The Face of Nightmare

A sound—barely more than a whisper of static—pricked the silence. The sellsword halted in place, nerves taut. Mirro lifted her head sharply, brow furrowing. The barmaid stiffened, setting aside her lamp on a nearby table. The youth stirred in the chair, blinking blearily.

“What was that?” the barmaid mouthed, too wary to speak aloud.

Another hush followed. Then came a faint, rasping noise, like air forced through a cracked pipe. Scrape… hiss… scrape… Possibly the wind. Possibly a trick of old pipes. But something about the cadence made hair stand on end. The stranger on the bench jerked upright, heart pounding. They recognized that sound from a thousand nightmares.

Mirro’s knuckles whitened around the stock of her crossbow. The sellsword narrowed his eyes, dagger at the ready. Through the hush, the rasping sound shifted , distorted by some arcane or mechanical filter. A stuttering breath. Hhrrrggk… hiss…

Then all hell broke loose.

A pane of glass shattered from one of the side windows—the one half-buried behind dusty crates. The sellsword spun just in time to see a figure vault inside, trailing shards of glass. For a split heartbeat, it was all flickering shadows and swirling cloak. Then the barmaid’s lamp revealed the intruder in full:

An armored shape loomed, gleaming black metal and ballistic cloth etched with arcane runes. From beneath a battered face mask, inky black fluid dripped with each exhalation of the rebreather. In one hand they hefted a submachine gun, in the other, a their sword flickered with sickly green flame.

A hush of pure horror seized the tavern. No illusions, no rumor—the boogeyman they'd sworn up all night was here. The Phantom moved with surgical speed, crossing the room in three bounding steps. Smoke hissed out of their vox grille, each breath thick with black, inky drips. Someone—the sellsword—let out a furious shout, lunging forward. The Phantom’s submachine gun spat sudden, deafening bursts of fire, tracer rounds lighting the gloom. Wood splintered, glass exploded, and the sellsword dove behind an upturned table, cursing as bullets shredded the chairs around him.

Mirro flattened herself behind the bar, crossbow clutched tight, heart hammering in her chest. The youth yelped, tumbling out of their chair in blind panic. The barmaid ducked beneath a side counter, hands pressed to her mouth in terror.

Meanwhile, the Ironbrand stranger stared at the Phantom in abject horror. Their worst nightmare—real, unstoppable—was now mere steps away. All they could do was scramble backward, eyes wild. “N-no, please—!”

The Phantom advanced, green flames guttering along the blade of Brokenhearted. With a flick of their gauntlet, they sent arcs of that eerie energy crackling over the sword’s surface. The rebreather hissed, releasing a coil of blackish smoke that stank of brimstone.

A second volley from the submachine gun riddled the tavern’s wooden pillars with holes. Sparks flew where stray shots caught a metal sconce, sending it crashing to the floor. The sellsword popped up from behind his makeshift cover, hurling a hunting knife with lethal precision, but the Phantom twisted aside in a blur, and the knife clattered uselessly into the far wall.

The barmaid cried out as a stray bullet grazed her arm, leaving a searing line of pain. The Phantom’s visor swung her way, the luminous eyes beneath the cowl gleaming with a predatory glow. Yet the Phantom stayed their hand, pivoting away from her—clearly focusing on the true target.

Another hiss, another swirl of black fluid dripping from the rebreather. Then the Phantom lunged toward the bench, sword blazing. The stranger let out a shriek and scrambled off the bench, toppling it in a desperate scramble. The sellsword roared a challenge, diving in with his dagger. Brokenhearted met the blade in a flash of green flame, steel singing on burning steel. Sparks rained onto the floorboards as the two locked in a lethal dance. The Phantom’s inhuman strength forced the sellsword back inch by inch, submachine gun still clutched in their off-hand. The sellsword gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his brow, cursing every vile name under the sun. The Phantom gave no response—just the echoing rattle of their distorted breath.

“Run!” Mirro shouted to the stranger, voice hoarse. She leveled her crossbow, loaded with a steel-tipped dragonbone bolt, waiting for a clear shot. The stranger needed no urging, darting around the far side of the bar. The youth, trembling, tried to help them up, but panic reigned. Half the furniture lay in splinters, the hearth’s fire sputtering in the chaos.

Then the sellsword made a reckless gamble—he ducked low, ramming his shoulder into the Phantom’s midsection. For a moment, it seemed he might unbalance them. But the Phantom’s exoskeleton gave them inhuman resilience. The sellsword bounced off, staggering. The Phantom pivoted, ramming a knee into his torso with a sickening crunch. He flew backward, crashing into a table, dagger spinning from his grasp.

Mirro seized the moment of distraction. “ Now, ” she snarled, popping up from behind the bar. She squeezed the crossbow’s trigger. The heavy dragonbone bolt whistled through the air, burying itself in the sellsword's head and pinning him to the wall with a sickening crunch.

A hissed snarl of tore from the Phantom’s mask, static warping the sound into something monstrous. Smoke poured from the grille, and the green flame on the sword guttered as they turned and stared at Mirro. The scarred woman nodded at her employer, and the intruder simply stalked past her. Their attention swung back to the real mark: the Ironbrand stranger.

“No,” the stranger whimpered, stumbling over broken chairs, hands scrabbling uselessly at the door latch. “Don’t, don’t—! I—I’m sorry—!”

A stutter of static-laden breath emerged from the Phantom’s vox grille, as though they were speaking words no one else could parse. Thick rivulets of black liquid dribbled onto the tavern floor, each drop sizzling like acid. Then the Phantom raised Brokenhearted. The blade’s aura thrummed, reflecting off the puddles of spilt liquor with eerie green fractals.

The youth, mustering a shred of courage, jumped between the Phantom and the stranger. “No—stop!” they cried, arms outstretched. “Please! They’re unarmed!”

The Phantom’s flaming sword halted mere inches from the youth’s face. A moment of hesitation—recognition that this was not Ironbrand’s prey. A thunderous heartbeat passed. Then the Phantom took a single step sideways, swatting away the youth. Even so, the ephemeral heat from that blade singed the youth’s sleeve.

Mirro felt her blood run cold. They’re not here for slaughter, she remembered, only for vengeance. Any innocent that stood aside might be spared. But anyone who raised a weapon stood no chance. The stranger fumbled at the door, the latch jammed from bullet impacts. Sobbing, they turned to flee deeper into the tavern, but the Phantom was on them in a flash—too quick. Their sword came up, an emerald arc of flame. The stranger ducked, saving their head by a hair’s breadth. The cowl around the Phantom’s helmet flared, ballistic fabric trailing behind in a swirl of motion, as if alive with the fury of the hunt.

Another shotgun blast rang out. The youth, bloody-faced but determined, had managed to line up a shot from the floor. The Phantom staggered as the impact struck their right side, shards of ballistic plating flying. They let out a gargled roar, black fluid spattering in arcs as they twisted.

All sense of caution gone, they pivoted on the youth, blade raised. The barmaid screamed, “No! He’ll die!” Mirro could only watch in horror as the Phantom lunged. The young man tried to pump another shell, but too late. Brokenhearted scythed downward, meeting flesh and bone in a spray of violence. He never had time to cry out.

A hush of terror fell as his body slumped, lifeless, sword still smoking from the mortal blow. The Phantom’s rebreather hissed, letting out an echoing note of finality. Green flame bathed the scene in ghastly light, and for a moment, the only sound was the barmaid’s strangled sob.

Then the Phantom faced the Ironbrand stranger once more. The stranger, kneeling in broken glass, stared at the youth’s corpse in shock. Blood from the fresh kill spread across the floorboards. Mirro swallowed hard, tears burning in her eyes for the fallen boy.

She forced her trembling hands to load another bolt. The youth hovered behind an overturned table, eyes flickering between the Phantom and Mirro, unsure whether to intervene again. The barmaid crouched near the kitchen, face ashen, one hand pressed to her bleeding arm.

And in that dreadful lull, the Phantom advanced on the cowering stranger, submachine gun discarded, sword blazing bright. Bits of black fluid sizzled on the blade’s edge, mixing with the succubus horn handle. The rebreather’s distortion dripped with static, as though the Phantom tried to speak but only produced broken syllables of wrath.

The stranger recoiled against the tavern wall. Their hand darted to a shard of glass, raising it shakily. “S-stay back!” They tried to sound brave, but terror cracked their voice. The Phantom merely regarded them with that molten glare. Another hiss of breath, more inky fluid trailing from the vox grille.

The Phantom snatched the glass from the stranger’s trembling grip, tossing it aside. Then, with unnerving calm, they pinned the stranger’s wrist to the wall using Brokenhearted’s blade—just enough force to trap them, not yet to kill. The iron tang of blood immediately flooded the air.

A howl of agony tore from the stranger’s throat, echoing against the tavern’s rafters. “Gods… n-no! Please!”

The Phantom’s distorted breath flared loud, accompanied by a swirl of black haze. Then, in one swift motion, they ripped the blade free, leaving the stranger’s arm limp and gashed. The stranger collapsed to their knees, sobbing in broken, near-delirious fear.

Mirro forced herself to act. “Stop!” she roared, stepping out from behind the bar, crossbow aimed. The Phantom turned, sword raised, poised to cleave. A demon’s fury.

But Mirro held her ground. “They’re beaten—no threat to you. Let them go, or—” Her voice wavered. She knew it was a hollow threat; the Phantom was unstoppable.

The barmaid whimpered, “Mirro, don’t—!”

A tense second stretched like an eternity. The Phantom’s molten gaze flicked from Mirro to the crossbow, then back to the wounded stranger. They let out a low, static-laced growl. Green flame ran along Brokenhearted’s edge, almost hungry.

Without warning, the stranger attempted to crawl away. The Phantom stomped their foot onto the stranger’s back, pinning them. Another choked wail. The barmaid turned her face away, unable to watch.

Mirro’s heart pounded. I can’t just do nothing, even they must know that. She squeezed the crossbow’s trigger, sending a bolt whistling through the air. This time, the Phantom pivoted with preternatural speed, the bolt clanging off the side of their battered chestplate. They staggered but did not fall. Black fluid spattered from the impact, sizzling on the floor. With a guttural rasp, the Phantom stepped forward and backhanded Mirro.

She flew into the bar, the wind knocked from her lungs. The crossbow tumbled from her grip, clattering over the hardwood. Pain flared through her ribs. She blinked spots from her vision, gasping. Over the dull roar in her ears, she heard the Phantom’s breathing—harsh, static-laden, inexorable.

In a final, dreadful motion, the Phantom lifted Brokenhearted high, the green flame raging. The Ironbrand stranger’s scream tore at the night. “No, no, please— I didn’t know what they were doing at Iliaren! Don’t—!”

The Phantom drove the blade down. A wet crunch and a sudden gush of blood. A choked gasp, then a final, gurgling silence. The stranger’s eyes rolled back as life drained from them. In that moment, the entire tavern seemed to freeze—time halting to witness the end of a life marked by sin and regret.

Smoke curled from the Phantom’s mask. For a heartbeat, they remained there, sword embedded in the stranger’s corpse, as though ensuring no doubt of their kill. A hush so complete that Mirro’s ragged breathing sounded deafening.

In the low lamp-light, the Phantom straightened. Brokenhearted slipped free with a sickening noise. Flames dimmed to a mere flicker, fading to embers along the blade’s length. Another hiss from the rebreather, another trickle of black fluid. They surveyed the carnage: the two innocents who'd gotten involved, the Ironbrand merc pinned in a pool of blood amid the wreck of shattered chairs and bullet-riddled walls. Their gaze shifted to Mirro, who lay propped against the bar, clutching her ribs. For a breathless instant, Mirro felt the Phantom’s eyes on her—felt an unspoken recognition in that molten stare. The Phantom gave a single rasping exhalation, then turned away, stepping through the wreckage. Reaching the shattered window, they paused. The submachine gun still lay on the floor, but they didn’t bother retrieving it, as if it had served its purpose. "I'll be in touch, hunter.", they rasped over their shoulder in static-distorted Infernal.

With a final cough of black fluid onto the tavern’s floorboards, the Phantom vanished into the night. Their footfalls echoed in the muddy lane, drowned out by the renewed patter of distant rain. Silence reigned. A trembling hush, thick with the stench of blood and the tang of burnt ozone. The barmaid finally staggered forward, tears streaming, pressing her hand to her wounded arm. The youth buried their face in their hands. Mirro, lungs raw, managed to get to her feet, ignoring the pain lancing through her side.

She cast her gaze over the carnage: bullet holes everywhere, the splintered furniture, the sellsword’s vacant stare, and the Ironbrand stranger’s limp corpse. It happened in minutes, she thought numbly. All the stories were true—and worse.

Cautiously, the barmaid approached, choking back sobs. “Mirro… oh gods. Are—are you all right?”

Mirro cradled her ribs, feeling blood trickle from a cut on her temple. “Alive,” she managed, voice shaky. Her eyes flicked to the window, where the Phantom’s silhouette had disappeared. “They’re gone… for now.”

Lightning flickered outside, revealing a trail of black fluid footprints that quickly faded in the wet gravel. For a lingering moment, no one spoke. The only sounds were ragged breathing and the dripping of spilled liquor and rain. The Phantom had come and gone in a storm of gunfire and flame, leaving tragedy behind.

At last, Mirro forced her gaze away from the broken bodies. Her face had gone pale, her lips a tight line. The barmaid sobbed quietly, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks. Night pressed against the tavern walls once more, a silent witness to atrocity. But the Phantom was gone, and with them, the target of their vengeance—one more Ironbrand soul struck from a ledger of sin. In the dark corners of the tavern, bullet casings gleamed like tiny gravestones. A swirl of scorched demon-skin cloak residue clung to the air, that awful stench of brimstone and black fluid. No illusions or rumors remained—only a stark, bloody reality.

Mirro lowered her head, lips trembling. She dared not speak her racing thoughts aloud. Why had the Phantom spared her—beyond the obvious, that she’d dropped her weapon? Had there been a flicker of recognition? A silent agreement? She shuddered, pushing the suspicion down. Best not to dwell on it here, amidst the death.

“Breathe,” she whispered to the barmaid, to the youth, to herself. “We're…we're safe now.”

A single tear traced down her cheek. She bent to pick up her battered crossbow, ignoring the ache in her ribs. Together, in hushed horror, they began to grapple with the aftermath—splintered boards, shattered glass, the two dead lying side by side in silent testament to the Phantom’s unstoppable wrath.

The storm outside gathered its last strength, spitting rain against the battered window frame. Through the ragged curtains of lightning, the Ashforged Phantom was nowhere to be seen. Like a nightmare receding into the depths of the unconscious, they were gone.

Although she would never admit it here, in this room, she knew far more about the Phantom than any unsuspecting bystander could…and that knowledge weighed heavier than ever. She swallowed hard. No, she told herself. I can’t let them suspect.

Later, perhaps, the truth would demand to be told. But for now, fear and grief and shock ruled. The barmaid knelt by the sellsword’s body, pressing trembling fingertips to his eyelids. Meanwhile, Mirro slipped away from their gazes, retreating into the tavern’s deepest shadows.

Lightning flared in the distance, revealing the blood-soaked boards where Brokenhearted had burned with green fire. The acrid tang of smoke lingered. In that flicker, one might see a phantom imprint—footsteps of a half-devil warrior leaving a trail of vengeance in their wake. Then the light was gone, replaced by the soft gloom of night and the anguished hush of survivors picking up the pieces. Outside, the drizzle fell harder, as though the heavens wept for the tragedy within. Inside, the final glimmer of the hearth played across tear-streaked faces. No one would sleep again this night. And none would forget the face of their nightmares made real.