Chapter 2: The Weight of Fallen Wood

Five Years Later

Arthur’s hands, calloused and scarred, clasped the axe like an old friend, its weight a familiar burden. With each swing, another ancient tree met its untimely end, the sound of splintering wood echoing through the dead silence of the forest. But, let's not get too poetic about it. After all, trees don't weep. They just fall.

The axe bit deep, and the wood yielded with all the grace of a condemned man’s last breath. A fitting metaphor, but Arthur wasn’t one for philosophy—his thoughts were simpler, more visceral. The axe arced through the air with a casual inevitability, and the tree, well, it did what all things do in the end.

The dark forest stood as a silent witness, not that it had much choice. Even the birds had learned to keep their beaks shut around Arthur. The man had a way of making even nature think twice before making a sound. The stone eye set in the hollow of his left socket saw to that, a constant reminder that even in a world teeming with magic, there's no replacing what's lost. It glinted coldly, reflecting nothing but the bare, ashen earth beneath his boots—a ground too spent to offer up even the pretense of life.

He flicked to the next tree—a massive thing, older than most cities, and yet, somehow, not quite as jaded. He hacked away with the efficiency of a butcher carving up a carcass, every swing a clean cut, every breath steady, calculated.

But oh, the memories that creep in uninvited—like rats in the walls, gnawing at the edges of consciousness. The square, that godforsaken square, flickered behind his eyelids, unbidden. A little public theater of horrors, where once upon a time, an executioner’s sword met a neck with all the finality of a curtain falling. He was there, of course, because how could he not be?

Beside the executioner, small and quaking, stood a young victim whose eyes were wide with terror. Those eyes implored the crowd for mercy, for a reprieve that would not come. Whispers swirled through the assembly of onlookers, their words indistinct but their meaning clear—an air of bloodlust and fear mingling in a macabre dance.

In the here and now, Arthur let out a breath—visible in the chill, a wisp of smoke from fires long since snuffed out. Arthur's hand tightened around the axe handle, the grain of the wood pressing into his calloused palm. Even now, years later and leagues away from the horrors of that day, the memory conjured a bitterness in his throat. The past? It’s dead and buried. So what if the soil beneath his feet was more ash than earth? The trees, at least, still fell.

The latest one crashed to the ground with a satisfying thud. He leaned on the axe, surveying the fallen timber with an expression that might have been mistaken for reverence—if reverence involved thoughts of how to best chop up the corpse.

"Five days," he murmured, the words carried away on the wind. A countdown, a curse, a prayer—take your pick. His voice, roughened by smoke and the taste of too much regret, held none of the warmth of the living. No, it was as cold and flat as the sky above, the eternal, indifferent witness to all of this mortal nonsense.

And so, with a grunt of finality, Arthur turned back to his task. The thud of steel biting into wood resumed its rhythm, a heartbeat in a world that had long since stopped caring. His axe, honed to a wicked edge, made short work of the dead timber. He lifted the logs, one by one, and loaded them onto the cart.

The cart’s wheels groaned as he pushed it toward the boundary of his domain. The giant stones marking the edge of his land hummed with ancient magic, their runes glowing like embers. It was a brief, almost comforting reminder that some things still held power in this world. The old, stubborn magic that, much like Arthur, refused to die.

As he crossed the threshold, the familiar hum of the wards passed over him. It was a thin line between his world and the one outside, but it held. For now. He headed toward Sangrevor, that bastion of despair, its silhouette jagged and menacing against the dim sky. Once, it had been a city of vibrant murals, celebrating gods and festivals long since forgotten. Now, those same murals were cracked and faded, their colors muted to a dull gray that matched the city’s lifeless heart.

Sangrevor had grown quiet, its heartbeat slowed to a sluggish, mournful thrum. Houses were bolted shut, their windows barred with iron. The streets, once lively with markets, were now lined with braziers burning incense, the acrid scent of desperation wafting through the air. And the blood canals? Still there, still flowing, the city’s veins pulsing with something far worse than water.

The canals were flanked by coffins, each one bound in iron and carved with protective sigils—because even in death, this city couldn’t trust its dead. The faces peering out from behind grated windows were pale, hollow, more ghost than human. They moved in the shadows, their presence a fleeting reminder that, yes, people still lived here. If you could call this living.

Arthur’s boots clapped against the cobblestones, stirring the foul, stagnant air. Somewhere in the distance, a low growl echoed through the alleys, the sound of creatures that had no business being in a city of men. But then, Sangrevor had stopped being a city of men long ago.

In the square, a scene unfolded that might have been amusing if it weren’t so depressingly predictable. Hunters, their faces set in grim determination, circled a wolf-like beast bound by chains. Its eyes met Arthur’s for a moment—fear, defiance, all the usual things you’d expect from a cornered beast. Above them, a sign announced the "Blood Moon Hunt," as if anyone needed reminding of the carnage to come. Five days. Just five more days until the city would lose itself to bloodlust and madness.

Arthur watched the scene with a detached indifference. Seen it all before. Felt it all before. And in the end, none of it mattered. The city was rotting from the inside out, and no amount of bloodsport would change that.

The hinges of the "Crooked Foot Bar" creaked as he pushed open the door. The sign, "Short Leg, Big Pints!" swayed lazily in the draft. Inside, the gloom was thick enough to choke on, the air a mix of stale ale and something sharper—maybe fear, maybe something else. The bar was a ramshackle affair, its surface scarred and pitted from years of abuse, much like the souls who frequented it.

Around the room, hunters in weathered gear huddled at rickety tables, their faces obscured by the dimness and the shadows cast by their wide-brimmed hats and ragged cloaks. Each hunter clutched a bowl filled with raw beast liver, its surface glistening with a dark, viscous sheen.

At one table, a burly hunter with a grizzled beard gnawed at his meal with a kind of desperate energy, his hands stained with blood that smeared his worn leather gloves. Next to him, a gaunt figure with hollow eyes and a tattered cloak methodically sliced through the liver with grim precision, his movements precise and almost ritualistic, as if the act of eating was a necessary penance.

In the far corner of the bar, a hunter sat apart from the rest. This one was distinguishable by the plague mask he wore, its beak-like protrusion casting an eerie shadow in the flickering light of the bar. Unlike the others, he did not partake in the raw liver, opting instead for a small metal flask that he sipped from cautiously. His eyes, visible through the mask's glass lenses, surveyed the room with a detached curiosity.

Arthur’s entrance drew a few glances, but no one cared enough to look twice. He made his way to the bar, taking a seat on a stool that creaked in protest. Baltazar, the bartender, greeted him with a nod, his metal leg clicking against the floor as he moved. His eyes, like the city itself, were heavy with sorrow.

"Arthur," Baltazar said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d seen too much. "The usual?"

Arthur grunted. "Aye."

Baltazar gave a humorless smile. "What brings you to our fine establishment tonight? Here to save us with that mighty axe? Or maybe you’re in the mood for something a little more... lively?" He nodded toward the hunters gnawing on their raw meat. "Fair warning, though. It might bite back."

Arthur’s gaze remained fixed on the wall. "Logs," he said simply. "And quiet."

"Quiet?" Baltazar chuckled dryly. "Wrong place for that, my friend." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Heard about the family on Brimhall Passage?"

"I’ve heard," Arthur cut him off, his tone sharp.

Baltazar didn’t stop. "Their youngest cried out last night. Sounded like a banshee, they say."

A hunter nearby, her hands trembling, muttered, "They’ve turned to Nocturnos for salvation."

And there it was, my name slipping from their lips like a whispered curse. "...turned to Nocturnos for salvation." As if I’m their mom just waiting for the right moment to swoop in and cradle them in my cold embrace.

That child? She’s tasted a drop of the abyss, but there’s an ocean waiting for her if she keeps calling on me. Arthur knows that, even if he won't say it out loud. That’s why he tightens his grip on that axe every time someone mentions my name. He’s seen what happens when people start believing in things like me. His jaw clenched, a flicker of something passing behind his eyes—pain, maybe, or something darker. But it passed quickly, replaced by the same cold detachment that had carried him through so many years of this nonsense.

"Children shouldn’t know such fear," he said, his voice measured. "Prayers won’t save them. Action will. We survived Aspen’s reign. We’ll survive this."

Baltazar’s gaze drifted to his metal leg. "Survival isn’t living, Arthur. This city’s rotting, and the blood... it’s more addictive than any spirit I’ve ever poured. The old regime..."

"Don’t," Arthur warned, his voice low and dangerous. "Don’t romanticize that bastard’s reign. We bled for our freedom."

Baltazar raised his hands in mock surrender. "Peace, old friend. I’m not pining for the old days. But you can’t deny there was order then."

"Order built on blood isn’t order. It’s just chaos delayed," Arthur replied, his tone cold.

And then, like clockwork, the conversation was cut short as a hunter staggered over —drunk, belligerent, and itching to prove that stupidity really is the most abundant resource in this city.

"Baltazar, you crippled bastard!" The words slurred out like a bad song, each note more off-key than the last. "Your piss-water's as useless as that leg of yours! Give me some real meat before I carve it off you!"

Ah, the poetry of the common drunk. Such elegance. Such grace. The bottle flew from his hand, missed its mark, and shattered against the wall. A metaphor, perhaps, for the man himself. But metaphors are wasted on the dead, and this one was about two words away from earning that title.

Arthur’s hand, ever faithful, moved toward his axe, that old companion stained with more than just blood. But Baltazar? Well, Baltazar was the picture of calm—ice cold, like a corpse that’s decided warmth just isn’t worth the effort anymore.

"Mind your tongue, whelp," Arthur's voice rumbled, low and steady, the kind of voice that suggests you might want to start reassessing your life choices. "Or you might lose it."

He let the axe handle slip through his fingers, the heavy thud against the floorboards louder than the hunter’s heartbeat. The message was clear: One more step, and he’ll be adding a fresh coat of red to the decor.

The hunter’s bravado—such as it was—melted faster than snow in Khemoria under Arthur’s gaze. Fear is a powerful motivator, and this hunter? Well, he was motivated to keep his tongue firmly in place.

Baltazar, ever the opportunist, seized the moment. His voice, cold as steel and twice as sharp, cut through the tension. "I was hunting beasts while you were still sucking your mother's teat, boy. Show some respect, or I'll show you just how 'useless' this leg can be."

And just like that, our brave little hunter found himself retreating into the shadows, leaving behind nothing but the sour stench of fear and whatever passed for dignity in his addled brain.

Baltazar chuckled, a sound as dry and bitter as the air in that wretched bar. "Charming clientele we have these days."

Arthur’s eyes, ever vigilant, followed the hunter’s retreat. "The upcoming hunt has everyone on edge," he said, though I could’ve told you that. Then again, who listens to gods anymore?

"On edge?" Baltazar’s laugh was half a scoff, half a sigh. "More like teetering on the brink of madness." He paused, his gaze settling on Arthur. "Ever think about leaving, Arthur? Finding someplace untouched by all this?"

Arthur’s grunt was his usual eloquence—a man of few words, but each one weighted like a hammer. "I have everything I need right here."

Baltazar nodded, understanding more than what was said. He reached for a bottle of Albion's Night Mead, the kind that’s seen more despair than celebration these days, and slid a sharpening stone across the bar. "Your usual payment, then?"

Arthur nodded. In this world, sometimes it’s not about what’s said, but what’s understood. Baltazar poured two drinks, the liquid as dark and potent as the city’s sins.

"To Sangrevor," Baltazar toasted, irony dripping from every syllable. "May she rot slower than we do."

Arthur raised his glass, a ghost of a smile—more a twitch than anything else—playing on his lips. "To the fools who stay."

Ah, Night Mead. A brew as old as the sins of the father, and twice as bitter. "Men used to enjoy this for a bit of extra vigor when they wanted to impress the missus, you know," Baltazar mused, the sarcasm practically oozing from his voice. "Now? Who’d bring a child into this world?"

Arthur stiffened—an almost imperceptible reaction, unless you knew what to look for. And I do. He stood abruptly, the weight of the axe hanging at his side like a death sentence waiting to be delivered.

"I should go. The path doesn’t walk itself."

Baltazar raised his glass in a mockery of a toast. "May the gods watch over you, brother. What’s left of them, anyway."

As Arthur stepped back into the cold embrace of the night, the cries of the desperate clung to the air like a bad smell. From behind barred windows came the wails of the hopeless, pleading for mercy from a god who no longer cared to listen.

"Mercy, Sanguis!" a voice wailed, thick with despair. "How long must we suffer?"

Another voice joined in, equally futile. "We hunger, great Sanguis! Release us from this torment!"

In the central square, a beast blazed atop a pyre, its flaming carcass fueled by logs Arthur had just sold to Baltazar. Those logs were now doing double duty—burning and providing a dramatic backdrop for the city’s latest farce. Ah, the circle of life in Sangrevor—where your firewood fuels both the pyres and the pious.

Hunters, those paragons of virtue, were throwing the logs onto the fire with a sort of grim satisfaction that only comes from watching something suffer more than they do. Their prayers, a delicious mix of desperation and irony, spiraled up with the smoke, as if the beast was somehow listening.

Arthur, ever the observer and professional curmudgeon, grabbed his cart. Usually left in the vicinity because, let’s be honest, no one’s dumb enough to steal from Arthur. It’s like leaving a marked grave unattended—no one wants to be that guy.

As he surveyed the scene from his cozy shadow, his face wore the kind of grim determination that could only come from having seen too much and cared too little. "Men shouldn’t pray to monsters," he muttered, tightening his grip on the axe, his voice dripping with the kind of disdain that only comes from absolute experience.

And just like that, he melted back into the darkness with all the grace of a man who’s given up on expecting anything less than disappointment from the world. He left the square behind, but not without its lingering weight—a reminder that some burdens are just too heavy to shed.

Sangrevor, after all, doesn’t let go so easily.