Shadows in Greenwood

Taron Emberfall had seen Greenwood Crossing a handful of times before, but never under circumstances like these. After the long ride from his family's farm, he and his mother, Lorena, finally passed through the town's outer gate just as dusk crept in. Lanterns and torches flickered in every direction, revealing tense faces and makeshift barricades along the main streets. The gentle, welcoming town Taron remembered—brimming with stalls full of fresh vegetables and chatting neighbors—had been replaced by a place on edge.

Even Halcyon, their usually calm mare, seemed uneasy. She tossed her head whenever someone shuffled too close. Lorena patted the horse's neck, murmuring a few words to keep her steady.

"Let's see if Borus is still working at the forge," Lorena said, glancing around at the shuttered windows and fastened doors. "He should know where to find Sir Aldren."

Taron nodded, swallowing the knot of anxiety in his throat. He felt the same faint warmth in the burlap-wrapped package slung across his back—the broken sword belonging to his late father, glowing with an ember-like pulse. Even though it was hidden, he was keenly aware of it, as if it were alive and listening. Every shadow in the alley seemed to shift when he looked away, making him wonder if the rumors of strange, inhuman attackers were about to leap forth at any moment.

As they led Halcyon down a side street, Taron caught sight of the blacksmith's forge in the distance. Its chimney spit sparks into the twilight sky. A tall, broad-shouldered figure could be seen within, hammering away at something on the anvil. Orange light flared in time with each strike of metal on metal.

They hitched Halcyon near a low stable alongside two other restless horses. Lorena paused to give Taron a look. "Let me do the talking at first, all right? Borus can be gruff, and it's been a while since I saw him, but he might open up more if he recognizes me."

"Sure," Taron replied, mustering a faint smile. He was more than willing to let her handle introductions.

They approached the forge, and the heat washed over them before they even reached the open-sided workshop. The blacksmith lifted his gaze from a glowing rod of iron, eyes narrowing against the sparks. He was a mountain of a man, his apron covered in dark stains, and sweat glistened on his brow despite the cooling evening air.

"Borus?" Lorena asked, stepping into the halo of firelight.

The blacksmith let the hot iron dip back into the forge and wiped his forehead with a thick glove. "Lorena Emberfall?" he said, a note of surprise in his deep voice. "Saints above, it's been years since I laid eyes on you. Heard you were still on that farm of yours."

"I was," she said, a bit grimly. "We had to leave in a hurry. Are you all right out here? The town looks tense."

Borus let out a heavy sigh. "Tense doesn't begin to describe it. I've never seen Greenwood so spooked. Word is that strange creatures have been roaming after dark—some say they're not human, some call them demons. The guard's been doubled, but folks are still scared witless."

Taron exchanged a glance with his mother. "We've heard similar rumors," he said. "We came to find Sir Aldren. We need his help."

For a moment, the blacksmith's expression darkened. He leaned his hammer against the anvil. "Aldren," he echoed, as though the name summoned old memories. "Yeah, the knight is still here, living near the old watchtower on the western edge of town. He doesn't come out much, but if you're seeking him, that's where you'll find him."

Lorena looked relieved. "Thank you, Borus."

He grunted in acknowledgment, eyes flicking curiously between mother and son. "Don't suppose you're here for a social call. If you've come all this way, I'm guessing it's about more than farm gossip?"

She hesitated, then said quietly, "It's about… my husband's sword. The old blade he carried. We found reason to believe it's stirring again."

Borus's gaze flicked to Taron, sizing him up. "So the stories are true," he murmured. "That sword your father wielded—it was something special, wasn't it? Well, if Aldren can help you, I won't stand in your way. But be careful. There's more darkness in this town than usual."

They thanked him, stepping back from the heat of the forge. Taron noticed a pair of younger apprentices hustling around in the background, stacking newly forged spearheads and short swords on a wooden table. It was clear they were arming the townspeople for a fight that felt almost inevitable.

Before they left, Borus pointed a gloved hand toward the main road. "Be sure to find a safe place to rest tonight," he said. "If you can't get to Aldren's place before the gates shut, the inns might still take you in. Fewer travelers these days means they'll have a room, if you can afford it."

Lorena gave him a polite nod. "We appreciate the warning. Stay safe, Borus."

He rolled his shoulders like an ox shaking off flies. "I'll try," he said. "You do the same."

Nightfall in Greenwood

They led Halcyon back to the stable area, paying a stable-hand a few coins to keep her for the night. The man, who had a scar across one cheek, mentioned that no horse or rider was allowed to roam outside after the sun went down. Taron felt a cold weight in his gut, recalling how normal Greenwood used to be. Now it was practically under lockdown.

Twilight melted into full darkness, and lamplighters scurried around with long poles, igniting the street torches. The flickering flames revealed boarded-up shop windows and locked doors. Taron stuck close to his mother, keenly aware of the wrapped sword on his back. In the gloom, the warm pulse from that broken blade felt even more pronounced, like a second heartbeat drumming in time with his own.

"How far is the watchtower from here?" he asked, keeping his voice low as they navigated a narrower lane.

"It's on the western outskirts," Lorena replied, scanning the poorly lit signs on the buildings. "But it might be risky going out there in the dark, especially with these rumors. We should find lodging, then head to Aldren's place at first light."

It made sense to Taron. So they made their way to the closest inn, the Lucky Willow, recognizable by a sign depicting a drooping willow tree. Inside, the common room was half-empty, a few patrons huddled around a table nursing drinks. At the sight of new arrivals, they looked up warily. It seemed the atmosphere wasn't exactly warm and welcoming—everyone here had the same watchful, haunted air.

A stout, middle-aged woman stood behind the counter, her hair pulled into a tight bun. She forced a polite smile as Lorena approached.

"Evening," Lorena said. "Do you have a room for the night?"

The woman wiped her hands on a rag. "I do. Not many travelers lately. Two coppers if you just want a corner in the common bunk, but eight if you want a private room."

Lorena exchanged a look with Taron. Their funds weren't impressive, but safety mattered more than comfort right now. She fished out the coins from her pouch and slid them across the counter. "We'll take a private room, if you have one."

The innkeeper's eyebrows rose slightly. "I do. Second floor, at the end of the hall. Don't mind the leaky roof—I patched it best I could."

Lorena nodded, accepting a worn key. "Thank you."

The woman's gaze flickered to Taron's burlap bundle. "You traveling with… tools? Weaponry?" she asked, not quite suspicious but definitely cautious.

"A farm tool," Taron lied smoothly, which wasn't entirely untrue. The sword could definitely do farm work if it were whole. "We had to leave in a hurry."

The innkeeper didn't press further. "Well, mind your own business here, and you'll be fine," she said, returning to wiping the counter. "Lock your door if you can. The night watch is out, but these days, you never know."

Taron and Lorena headed upstairs, finding the cramped room. There was a single bed with a thin mattress, a small wooden chair, and one shuttered window that overlooked a side alley. Candles flickered on a rickety table, casting tall shadows on the rough walls. The whole place smelled faintly of mold, but it was better than sleeping on the street.

Lorena sank onto the edge of the bed with a weary sigh. Taron laid the wrapped sword carefully against the wall, then lit one of the candles from the other. "Long day," he said softly.

"Long day," she echoed. She unwrapped the scarf from her shoulders and rubbed her neck. "We'll wait for sunrise, then try to see Aldren. He might not be thrilled to see us after all this time, but if that sword's glowing, he needs to know."

Taron took a seat on the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. A thousand questions swirled in his mind, but they kept tangling: about his father, the Knights of Ember, the rumored creatures, how exactly the broken blade had reawakened. "Mom," he ventured, "do you think this is the same threat Father fought? Or something new?"

She folded her hands in her lap, staring at the flame dancing atop the candle wick. "I wish I knew. Your father and Aldren both talked about a darkness they kept at bay—creatures, curses, pockets of evil that lurked at the edges of the kingdom. We all hoped it was wiped out."

"Apparently not." A bleak hush settled over the room.

After a few minutes, Taron offered to go downstairs and bring up a bowl of stew or bread if the inn had any left. Lorena nodded gratefully. She looked bone-tired, and he wanted to do something to help, however small. He rose from the chair, made his way down the creaking steps, and asked the innkeeper about food.

She pointed him to a pot hanging over the common room hearth. "Help yourself," she said, though her tone wasn't exactly friendly. Still, Taron was grateful. He found a battered bowl and ladle, scooping up a portion of stew. It smelled of onions and turnips, maybe a hint of salted pork. He was about to head back upstairs when the door of the inn flew open with a bang.

An older man burst inside, breathing hard. "They spotted something near the western gate!" he rasped to no one in particular.

Patrons sat bolt upright. A few clutched their drinks, eyes wide. The innkeeper hurried around the counter. "What do you mean? Another monster?"

The man—probably a local watch volunteer—nodded rapidly. "Don't know. But the guards said it moved on all fours, then on two. It tried to climb over the palisade. They're calling for reinforcements."

A chill raced down Taron's spine. This can't be a coincidence. He quickly carried the stew bowl upstairs, his pulse pounding the entire time.

When he burst into the room, Lorena stood, alarmed by his sudden entrance. "What happened?"

Taron shut the door behind him, breath coming fast. "Something's at the western gate. The guard thinks it's one of those creatures. They're calling for help."

Her face paled. "Then we stay here. Don't go near the windows, and lock the door." She grabbed the key from the table and slid it into the door's lock. The mechanism clicked, making Taron painfully aware that a simple wooden lock might not do much if a real monster wanted in.

They decided that venturing out into the dark streets right now would be foolish. So Taron set the stew down, and they ate in tense silence, flinching at every shout echoing from the lower floors or the street. Over the next hour, faint clamors rose and fell. Taron heard the ring of a bell, the scrape of boots, the hushed curses of men rallying to the gate.

Eventually, the noise receded. No one hammered at their door, demanding they fight. The inn stayed strangely calm. Taron wondered if the local guard managed to drive off or kill whatever intruder there was.

At some point, exhaustion got the better of them both. Lorena coaxed Taron to lie down on the bed, insisting she'd take the chair. But he refused, ending in a half-compromise—she'd lie on the bed, he'd take the floor with a borrowed blanket. If either of them heard trouble, they'd wake the other.

Neither of them expected much sleep.

A Knight's Legacy

Morning came with a bleary sort of gray light filtering through the shuttered window. Taron's back felt stiff from the floor, but at least no screams had roused him in the night. Lorena was already up, dabbing her face with a damp cloth near the washbasin. The lines under her eyes spoke volumes about how poorly she'd slept.

They quickly gathered their things, Taron re-wrapping the sword bundle to avoid suspicious glances. Down in the common room, the same innkeeper gave them a curt nod and accepted their key. The few patrons present picked at bread and cheese or stared vacantly at the fireplace.

Taron felt uneasy—if there really was a creature at the gate, shouldn't people be more rattled? Or maybe this was a new normal in Greenwood: fear had seeped into daily life, overshadowing any sense of safety.

Outside, the sky was a pale, washed-out blue. Guards walked the perimeter, some yawning, some sporting fresh bandages. Two men hammered additional spikes atop the palisade. Taron and Lorena made their way west, skirting around piles of debris, half-intact market stalls, and a cluster of uneasy citizens who whispered rumors about the "demon" seen overnight.

Finally, they spotted the old watchtower—a tall, crumbling structure of stone and timber that overshadowed a nearby cluster of squat houses. Thick vines crawled up one side, giving the tower a tired, ancient look. At its base stood a modest cottage with a sagging fence. Smoke curled from the chimney, suggesting someone was home.

"That must be Aldren's place," Lorena said softly.

Taron's heart thumped with nervous anticipation. This was the man who'd fought alongside his father, who might hold the keys to understanding the sword's magic and the threat looming over the realm. They approached the cottage gate, noticing the yard was strewn with training dummies and a half-buried anvil—signs of a soldier who hadn't fully retired.

Lorena knocked on the weathered door. For a moment, there was only silence. Then a gruff voice called from within: "Who's there?"

"It's Lorena Emberfall," she replied, glancing at Taron. "I'm looking for Sir Aldren."

The door cracked open, revealing a man well past his prime, but still formidable in build. His hair had gone silver at the temples, and a scar ran across his cheek. He leaned on a cane, though Taron got the sense he might not really need it. His eyes flickered to Lorena's face, recognition dawning, followed by a profound sadness.

"Lorena," he said, voice gravelly. "It's been a long time."

She nodded, stepping forward. "May we come in? We need your help."

He surveyed them both, gaze pausing on Taron. "I remember when your husband showed me a swaddled baby boy. Guess that was you." He pushed the door wider. "Come inside."

They entered a cramped living space, cluttered with old books, a couple of worn chairs, and a hearth that crackled gently. Taron noticed a few swords mounted on the walls, some with chipped edges. Clearly, the occupant still remembered a warrior's life.

Aldren lowered himself into a wooden armchair, exhaling as though the movement pained him. He waved at the other chair, and Lorena took it, leaving Taron to stand, though he didn't mind. The cottage smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and old parchment.

"How did you know to find me?" Aldren asked, his voice laced with subdued bitterness. "I heard little from you after… well, after we lost him."

Lorena looked down, guilt coloring her features. "I had no reason to dredge up the past, Aldren. I thought we were safe. But now something's changed."

She glanced at Taron, who drew the burlap-wrapped sword forward. Carefully, he peeled back a corner of the cloth, revealing the fractured blade. Aldren inhaled sharply when he saw the faint veins of ember-like light flickering in the steel.

"By the saints," Aldren whispered, leaning closer. "That's your father's sword—Emberlight. I thought it was lost the night he disappeared. We only ever found fragments. You have the rest?"

Lorena nodded. "I found it, broken, after he vanished. I kept it hidden, hoping Taron wouldn't become tangled in the same fate. But recently it started… glowing again."

Aldren closed his eyes for a moment, memories clearly warring behind his furrowed brow. "Your father, Ashlan Emberfall, was one of the bravest men I knew. We were part of the Knights of Ember, dedicated to warding off dark forces that threatened Arinthia's borders. Back then, rumors spoke of abominations lurking in old ruins, twisted by forbidden magic. We confronted them, hoping to end it for good. Your father gave his life for that cause, or so we believed."

Taron felt a lump rise in his throat. He carefully laid the sword on a low table, watching how its glow seemed to pulse a little brighter in Aldren's presence, as if reacting to old memories. "So that's real? The Knights of Ember?"

Aldren gave him a weary nod. "Real enough. The order was small, secretive by design. We never wanted to stir public panic. When your father vanished, we assumed the worst but never found his body. Just the shattered blade." He reached out with trembling fingers, tracing the jagged edge of the sword. "For it to glow again… that means some old evil stirs once more."

Lorena frowned. "We've heard rumors here in Greenwood. People talk of creatures—part human, part beast—attacking travelers and farmland. Is that connected to the same darkness?"

Aldren sank back in his chair, gaze fixed on the embers in the fireplace. "I can't say for sure. But it's too close to the stories we fought against decades ago. If these beasts feed on human terror and violence, then yes, it's likely the same. They might be servants of a deeper shadow. And if this blade is awakening, it's a warning sign."

Taron glanced at his mother, who looked both scared and resolute. Then he faced Aldren. "What do we do? We're just farmers… or we were. I don't even know how to hold a sword properly, let alone fight monsters."

Aldren arched an eyebrow. "You faced one last night, if the rumors about the gate are true. That was no mere bandit climbing the wall. But still, you're right—you need training, guidance. I'm old, but I can teach you basics if you're serious about not letting your father's blade go to waste."

Lorena's eyes darted between Taron and Aldren. "This wasn't what I wanted for my son," she said quietly. "But if fighting is the only way to keep him alive— keep us all alive—then so be it."

Aldren pressed his palms against his knees, as though steeling himself for an unwelcome duty. "If Emberlight chose to awaken in Taron's hands, there's something in him that resonates with it. We can't deny that. I'll train you in swordsmanship, some fundamental lore about our old foes." His voice hardened with purpose. "But you must be prepared. There's no half measure here. The darkness that took your father is cunning, relentless. If it's truly returning, all of Arinthia could be at risk."

Taron's mouth felt dry, but he managed a nod. "I'll do what it takes," he said. Memories of the orchard, the sense of restlessness, that creeping dread on the farm—he knew there was no going back. "If this blade can help protect people, then I'll learn."

Aldren gave him a long, measured look, then rose with some effort. "All right, then. Let's step outside. We'll see if your father's gift still responds to Emberlight's old spark."

First Lesson

They left the cottage for the small fenced yard behind it. Morning light glinted off a few battered training dummies stuffed with straw. Aldren leaned on his cane as he motioned Taron forward. Lorena hung back by the fence, arms folded, her expression a blend of pride and worry.

"All right, boy," Aldren said, gesturing at the sword. "Show me how you'd hold it."

Taron unwrapped the blade fully. Even broken, it felt heavier than it looked, with a strange warmth that pulsed gently against his palms. He tried to mimic what he'd seen in storybooks or from farmhands who'd occasionally carried worn swords. Feet apart, knees slightly bent, blade up. It all felt awkward, especially since Emberlight's tip was jagged and incomplete.

Aldren circled him, ignoring the cane for the moment, pointing with his free hand. "Your grip's too tight. Relax your shoulders. This is about balance, not brute force."

Taron adjusted, inhaling a slow breath. Emberlight's inner glow flickered, as though acknowledging his presence. For a brief instant, he felt an odd sense of synergy, like the sword guided him to shift his stance. Then he blinked, and the feeling was gone.

Aldren nodded. "Good. Now, a simple overhead strike. Bring the blade above your head, then slash down through the target. Control it—don't just hack away."

Taron raised the broken sword overhead. The weight threatened to tip him off balance. He swung down, clipping the edge of the straw dummy. The strike felt sloppy, jarring his wrists.

Aldren raised an eyebrow. "Not terrible for a first try, but you need to put your body behind the motion. Use your hips, not just your arms. Again."

They repeated it—once, twice, a dozen times—until Taron's shoulders burned and sweat dampened his shirt. With each swing, he tried to focus on the hum inside Emberlight, that subtle glow. Occasionally, he caught a flicker in his peripheral vision, like a spark crossing from the blade to the straw dummy, leaving a faint scorch. That alone convinced him there was real magic at work, even if it was half-dormant.

Finally, Aldren told him to stop and rest. Taron's chest heaved as he leaned on the fence, scanning the yard. Lorena offered him a waterskin, which he gratefully accepted. The water tasted crisp and refreshing.

"You've potential," Aldren muttered, though it sounded grudging, like he didn't want to inflate Taron's ego. "But it'll take more than a few swings to stand against real threats. If those creatures come at you with claws and fangs, fear will hit you like a hammer."

Taron remembered the orchard, that sick sense of dread. He wiped sweat from his brow, refusing to let fear take root. "I'm ready to learn. Whatever it takes."

Aldren's gaze flicked to Lorena, who gave him a small, firm nod, like she approved of Taron's resolve despite the risk. The old knight sighed. "I'll see you get the basics. After that, we might need more allies—if the rumors are true, Greenwood alone can't hold back a tide of monsters."

Taron heard a tremor in Aldren's voice, and for the first time, he realized how high the stakes might be. This wasn't just about a random beast scaring travelers. If the forces his father once faced were truly returning, entire towns could be consumed by terror. And here he was, a farm boy with a broken sword, expected to step into his father's role.

He swallowed, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. I can't back out now, he thought. People are in danger. My mother, our neighbors, this entire kingdom. The sword's glow seemed to flicker in agreement.

Rumors and Plans

They ended the training session after another hour of footwork and simple strikes. Taron felt like every muscle in his body had been put through a threshing machine. Even so, there was a spark of excitement under the fatigue. He might be clueless, but at least he was doing something.

Lorena and Aldren retreated indoors, Taron trailing behind once he'd re-wrapped Emberlight. The old knight offered them some stale bread and ale while they discussed next steps around a small, rickety table. Sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting the dust motes swirling in the air.

"Greenwood's been attacked at least twice this week," Aldren said, swallowing a mouthful of ale. "Guards claim they've driven off half-breed creatures, but some nights, folks vanish. The mayor's anxious, but the capital hasn't sent real support—just a few scouts. They don't believe the threat is dire enough yet."

Lorena rubbed her temples. "All the more reason we need to stay and help. But I'm worried about Taron being on the front lines. If the sword is incomplete, can it even stand up to real danger?"

Aldren shook his head. "That's a question for a master smith or an arcane blacksmith. Emberlight's forging secrets are older than me, older than most living humans. Repairing it might require dwarven craftsmen or a skilled mage. Still, even broken, it has power. You saw how it responded to Taron's swings."

Taron flexed his aching wrists, picturing the faint scorch marks on the straw dummy. "Could I find someone here in Greenwood who can help?"

Aldren raised a skeptical brow. "Borus is a fine blacksmith, but not for magical relics. No, we'd have to travel far to find that kind of expertise. But traveling these roads is perilous now. We might need to handle the local threat first."

The conversation shifted toward strategy—finding a safe place for Lorena to stay, coordinating with Greenwood's guard, perhaps reinforcing the walls. Taron had never thought of himself as a strategist, but he listened closely. He realized that knowledge alone wouldn't win battles; they'd need cooperation, supply lines, and community support. It was overwhelming, but he took mental notes.

Eventually, Aldren concluded, "We'll keep training. In a few days, once you have a better grasp, we'll approach the mayor or Captain Eliana—she runs the town guard—and see how we can lend our aid. In the meantime, keep quiet about Emberlight. We don't want every mercenary or thief targeting you."

Taron and Lorena agreed. They noticed how exhausted the old knight looked after talking so long; a flicker of guilt twisted in Taron's gut. Aldren had clearly seen better days, and now he was being dragged back into the fray.

Before they left, Taron asked one final question. "Did you ever find out exactly what happened to my father? I know he vanished, but… was there any sign, any rumor?"

Aldren's expression hardened. "Only that he was fighting something monstrous in the southern reaches. I tried to track him down, but all I found were scattered footprints and that broken blade. I always suspected he made a last stand somewhere remote, buying time for innocent people to escape. That's the kind of man he was."

A hush fell, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace. Taron felt tears threatening to well up, but he held them back, swallowing the pain. His father might have died a hero, but that didn't make it any easier.

"Thank you," Taron said quietly, then stood. "We'll let you rest. I'll be back in the morning for more training."

Aldren nodded, something like respect in his tired eyes. "Get some sleep, boy. You'll need it."

Lorena touched Aldren's shoulder in a brief gesture of gratitude, and then she and Taron slipped outside into the midday sun. They headed back toward the stable to check on Halcyon, discussing whether to remain at the inn or see if the mayor could offer safer quarters.

A handful of townsfolk passed them, whispering about the "demon at the gate." One child tugged at Taron's tunic, asking if he was a real soldier. Taron just stammered a denial, heart aching at how a place once known for cheerful gatherings and festive markets had become a bastion of fear.

Yet amid that unease, Taron felt a new flicker of purpose. He had a role to play, however daunting it seemed: continuing the mission his father had begun. The broken sword at his back was a reminder that even in pieces, a legacy could still burn bright. And if he had any say in it, he would make sure Greenwood—and maybe even Arinthia itself—didn't fall to the rising shadows.