Chapter 2 – The Hunt Begins

Aldric stepped into Black Hollow's underground market, his footsteps barely making a sound against the damp stone steps. The air was thick—a suffocating blend of mold, burning incense, and something rancid, like meat left to rot in the sun.

He exhaled through his nose. The bartender's directions had been precise.

A hidden world beneath the dying town, where men and monsters traded secrets, power, and death in equal measure. This was the Black Market.

Aldric stepped forward, his eyes adjusting to the dim torchlight. The cavern was vast, its rough stone walls lined with makeshift wooden stalls where merchants in hooded cloaks whispered deals to customers. Coins clinked, parchment rustled, and every so often, something glowed too brightly or pulsed unnaturally, as if the objects themselves were alive.

The air hummed with tension—a place where trust was a foreign concept, and the wrong question could get a man killed.

Perfect.

Aldric kept moving, his gaze flicking across the wares—weapons with jagged edges, vials of thick, swirling liquids, relics wrapped in chains. A merchant held up a skeletal hand, its fingers curled inward. "A saint's remains," he whispered. "Still carries the blessings of the gods."

A nest of vultures.

And that made it the perfect place to start his hunt.

Aldric approached a thin man with sunken eyes, seated behind a wooden table covered in parchment, books, and ink-stained scrolls.

"You sell information?" Aldric asked, his voice even.

The man barely looked up. "Information costs," he muttered, his tone hoarse. "Coin, blood, or secrets—pick your currency."

Aldric pulled a single gold coin from his belt and flicked it onto the table. Not much. But enough to start.

The merchant's skeletal fingers snatched it up. His blackened teeth flashed in a grin.

"Now we're talking."

Aldric leaned in slightly. "I need to know about the Everthorne family. What happened to them?"

The merchant's grin vanished.

For a moment, the sounds of the market seemed to pull away, as if the question had unsettled the air itself.

"You don't want to dig into that," the merchant muttered, suddenly tense.

Aldric's patience thinned. "I do."

The merchant hesitated, then sighed. He glanced around, as if making sure no one was listening, before pulling out a scroll. With careful hands, he unrolled it—a map of noble houses, their crests faded and scratched out.

He tapped a single spot.

"Everthorne," he whispered. "Used to be one of the strongest noble families before they were erased." His bony finger traced over a blacked-out emblem, where a crest had been forcibly burned away from the parchment.

"Their name was erased from history after a betrayal within their own ranks. The ruling king at the time declared them traitors—stripped them of land, power, and legacy." The merchant exhaled. "Anyone still alive from that bloodline either vanished or was hunted down."

Aldric's fingers curled into a fist.

He already knew who had betrayed them.

Darion.

And that meant his former friend hadn't just stolen his life—he had stolen everything.

But something didn't add up.

If Darion and Lysara had taken everything from him… why had they erased the Everthorne name?

He needed more.

"Where is Darion Everthorne now?"

The merchant's eyes widened.

He swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he quickly rolled up the map. "I don't sell death wishes."

Aldric's voice darkened. "I asked a question."

The merchant licked his lips, considering. Then, with visible reluctance, he leaned in close.

"Lord Darion Everthorne sits at the right hand of the Ebon Throne."

Aldric's breath stilled.

The Ebon Throne.

The ruling power of the entire kingdom.

Darion hadn't just betrayed him. He had risen to power in the highest court, sitting beside whatever king now ruled this land.

He hadn't taken revenge on Aldric.

He had taken everything Aldric was meant to become.

A slow, dark rage coiled in his chest.

This wasn't just about killing Darion anymore.

This was about taking back what was his.

The merchant pulled away, eyes flicking around in nervous panic. "If you're smart, you'll let this go. Men like him? They're untouchable."

Aldric's smirk was sharp as a blade.

"No one is untouchable."

Before the merchant could respond, the sound of raised voices broke through the murmurs of the Black Market.

Aldric turned his head slightly.

A tall, armored man had just entered the marketplace, flanked by two heavily armed guards. His polished breastplate bore an insignia—a crimson wolf's head against a black shield.

A noble crest.

A lord.

The market's energy shifted instantly. The merchants who had been so eager to sell their wares now shrunk back into the shadows, their whispers growing hushed.

The guards scanned the room, their hands resting on their weapons.

Aldric watched without moving.

The noble's gaze swept the market before settling on the merchant Aldric had just spoken to.

"You," the noble called out, voice cold and commanding. "You've been selling names that should remain forgotten."

The merchant went pale.

"My lord, I—"

"I don't need excuses." The noble raised a hand.

One of the guards **drew a dagger—**and with a single, fluid motion, sliced the merchant's throat open.

Blood splattered across the wooden stall. The merchant gurgled, his hands clawing at his torn flesh, before collapsing onto the table. His blood seeped into the parchment and maps, staining history itself in red.

The market was silent.

The noble lowered his hand. His eyes scanned the gathered merchants, his expression bored.

"Let this be a lesson. There are things that should remain buried. Those who forget that…" He gestured toward the corpse.

"…will join the forgotten."

Aldric remained still.

The noble turned around and left, his guards following close behind. The market place finally breath again, tension fading as the danger passed.

Aldric glanced at the merchant's body, his blood still warm as it dripped from the table. But he finally found a lead.

And just now someone tried to erase it.

Which meant he was getting closer.

A slow smile spread across his face.

"I can finally start the hunt" thought Aldric to himself.

But Aldric also knew that wouldn't be so easy since someone just died for giving information to a stranger. How did they find out, Aldric didn't knew.

The blood pool left by the merchant's body was soaking the entire stall. His glassy eyes stared upward, frozen in terror, his final breath stolen by a man who didn't even consider him worth a second glance.

Aldric exhaled slowly.

It had been a long time since he had seen a man killed so casually—like it was an afterthought.

All of the sudden the people in the Black Market continued their usual whispers and dealings as if nothing ever happened.

Aldric, however, didn't move.

He had learned one thing tonight. Someone didn't want him digging into the past. And if people were willing to kill to keep a secret, then that meant he was on the right path.

Aldric had always been a soldier, a commander. He knew how to pick his battles. Rushing after a high-ranking noble in the middle of his own territory? That was stupidity, not vengeance.

Aldric had already waited forty-eight years already, so he didn't mind waiting a little longer.

Instead, Aldric turned back to the merchant's blood-soaked maps.

Carefully, he reached out, flipping through the pages until he found the one he needed—the map with the burned-out Everthorne crest.

A lead.

He folded the map and slipped it inside his cloak. And then vanished into the crowd.

The streets of Black Hollow were quieter now. The deeper the night grew, the more the town seemed to breathe uneasily, as if it knew that the true horrors only came when the torches burned low.

Aldric moved through the alleys like a shadow, his steps light, his presence barely noticeable. His instincts had returned—a predator's instincts.

He had left the Black Market behind, but he still needed a place to plan his next move. His fingers brushed against the map inside his cloak.

"Darion".- thought Aldric to himself.

His former friend wasn't just alive—he had thrived. He had taken power, erased the Everthorne name, and built himself a new legacy. The mere thought sent a slow, boiling rage thought his chest.

But vengeance wasn't something to be rushed.

It had to be done right and carefully.

The first step was gathering more information. That meant finding someone who actually would want to talk.

The only place Aldric could actually think of was the tavern.

The Hollow Hearth

When Aldric entered the tavern, it was already empty, only a few drunk guests were left slumped over their tables.

The bartender, still wiping down the counter, gave Aldric a look.

"Back so soon?" he muttered. "Didn't take you for the sentimental type."

Aldric took a seat at the bar.

"Someone just got their throat cut over a conversation," he said flatly.

"Figured you might want to talk before I start asking the wrong people questions."

The bartender stopped wiping.

His one good eye studied Aldric carefully before he sighed, placing the rag down.

"You have no idea what you're stepping into, do you?"

Aldric didn't blink. "I have enough of an idea."

The bartender leaned forward. His voice was quieter this time.

"Look. I don't know who you are or what grudge you're carrying, but if you start digging around nobles—especially ones tied to the Ebon Throne—you're going to end up like that poor bastard in the market."

Aldric smirked. "Lets hope not"

The bartender exhaled through his nose.

"I didn't take you for a fool"

"Maybe i am". Aldric leaned forward. "But I'm a fool who wants to know where Darion Everthorne actually is. And I think you know something."

The bartender didn't react. Not at first. But Aldric saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

"…You don't just want to know," the bartender muttered. "You want him dead."

Aldric didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

The bartender's fingers tapped against the counter, as if considering. Then, finally, he spoke.

"There's a fortress to the east," he muttered.

"Near the ruins of whitebridge. It doesn't appear on most maps, because it was never built for defense— it was built for people who don't want to be found."

Aldric's eyes narrowed.

"Lord Darion has been seen there more than once," the bartender continued. "It's not a permanent residence—more like a place to do business. But if you want to start anywhere, that's where I'd go."

Aldric processed the information carefully.

A secret fortress. Business conducted away from prying eyes. That meant one thing.

Darion wasn't just a normal noble. He was running something behind the scenes, something bigger.

And that meant Aldric had just found the perfect place to start tearing it all down.

The bartender sighed. "Look, stranger. You seem capable, but if you go to that place alone, you're not coming back."

Aldric smirked. "Then I'll make sure I only go once."

The bartender stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head.

"I don't know if you're insane or suicidal."

"Both," Aldric said, as he was getting up from his seat.

He had what he needed. And this time, he wasn't coming back empty- handed.

Aldric stepped out of The Hollow Hearth and into the cold night air.

The streets of Black Hollow were nearly deserted now, save for a few shadows lurking in alleyways, watching but not approaching. The town had the air of something rotting from the inside, barely holding itself together.

It wouldn't last much longer.

Neither would the men who had stolen everything from him.

He clenched his fists slightly as he walked. The fortress near Whitebridge— that was his first target. It didn't matter if Darion was there or not. If he was running something from the shadows, then Aldric would drag those shadows into the light and burn them to the ground.

But he couldn't go there unprepared.

He need information. Supplies. And a real weapon.

Aldric glanced down at the broken sword he had taken from the skeleton in the graveyard. It had served its purpose, but it was worthless against what was coming next.

His path took him back toward the Black Market, but this time, he wasn't looking for answers. He was looking for a blade worthy of vengeance.

As he moved through the hidden stalls, merchants eyed him cautiously, whispering among themselves. Word of the noble's earlier execution had spread, and now everyone was on edge.

Good.

Fear kept people quiet.

Aldric stopped at a stall run by an old man with a scarred face, his goods laid out on a faded black cloth. Weapons of every kind gleamed under the dim torchlight—daggers, axes, short swords, each carrying a history of bloodshed.

But only one caught his eye.

A blackened longsword, its hilt wrapped in worn leather, its blade covered in faint, crimson drawings. It pulsed subtly—not alive, but close.

Aldric reached for it.

The old merchant grabbed his wrist before he could touch it.

"That sword," the merchant scrape, his fingers like iron. "It drinks blood, stranger. And it remembers every life it takes."

Aldric met his gaze. Unshaken.

" Then we understand each other."

The old man stared at him for a long moment—then let go.

Aldric lifted the sword.

The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, a faint whisper brushed against his mind, like something long buried stirring awake.

A slow grin spread across his lips.

Perfect.