The Lone Haven

That night, Bard and the others gathered by the fire they had built beside the ruined inn. Elias carried fresh wood. He dropped a log into the flames, and sparks leapt skyward.
“Where’s Fenric?” he asked.

“He stayed inside,” Fawks answered with his easy smile, always comforted by a hearth.

“Not for long,” Cecile said, a musical note in her voice. She seemed oddly cheerful.

“How do you know?” Elias asked, lowering himself beside her.

Bard was already cradling his lute, fingers straying across the strings. Fawks leaned forward, eyes bright with excitement.

“Wait and see,” Cecile whispered.

“You think he’ll come?” Bard asked her.

“I’m sure of it.”

The lute sang, soft and tender, notes falling like quiet rain. “Of all arts,” Bard said gently to Elias, still shaping the prelude, “none touches the soul as music does.” Then he began to play:

Verses 1 & 2
Hear out a tale of folk on the road,
weary but strong, pushing on,
carrying burdens too heavy a load,
yet still they walk hand in hand.
Night after night, they keep the light,
In the Lone Haven
Hear now of children and mothers who wept,
Fathers who stood, did what they could.
Dreams of hearths, their memories kept,
Sturdy as stone where they stand.
Hope never dies, though darkened skies,
In the Lone Haven.

Chorus
Gather where embers gleam,
Speak of the steadfast dream.
Tales of endurance, loss, and flame,
Whisper of lands
Lost to the sands.
guiding our journey to and fro
In the Lone Haven.

Verse 3
Hear Ye of lost ones who gave all they had,
Fallen but near, we hold them dear.
Courage and sorrow, the good and the bad,
Stories are all that remain.
Hearts may be scarred, yet still they guard
In the Lone Haven.

[Chorus]

Verse 4
Hear of the faithful who never let go,
Standing as one, till it’s done.
Even when shadows advance from below,
Still they will fight and endure.
True to the end, through every bend,
in the Lone Haven.

[Chorus]

Halfway through the piece, Fenric emerged from the inn. At first he only stood in the doorway, caught between shadow and firelight. But slowly, hesitantly, he came and sat with them, close by the flames. For a while he was silent, simply listening, drinking in the melody as though parched.

Fawks –whom he had treated roughly before– smiled at him, offering a small treat of dried fruit. Fenric’s eyes brimmed.

He was not so pale anymore. Perhaps he never had been.

“This song…” Fenric said, after a few heartbeats of silence. The notes still lingered in their ears, like echoes caught in the rafters. “…it was written here – a long time ago.”

The company looked at him, all of them warmed and cheered. “It was a time of peace,” he went on. “Not long after the second waves of newcomers had gathered in the Common Ground. My wife and I were among them. Back then, only three cities still stood. Myrrholt and Terenhal were the first built after Orrendale. This place–” he gestured faintly to a group of upright monoliths near the passing road “–was a known crossing, a resting point for those traveling back and forth, exploring the newly made outskirts. That’s when we decided to build this inn. And we gave it the name of this place, which it still bears.”

Elias waited until he was finished before asking, “…a time of peace?”

“Well,” Fenric began, “it was different from today, when we hear of constant clashes, sudden raids by strange creatures, shades, and other kinds of ruin.” He paused, then leaned forward.

“But it didn’t start with peace,” he went on. “It is said that at the very dawn of this world, the Warden himself battled the Void. He wrestled with it, bound it in chains. And he was not alone in that moment – there was one beside him.” His voice softened, but his eyes glimmered as he spoke those words.

Fawks, wide-eyed, listened with rapt attention. Bard, idly strumming his guitar, as though weaving Fenric’s words into a quiet tapestry, kept his gaze fixed on the fire.

“Only then," Fenric carried "when it lay shackled, could he raise the Common Ground. That was the beginning of everything. After that clash came the peace: a time when the land was still new, and the first settlers could walk without fear.”

“I’ve never heard that before,” said Cecile.

“Who helped him?” Elias asked.

“They say it was the one with the starbright white eyes, who gave him strength…” Fenric replied softly, letting the words hang.

Elias had more questions, but let them slip away for now, not wishing to spoil the moment. Bard’s strumming shifted, blossoming into a gentle melody. This song carried no words. The music was soft, soothing –like warm water seeping into tired bones– and one by one, it coaxed them toward sleep. Fawks was the first to drift off.

♦♦♦

The next morning, Red woke in the infirmary. She had gone to the healers, and there she had found much comfort. In a bed near hers, Lameth rested, looking far better than she did.

She herself wasn’t ready to fight, but a good night’s sleep had lifted the worst of her weakness.

She rose, and without disturbing him, she stepped outside. The day was sunlit, the air bright. Light spilled across the stone-paved streets and gleamed from buildings of pale stone, so sharp she had to half-close her eyes.

The infirmary stood opposite a broad round tower near the gate. Its base was massive, as though raised to withstand the blows of giants. The battlements above loomed high, bristling with defenses. This tower served as barracks, and the Tarlmere guards –now Dravenholt’s guards– were also housed there. From its heavy doors came Kaelen and a handful of others, heading toward the gate. Red followed their path.

Brennel and Tharic were already at the gate. The massive doors were closing, slow and steady. A score of soldiers –no more than twenty– stumbled in just in time, battered and broken. Only one was mounted.

“Where’s the Marshal?!” cried one of the gate guards.

A soldier, collapsed on his knees and gasping for breath, lifted his head and, with a look of defeat, shook it. Then he fell onto his back, eyes squeezed shut, fighting desperately for air.

“Our cavalry is gone!” shouted another.

“There’s just too many of them…” gasped one of the survivors.

“The city will fall – we must flee!” a voice cracked.

“Silence!” Red snapped. She knew better than anyone the true scale of the enemy. She had seen the pit after the sky-isle vanished and the countless legions stirring within. But despair now would serve no one. This was no time for panic. Besides, this wasn't Tarlmere; this was Dravenholt – the fortress-city.

“I see them! They’re coming!” a watchman cried, ringing the bell. A guard near Red raised his horn, and soon horns answered from all across the city. Doors flew open. Families fled their homes, carrying what they could, weeping as they turned toward the looming castle on the heights.

Guards and soldiers scrambled to the walls. Red climbed with them.

Across the valley, on the hill where they had met the city Marshal the night before, the enemy now stood. A figure came forward, Gareth’s severed head mounted on a spike. His guttural chants whipped the shade-army into a thunderous roar.

“Curse them,” someone muttered.

The dark host began its slow descent, ranks spreading across the valley floor. And still, more companies appeared over the ridge, marching into ordered lines. They were in no rush; their numbers alone were crushing. Along the wall, unease rippled like a chill wind.

“We must call for aid,” declared Tharald Greystone, Keeper of the Iron Gate, his voice like gravel.

The others looked at him, disappointed perhaps at his lack of fire. But in truth, his order was the wisest move of all. Unlike Gareth, Tharald was old, steady, and unshaken by illusions.

“Should we signal through the pass?” asked one.

“No. Too risky. Maybe a week before an answer – if an answer comes at all.” He shook his head. “We’ll send riders. Any of you lot flying?” He glanced around. Only heads shook in refusal. His eyes settled on Red.

“Then we ride. You!” he pointed. “You ride to Orrendale. And you– ”

“But– ” Red began.

“No buts!” he cut her off. “You’re the least fit for battle here, and my eyes know it. You ride to the Warden. And you –Hadran– ride to Myrrholt. Tell them the Marshal is dead. Tell them all that you saw. Go!”

Red nodded farewell to her companions. “See to the defenses. I will return.”

She hurried down the walls with Hadran. They mounted horses from a small stable near the gate, Kestrel and a very tall, jet-black steed. The doors opened just wide enough, and they rode out – splitting in opposite directions along the fortress walls while the shade host spread across the valley.

The enemy saw them. But no pursuit came. The shade army always moved at its own pace. There was no need to chase. The inevitable had time on its side.