

Then I heard it—a faint rustling ahead. Not the breeze through the reeds, not the splash of some unseen creature slipping into the water. This was deliberate, a soft crunch of footsteps trying to stay quiet. I gripped Skarnvalk and moved off the trail, crouching low behind a cluster of roots. The hammer's runes dimmed as I focused, my breathing steady.

A figure emerged, clad in dark leathers that bore faint, faded runes. Not like mine—these weren't forged into the steel. They were painted, temporary. A shortcut. Amateur work. The man moved cautiously, his eyes scanning the trail ahead, a sword drawn in one hand. Behind him, another figure followed—smaller, lighter on their feet, wielding a pair of curved daggers. Path scouts, most likely, watching for anyone foolish enough to approach Tharn's Hollow.

I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk and waited. As they moved closer, I adjusted my stance, preparing to strike. The first scout stepped past my hiding spot, his attention fixed on the path ahead. The second hesitated, turning slightly as if sensing something was off.

Before they could react, I surged forward, Skarnvalk rising in a brutal arc. The hammer's curved blade caught the first scout across the back, slicing through his crude armor and dropping him before he could even cry out. The second scout spun, daggers flashing, but I was already on her. Skarnvalk's haft deflected her first swing, and a quick, heavy blow to her chest sent her sprawling into the muck. She gasped, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she struggled to rise.

"Path sends children to do its dirty work now?" I muttered, lowering the hammer slightly but keeping it ready.

Her eyes burned with defiance, even as blood trickled from her lip. "You think killing us changes anything?" she spat. "You can't stop the Path. We're everywhere. We're—"

I brought the hammer's head down next to her, the impact sending a splash of swamp water and mud into the air. She flinched, her words cutting off as the runes on Skarnvalk flared.

"Save the sermon," I said coldly. "Where's Tharn's Hollow?"

She glared up at me, her breathing laboured. "You'll never make it. Goryn will—"

"Where?" I growled, slamming the hammer's haft into the ground beside her.

She hesitated, then finally spat out, "Northwest. Past the drowned willow."

I stared at her for a moment longer, then stepped back. "Stay out of my way," I said. "Next time, I won't be so polite."

She didn't move as I walked away, leaving her in the muck beside her fallen companion. The swamp closed in again, the sound of buzzing insects and distant splashes filling the silence. I followed her direction, my thoughts fixed on the battles ahead. Goryn was waiting, and if Varrik's warning was anything to go by, this wouldn't be just another ruined fortress. It would be a gauntlet.

And I intended to smash through it, one blow at a time.

The deeper I ventured into the swamp, the more I felt the Hollow's presence. It wasn't just the gnarled trees or the unnatural stillness—it was the weight in the air. Every breath tasted faintly of metal, every step seemed heavier, and the silence wasn't silence at all. It was a hum, faint and low, buzzing at the edge of my hearing like an unspoken warning. Whatever was waiting for me ahead, it wasn't friendly.

When I reached the drowned willow, I paused to take stock. The tree was a grotesque thing, its massive trunk half-submerged in the swamp water, its sprawling branches draped with moss. As I edged around it, the mist ahead grew thicker, obscuring everything beyond a few paces. I gripped Skarnvalk tighter and kept moving, the hammer's runes casting a faint glow against the swirling fog.

A sudden snap of a twig to my left made me spin, Skarnvalk swinging in a wide arc. The hammer's blade connected with a figure that had been lurking in the mist, sending them sprawling into the water with a choked cry. Before I could even see who it was, the mist shifted, and three more figures emerged from the fog, weapons drawn.

Blightened Path sentries. They moved with the silent coordination of soldiers, their rune-etched weapons catching faint green light. They weren't Path fanatics or scavengers—these were trained killers. The one on the left came at me first, a short sword flashing toward my chest. I stepped into the swing, letting it glance off Skarnvalk's haft before driving the hammer's butt into his gut. The runes flared as the impact sent him crumpling.

The second one lunged low, a dagger aiming for my thigh. I pivoted, bringing Skarnvalk down in a short, brutal strike that caught his forearm. Bone snapped under the force, and his blade clattered to the ground. The third, a woman wielding twin axes, came at me from the side. She was fast, forcing me to duck and sidestep as she swung both blades in rapid succession.

"Clever," I muttered, shifting Skarnvalk to my other hand. She overextended on her next swing, and I brought the hammer up sharply, catching her wrist and knocking one of the axes free. I followed with a shoulder check that sent her stumbling into a tree. Before she could recover, I was on her, swinging Skarnvalk in a wide arc. The curved blade sliced through her remaining axe and cut into her side, and she dropped with a grunt, clutching her wound.

The mist around me grew darker, heavier, but I kept moving, stepping over the fallen sentries. Every clash felt like a prelude, like the swamp itself was testing me. Goryn would be ahead, waiting, and if these sentries were any indication, he'd be ready.

"Good," I muttered, gripping Skarnvalk tighter. "I like a challenge."

The mist thickened as I pressed on, the swamp growing colder and more oppressive. The faint buzzing sound in the air turned into a low hum, rhythmic and heavy, pulsing against my ears like a heartbeat. It wasn't natural—nothing about this place was. Even the mud beneath my boots felt wrong, softer than it should be, as though the ground itself wanted to pull me under. But I kept going, Skarnvalk in hand, its runes glowing faintly, a constant reminder that I wasn't walking into this fight unarmed.

Ahead, the trees began to thin, replaced by jagged, half-sunken ruins. Stone pillars jutted out of the water at odd angles, their surfaces covered in dark, twisting symbols that seemed to shift and writhe when I looked at them too long. The hum grew louder, filling my chest, my skull, until I almost stopped just to steady myself. But stopping wasn't an option. If this was Goryn's domain, then he knew I was coming. Every step forward was a challenge—one he wanted me to accept.

And then I saw it. Rising out of the swamp like some malformed sentinel, Tharn's Hollow loomed in the mist. It wasn't a fortress, not exactly. The structure was more like a collection of ancient stone towers, each one leaning at a precarious angle, connected by sagging wooden bridges and half-collapsed walls. The largest tower was crowned by a jagged, rune-etched spire that glowed faintly green, a beacon in the oppressive fog.

Figures moved along the bridges, dark shapes pacing back and forth, their movements deliberate. These weren't sentries standing idle. They were watching, waiting. Their armour glinted faintly, and I caught the flash of weapons etched with the same sickly green runes that marked the spire above. Goryn's people, no doubt. I hadn't even crossed the water yet, and I could already feel their eyes on me.

"Looks cosy," I muttered under my breath. Skarnvalk's runes pulsed in agreement, as though the hammer shared my distaste for the place.

The water around the base of Tharn's Hollow wasn't deep, but it was clogged with reeds and algae, making every step a fight. I moved slowly, carefully, until I reached the base of one of the towers. Up close, the stone was darker than it looked from a distance, almost black, and the runes carved into it seemed alive. They shifted slightly in the corner of my vision, only to remain still when I looked directly at them.

A low voice echoed through the air, faint but clear. "So you came."

I glanced up, squinting through the mist. A figure stood atop the largest tower, leaning against the spire. He wasn't armoured like the sentries, nor did he carry a blade. His cloak was long and tattered, the hood pulled low. Even from a distance, I could see the faint green glow around his hands.

Goryn.

He didn't shout or call out threats. He simply raised one hand, and the runes on the spire flared. The ground beneath me trembled, and the water around the base of the tower churned violently. I braced myself, raising Skarnvalk, but whatever he'd triggered didn't hit me directly. Instead, the swamp itself seemed to rise in response. Dark shapes emerged from the water—hulking, twisted forms that moved unnaturally. They weren't human, not anymore. Their limbs were too long, their faces distorted into masks of hate. Their weapons glinted in the dim light, and their hollow eyes fixed on me.

"Here we go," I muttered, stepping back into a defensive stance. Skarnvalk's runes flared brighter, their pale light cutting through the murk. The hammer hummed in my hands, a steady, familiar vibration that calmed my nerves. The twisted figures didn't wait. They charged, their movements jerky and fast, like marionettes pulled by invisible strings.

The first one lunged at me, a jagged blade sweeping toward my head. I ducked and swung Skarnvalk in a tight arc, the curved blade slicing clean through its chest. The creature collapsed, its body splashing into the water and quickly sinking out of sight. But more were coming. Two, then three, then five at once.

I fought methodically, every swing calculated. Skarnvalk's head crushed skulls and shattered limbs, its runes flaring brighter with each strike. I stepped through the muck, keeping my balance, using the hammer's heft to break their ranks. Each time one of them fell, another took its place, their hollow eyes never wavering.

Behind them, Goryn watched from his perch, unmoving. He didn't shout commands or join the fray. He simply observed, as though this was some kind of test.

"Good," I growled, driving Skarnvalk into another enemy's chest. "Keep watching. I'll make this quick."

The fight wasn't going to end until I forced it to. With a roar, I surged forward, swinging Skarnvalk in a brutal, sweeping arc that sent the last of the twisted creatures sprawling. They lay still in the water, the green glow in their eyes fading. I straightened, breathing heavily, and looked up at Goryn.

His hand lowered, and the runes on the spire dimmed. "Impressive," he said, his voice calm. "But let's see how you fare against someone who isn't already broken."

He raised his other hand, and the tower trembled. The stone beneath me cracked, and I felt a pulse of energy rip through the air. This wasn't over. Not even close.

The pulse hit like a tidal wave. The stone beneath me cracked and buckled, sending me to one knee. Skarnvalk's runes flared brightly as I drove the hammer's haft into the ground, steadying myself against the force. Around me, the swamp water churned and hissed, rising up into unnatural shapes that towered over the broken figures I'd just fought.

Goryn's laugh echoed from above, sharp and cold. "I was hoping you'd be stronger than the rest. Don't disappoint me now."

The water-forms lashed out, their amorphous arms swinging with surprising speed and strength. I dodged the first blow, bringing Skarnvalk around in a wide arc. The hammer's blade carved through the nearest figure, slicing its liquid mass in two, but instead of collapsing, it reformed, surging back toward me.

"Ah, clever," I muttered, sidestepping a second attack. I swung again, this time aiming for the base of one of the figures. The hammer's runes flared, and I felt the impact ripple through the creature. It shuddered, its form destabilising, and then burst apart, splashing back into the swamp.

It wasn't enough. The others pressed in, forcing me to move constantly. Skarnvalk's runes flared with each strike, their light cutting through the dark, humid air, but every victory was temporary. For every figure I shattered, two more seemed to take its place, their movements faster and more aggressive.

I shifted my grip on the hammer and focused. These things weren't solid—they were bound to something. Goryn's runes, maybe, or the spire itself. I needed to disrupt whatever was controlling them, and fast. The longer I stayed in the open, the more vulnerable I became.

My eyes flicked to the jagged spire above. The green runes etched along its surface pulsed in time with the figures' movements. Goryn's hands glowed faintly as he gestured, the lines of light streaming from him to the spire, then down into the swamp. He was controlling them, fuelling them. If I could break that connection, the fight would turn in my favour.

Skarnvalk hummed in my grip, as though it sensed what I needed. I shifted tactics, focusing less on destroying the creatures and more on clearing a path. I moved toward the base of the tower, smashing aside any figure that blocked my way. The hammer's blade caught one mid-swing, and I followed up with a crushing blow that scattered another into the water. Each step brought me closer to the source of their power.

Above, Goryn's voice cut through the mist. "You won't make it. You'll drown before you reach me."

I ignored him. The stone at the tower's base was slick and crumbling, but it would hold long enough. With one final swing, I shattered the last figure in my path and stepped onto the cracked platform at the base of the spire. Up close, the runes glowed brighter, their light casting sharp, angular shadows against the tower's dark stone. The hum in the air grew louder, almost unbearable, but I gritted my teeth and raised Skarnvalk.

With a roar, I brought the hammer down onto the base of the spire. The runes flared, and for a moment, the entire structure shook. The pulse of energy faltered, flickering unevenly. The figures in the swamp froze, their movements stuttering, and then collapsed into the water, their forms dissolving.

I didn't stop. I struck again, and again, each blow sending a thunderous shockwave through the tower. The runes cracked and splintered, the green light bleeding out in sharp, jagged lines. The spire itself began to tilt, its uneven foundation crumbling beneath the force of my strikes.

Above, Goryn shouted something, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of stone grinding against stone. With one final swing, Skarnvalk's curved blade cleaved through the spire's base, severing it entirely. The top of the spire fell in slow motion, its jagged tip cutting through the mist as it crashed down into the swamp with a deafening splash.

The green light vanished. The hum stopped. The air grew still. I straightened, breathing heavily, Skarnvalk's runes dimming as the hammer rested against my shoulder. Above me, Goryn stood on the now-exposed platform at the top of the ruined tower, his hands clutching the edges of the crumbling stone.

"Still standing," I called up to him. "What now?"

Goryn didn't respond immediately. His glowing hands dimmed, and his expression twisted into something colder, sharper. "Now," he said, his voice low, "we fight."