The Echo of a Name
A hush lingered in the tavern after Mirro’s final words—cut by the creeping silence that always follows a story’s close. Outside, rain drummed on the sloped roof, sluicing off the eaves and pooling in the cracked cobblestones. The open door still let in a cold breeze tinged with petrichor, though none among the gathering seemed eager to cross its threshold. They remained fixed to their seats, hearts pounding, eyes searching the corners for half-seen threats.
At length, someone cleared their throat. It was the jittery youth, eyes still darting at every flicker of shadow. “You… you said you’d tell us,” he stammered, voice trembling. “How—how did the Phantom even start on this path? Everyone’s got some beginning, yeah? They weren’t always a—” He swallowed, fumbling for the right phrase. “A demon in steel ... or whatever they are now.”
Mirro leaned back in her chair, letting the firelight play on her worn features. Her crossbow sat at her side like a silent sentinel. “Most stories of the Phantom begin at Iliaren’s fall. But there are whispers of their life before that—hints of a past name, a different face. Whether these whispers are true… well, that’s for you to decide.”
She paused, glancing around at the handful of listeners. The tavern’s interior flickered under old electric sconces strung haphazardly along wooden beams—modern convenience clashing with centuries-old stone walls. One light sputtered, threatening to short out, casting the group into momentary darkness before returning with an anemic glow.
When she spoke again, her voice had a storyteller’s cadence. “Word is, the Phantom started out as a rat on the streets. Happened to be taken in by the mercenary company Crimson Reverie when they were barely old enough to serve, and turned their life around there. By the time the siege happened, that half-devil was no longer a cowering child. They were an efficient killer, wielding blades, guns and spells. Or so the stories go.”
A quiet hush embraced the circle. The wind battered the tavern door, trying to pry it open. A lit-up sign flickered through the rain-streaked window— Radio Repairs & Sundries across the street—but its light was barely enough to push back the gloom.
Mirro tapped a finger on the table. “But something changed at Iliaren. Something that shattered whatever life they'd led. Maybe they witnessed atrocities too vile even for a half-devil to stomach. Maybe it was personal—a friend or lover caught in the crossfire of the Vanguard Dominion's siege on the Free Cities. I’ve heard both versions. Maybe it's both, maybe it's neither.”
“You said there was a demon involved,” the barmaid ventured. “That the Phantom’s sword has a demon horn at its hilt.”
“Aye,” Mirro said softly, looking into the fire again. “An old rumor claims they took a demonic lover during their time with Crimson Reverie. Possibly the Phantom’s only real companion—someone they trusted. But during the siege, that demon was… murdered. Or sacrificed. There’s no shortage of dark tales about devils turning on each other, or about humans deciding they’d had enough of infernal allies. Either way, that love was ripped away.”
She leaned forward. “That heartbreak, they say, is what shaped the sword that now reaps a harvest of blood. Forged from two broken blades, bound together in unholy metal, and crowned with the succubus’s horn. ‘Brokenhearted.’ A name that suits its maker’s soul.”
The youth closed his eyes, as though trying to chase away the image. “A monster, then.”
“Maybe,” Mirro said. “Or perhaps a person more wronged than we can imagine. In dark times, the line between man and monster grows thin. And the gods know there are enough monsters among us, human or inhuman alike.”
A log in the hearth gave way, collapsing into embers. Sparks whirled upward, casting fleeting shapes on the rafters. Outside, a siren wailed—faint, as though a policing squad was racing along the main road through the village, searching for trouble. The Cracked Tankard tavern was far enough off the beaten track that its patrons usually avoided official notice. Tonight, however, not even the wail of sirens could hush the primal dread pulsing in these walls.
Mirro continued after a moment, voice steady but hushed. “In the years since Iliaren fell, the Phantom’s name has spread from place to place. Some claim they wander the roads at night, prowling under half-lit billboards or the broken remains of ghost towns. Others say they slip in and out of distant warfronts, seeking old faces from the Ironbrand and whoever served the Vanguard at the time—folk who changed their names, tried to go straight, or found new life as private security. None of that matters if the Phantom sets their sights on you.”
A shudder passed through the group. The sellsword frowned, tracing a callused finger over his chipped mug. “I heard a rumor a few months back,” he said slowly. “Of a woman who fled to a high-rise in the city of Ashbourne—some ex-Ironbrand scum. Hired private guards, put up wards of protection. Still ended up found in her home, slashed to ribbons. The cameras only caught static. Nothing but glimpses of… something… moving across the feed. The official report pinned it on a haunting."
Mirro’s nod was grim. “Even your modern locks and cameras can’t hold out a vengeful spirit with the skill of a seasoned soldier with wytchblood. They’ve stepped through wards meant for devils, bypassed bulletproof glass, turned entire squads of security into scrap to get to their goal when they cannot slip through the darkness.”
From somewhere near the kitchen door, the barmaid spoke. “Then the cause is truly hopeless for anyone who has the Phantom’s mark?”
Silence weighed heavy as stone. The hooded stranger let out a ragged sigh, almost a sob. They had not revealed their name, but their posture screamed guilt. Mirro watched them curiously, but asked no questions. Instead, she shifted her gaze around the circle of listeners. “A grim tale indeed. But we must remember, the Phantom doesn’t randomly slaughter. They have a target list: the mercenary band that sold its services to the Vanguard to destroy Iliaren. The Ironbrand Company. That’s who the Phantom hunts. Of course, does that prevent collateral damage? Not necessarily. If you stand in their way, or if you defend someone they’ve marked, your life is forfeit.”
A sudden pop of overhead lights caused the group to flinch. The tavern’s sputtering sconce had finally given up, leaving half the room in deeper shadow. The swirling gloom seemed to creep closer, as if hungry for the stories being told. The barmaid fetched a flashlight from under the counter and set it on the bar, aiming a shaky beam across the floorboards, illuminating the room better than the dying fireplace could.
In that stark beam, dust motes drifted like tiny ghosts. The sellsword cleared his throat, gaze wary. “Well… maybe we should carry on. You said you’d tell us how the Phantom hunts. If we have to hear the worst of it to prepare ourselves, so be it.”
Mirro cast a searching glance at the cloaked stranger, who looked seconds away from bolting out the door—rain or no rain. The stranger’s knuckles were white where they gripped the table. “You want the story?” Mirro said softly. “All right. But do yourselves a kindness. Keep an eye on those windows while I speak. I don’t like the feel of this storm.”
The barmaid moved to the glass panes, pressing her face close to the darkness outside. Though the sign across the street flickered, the alleyways beyond were pitch-black. She thought—just for an instant—she saw a silhouette leaning against a lamppost in the distance, smoke or steam rising from its posture. But it vanished after a blink, leaving her heart pounding.
She returned, pale-faced, but said nothing. No need to alarm the others with half-seen shapes.
Mirro resumed in a measured voice. “I’ll tell you of the first time I ever heard a direct account of the Phantom’s methods. It was from a freight-trucker named Dove, who made runs between the dwarven cities in the east and the Vanguard's logging towns. She swore up and down that one night, she came upon a road checkpoint—nothing official, just some barrier lights flickering in the gloom. The Phantom was there among the many corpses, in the middle of the road, as if waiting. Dove hit the brakes too late, nearly crashed into a ditch. She told me she saw the Phantom approach, every step accompanied by the hiss of that rebreather, the black fluid staining the asphalt in smoky droplets. Then they reached out—like they were testing if she was friend or foe. Dove scrambled to prove she had no ties to Ironbrand, even showing the Phantom her ID, cargo receipts… everything. The Phantom stared at them in silence. A moment later, gone . Faded into the storm like a nightmare stepping back into the dream.”
A shaky breath escaped from the youth. “They let her go?”
“They did. Perhaps that’s proof enough the Phantom doesn’t kill for fun. If you’ve nothing to do with Ironbrand, nothing to do with the fall of Iliaren, you might leave their presence with your life intact—though the terror will remain with you. That’s what Dove told me, anyway. She abandoned freight runs soon after.”
A low rumble of thunder shook the air, and the low light outside sizzled, plunging the street into deeper darkness. In that moment, the tavern felt entirely disconnected from the rest of the world. Rain hammered the roof in sharp, relentless staccato, as if demanding entry.
The sellsword exhaled. “So they… interrogate people, checking for ties to that damned merc company. Then, if they find it…”
Mirro’s gaze fell to the crossbow which had by now found its way to her lap, her fingers tightening around the worn stock. She was happy enough not to correct the sellsword. “Those with ties rarely live to speak of their encounter. And so the legend grows, piece by piece, from glimpses and remnants.”
The barmaid slid a fresh candle onto the table, its small flame wavering in the draft. “And the Ironbrand? They’re scattered, you say. But there must still be some measure of them left.”
“Indeed,” Mirro replied, crossing her arms. “They were too large an outfit to vanish entirely—hundreds of contracted fighters. They parted ways, some lying low in city underbellies, others taking corporate gigs, a few still selling their guns to the highest bidder. That’s a lot of targets. The Phantom roams widely, methodically, never resting until the last of them is erased.”
It was then the stranger in the corner spoke, voice trembling. “How do you… do you know for certain the Phantom is half-devil? Could it be a clever hoax? Some warlock fueling illusions to sow panic? Maybe… maybe even multiple warriors wearing the same gear?”
Mirro tilted her head, studying them. Idiots, the lot of them. “Could be. But every eye-witness account describes the same presence. That mixture of advanced tech and diabolical aura. The same sword, the same cowl. The same voice, distorted through that rebreather, as though a legion of damned souls speak at once. If it’s a hoax, it’s a damn consistent one. And illusions don’t leave real bodies behind.”
The stranger’s head drooped, giving no further argument. The sellsword rose from his seat, half-turning toward the shuttered window. “I need air,” he growled, though he made no move to actually open the door. His nerves betrayed him; he was too unsettled to leave the false safety of the firelight.
Mirro stood, stretching her stiff limbs. “We’ve delved deep into who this Phantom might be, but that’s just the beginning. You wanted to know the shape of their hunts, their methods, the why behind them. We’ll get there.”
She glanced at the barmaid, who hovered by the kitchen with worry etched across her features. “But first, let’s stoke the fire and take a breather. These storms can be draining, and we’ve a long night of tales yet.”
Slowly, the group dispersed—some to fetch more drinks, some to lean against the walls and pretend they didn’t fear the next crack of thunder. The cloaked stranger remained at the table, hunched over, as if weighed down by some invisible burden. The youth slipped away to the bathroom, rummaging for a moment before returning, face pale.
Lightning flared again, illuminating the tavern’s interior in a stark flash of white. For a split second, Mirro thought she glimpsed the reflection of something in the window—dark, tall, and unnervingly still, trailing smoke. Then it was gone. A trick of the storm, she told herself. Nothing more.
Yet she couldn’t shake the uneasy prickle at the base of her spine. If you speak of devils often enough, they may well appear, went an old saying. She brushed it aside, returning to the hearth to add a fresh log. The flames licked eagerly at the new fuel, sputtering in the dampness.
In the hush that followed, it was as though the tavern itself breathed with them—doomed souls caught in a web of rumor and dread. And overhead, the thunder rolled on, never truly departing. One had to wonder whether at that very moment, outside the circle of warmth and flickering electric sconces, a figure clad in battered armor and a demon-skin cloak might be walking these same streets, each breath through their voice grille trailing black fumes.
If so, the rain and the darkness made a perfect stage for them—like an avenger moving unseen in the gloom, hunting old sins that refused to die.