The city of Briarhold rose out of the fog like a giant's fist, walls of gray stone crowned with battlements. Torches burned along the ramparts, and the clang of bells and hammers carried over the fields. Farmers with carts queued at the gates, while guards in rusted helms shouted orders to keep the lines moving.
D'rail trudged in the middle of the caravan, head down, hood up. His boots were caked with mud, his stomach sour from three meals of stale bread. If the gods were kind, the caravan would dissolve once inside the walls and he'd vanish into a tavern corner.
But the gods, as usual, weren't listening.
"Make way! Make way for the Phantom Lord!" The broad-shouldered guard strode at the front, chest puffed, waving his sword as though announcing royalty.
Heads turned toward the caravan. Farmers stared with surprise with mouths open. The line at the gates rippled with whispers.
D'rail hissed through his teeth, "Stop calling me that."
The guard leaned back, whispering as though to a fellow conspirator, "Forgive me, Lord, but the title has weight. Fear is worth more than silver. Best they learn your name before you set foot inside."
"I don't want them to know my name," D'rail snapped under his breath. "I'd rather they didn't know my face either. Can't we just—"
A merchant woman clutched his arm, eyes shining with gratitude. "You saved us. Let them know. Let all of Briarhold know!"
Before D'rail could protest, the caravan reached the gate.
The guards stiffened at once. Their captain, a wiry man with a scar splitting his lip, stepped forward — and then hesitated, eyes narrowing at D'rail.
"You," the captain said.
D'rail got alarmed. Oh gods, here it comes. They'll strip-search me, find nothing, laugh in my face—
But the captain's jaw clenched. He looked away, as though afraid. "…Pass through. Quickly."
"What? That's it?" one farmer protested. "We've been waiting half the morning!"
The captain barked back, "Do you wish the Phantom Lord's gaze upon your family, farmer? Stand aside!"
The line split open like water around a stone. D'rail was shoved forward by his own caravan, faces around him pale with awe.
Inside the gate, Briarhold burst into life — narrow streets lined with timber houses, bustling markets overflowing with vibrant sights and sounds, smoke heading upwards from chimneys. Children raced between carts, shouting and giggling.
And yet, wherever D'rail walked, silence fell in his wake. Merchants paused mid-sale. Housewives drew their children close. Street dogs crept into alleys.
The murmurs began almost immediately.
"That's him. The Phantom Lord."
"They say he cursed a whole bandit clan."
"Absolutely not — I heard that he called forth wraiths from the earth and consumed their hearts to gain strength."
"Fool. He's the last heir of the ghost emperors. Look at his eyes — haunted!"
D'rail pulled his hood lower, muttering to himself, "Haunted eyes, really? I just haven't slept in three days…"
But the rumors were already running ahead of him, faster than he could ever hope to catch.
The market in Briarhold buzzed with a chaotic blend of sounds and aromas: the sizzling fat of roasting boar melting over fiery coals, caramelized spiced apples cooking in gleaming copper pans, fish heads piled atop a bed of crushed ice. Vendors shouted out their prices, youngsters dashed about with fingers coated in stickiness, and beggars shook their empty cups with a sound reminiscent of bones.
D'rail lingered at the edge of a bread stall, trying to look ordinary. His hood shadowed his face, and he clutched a half-loaf like any other pauper. Blend in, keep quiet, disappear, he told himself.
But blending in was impossible when every whisper in the crowd seemed to orbit around him.
A drunk leaned across a barrel, voice slurred but loud: "I tell you, I saw the bodies myself. Bandits with their eyes all black, like the Phantom Lord drained their souls clean out!"
His companion slammed a mug down. "Rubbish. He don't need to drain souls. They say he breathes once and men fall dead. Even kings tremble if he sighs."
D'rail choked on his bread. If I sigh, it's because this bread is stale enough to break teeth.
At a nearby fruit cart, a thin woman whispered to her friend, "He's a revenant, you know. No mortal born — his bloodline's from the old ghost emperors. Briarhold will be his throne."
Her friend gasped, clutching her apricots. "Then we're blessed! To walk the same streets as him!"
D'rail dragged his hood lower, muttering, "Blessed? You'd be blessed if I could afford soap."
He tried to edge away, but a group of children cut him off, eyes wide and staring.
"That's him," one boy whispered. "Look at the way he walks. Like his feet don't touch the ground."
"They don't," a girl insisted. "My uncle says he floats. He could vanish at any second."
D'rail almost tripped over a cabbage cart. If I float, it's because I'm starving and about to faint.
The merchants from his caravan were no help. They leaned into the rumors, weaving their own embellishments to raise their standing as "companions of the Phantom Lord." One peddler demonstrated with a stick how D'rail "stood fearless while fifty bandits dropped dead one by one." Another claimed D'rail could "snuff torches with his glare."
And with each retelling, the crowd leaned in belief of rumors, their awe thickening. By midday, taverns were already singing half-baked ballads of him.
D'rail sat slumped at the corner of a tavern bench, head in his hands, bread forgotten.
This is out of control. I can't lie fast enough to keep up. One more day of this and they'll expect me to duel the gods. And if I refuse, they'll know the truth.
He peeked up, scanning the tavern. At least here, in the crowd of bodies and ale, he was invisible. Just another tired traveler—
The tavern door creaked. Boots rang on the floorboards.
The crowd cleared a path.
A knight clad in worn plate armor, with a crest that had lost its shine, entered the room. He surveyed the surroundings with a solemn determination.
Straight at D'rail.