Tales from Interia: A Shadow stalks the Lands

A broken moon cast its pale light over the countryside, illuminating crooked fences and fields left fallow by farmers too frightened to gather their final harvest. The night felt wrong —too heavy, too still, as though a great hand pressed against the land and warned it not to breathe. Only the wind dared stir, and it did so in fitful gusts, carrying the faint scent of damp leaves and distant smoke.

The village itself was little more than a cluster of huts and dimly lit cottages, huddled around the old tavern at its center. A weather-beaten sign— The Cracked Tankard —creaked overhead, its paint half peeled by the elements. Beneath that sign, a single lantern flickered, threatening to gutter out with each sudden tug of the breeze. Few travelers passed through at this hour; fewer still tarried when the shadows stretched this long. Yet the tavern’s door stood ajar, exhaling faint warmth into the night like a final beacon against the encroaching dark.

Inside, the taproom was all hushed voices and wary eyes. Every table but one had been abandoned, the patrons clustered instead around the hearth as though seeking solace in one another’s company. The firelight played upon their faces—glistening with sweat or pallid with unspoken fears. In the corner, a single sconce sputtered, spitting sparks that did little to disperse the gloom. Shadows clung stubbornly to the walls, shapes that seemed alive in their own dark fashion.

Mirro, a lean hunter with silver-shot hair, sat closest to the fire. She stared into the flames as though reading portents in their dance. Her cloak was worn thin from many years of travel and at her side a battered crossbow leaned against the wall, its dragon-sinew-string strung and drawn, as if she feared needing to fire it any second now.

A thunderous rattling of wind against the shutters made a few listeners flinch. One man cursed under his breath, then drained the dregs of his ale in a single swallow. Still, no one rose to leave. Something kept them rooted here—perhaps a dire curiosity about the rumors they’d heard swirling through the countryside. For years now, bleak whispers had traveled from hamlet to hamlet, each tale darker than the last. The rumors spoke of a mysterious warrior roaming the roads at night, leaving blood, smog and curses in their wake. And people said that where this warrior ventured, death was never far behind.

At length, Mirro lifted her gaze from the embers. Her voice, when it finally came to her, was low and intimate, quiet enough to ensure those surrounding her had to make a conscious effort to listen. “All right,” she murmured, “since we’re gathered, I’ll spin the yarn. But mark my words, you’ll regret hearing it come dawn.” She cast a glance about the table. Her audience: a broad-shouldered sellsword who wore a perpetual scowl, a jittery youth whose eyes darted at every sound, a stoic barmaid with knuckles bruised from fending off unruly customers, and a cloaked stranger in the back whose trembling refused to subside.

They all leaned in. Even the sellsword, who had thus far scoffed at every rumor, couldn't hide a spark of hunger in his gaze. He wanted to know. They all did. The crackle of the hearth seemed to quiet in anticipation. Mirro took a measured breath. “You’ll have heard, no doubt, of the… fiend-blooded knight,” she began, choosing each word with care. “Not knight in the sense of shining armor and chivalry—no. They wear a battered breastplate of elven craft, flecked with symbols no one can decipher. Folks say you can glimpse an exoskeleton beneath it, twisted contraptions of metal, wires and arcana that keep them upright when their own bones might fail. There’s a cowl of thick, drab ballistic fabric—concealing the helm beneath. And if you ever see the death-mask of their faceplate, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

She paused, letting the hush grow deeper. “They call them the Ashforged Phantom in some lands, the Hellscar Wraith in others. I suppose the name hardly matters anymore. Folks say this Phantom draws breath through a rebreather that leaks black fluid with each exhalation. I can’t say I’ve seen it myself, but I’ve spoken to those who claim to have glimpsed them on the battlefield… claim the very air sickens in their wake.”

“Bah,” the sellsword muttered, though less convincingly than before. “Stories.”

Mirro turned her attention to him, her gaze glinting. “Don’t be so quick to sneer, friend. Or have you not heard the wagons that never made it past the old forest road? Or the caravans reduced to splinters and ashes, nothing but tar and miasma surrounding them?"

A log collapsed in the hearth, sending up a swirl of sparks that momentarily bathed Mirro’s face in ghostly light. The youth, eyes the size of moons, swallowed audibly. “But… why ?” he asked. “Why kill travelers who’ve done no wrong? Why wander the roads at all?”

Mirro sighed, glancing into the corners of the room as though she expected something to loom out of the darkness. “Folks say the Phantom’s not simply a marauder. They’re hunting specific prey. You see, some years back, there was a war—one of many, these last few years, sure—but this war ended with the fall of Iliaren, a once-proud Free City. The Free Cities had fought for their freedom from the Vanguard Dominion many times before, and brokered a peace deal which lasted long enough for complacency to set in. The Vanguard broke that agreement with mortars and men, and one of the two Free Cities was overwhelmed and razed. Iliaren was leveled, its wards undone, its people either killed or enslaved. And from its ruins, the fiend-blooded warrior rose, swearing an oath of vengeance against all complicit in that city’s downfall.”

The sellsword, to his credit, did not laugh this time. Instead, he shifted uneasily in his seat. The barmaid’s hands tightened around a rag, her knuckles whitening. Even the fire seemed to hesitate, as though it too sensed the weight of Mirro’s words.

“Among those responsible,” Mirro continued, “was a group calling themselves the Ironbrand Company . Sellswords, every one of them, with black hearts and silver tongues. They made a devil’s bargain for power and gold, some say. Others claim they were simply following orders—‘twas war, after all, and everyone sells their might somewhere. But the Phantom doesn’t care. They hold the Ironbrand to account, striking them down one by one, no matter how far they run or how well they hide.”

The cloaked stranger in the corner let out a faint whimper, quickly silenced by a trembling hand pressed to their mouth. This did not go unnoticed. The sellsword fixed the stranger with a glare. “You,” he barked. “You’ve heard of this Ironbrand, haven’t you?”

Mirro held up a hand to forestall any confrontation. “Let them alone,” she said gently. “Plenty of folk have reason to fear a revenging warrior scouring the land for old debts. Perhaps the Phantom’s wrath doesn’t end with the Ironbrand. Perhaps it extends to all who had a hand in the sacking of Iliaren, however small. And maybe that’s the scariest part—no one truly knows who they’ll target next.”

Another gust rattled the shutters, and the tavern door shuddered in its frame. The barmaid hastened to latch it more securely, her eyes nervously peering into the smothering darkness outside. A tense quiet followed, broken only by the restless shifting of chairs and the low crack of embers.

After a long silence, the sellsword mustered his courage and spoke again, though his voice had lost its former bluster. “Say we believe you,” he said, his words sounding thick. “What do we do? Lock our doors and pray to the gods for mercy? Or do we gather every able body in this village and try to stop them in their tracks?”

Mirro raised a brow. “You truly think a handful of farmers with pitchforks and rusted rifles can stand against that? The stories say the Phantom shrugs off arrows, bullets and blades as if they didn't exist. And it’s not just physical might—there’s something else at play, some unholy power granted by their infernal heritage. Survivors claim the Phantom wields wytchfire that glows with sickly green light. The moment you think you have them cornered, they vanish in a haze of inky smoke, or strike you down in a blaze of arcane fury.”

A hush descended so complete that the tavern’s timbers seemed to groan in protest. Outside, the night pressed closer, as if eavesdropping on every tremulous word. The hooded stranger fidgeted, pulling their cloak tighter around them. In that faint movement was the suggestion of unspeakable dread—a terror rooted not in hearsay, but in personal knowledge.

The youth rubbed sweaty palms on his trousers. “Y-you said they only hunt the Ironbrand? Then perhaps we’re safe, yeah? We had nothing to do with—I mean, I never fought in any war.” His attempt at reassurance fell flat. Even he seemed unconvinced by his own words.

Mirro’s voice took on a grave note. “Strange tidings have a way of casting wide nets. The Ironbrand may be their prime quarry, but what if you simply stand in the Phantom’s path one rainy night? Or attempt to defend someone they’ve marked? History is littered with corpses of those who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the Phantom’s sword—‘Brokenhearted,’ they call it—doesn’t discriminate once drawn.”

The barmaid released a shaky breath. “That name,” she muttered. “I heard a bard once say the blade glows red in the moonlight, and gold in the sunrise. That it’s… fused from two separate swords.” She looked at Mirro questioningly.

“So they say,” Mirro answered easily. “And the hilt, carved from the horn of a demon the Phantom supposedly loved—and lost. Whether it’s true or not, the image alone is enough to haunt a mind.”

A log popped in the fireplace, sending a flurry of sparks dancing across the floor. The sellsword nudged one glowing ember aside with his boot, a distant look on his face. “Weeds. The world is full of weeds,” he mumbled softly, as though quoting someone. “No matter how many you cut down, more spring up. Maybe that’s how the Phantom sees the Ironbrand—like weeds that need uprooting.”

Mirro nodded. “A grim analogy, but apt. Those who once wore the Ironbrand’s name scattered like leaves after Iliaren fell, taking on false names or sinking into other mercenary bands when their promised glory wouldn't come. Some turned to petty banditry, others tried living honest lives. Yet rumor claims the Phantom has a ledger, or some infernal means to track them across the realms. Each time an Ironbrand member vanishes, you’ll hear talk of black fluid on the stones, or scorched footprints leading away into the night.” A gust whistled under the eaves, rattling the rafters overhead. In that moment, the entire company seemed to shiver in unison. Perhaps it was the cold. More likely, it was the creeping realization that no matter how remote this village might seem, such horrors could show up unbidden.

A long moment passed in uneasy silence. Then the cloaked stranger managed a few strangled words: “S-some say the Phantom was wronged… that the Ironbrand committed atrocities against them personally. That they… they had a family in Iliaren.” Their eyes darted toward Mirro. “Is it true?”

Mirro lowered her gaze to the embers again. “I don’t claim to know the full truth. But it’s certain the Phantom lost someone… or something… precious when Iliaren burned. The heartbreak festered into hatred, and that hatred fueled a desire for vengeance. Perhaps it still does. Perhaps that’s all that’s left inside them.” She let her words hang in the smoky air. The fire crackled softly, spitting sparks that died on the cold stone. The sellsword raked a hand through his cropped hair, exhaling in a slow hiss. Nobody moved to refill their mugs. Even the barmaid seemed reluctant to cross the taproom, as though every shadow might hide a half-devil silhouette, listening.

At last, the youth spoke up again, voice quivering. “So… so it’s real, all of it? This… Ashforged Phantom ? They truly haunt the roads?”

Mirro nodded, expression grim. “As real as the axes that tore down Iliaren’s gates. As real as the fear in your eyes right now.” Then, as though compelled by a sudden thought, she tilted her head, listening to the wind that sighed against the walls. “You see, many would like to believe this is all just a myth. A cautionary tale for would-be mercenaries who sell their swords to the highest bidder. But there are too many accounts—too many bodies —for it to be mere folklore. I’ve come across people who claimed to have survived a glimpse of the Phantom’s wrath. None of them were ever the same.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, as if the night itself had ears. “If you ask me… the Phantom is as much legend as they are real flesh and blood . And it’s exactly that blend of rumor and truth that makes them so damn terrifying.”

A gale tore through the village outside, screeching around the corners of the tavern, causing the signboard to thrash wildly. For a moment, it sounded like some monstrous bird shrieking at the windows, demanding entry. The company around the hearth instinctively drew closer, as if seeking protection in their closeness. The barmaid’s eyes flicked to the door, ensuring it was still barred.

Mirro took in the sight of them: the fear, the strain, the haunting knowledge that even if the Phantom didn’t come this night, something would. The sellsword, whose bravado had all but vanished; the youth, pale and shaking; the cloaked stranger, quivering like a leaf in a tempest. She suspected more than one of them had secrets they dared not confess—that perhaps they had known the Ironbrand, or aided in the destruction of Iliaren for coin. But she said nothing of it, for to speak such accusations might be a death knell in its own right.

Instead, she drew a slow breath, letting the hush deepen. “That’s the gist of it,” she finished softly, letting her voice carry the weight of finality. “That’s why the roads are emptier these days, and why caravans vanish without a trace. Whether you name them the Ashforged Phantom or by any other dread title, they’re out there… drifting across the land with a blade red-gold as blood under the moon. And if you or anyone you know has cause to fear them—if you carry the sins of Iliaren’s fall on your soul—then I suggest you pray. Pray the Phantom’s wrath passes you by.”

A timber in the rafters cracked, echoing like a gunshot in the tense silence. The cloaked stranger startled so violently that their chair scraped the floor. The sellsword glanced around, a scowl painted across his features, but that scowl no longer spoke of disbelief. It reeked of unease, and perhaps guilt. The barmaid stared into the hearth, gripping her cleaning rag so hard her fingers almost matched the fabric's white.

For a few heartbeats, no one spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the steady hammering of rain on the roof, for the storm outside had finally broken. The village slept fitfully beneath that weeping sky, and the night stretched on, thick with portent. Those gathered around the flickering fire exchanged glances—some defiant, some fearful.

Mirro inhaled, then squared her shoulders. “If you want the details, if you insist on hearing how the Phantom hunts and what paths they’ve traveled… then settle in, my friends. I’ll tell you the stories exactly as I’ve heard them, leaving no gruesome fact unturned. But after tonight, don’t claim ignorance. When the wind howls at your window or the roads turn dark beneath an unholy moon, remember this night. Remember what was said here.”

She reached for her crossbow, resting a light hand upon the weathered stock. Her eyes passed from face to face, reading each one as though searching for doubt. “Now,” she whispered, “let us begin properly. The hour grows late, but I suspect none of us will sleep easily until dawn. So gather close—closer still. For once I start, you’ll want to hear every word.”

Then, as the fire dimmed, as the lantern overhead sputtered on the last of its oil, Mirro leaned forward. Her tone dropped to a hush that forced them all to lean in. Outside, the storm raged, and the signboard banged against the tavern wall with the fury of the wind. Within, hearts pounded as if urging an end to the tension—but there would be no release tonight.

Mirro began the tale in earnest, weaving rumor and truth into a tapestry of dread. The sellsword clenched his jaw; the youth’s eyes shone with terrified fascination; the stranger cowered under their cloak. And far beyond the tavern, somewhere in that great, moaning countryside, a lone figure might have been prowling the darkness—silent, relentless, unstoppable. Perhaps they glided through the mud-laden roads, exhaling smoke and black fluid with each ragged breath, a sword named Brokenhearted gleaming at their side. Perhaps they traced the faint echoes of old sins, drawn by the specter of memory and revenge.

"Let me tell you of the shadow that stalks the lands."