Shadows of the Past
A sullen quiet reclaimed the taproom. Rain thrummed on the old shingles overhead, winding down to a sibilant hiss that seeped through the cracks. The storm was passing, but in its wake there lingered a hush thick enough to choke on.
Mirro let the final words of her story about Duskfall hang in the air. Her audience still gathered around the hearth, though several glanced nervously at the door, as if expecting it to burst wide at any moment. The electric wall sconces flickered intermittently, casting long, wavering shadows across the floorboards.
Into that silence, the hooded stranger finally spoke—soft, ragged words, heavy with dread. “There are… many more like Captain Veradine, scattered all over. The Ironbrand Company was… was vast.” A tremor rippled through their frame. “I’d heard rumors. But never realized just how… unstoppable the Phantom seems.”
The sellsword snorted, though there was no real derision in his tone. It sounded more like fear forced through hardened lungs. “And you speak as though you know the Ironbrand well,” he said, leveling a pointed look at the stranger. “You connected to them?”
Color drained from the stranger’s cheeks—what little was visible beneath the hood’s shadow. “I—I… was never truly one of them,” they stammered. “Just… a liaison, once. A one-time job, but it tied me to… to Iliaren, and that day. Then the company disbanded after the war, or so I’d hoped. I thought I could vanish, move on. But it seems that no matter how far any of us run, the Phantom hunts us.”
No one spoke for a moment. Outside, the night carried on, a distant siren warbling through the damp air. Could have been local law enforcement, or a medical dispatch for some unseen accident. The barmaid set down a fresh lamp, the flame dancing in the draft from the cracks under the door.
Mirro exhaled, tension coiling in her posture. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Ironbrand wasn’t just a handful of hired blades. They had branches, sub-contracts, specialists for infiltration, supply lines… hundreds of souls. Many never even set foot in Iliaren’s main assault but reaped the gold nonetheless. If the Phantom holds them all responsible, no one who touched that contract is safe.”
A hush greeted her words. The sellsword’s gaze flicked to the youth, then to the barmaid, as if evaluating each for signs of guilt. The barmaid’s eyes hardened—she had no connection to the old war. Or so it seemed. “Countless targets,” the sellsword murmured. “Impossible to wipe them all out, you’d think. But the Phantom seems hell-bent on trying.”
From her seat near the hearth, Mirro nodded. “And that’s precisely what’s happening. That’s the problem. The Phantom roams, systematically crossing off names, doesn’t matter if you’re living in a fortress or a backwater village.” She glanced pointedly at the stranger. “You’re one of those names, aren’t you?”
A visible shudder coursed through the stranger. Their hood slipped, revealing the edges of a lined face and eyes reddened by sleepless nights. “I never— I mean, I didn’t raise arms against Iliaren. I only handled supply. Ammo shipments, some arcane stabilizers… I thought it was just another job.”
“Still blood on your hands,” the sellsword said gruffly. “That’s how the Phantom would see it.”
The stranger’s gaze dropped, tears gathering in the corners of their eyes. “But how was I to know? We were told it was an ‘offensive campaign’—no one said it would lead to wiping out thousands.” Their voice cracked. “I tried to walk away. But once you do business with Ironbrand, you’re branded for life.” In that quiet admission, the youth drew in a sharp breath. A new tension brewed in the tavern air: fear, condemnation, pity.
Mirro broke the silence. “And so you came here, to the countryside, thinking you could hide. Hoping the Phantom wouldn’t notice you among the scattered farms and old roads.”
The stranger nodded, trembling. “I’ve been running for months—jumping from place to place whenever I hear rumors that the Phantom’s been spotted nearby. But it’s no use. I catch wind of more Ironbrand folk turning up dead, each time a little closer. I— I don’t know where else to go.”
Their voice took on a pleading edge as they stared at Mirro, the barmaid, even the sellsword. “I thought maybe, if I kept my head down, they’d overlook me. But after hearing… hearing about what happened in Duskfall, after all the other stories… I don’t think there’s anywhere left to hide.”
No one rushed to comfort them. The sellsword’s expression remained grim, arms folded. Mirro rubbed a hand over her face as though trying to massage away a headache. The only sound was the low whisper of the dying fire and the drip of rain off the eaves.
At last, the barmaid cleared her throat. “You… you can’t stay here,” she whispered, voice filled with regret. “Not if the Phantom is coming. No offense, but I have a tavern to run, and we’re not equipped to fend off something like that. The folks in this village… they’re barely scraping by.”
The stranger nodded miserably, as though they’d expected this. “I know. I— I can’t keep endangering decent people. But… where can I go? If they want me dead, I’m as good as gone already. All my so-called allies from the war have either vanished or turned on one another.” Their eyes darted to Mirro. “But maybe… you’re a hunter, right? A traveler. Could you help me? Take me somewhere the Phantom can’t follow?”
Mirro’s mouth tightened, lips forming a grim line. “I’ve never heard of a place the Phantom can’t follow. And even if there was one… it wouldn’t come cheap or easy. I’m not exactly in the business of crossing unstoppable headsmen."
A silence settled, as heavy as a tombstone. The stranger bowed their head, shoulders trembling with quiet despair. The youth fidgeted, looking as if they wanted to say something, but no words came. The sellsword just stared, jaw flexing as he weighed his own thoughts.
The stranger’s eyes flickered with a tiny spark of hope. “I’ll take anything. Just… anything to keep breathing.”
“That’s the problem,” the sellsword cut in, voice as sharp as a drawn blade. “This Phantom’s no normal bounty hunter. Doesn’t matter if you bury yourself under wards or hide in the biggest city. Sooner or later, they find you. If you’re Ironbrand, you’re living on borrowed time.”
Mirro glanced at him. “You sound like you speak from experience, friend.”
The sellsword’s lips twisted. “Ran with the Wraithhearts for a few years—another merc outfit. We once crossed paths with Ironbrand and parted on poor terms. Not that I had a hand in Iliaren, but I’ve seen how wide-reaching Ironbrand was. Some of those dogs ended up in my squad for a time, though they never bragged about their old gig. Too ashamed, I reckon. One by one, they started disappearing. A runic letter pinned to the Wraithhearts’ bunkhouse once claimed, ‘THEIR SINS LIVE, SO THEY MUST DIE.’ Signed with a black smear. No clue how it got there. Our security was top-of-the-line. But that note sure spooked them.” He paused, gaze distant. “Me? I left soon after. Didn’t want to be in the crossfire.”
The barmaid let out a shaky breath. “So you’re telling me… we might be seeing the Phantom here if any ex-Ironbrand is in town?”
The sellsword shrugged. “Could be. Could be tomorrow, or never. Who knows how the Phantom picks the order. But every rumor suggests that if they catch so much as a whiff of your presence—” He snapped his fingers. “—that’s it. If you believe our storyteller here, eh?”
A collective chill swept through the tavern. Even the hearth flames seemed to flicker lower, as if cowering from the grim reality. The overhead lighting buzzed, threatening to short again. She smiled humorlessly, noticing the uneasy expressions all around. Her gaze swept over the gathered group. “Let’s be blunt: if you don’t want to be collateral damage, you’d best figure out a plan.”
A hollow laugh escaped the sellsword. “Plan? You think we can hold this tavern like it’s a bunker? We don’t even have a decent generator, let alone wards or advanced sensors. The Phantom would tear through us like tissue paper if they chose.”
The barmaid spoke up, voice trembling but resolute. “Then perhaps we ask the village watch for help? I— I know most of them by name. They’re good folks, even if they’re not exactly well-armed. We have some shotguns, a few runic blades—”
“Wouldn’t be enough,” Mirro interjected softly. “No offense to your village, but we’re talking about a supernatural warrior who’s bested militaries. A handful of watchmen with shotguns wouldn’t do more than slow them down.” Outside, the wind sighed around the tavern eaves, pushing droplets off the sagging gutters. The night felt thinner now, but no less foreboding.
The barmaid licked her lips, glancing uneasily at the hooded stranger. “So your best bet really is to run, then?”
A long pause. The stranger sagged. “Seems so,” they murmured, voice hollow. “But I—I’m not sure I can run forever.”
Mirro paused by a window, drawing a finger across the foggy glass. The reflection of the streetlamp quivered in a puddle outside. “What’s more, the Phantom doesn’t care about bystanders, except to avoid wasting energy on them. But if a bystander tries to shield a target, or raise a weapon, that’s all it takes to get cut down too.”
A low crackle of the hearth broke the silence. The sellsword shifted, as though physically uncomfortable under the tension. “So we have a problem, all right… or rather, you do,” he said, nodding at the hooded stranger. “We all do, if we stick around. This place isn’t safe for any of us if you remain.”
The stranger bowed their head. “I’ll go, then. In the morning.” Their voice wavered. “I don’t want to drag anyone else into my mess. And if the Phantom is truly unstoppable, maybe… maybe I should just accept my fate.”
Mirro rounded on them, eyes narrowing. “Don’t talk like that. If you have a chance, take it. People can outrun devils for a time, at least. Better to struggle for life than lay down for death.”
Tears welled in the stranger’s eyes. “You don’t know the guilt I carry. The horror of what we did. Sometimes I think… perhaps it’s better if the Phantom finds me.”
Mirro’s tone softened. “I can’t speak to your guilt. But I know despair when I see it. Don’t let it lead you to a lonely grave. Fight or flee—those are the only choices left.”
They locked eyes, a silent understanding passing between them. Finally, the stranger offered a tearful nod. The barmaid cleared her throat, voice hesitant. “Well… for tonight, you can stay. The storm’s not quite finished, and nobody ought to travel these roads alone in the dead of night.”
A faint flicker of gratitude touched the stranger’s face. “Thank you.”
The sellsword exhaled, tension uncoiling slightly. “Right then. I’ll keep watch, for what it’s worth,” he muttered. “Doubt I’ll sleep well after these stories anyway.”
Mirro made a small, wry grin. “I’ll grab my crossbow. Just in case.”
The barmaid mustered a brave nod. “I’ll… see about lighting a few more lamps. And lock the windows. It may be a flimsy line of defense, but it’s all we have.”
And so, with no real sense of comfort, the tavern’s patrons turned to small tasks—checking doors, closing shutters, ensuring the old radio set on the bar was turned off so it wouldn’t startle them with static. The youth helped rearrange chairs, forming a small circle near the hearth. Each movement held a nervous energy, as though they feared even the scraping of chair legs might summon the Phantom. Their collective dread was the knowledge that nothing could truly bar the door if the half-devil knight decided to appear.
Yet in that unspoken agreement—a willingness to endure the night together—there was a strange warmth, too. A defiance of the darkness, however fleeting. Thunder no longer roared overhead; only the rain remained, pattering on the roof in an almost soothing rhythm, if one’s heart wasn’t thrumming with fear.
Mirro placed a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “Rest if you can,” she said gently. “You’ll need your strength by dawn.” She didn’t add what they both knew: that the sun might grant only temporary reprieve. In truth, she already had an idea how this night might go.
Somewhere out there, the Ashforged Phantom moved through the night, silent steps guided by an infernal oath. And somewhere, more ex-Ironbrand survivors cowered in their hideouts, praying they weren’t next. The hush of the tavern spoke volumes—fear, regret, resignation all dancing in the half-light. No easy answers. No guaranteed salvation.
Finally, the sellsword broke the heavy silence, voice quiet and grim. “I’ll take first watch. Wake me when my shift’s done.”
Mirro nodded. “Agreed.”
The barmaid offered the stranger a thin blanket, guiding them to a bench near the wall. “You can lie here,” she whispered, as kindly as she could manage under the circumstances. “At least the fire’s warmth will reach you.”
“Thank you,” the stranger murmured. They lowered themselves onto the bench, eyes haunted with guilt and dread.
Mirro lingered near the hearth, staring into the embers as though searching for some faint prophecy. The youth curled up on a chair, arms wrapped around their knees, blinking sleeplessly at the flickering shadows. The sellsword leaned against the bar, one hand resting on a dagger hilt, scanning the windows with hawk-like vigilance.
And so the tavern settled into a tense vigil, each person grappling with the knowledge that something far larger than themselves stalked the land. The Phantom was a force that would not be denied—driven by heartbreak and forged in the fires of Iliaren’s fall. A relentless reaper of sins.
Above, the rafters groaned, and the rain softened to a gentle patter. Now and then, a gust of wind rattled the shutters, prompting a startled glance from the watchers. But the door remained closed. No heavy footfalls outside. No hiss of a rebreather or glint of runic metal in the gloom.
Night would pass, as all nights do, sliding inch by agonizing inch into the dawn. And with the dawn would come decisions: who would stay, who would flee, and how this fragile gathering might survive the unstoppable.
Still, in the small warmth of that firelit room, they had this moment—an uneasy calm before whatever storms lay ahead. The problem was clear: a half-devil on a crusade of vengeance, unstoppable and merciless. For now, none could see a way out. But as long as breath remained, so too did the faintest spark of hope.
Outside, the soggy streets glistened under the final sputtering of a streetlamp. Beyond that lamp’s circle of light, darkness blanketed the countryside, as if the world ended at the edge of the village. And perhaps, in a way, it did. For in the unseen reaches beyond, the Phantom prowled old highways and battered cityscapes, guided by an oath carved into their very flesh.
Within the tavern, eyes slowly drifted shut, or remained vigilantly open. Dreams—if they came—were uneasy things filled with the sound of a rebreather’s rasp and the echo of a blade named Brokenhearted. Night pressed on, but dawn would come soon enough, bringing new worries and a single urgent question:
What can anyone do when faced with a nightmare that refuses to die?