Chapter 11: The Little Ghost Who Knows The Woods Better Than His Own Skin

Few days ago...

He returned to town with his now buldging skin bag but something else made his skin itch. The unnatural quiet near his home.

Two figures stood by his door.

The first was squat, with arms too thick for his frame, like someone had stuffed a bear into human skin and called it done. His face was flat, cheeks cratered with pox scars, and one cloudy eye twitched slightly whenever he blinked. A wicked-looking blade spun lazily between his fingers.

The other was taller, leaner, with sharp cheekbones and teeth that seemed just a bit too pointed when he smiled. He wore a tattered leather vest over a dark synthetic shirt, open at the collar, revealing tattooed symbols Lucian didn't recognize. Not that he could see them in the first place.

They were speaking in low voices until Lucian's footstep met cracked concrete.

"Morning," the lean one drawled, baring those too-sharp teeth. "Funny, we didn't think you'd be this punctual."

"Didn't know I was invited," Lucian replied, adjusting the strap on his bag casually, hus hand instinctively shifting towards his metal rod. "Didn't bring a gift."

The pock-scarred man smirked but didn't speak. His cloudy eye locked on Lucian like a lazy wolf sizing up its next meal.

"Boss wants a word," the lean one said. "Important business. Very polite of you to oblige."

Lucian tilted his head toward the door behind them. "Family's sleeping. I don't like uninvited guests."

"Oh, we're the best guests," the lean one whispered. "Quiet. Clean. Smell faintly of regret."

Lucian shifted his weight slightly, thumb brushing the hilt of his metal rod. He could take one. Probably not both. Maybe.

But violence had a price and Yellow-Vale had long memories that tend to come back for a bite.

He already knew why they had come for him. It seemed that Kaela Voss wasn't the type to take no for an answer.

"Fine," Lucian muttered. "But tell your boss next time to send smarter dogs." He said this to spite them.

The lean man's grin widened, sharp and hungry. "You're lucky we ain't the ones biting. Yet."

Lucian walked past them, his shoulder brushing slightly against the pockmarked man's thick forearm. It was like walking past a slab of warm stone. Dangerous. Heavy. Waiting. Just like the future.

The Ironbrand Compound sat on the fringes of Yellow-Vale like a scar no one wanted to acknowledge. Too deep to heal, too dangerous to pick at. It was located at the far edge of the eastern trade route, a large walled compound built from salvaged stone and metal, framed by crumbling walls and massive gates that creaked even in light wind. Once a regional checkpoint for long-gone border patrols, it had long since been repurposed into something rougher and meaner, a place that matched its new owners.

Lucian walked the dusty road leading toward the gates, flanked by the two enforcers. The squat one still said nothing, breathing like a dormant forge. The taller one clicked his tongue every few seconds, as if bored by silence. But silence didn't dare linger too long here.

Outside the compound, merchant stalls lined the streets like barnacles clinging to a whale's hide. Innkeepers, smiths, tanners, all clustered here for the security the Ironbrands claimed to offer.

Their presence gave the illusion of stability, of protection. The truth was a bit more complicated. The Ironbrand mercenaries were not protectors in the noble sense. They were enforcers, opportunists, middlemen between chaos and civilization. If you paid them, they watched your stall, kept rival thugs away, helped load goods or escort trade caravans. If you didn't pay, your locks might mysteriously break. Your shipments might go missing. Your family might fall asleep to the sound of boots outside the door. They had existed in Yellow-Vale for nearly a decade now, springing up after the local militia was disbanded due to budget constraints and a failed alliance with a regional warlord. The Ironbrands filled the power vacuum overnight. At first, they offered help. Guards for shipments, protection from wandering beasts, a few thugs run out of town for show. But it didn't take long for the help to come with strings. Those strings turned to shackles before anyone realized it. Their symbol was burned into the massive gate:

A red hammer over black flame. It was said to represent the first of their kind, a blacksmith-turned-warlord named Kerran Ironbrand who once ruled a city of smoke and steel across the valley. That city had fallen, but the name endured. Whether the modern Ironbrand mercenaries truly descended from him, no one could say. But they wore the name with pride and fear. Lucian's footsteps echoed across the wide compound entrance. Inside, the base was a patchwork of architecture. Sandbag barricades lined the inner courtyard. A crumbling tower, once used for signal fires, now served as a lookout. Power cables snaked between rusted outposts and floodlights, though many of them flickered unreliably. At the center, a long barracks stretched between two towers. Reinforced metal doors. Barred windows.

Inside, the mercs lived like a pack of wolves. Brash, loud, territorial. Their style was consistent in its disarray. No two Ironbrand mercenaries wore the same armor, but all followed a loose theme: dark combat trousers tucked into heavy boots, chest plates cobbled together from scavenged gear, long coats with shredded hems and too many inside pockets. A few wore red leather patches on their shoulders, signaling rank or time served.

Most carried a sidearm and a visible melee weapon—axes, cleavers, jagged swords with rust-stained hilts. Practical and violent. The newer recruits still carried themselves with swagger—mocking smiles, loud voices, too eager to show off. But the veterans, the ones with sun-creased eyes and scarred knuckles, said little. They watched from corners, sipped from chipped mugs, polished their weapons like rituals. Lucian passed several of them now. Some ignored him, others gave slow, curious glances. Not hostile. At least not yet. But they weren't friendly either.

The compound's inner yard was where most of the activity clustered. A small forge hissed in one corner, operated by a stocky man with tattooed forearms and blackened goggles. To the right, a group of mercs was sparring with blunted blades, their grunts and curses echoing off the cracked walls. On a higher platform near the central tower, a sharpshooter sighted down a long rifle, scanning the rooftops beyond the wall.

Despite their chaos, the Ironbrand gang had discipline. Brutal, often informal, but effective. Garrick, their leader, had built it that way on purpose. Everyone knew their place, and everyone answered to someone. If a fight broke out, it ended fast. If a rule was broken, punishment came swift and public. Lucian had heard the stories. How Garrick once left a deserter in the Ashfang Wilds tied to a tree, stripped of gear. How another merc who tried stealing from a civilian caravan was given the choice between exile or ten lashes with a chain heated in the forge. Of course he chose the lashes. Surviving in the Outlands was not something everybody was capable of.

To the merchants of Yellow-Vale, the Ironbrands were a necessary evil. Too strong to displace, too useful to abandon. And at times, they genuinely kept danger at bay. They fought off beast attacks, kept slavers from sniffing too close, even cleaned up after that time a mutant sand boar broke through the outer market.

But they were also unpredictable.

Their alliances changed with coin. Their sense of justice bent to favor. Some were honorable, others monstrous. Most were something in between.

Lucian knew better than to speak unless spoken to. He moved like a shadow between stone and steel, heart steady but mind alert. He passed a door cracked slightly open. Inside, two mercs sat playing dice over a dented crate. Another was sharpening his knife while humming off-key. The smell of smoke and sweat mingled with something sweet. Maybe fruit alcohol or poorly brewed tea. The building he was led toward had a large iron door painted with the Ironbrand sigil. A guard stood outside, massive, bald, arms folded like pillars. He gave Lucian a long once-over before nodding to the escorts. No words exchanged. The door opened with a groan. Inside was a corridor with overhead lights buzzing in uneven patterns.

The walls were papered with old wanted posters, bounty notes, half-torn maps. A corkboard showed various beast sightings—ashfangs, cave crawlers, mountain ghouls. Lucian's fingers itched. His instincts whispered that this wasn't just a gang hideout. It was a nest. A place where all sorts of evil took place.

The corridor bent left, leading into a wide chamber that served as the main gathering hall. A long wooden table dominated the center, scarred by countless blades and boots. Around it stood several figures Lucian didn't recognize, though two of them wore insignias similar to Kaela's. Vale-Rhys people. And there at the far end stood Garrick. He was larger than Lucian expected. Not fat, but built like a battering ram in human skin. His hair was cropped close, his beard gray and coarse. He wore a sleeveless jacket over thick armor plates, arms bare except for a wrap of red cloth near the right elbow. His eyes were sharp, even amused. And beside him stood Tavian Vale-Rhys. The noble looked strangely at ease, a satchel slung across his chest, his sleeves rolled up. Kaela stood near him, speaking in low tones with one of the mercs. Lucian stopped at the threshold, the door clicking shut behind him.

Garrick looked up. "So this is the little ghost who knows the woods better than his own skin."