Gates of Iron Hold

The sun dipped low behind jagged hills as they approached Iron Hold's main gates. The towers loomed above them, built from black stone reinforced with iron plating that gleamed dully in the fading light. Crimson banners bearing the flame hammer crest rippled in the wind atop battlements lined with crossbowmen.

Ruvan pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as cold dusk settled over the road. Dust and gravel crunched underfoot. Elion walked silently, staff in hand, while Kellan led them with confident strides despite the tension lining his jaw.

They joined a short queue of traders waiting to enter. A pair of oxen snorted impatiently before them, pulling a cart stacked with barrels of sourroot ale. The merchant driving it dabbed sweat from his brow, casting nervous glances at the guards flanking the gate.

Ruvan's gaze roamed the towering iron doors, reinforced with thick riveted beams. One was marked by deep scratches, as though some beast had once tried to claw its way through. The thought sent unease curling through his chest.

Two armored sentinels paced before the entryway, halberds in hand. Their visors were shaped like snarling wolves, polished steel reflecting the last orange rays of sunset. Another stood atop the gatehouse arch, peering down with narrowed eyes.

When their turn came, Kellan stepped forward with easy confidence, though Ruvan noticed the tightness in his fingers where they rested on his belt.

"Evening, fine sirs," Kellan said, flashing a grin that showed his chipped tooth. "Bit brisk tonight, eh? Might be needing thicker cloaks soon."

"Name and purpose," the guard snapped, ignoring his charm.

"Kellan Drave," he replied smoothly. "Mercenary, travelling with my companions here – Elion Karr, a healer, and…" He paused, gesturing vaguely at Ruvan. "Our errand boy."

Ruvan bristled, but remained silent under the guard's cold gaze.

"Papers?" the guard demanded.

"Ah, well, see," Kellan began, scratching the back of his neck. "We're here on private commission. Didn't expect formalities so late in the day."

"Private commission or not, all entrants require papers," the guard growled. "Lord Maeven's orders."

At the mention of Maeven, Ruvan felt his stomach twist with cold dread. The name tasted like ashes on his tongue, a reminder of everything burned away.

Kellan leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Perhaps there's… another way to handle this? Seeing as the queue's getting long and your supper's probably getting cold."

The guard stared at him, unmoved. Kellan sighed and subtly reached into his cloak, pulling out a small coin pouch. He thumbed it open just enough to reveal silver glinting within.

The guard's eyes flicked to the pouch before darting back up to Kellan's face. Slowly, he extended his hand. Kellan pressed the pouch into his palm with a practiced smoothness.

"No trouble tonight," Kellan murmured. "Just a mercenary and his friends."

The guard tucked the pouch into his belt without looking down. "Keep your heads down," he muttered, stepping aside and signalling the other sentinels to open the gate.

With a groan of metal and creak of massive hinges, Iron Hold's gates yawned open before them. Cold torchlight spilled out, illuminating a wide avenue paved with dark stone, lined by squat iron-clad buildings and lit by flickering rune lamps.

They stepped through quickly. The gates slammed shut behind them with a thunderous clang that reverberated through Ruvan's chest. He exhaled shakily, realising only then he had been holding his breath.

The streets bustled with late traders and armored patrols. Merchants barked final offers to passing soldiers. Children in ragged tunics darted between carts, laughing despite the cold. An old man sat by a gutter, shaking a bone dice cup in his trembling hands, whispering prayers to gods Ruvan didn't know.

"Welcome to Iron Hold," Kellan said, his voice flat despite his grin. "City of iron, gold, and enough secrets to bury a hundred kings."

Ruvan glanced back over his shoulder at the towering gates. They seemed to glow in the torchlight like the mouth of some great beast, swallowing all who entered.

"How often do you bribe your way in?" Elion asked quietly as they walked.

"Often enough," Kellan replied. "Guards are the same everywhere. Hungry for power. Hungrier for silver."

They turned down a narrow side street, leaving behind the noisy avenue. Ruvan's boots scuffed across dark stone slick with evening frost. The buildings loomed tall and oppressive, windows shuttered, chimneys belching smoke into the dim sky.

His gaze drifted to Solrend strapped at his back. The blade pulsed faintly, as if sensing his fear. Its whisper slid into his mind, cold and certain.

This place will burn. All places burn eventually.

He clenched his fists and pushed the thought away. Not now. Not here.

Kellan led them through twisting alleys until they reached a small tavern tucked beneath an overhanging smithy. A rusted iron sign swung above the door, engraved with the image of a hammer striking an anvil.

"This is where we'll sleep tonight," Kellan said. "Quiet enough for us to talk without city ears listening in."

Ruvan hesitated on the threshold, staring back towards the street. In the distance, the gates stood shut against the world beyond, sealing them inside Iron Hold's cold embrace.

He wondered, just for a moment, if he had walked willingly into another prison.

Then he followed Elion and Kellan through the tavern door, into the dim light and murmuring shadows, where secrets waited to be unearthed and futures waited to be forged in iron and blood.