Safehouses

A hush weighed upon the old tavern like a funeral pall. Thunder still rattled the windowpanes, and occasional bursts of lightning illuminated the old stone walls in stark, flickering relief. The group clung close to the hearth’s dwindling warmth, unwilling to scatter into lonely corners.

When Mirro spoke again, her voice dipped to that hushed, solemn register of a confidante imparting forbidden knowledge. She cast a glance at the door—still bolted—then pressed on. “I mentioned a certain trucker who encountered the Phantom on a back road. But that was just a brush with legend. If you want a clear glimpse into how the Phantom operates… let me tell you of the time they appeared in Duskfall.”

Several of the listeners seemed to perk up at the mention of Duskfall. The place was notorious—once a thriving metropolis that had boomed under the rise of arcane-tech industries in elven hands, but now half in ruin from gang wars and corporate collapses under human leadership. Neon signs, half-broken, still glowed in back alleys. Residual wards crackled overhead, leftover from a golden age of magical innovation, before the Shattering could ever be dreamed of, and before what is now known as the Vanguard Dominion had arrived in Interia. Even the name Duskfall held a certain weight, conjuring images of grime, neon haze, and shadows that never fully receded.

Mirro began. “A friend of mine—Renna, a traveling herbalist—had set up shop in Duskfall for a spell. She had clients in the corporate towers who paid well for discreet potions: illusions for late-night parties, augmentations for their bodyguards. She was good at slipping in and out of trouble… or so she thought.”

The flames wavered, casting long-fingered shadow across the woman’s weathered face. Outside, the wind keened like a lost spirit. “Renna saw more of the Phantom in a single night than most folks do in a lifetime. You see, one of her best clients was an ex-Ironbrand officer—a woman who called herself Captain Veradine. Different name, same vicious glare, same private nightmares. Veradine had money to burn but lived like a paranoid ghost—holed up in a penthouse fortress that overlooked the smog-veiled sprawl below. Electric fences, runic wards, hired guns patrolling the halls. She thought she was untouchable. But, like so many others, she was wrong.”

The cloaked stranger in the corner inhaled sharply, as though the mention of an ex-officer struck a nerve. Mirro continued, her gaze drifting to the flicker of lightning at the windows. “Renna confided to me that Veradine was… frightened. She’d been hearing about her old Ironbrand companions dying in unsolved murders across the region. No leads, no footage, just the same half-glimpsed rumor: a figure in tattered ballistic cloth, exhaling black fumes through a twisted mask. So Veradine took steps—beefed up security, installed drones that linked directly between her wards and her surveillance tech, warded her walls with all kinds of deterrents. She even had a new armored exosuit for her defense, just in case. If the Phantom came, she’d be ready.”

Mirro let out a low, humorless chuckle. “But no one’s ever truly ready.”

A crooked flash of lightning illuminated the tavern, revealing the rapt expressions of those gathered. The sellsword had inched closer, elbows on the table, grim-faced. The jittery youth clutched a mug of cold tea, knuckles white. The barmaid hovered nearby, arms folded, as if bracing for each revelation. Only the hooded stranger stared at the floor, shoulders trembling.

“Renna arrived at Veradine’s penthouse on a stormy evening,” Mirro went on, “much like tonight. Thunder rattled the neon signs outside, casting flickers of pink and sickly yellow across the rain-soaked streets as they barely hung on to the walls. She showed her ID to a bored security guard at the lobby’s checkpoint—metal detectors, scanning wands, the whole lot. Then she took the private lift up seventy floors. At the top, a corridor like a sterile mausoleum greeted her—marble floors, blank walls broken only by the occasional red warning rune. Veradine kept it that way, she said, so intruders had nowhere to hide.”

A hiss of wind against the tavern’s door punctuated the pause. Mirro fed another piece of wood to the hearth before resuming. “Renna found Veradine in the living room—if you could call it living. Big plush couches, holo-screens flickering with security feeds, the lights turned way down. Veradine paced back and forth in a sleek black exosuit, helmet at her side, a sidearm strapped to her thigh, anxious as a cornered animal. She demanded the usual potions—tonics to stave off nightmares, illusions to cloak her presence should she need to flee. She claimed she’d pay extra if Renna’d fetch her a black-market warding amulet that would keep out any and all intruders. They're rare, but there are still competent ward-crafters around."

Mirro folded her arms. “By then, of course, Renna had guessed: this is Ironbrand fear. Folks who knew exactly who might come for them, and what unstoppable force might slip past all the high-tech sensors in the world. But —Renna needed the coin, so she just went about measuring out vials. She tried not to pry.”

The sellsword shifted in his seat. “So how did the Phantom… get in?”

Mirro’s eyes glimmered with the reflection of the fire. “That’s the remarkable bit. Renna told me there was no sign of forced entry—no alarms, no wards tripped. One moment, the penthouse was silent except for the hum of electronics and the drumming of rain on the tinted windows. The next moment—darkness. Every light and device shut off like someone yanked the power supply. Even the emergency backups flickered and died.”

A chill ran through the tavern as Mirro paused, letting the imagery settle. The barmaid pressed a hand to her mouth. The youth’s eyes were wide as moons. The stranger in the corner seemed almost catatonic.

“Renna tried to stay quiet, half hidden behind a sofa,” Mirro said, “while Veradine fumbled to activate her exosuit’s defenses. In the sudden darkness, only the Phantom’s presence was certain. Thunder rattled the towering windows. The hiss of that rebreather cut the silence like a blade. Then came the sparks—Veradine managing to power up a small generator strapped to her belt. Her sidearm flared to life, muzzle ring glowing with runic script. She hurled threats into the shadows, shouting, ‘I’m armed, you bastard!’ But the Phantom never answered.”

Mirro glanced into the flickering hearth. “Then, a flash of lightning lit the entire penthouse for half a second, and Renna saw them face-to-face—a silhouette of ruin. The Phantom’s mask glinted, the rebreather exhaling a coil of smoke that caught the electric glare. Their sword—red and gold—rested at their side, almost casually, as if the armed woman before them wasn't a threat. No words, no movement. A statue of vengeance.”

The sellsword cleared his throat, eyes grim. “Veradine fired, I reckon.”

Mirro nodded. “She squeezed the trigger, sending bullets shrieking across the apartment. Renna ducked, and in the muzzle flare, she glimpsed the Phantom’s shape vanish like a nightmare at dawn. One second they were there, the next—gone. Then came the screeching sound of metal on metal… and a terrible snarl that might have been the Phantom’s voice behind that horrible vox. Veradine’s exosuit sparked, arcs of pink lightning dancing across her pauldron. She stumbled back, slamming into the walls. Renna saw the Phantom reappear behind Veradine, moving faster than any mortal in that heavy armor had a right to do.”

The hush in the tavern grew thick, almost suffocating. Outside, the downpour spattered relentlessly, as if the sky itself wept at the memory. Even the crackle of the fire sounded subdued.

With a slow exhale, Mirro carried on. “Veradine was no pushover. She whipped around, the servo-motors in her suit howling. A kinetic shield flared at her forearm. She’d spent who knows how many thousands of credits on that gear—my friend said it was supposedly the best magical and mechanical wards money could buy. She lunged, slashing at the Phantom with an enchanted blade that popped out of her gauntlet. Sparks flew as the Phantom parried with Brokenhearted. The clash was deafening in that sealed darkness—like thunder trapped inside, echoing from tile to ceiling. Somewhere in the midst of it, Renna could smell the acrid stench of burning metal and scorched ozone.”

Mirro flexed her fingers, as though picturing the fight herself. “In the flickers of muzzle fire, arcs of warding magic, and the Phantom’s eerie green gauntlet glow, Renna saw the shape of that sword: jagged and twisted, the hilt ending in a broken horn. Fury, she said. Pure fury.”

No one in the tavern dared speak. The barmaid hovered closer, arms clasped around her midsection, as if warding off a chill. The sellsword’s jaw tightened. Perhaps he was recalling his own brushes with terrifying foes.

Mirro exhaled, voice softening. “The duel was brief but savage. Veradine tried every trick her expensive new gear allowed: bullets, spells, melee, even running. But each time, the Phantom countered, swifter than logic should allow. The hush of their approach, the rasp of that rebreather, the sword’s unnatural glow. Renna claimed she saw runes swirl on Brokenhearted’s surface, as though feeding off Veradine’s panic.”

She paused for effect. “At last, the Phantom disarmed her—literally. With a single slash, they cleaved right through the exo’s plating, severing hydraulic cables, sending metal shards skittering across the floor as they cut the generator on her hip in the downward slash. Veradine crashed onto her back, pinned under the suit’s dead weight. She fought to pry herself free, but the Phantom planted a boot on her chestplate. Cold, methodical, unstoppable.”

Lightning strobed again, illuminating every dread-filled face in the tavern. Mirro’s voice dipped low. “Veradine screamed, cursing the Phantom by every foul name under the sun. She spat confessions, raving about how Iliaren was just a job, how Ironbrand was simply following orders. She howled that she’d pay any sum for mercy. But that revenant spoke not a word, simply raised their blade high. And in the next flash, Veradine’s screams ended in a gurgling hush.”

The youth swallowed hard, looking as though he might be sick. The cloaked stranger clutched the edge of the table with trembling hands, while the sellsword sat in stony silence, eyes cast downward.

Mirro continued quietly, “Renna, cowering behind the couch, didn’t dare move. She heard the Phantom’s ragged breathing—each exhale thick with that black fluid—then caught a glimpse of them staring down at Veradine’s corpse. They lingered, perhaps to confirm the kill, or to reflect on the moment. Renna couldn’t be sure. Then the Phantom turned, vanishing into the corridor. And as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.”

A gust rattled the tavern door. On reflex, the barmaid hurried to check the lock. The tension in the room felt palpable enough to taste—like copper on the tongue.

Mirro set her jaw. “Of course, the security detail arrived minutes later, but by then the Phantom was gone—disappeared into the building’s guts, maybe a secret passage or an unguarded rooftop exit. Renna said the backup generators flickered on eventually, revealing the carnage under sterile floodlights. Veradine’s men stumbled upon the body, babbling about an intruder. But all the cameras captured was static and the occasional after-image of green sparks. The wards had never triggered. It was as though the Phantom waltzed right past them.”

She inhaled deeply. “Renna fled the city not long after. She told me the Phantom had looked her way at one point—just a passing glance in the gloom—but showed no interest in harming her. That was her salvation: she didn’t stand between them and their target.”

A brittle silence followed. The hearth crackled, spitting embers onto the stone. Outside, the rain softened a little, though the wind still prowled around the tavern’s beams. Finally, the sellsword let out a ragged breath. “I guess… that’s the best-case scenario, yeah? Not being the target. Let them pass, and live.”

“Seems so,” said Mirro. “But is that truly living? Knowing such a force exists, unstoppable and unrelenting, beyond the reach of the law or conventional weapons?” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t wish that knowledge on anyone.”

A quiet set in as the group grappled with the story. Across the taproom, the overhead sconce sparked again, flickering as though uncertain whether to die or burn brighter. The barmaid fetched an oil lamp from the back, adding its soft glow to the gloom.

Eventually, the youth dared to whisper, “Was that the end? Did Renna see the Phantom again?”

Mirro shrugged. “Not in person, though the nightmares haunted her. She heard rumors of more Ironbrand officers being found dead, though. Always the same hush around the cause: ‘Unexplained tragedy’ or ‘Isolated infiltration.’ But if you read between the lines, you see the Phantom’s footprints everywhere, soaked in black fluid and flickering green light. That’s how they operate: slip in, strike fast, vanish. Veradine was just one more name crossed off their ledger.”

The youth swallowed, eyes haunted. “That’s… monstrous. Maybe Ironbrand deserved to pay for what happened in Iliaren, but gods… the way you describe it—like some unstoppable revenant. Even modern tech can’t halt them?”

Mirro shook her head, the fire reflecting in her eyes. “No bulwark’s held yet, at least not for long. They come when the storm’s at its darkest, or in the hush before dawn. They exploit every crack—technological, magical, or psychological. And once your name is on that ledger… well, you’re living on borrowed time.”

Thunder rolled again, but softer now, as though echoing from a great distance. The sellsword spat out a curse, then looked around warily. “Some part of me still wants to call it a rumor… but the detail, the consistency… it’s too precise.”

The cloaked stranger stirred, finally finding their voice. “W-why hasn’t any major power stopped them? Surely they have the resources.”

Mirro’s expression grew grim. “Because the Phantom doesn’t fight for territory or recognition. They’re not looking to topple entire nations, only to pick off ex-Ironbrand members like crows pecking at scattered carrion. They strike in ways that slip under the radar, leaving minimal evidence. Governments get half-hearted leads, then bury them—who wants to claim an unstoppable headsman roams the countryside, beyond the scope of their control? Meanwhile, Ironbrand survivors keep running—one day, they vanish, found days later in an alley or a locked safe room… executed . Fear grips them, scattering them further.” She raised a brow. “It’s the perfect environment for the Phantom’s hunt.”

The group let out a collective exhale, as though the weight of Mirro’s story pressed down on them. Beyond the walls, the sky rumbled in half-sleep, releasing the last of its thunder in gentle growls. Rain still pattered the rooftop, but not as fiercely as before.

“Which begs the question,” the sellsword said quietly, “what now? If the Phantom is unstoppable… do we just hunker down and pray?”

A battered sigh came from the barmaid. She ran a hand through her hair, then tugged her apron tighter. “If I had anything to do with Ironbrand, I’d run to the corners of the earth.”

Mirro’s gaze flicked to the hooded stranger, who looked as though they might collapse under the weight of some invisible guilt. A thousand unasked questions shimmered in the air— Are you one of them? Did you do something so vile the Phantom hunts you next?

But Mirro did not voice those suspicions, not yet. The hush that followed was enough of a testament. Everyone in that circle felt the creeping dread of possibility… that at any moment, the tavern’s door might shatter, and the Phantom would appear in the threshold with Brokenhearted held low, smoke curling from their rebreather. Outside, a breeze sighed through the wet streets, scattering puddles. An old speaker perched above the bar crackled with intermittent static, perhaps picking up stray signals from the city a few miles off. The world moved on, indifferent to the hush of terror settled in the Cracked Tankard . Mirro took a breath, forcing a wry smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s the shape of it, friends. If you were hoping for comfort, I have none. Only the knowledge that if you’ve nothing to do with Ironbrand, you might be safe… for now.”

The sellsword stared into his empty mug, a muscle working in his jaw. The youth sat in silence, absorbing the horror. The hooded stranger swallowed, glancing at the door as if half-tempted to flee into the storm.

“But we’ve more night to burn,” Mirro said at last, settling back into her seat. “And I suspect there’s more you’d like to hear. If so, let’s stoke this fire a while longer. There are other accounts of the Phantom’s hunts—some even darker than Duskfall. The question is… do you truly wish to know? ”

She waited, letting the spark of challenge hang in the dim air. Outside, the final peals of thunder rolled away, leaving a tense, rain-soaked quiet. It felt as though the entire tavern waited on a knife’s edge, that somewhere beyond the drizzle and murky night, an armored figure might lurk—drawn to the hush of whispered secrets.