Children of the Dawn

The halls of Blackstone's guild bustled that morning, though Eirik Thornfell barely noticed. The air was thick with the scent of oiled leather, sweat, and forge-smoke drifting in from the smithy. Eirik sat alone at a table in the dim-lit corner of the building, his axe, Erythrael, resting across his knees.

He absently traced the runes along its haft, the strange symbols as enigmatic now as the day he received the weapon. Five years he had served in the Iron Wolves. Five years of dungeons, monsters, coin, and comrades lost and gained. And yet this axe remained a puzzle.

"Morning, brother," came a familiar voice. Darius Ironheart, the veteran knight and de facto leader of their party, set down a tankard of weak ale and slid into the bench across from him. His scarred face wore its usual stoic calm.

Eirik glanced up and grinned faintly. "You're up early for once."

Darius smirked. "Could say the same to you." His gaze flicked to Erythrael. "Still brooding over that axe?"

"Can't help it." Eirik lifted the weapon, feeling its familiar weight. "It saved my life too many times to count. But it's… wrong somehow. Hungry. I swear I hear it hum after a fight."

Darius's brow furrowed. "It is old. I found it in that Sunken Temple delve years back, before you joined us. Pulled it from the grip of some skeletal warlord." He leaned in, voice low. "Frankly, I'm not sure it's entirely safe. But it fits your style. Just don't lose yourself to it."

Eirik nodded solemnly. "I'll keep it in check."

Their moment was broken as Finn burst in, winded and grinning. "Job's in! Old goblin warren outside Graystone. Should be easy coin."

Darius stood. "Rouse the others. We leave within the hour."

Soon, they rode out. The sun was high when they reached the ancient goblin tunnels beneath the hill.

The entrance was a jagged maw in the hillside, half-collapsed, reeking of filth and rot. The Iron Wolves moved in tight formation, Darius and Eirik in the front, Finn and Lyra, the cleric, behind. The tunnels were cramped, shadows pressing in. Goblin eyes gleamed in the dark.

The fight began with an ambush. Goblins swarmed from hidden alcoves, blades flashing. Eirik surged forward, Erythrael singing in his grip. Each swing cleaved through wiry bodies, the axe leaving streaks of crimson in the gloom.

The deeper they pushed, the fiercer the resistance. Eirik lost track of time, his existence reduced to steel, blood, and the axe's eerie pulse.

Then came the champion, a towering goblin brute clad in mismatched armor, wielding a jagged, two-handed axe. It roared and barreled through the melee, scattering lesser goblins.

Eirik met its charge head-on. Their weapons clashed with a deafening clang. The brute's strength was monstrous; each strike rattled Eirik to the bone. He fought with grim determination, Erythrael carving deep into the goblin's side. Yet the beast fought on, frenzy in its eyes.

A feint, then a savage backswing Eirik failed to fully parry. The jagged blade smashed into his skull. White-hot pain lanced through him. Reality tilted. Darkness rushed in.

The last thing Eirik Thornfell felt was the cold stone beneath him, and the faint, hungry pulse of the axe still clutched in his fading grip.