The small town of Hearthglen is crouched in a valley, walled in by jagged, snow-capped peaks. Winter had sunk its teeth into the land, coating the roads in ice and turning the air to frost. Refugees shuffled through the narrow streets, faces pale with exhaustion. Some clutched what little they had managed to escape with. Bundles of clothes, a child's toy, broken swords. Their murmured stories were all the same: Thornblood's forces had come, and the towns in their path now smoldered in ruin.

  Akmenos adjusted the hood of his cloak as he entered the town. His crimson skin and curling black horns were impossible to hide, and the stares that followed him were heavy with unease. Some muttered under their breath when he passed. He ignored them. He had learned to endure the looks long ago.

  A bitter wind clawed through his cloak, but Akmenos barely noticed. The scars across his arms and chest ached more in the cold. Old wounds earned in battles far from here. He flexed his hands, the faintest of tremors running through his fingers. It wasn't the cold making them shake.

  Snow swirled lazily around him as he surveyed the town. Hearthglen wasn't much. Timber homes built for function, not beauty, but the glowing light of its tavern, The Ember's Rest, beckoned like a warm embrace. A group of refugees huddled near the building's entrance, their eyes following Akmenos warily as he passed.

  The inside of the tavern was alive with murmurs. A bard strummed a lute in the corner, playing a mournful tune. The air smelled of stew and woodsmoke, and the fire crackling in the hearth was the only thing louder than the whispers.

  Akmenos stepped inside, the heavy door creaking behind him. The room quieted for a moment, all eyes turning to the stranger whose horns nearly brushed the low ceiling. Whispers followed as the tension eased, and the hum of conversation resumed.

  Behind the bar stood a stout dwarf, her green eyes sharp beneath tightly braided hair. She watched Akmenos approach with practiced wariness, her hand lingered near the wooden club on her belt.

  "New face," she said, her voice rough as gravel. "You lost, or are you here on purpose?"

  Akmenos slid back his hood, letting the firelight catch his horns. "Not lost," he said, his voice low but steady.

  "Pity. It's not a great time to visit Hearthglen, in case you hadn't noticed." The dwarf set a tankard aside and poured a fresh ale. "Name's Torva Blackforge. I run this place, for better or worse. What brings you to my bar? Don't get many strangers here," Torva said, sliding the tankard across the bar.

  Akmenos stopped the tankard before it slid past him. “Just passing through.”

  Torva narrowed her eyes, giving him a once over. "You've got the look. Straight-backed, hands always near your weapon. Soldiers walk like that. You don’t look like a caravan guard and that posture doesn’t come from farm work.”

  Akmenos took a sip of the ale. The bitterness settled his nerves. "Used to be a Hellrider. That was a long time ago. Now I just travel.” Akmenos took another sip before he set the tankard down again. “How much for the ale?”

  “Usually five silver but with all the refugees here, I had to up the price to a gold.”

  “A gold?! This ale better cure Spellplague! Can I start a tab and pay it back when I’m able?”

  Torva set down the mug she was cleaning and pulled out a ledger. “Only because I know you soldier types are usually good for it. What’s your name?”

  “Akmenos.”

  “That it?”

  Akmenos didn’t answer.

  “Fine. You better pay up with interest.”

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  “I will. Actually, I was hoping you knew of any work that might help with that.”

  Torva raised an eyebrow and nodded toward a table in the corner, where three people sat in hushed conversation. "Those three came in this morning with some refugees. Call themselves mercenaries, but they're running from something. Thornblood, most likely. You might get some answers. If they don't decide to gut you first. I’m sure someone out there has a bounty or reward for dealing with it."

  Akmenos followed her gaze. The mercenaries were a rough-looking lot. The leader, or who looked like one, was a stocky man with a scar across his jaw, kept one hand on the hilt of his axe, and his eyes darted around the room. Beside him sat a wiry, younger man, fidgeting nervously with an empty tankard. The third sat masked and hooded, their face obscured except for sharp eyes that flicked briefly toward Akmenos.

  "Thanks for the tip," Akmenos said, finishing his drink.

  "Don't thank me yet," Torva muttered as she poured him another drink. “You might need this. I’ll put it on their tab. Don’t tell them.” Torva finished pouring and returned to cleaning the bar counter, muttering under her breath, “Probably won’t pay it anyways.”

  The straw-covered floor muffled Akmenos’ heavy steps as he approached the table with the new drink. The leader stiffened, his grip tightening on his axe.

  "Can we help you, Tiefling?" he asked, his voice low and rough.

  The wiry one laughed nervously. "Bold of you to walk up uninvited."

  The hooded one said nothing, their gaze unreadable.

  Akmenos stopped a step short of the table, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding. "Not looking for a fight," he said. "Just looking for answers. Which one of you's in charge?"

  The leader sneered, leaning back in his chair. "That'd be me. Name's Garrek." He pointed to the others, "This is Lyle and Bryn. And who the hell are you to ask?"

  "Akmenos. Thought we could share a word." He said as he set down the mug in front of Garrek.

  Garrek studied him for a long moment. "Alright, Akmenos. You've got my attention. Sit."

  Akmenos pulled up a chair, his gaze taking in the group. Garrek radiated a reckless confidence, the kind that came from surviving too many fights. the scars on his hands confirmed it.

  The wiry man, Lyle, kept glancing at Garrek like a nervous dog waiting for a command. His small frame and restless eyes are trademarks of a scout.

  The hooded one remained motionless, their brown eyes sharp and calculating. Akmenos couldn’t help but be intrigued by the aura of mystery surrounding this one. Trying to read their body language was like trying to read a script in an unknown language.

  "You've seen Thornblood's forces." Akmenos said. It wasn't a question.

  Garrek's smirk faltered. He exchanged a glance with his companions before leaning forward. "Yeah. We've seen them. And fought them, too. We were hired swords down south, taking whatever jobs came our way. Then Thornblood's army rolled through. And we learned real quick what we were up against."

  Lyle shifted uneasily, his voice trembling. "They're not just soldiers. He's got... things with him. Monsters. Big ones."

  "Fiends?" Akmenos asked.

  Garrek frowned. "You've seen them, then.

  “No, just heard rumors. For all our sake’s, we better hope it’s just that. Rumors.”

  Garrek let out a sigh, running his hand through his short, red hair.

  “These things... they're not natural. Bigger than a man, stronger than anything I've fought. Some of them have skin like stone, eyes like fire. It's not just muscle, either. He's got other kinds of creatures in his ranks. Quiet ones. The kind that slink in the shadows and strike before you see them."

  Akmenos leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. Sounds like fiends.”

  Lyle leaned forward, "Thornblood's not just conquering. He's searching for something. Up in the mountains.”

  Akmenos sat up straight. “How do you know?”

  “A conqueror moves on. Thornblood doesn’t. He camps, then leaves, each time with more monsters than before.”

  Akmenos nodded as his grip on the table tightened. "If he's commanding fiends, it's worse than bad. I've seen creatures like that before. Back in Avernus."

  The table fell silent. Lyle paled, his hand trembling around his tankard. If his blonde hair wasn’t blocking his face, Akmenos could swear he saw dread in his eyes. Even Garrek's smirk disappeared.

  "Avernus," Garrek said quietly. "You're saying you've been there? You've fought those things?"

  "And lived," Akmenos said, his voice grim.

  Lyle muttered something under his breath, his face low and pale. "What kind of man comes back from that place? No one comes back."

  "Someone who couldn’t afford to die," Akmenos replied, his tone clipped. He leaned forward, pinning the mercenaries with his gaze. "You've fought Thornblood's monsters. That tells me you know what's at stake. So tell me, what's he looking for?"

  Garrek took a sip of his drink. "A weapon. That's the rumor, anyway. Something ancient, buried in the mountains. Something powerful enough to turn his army into more than just a conquering force. That would also explain why he’s been scouring the area.”

  "Powerful how?" Akmenos pressed.

  The hooded figure tilted their head slightly. "They say it's not just a weapon, it's a key. To what, I don't know."

  Their voice didn’t quite match their body. It came out strangely, as if forced. He noted the mannerism with suspicion and sat back, absorbing the information. The pieces weren't fitting together yet, but there was one thing he understood all too well: if Thornblood was willing to burn towns and unleash fiends for this "key," it was something the world couldn't afford to let him have.

  "You don't have to go after him, you know," Lyle said suddenly, his voice pitched with nerves, blue eyes pleading to leave it be.

  Akmenos responded immediately. “Someone has to.”

  Lyle continued, "We could just keep running. Let someone else deal with this."

  Garrek snorted. "Someone else? Who? The damn King? The lords sitting in their cushy keeps? You've seen how they run the second a real threat shows up." He looked back at Akmenos. "The way I see it, you're the best shot we've got at stopping this. If you're as good as you say you are, we'll follow you. But you'd better have a plan."

  Akmenos nodded. "I will but first, we need more information.”

  “There's a mage who lives in the Whispering Pines. Someone who might be able to tell us more about what Thornblood's after." Torva had come over to offer the table more drinks and overheard their conversation.

  Garrek raised an eyebrow at Torva. "The hermit? You'd have better luck convincing a dragon to share its hoard. That old elf doesn't see anyone. He's either gone mad, or he's hiding from something worse than Thornblood."

  Akmenos narrowed his eyes at Garrek. “You know him?”

  “Aye. Accidentally stumbled into him and his work on the way here. Stubborn bastard. Almost died because of him. Would put gold on him either sending us away or blowing our asses up for coming back.”

  "Either way," Akmenos said, "he's our best lead." The decision settled heavily over the table, unspoken but final.