Ashwalker:Blood in the Wind

They reached the crossroads by noon — a three-way split where wind-beaten stones bore the names of cities long dead.

To the west: Varrinhold. To the north: Blackridge. To the east…

No name.

Just a blackened arrow carved into the wood. Scorched. Like something had tried to burn the direction away from memory.

The girl pointed at it. "We're going there, aren't we?"

The Ashwalker nodded.

The road bent through high grass and crumbling monoliths, each stone marked with carvings — not words, but deep gouges and spiral-like symbols. Some were fresh. Others ancient.

She paused beside one.

"What are these?"

"Grave marks."

"For who?"

"No one buried."

She narrowed her eyes. "That's not funny."

"It wasn't a joke."

They moved on.

By nightfall, they found a camp.

Not abandoned. Active.

Three men and a woman sat beside a roaring fire, armored in mismatched chain and fur. Mercenaries — by the look of them. The kind that stayed on the fringe of wars, carving profit from the edge of catastrophe.

The leader stood as the Ashwalker approached.

"Ho there," he called. "You've got the look of ghosts about you."

The Ashwalker didn't respond.

The mercenary smirked. "No fear, stranger. We're just waiting on a buyer. You're welcome to share the fire."

The girl stepped closer. "What are you selling?"

The merc's grin widened. "Information."

The Ashwalker stopped.

Now he was listening.

They sat on opposite ends of the flames. The mercenaries offered dried meat. The Ashwalker refused. The girl accepted — more to listen than to eat.

"We were north last week," said the merc, spitting into the fire. "Close to the salt range. Heard whispers of a raid gone wrong."

"Where?" the Ashwalker asked.

"Half-day past Bramble Cross. Small village. Slavers hit it."

The girl tensed. "Did they kill everyone?"

The merc shook his head. "That's the thing. They tried. Heard they tied the men, burned the rest. But something… stopped them."

"Something?" she asked.

The man leaned in.

"Man in grey," he whispered. "Walked in like a ghost. Took 'em apart with fire and steel. Slavers say he didn't speak. Just cut."

The Ashwalker said nothing.

The girl stared. "And you believe that?"

"I didn't," the merc said. "Not until we found what he left."

He reached into a bag beside the fire and pulled out a helmet.

It was rusted, scorched, and bent — but the top bore a clear, circular slash, clean through the metal like it had been sliced by a giant's blade.

The Ashwalker stared at it.

Then rose.

The merc raised an eyebrow. "You know that cut?"

"Yes."

"Yours?"

"No."

The merc's face dropped.

"Then whose?"

The Ashwalker turned to the road. "The one who taught me."

The fire dimmed.

Not from lack of fuel — but respect. The mercenaries had fallen quiet, eyes fixed on the man now standing with his back to them.

The girl rose, crossed to his side.

"You knew him?" she asked softly.

The Ashwalker nodded once. "He taught me steel. Fire. And silence."

"What was his name?"

The wind answered first — dry, soft, pulling at the grass like it, too, wanted to listen.

Then he said, "Kaedran Vale."

She repeated it. "Kaedran…"

He didn't add anything. Just started walking.

The mercs didn't follow. They knew better.

But the girl did.

Once they'd cleared the camp, her curiosity boiled over.

"Why didn't you take the helmet?"

"Because he didn't wear trophies."

"You think he's still alive?"

The Ashwalker didn't reply.

She pressed again. "If he taught you, and he's still out there—why not find him?"

"I don't need to."

"Why not?"

He paused.

Then turned his head just enough to look at her.

"Because I already know what he'll say."

She frowned. "Which is?"

"That I waited too long."

They camped beside a dried-up stream, the stones smooth and bleached, whispering of old floods that hadn't come in years.

That night, the girl sat up while he sharpened his blade.

"Do you ever miss before?" she asked.

He didn't look up. "Before what?"

"All this. The fire. The killing. The walking. Did you ever live a normal life?"

He paused.

Sharpened once more.

"No."

She swallowed. "Not even as a kid?"

"No."

Her voice dropped. "Did he raise you?"

A long pause.

Then, quietly: "He found me. The day my village burned."

She froze.

"I was the only one who didn't scream."

Later that night, she dreamed.

Of a man with grey eyes and a curved blade.

Of lessons taught in ash and silence.

Of a boy standing barefoot in ruins, unblinking as crows circled overhead.

And of fire — always fire.

Not warm. Not hungry.

Just… watching.

The Ashwalker woke before dawn.

Not from sound.

From absence.

The wind had stopped. The insects, gone. Even the distant hush of grass bending beneath weight — silenced.

He stood.

The fire was cold. The coals, untouched by air. Frozen in mid-collapse.

The girl stirred. "What is it?"

He didn't answer. He stepped forward, knelt beside the fire, and touched the coals.

They were warm.

But something had been here.

Something that didn't leave prints. Something that watched.

He looked toward the trees.

The edge of the forest had moved.

Only slightly — an illusion to most — but to him, the shadows leaned wrong. Like something tall had stood too long in one place and bent the dark to fit its shape.

He drew his blade.

But there was nothing left to see.

They left before the sky could brighten.

No breakfast. No rest.

The girl kept glancing over her shoulder.

"You felt it too, didn't you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"What was it?"

He was silent for a long time.

Then finally: "A scout."

Her eyes widened. "Of the Bishop?"

"No."

"Then who?"

He didn't speak.

Because he didn't know.

By midday, the grass gave way to red clay and stone hills, each one rising higher than the last.

At the top of the tallest stood an old shrine — broken columns and a shattered bell tower, its bronze bell half-buried in the earth like a relic left to rot.

The Ashwalker stopped.

"This is where we rest."

The girl frowned. "It doesn't feel safe."

"It isn't," he replied.

"But it's better than being followed in open ground."

That night, they built no fire.

The stars returned — but felt too bright. Too sharp. Like each one was watching with its own intent.

The girl curled up near a stone pillar, eyes half-closed.

The Ashwalker sat with his back to the wind, blade across his knees, cloak unmoving despite the breeze.

She whispered before sleep took her:

"Do you think your mentor is still walking too?"

He didn't answer.

But far away, back near the mercenary fire, a shadow moved through the empty camp.

It stopped where the helmet had been shown.

Then leaned forward.

And smiled.