The moon hung low over Sharil, its pale light casting long shadows across the town square. The night was quiet, save for the occasional bark of a dog or the murmur of guards on patrol. Raemok stood watch at the eastern gate, his sword resting against his shoulder, his eyes scanning the darkened forest beyond. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of pine and earth, but an unease gnawed at him, as if the night itself held its breath.

  A sharp thwack shattered the silence. An arrow struck the wooden gate beside Raemok, its shaft quivering from the impact. He dropped into a crouch, blade raised, his heart pounding. The arrow’s fletching was black, its tip smeared with dried blood. Tied to the shaft was a scrap of parchment, stained and tattered.

  Raemok glanced around, seeing no movement in the shadows. He called to the other guards, who rushed to his side, their faces tense. Carefully, he untied the parchment, his fingers brushing against the crusted blood. The note was written in a jagged hand, the ink dark as if mixed with ash:

  Sharil, your time is at hand. Your walls will crumble, your blood will flow. I come for those who betrayed me, and none shall stand in my way. Surrender, or burn. —Remoran, Warlord of the Black Maw.

  Raemok’s breath caught. The name Remoran struck a chord, echoing Demoris’s vague tales of a lost son. He handed the note to the guard beside him. “Get this to Captain Valhaven. Now.”

  The barracks were a flurry of activity by dawn. Demoris stood at the center of the war room, the bloodied note spread before him. His face was a mask of stone, but his eyes burned with a mix of fury and sorrow. The guard captains murmured, their voices tight with urgency, as townsfolk gathered outside, whispering of the warlord’s threat.

  “This Remoran,” Raemok said, stepping forward, “is he the boy you spoke of? The one you raised?”

  Demoris’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and guarded. “That’s not your concern, Raemok. Your concern is helping us prepare.”

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  Raemok held his ground, his voice steady. “If he’s tied to my past, I need to know. His name… it feels familiar, like a shadow I can’t place.”

  The captain’s jaw tightened, but after a long pause, he spoke, his voice low. “He was a boy with a good heart, once. But pain and a cursed blade twisted him. That’s all you need to know. Focus on the fight ahead.”

  Raemok nodded, though the captain’s words only deepened his questions. Demoris turned to the gathered guards, his voice rising with authority. “We have days, perhaps less. Fortify the walls, double the patrols, and train every able-bodied soul. Sharil will not fall.”

  The town sprang into action. Raemok worked tirelessly, helping erect barricades, sharpening blades, and drilling recruits. His presence steadied the guards, his calm resolve a beacon amidst the growing fear. Yet the note’s words haunted him—surrender, or burn. The madness in Remoran’s writing was palpable, a glimpse into a soul consumed by darkness.

  In the Black Maw stronghold, Remoran stood before his warriors, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust. The arrow had been his declaration, a promise of the carnage to come. Orkinder pulsed at his side, its whispers a constant drumbeat in his mind. They will fear you. They will break.

  He had sent the arrow to sow terror, to give Sharil time to tremble before his arrival. The blood on its tip was no accident—a warrior’s, spilled in a recent raid, a reminder of his ruthlessness. His scouts reported Sharil’s preparations, but Remoran welcomed their resistance. It would make their fall sweeter.

  That night, he sharpened Orkinder, its blade gleaming like liquid shadow. The sword’s voice was exultant. You are their reckoning. Sharil will be your throne, built on their bones.

  Remoran’s lips curled in a grim smile, but beneath his resolve, a flicker of unease stirred. The boy he had been—the one who trained under Demoris, who dreamed of honor—whispered from the depths of his soul. He crushed the thought, letting Orkinder’s hunger fill the void. Sharil would burn, and with it, the last fragments of his past.

  In Sharil, Raemok stood atop the newly fortified wall, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The amulet at his neck felt heavier, as if it sensed the coming storm. He didn’t know Remoran, but he felt a connection, a thread of fate binding them. As the town braced for war, Raemok vowed to protect it—and to uncover the truth of the warlord who threatened to destroy everything he had come to love.