The cabin appeared on the seventh day, clinging like a swallow's nest to the grey limestone flank of a mountain ridge within the Grey March League. This was the easternmost league of the Broken Kingdoms, a harsh, militarized frontier territory where survival depended on stone walls, sharpened steel, and an endless, brutal war against savage raiders of orcs and roaming undead. Scattered across its bleak ridges and shadowed valleys were isolated villages and fortified castles, all standing as desperate bulwarks against the creeping darkness beyond the border.
This particular cabin was a low, heavy structure built from thick logs chinked with moss and clay, half hidden beneath the dense timber of the upper slopes. A thin curl of grey smoke drifted from its stone chimney, promising warmth against the biting mountain wind. For Ronan, whose legs felt like lead and whose mind was still haunted by the ash of his home, the crude dwelling looked like the edge of the known world.
Inside the small, cluttered room, which smelled of salted meat, tanned hides, and pine resin, old Fergus set down his pack and gestured for Ronan to sit by the hearth.
"The bow is still green," old Fergus said, tossing the half-finished yew stave onto the rough wooden table. "A proper warbow requires months of seasoning in a dry loft, curing slow so the wood does not crack under its own tension. But we do not have months in the Grey March."
The old Ranger pulled a small iron pot filled with rendered animal fat from the hook over the hearth.
"We force it," old Fergus explained, dipping a coarse rag into the warm fat and handing it to the boy. "Rub the grain. Seal the pores. Then we bake the moisture out of the heartwood over the low coals. It will make the bow brittle after a few seasons, but it will shoot straight tomorrow."
Ronan took the rag, his fingers instantly falling into a steady, rhythmic motion. His hands, shaped by years of smoothing hot iron at his father's anvil, instinctively understood how to coax resilience out of stubborn material. He worked the fat into the pale wood, watching the grain darken and drink the grease. When old Fergus set the stave near the gentle heat of the hearth, Ronan used a small file to notch the tips, sliding a heavy hemp string into place with a sharp, satisfying twang.
He pulled the string back just an inch. The wood resisted with a tight, vicious snap, eager to spring back. It was not a hundred-pound warbow meant to punch through plate armor at two hundred paces, but for a thirteen-year-old serf with healing ribs, it was a lethal extension of his own arms.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Before Ronan could test the draw further, a heavy, bone-jarring thud echoed against the thick oak boards of the cabin's front door.
Old Fergus froze. His hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of his longsword, his pale eyes narrowing as he stared toward the bolted entryway.
From outside, a voice cut through the cold evening air, low and melodic, entirely devoid of warmth.
"Fergus."
The old Ranger exhaled a slow breath, releasing his grip on the sword. He stepped across the room and heaved the wooden bolt, pulling the heavy door open.
Standing on the threshold was a dark elf. His skin was the color of bruised slate, his long white hair pulled back from sharp, predatory features that looked as though they had been carved from obsidian. Across his broad shoulders, he carried the massive carcass of a freshly slaughtered stag, crimson blood dripping heavily onto the packed snow of the porch.
This was Mordren.
Old Fergus nodded to the dark elf, showing a measure of begrudging respect earned only through years of shared survival on the bleeding edge of the frontier.
"Mordren," old Fergus said. "You are wandering deep into human territory for a hunter of the shadow woods."
Mordren's dark, fathomless eyes shifted past the old Ranger, fixing instantly on Ronan, who stood frozen by the hearth with the newly strung practice bow in his hands.
"You brought a stray back from the ashes," Mordren noted, his voice smooth like ice sliding over stone.
"His village went under," old Fergus said flatly, stepping aside to let the dark elf haul the heavy stag inside and drop it onto the floorboards with a dull thud. "An undead and orc warband wiped them out. Lost his mother and father."
Mordren did not blink. His expression remained entirely unreadable, showing neither pity nor revulsion. In the brutal calculus of the Grey March, families burning and villages falling to raiders of orcs and ghouls were as common as the changing of the leaves.
"A common harvest," Mordren said simply, turning his gaze back to old Fergus. "The border bleeds every night. You know this better than most."
Old Fergus crossed his arms over his leather vest, leaning against the timber wall. "Did you see any more of them moving through your sector on your way up the ridge?"
Mordren tilted his head, a faint, razor-thin smile touching the corner of his dark lips.
"I saw a few," the dark elf replied, rolling his shoulders as he wiped a smear of deer blood from his wrist. "Up by the eastern ridge. Orc raiding parties and wandering packs of undead testing the outer defenses of the league."
Mordren patted the hilt of his slender, curved blade with quiet satisfaction.
"Nothing the patrols cannot handle," Mordren added smoothly, "unless the coming winter drives them deeper down the valleys."