The rain in the Borderlands did not fall; it drifted like a wet shroud, clinging to the joints of Sir Alaric's armor until the leather straps groaned with the weight of it. He was a man of iron and salt, his face a map of old campaigns etched in pale scar tissue.
He had not spoken a word in seven years.
Across his back was the Cinder-Brand, a greatsword wrapped in oil-cloth. It was too heavy for a younger man to lift, let alone swing, but Alaric moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a mountain. He was heading for the Valley of Ash, where the last of the Iron Trees were said to grow.
The Waystation
As evening bled into a bruised purple, Alaric found a small waystation. It was little more than a stone hut with a thatched roof, but smoke curled from the chimney—a sign of life in a land that had mostly forgotten the concept.
He pushed the door open. The interior was cramped, smelling of wet wool and burnt fat. A group of travelers huddled around the hearth: a merchant with trembling hands, a young girl in a tattered cloak, and a sellsword who looked like he'd traded his soul for a rusted dagger.
The sellsword looked up, hand moving to his hilt. "We're full, metal-man. Find another hole."
Alaric didn't move. He simply stared, his eyes—gray as the sea—peering through the narrow slit of his visor. He reached into a pouch at his belt and tossed a silver coin onto the wooden table. It spun, humming a low, rich note before settling.
The merchant gasped. "A Crown-Mark. That's... that's more than the room is worth for a year."
The sellsword's greed outweighed his fear. He grunted and slid over, making room on the bench. Alaric sat, the wood creaking under his weight. He did not remove his helmet. He did not ask for stew. He simply watched the fire.
The Girl's Question
"Are you a Ghost-Knight?" the girl whispered. She couldn't have been more than ten, her eyes wide with a mix of terror and awe.
The merchant tried to shush her, but Alaric turned his head slowly toward her. He couldn't speak—his vow to the Silent Order of St. Jude forbade it until the "Heir of Thorns" was found—but he reached into his gauntlet and pulled out a small, carved wooden bird. He handed it to her.
"He can't talk, Elara," the merchant hissed. "They cut their tongues out, I heard."
Alaric didn't correct them. He didn't need a tongue to feel the weight of his sins. Every clink of his mail was a reminder of the Siege of Bel-Amon, of the fires he had lit, and the screams he had ignored in the name of a King who was now nothing but bones in a forgotten crypt.
The next morning, Alaric left before the sun dared to breach the horizon. The Valley of Ash lay ahead. It was a place where the laws of nature had been warped by the Great Collapse.
As he descended into the basin, the trees changed. They were no longer wood and leaf, but twisted columns of black iron, their branches sharp as needles. This was the Iron Orchard. Somewhere in the center grew the Silver Apple, a relic said to be able to mend any broken thing—a kingdom, a heart, or a vow.
The Encounter
A metallic shriek echoed through the grove.
Alaric drew the Cinder-Brand. The blade didn't shine; it was matte black, designed to absorb light rather than reflect it. From behind a cluster of iron trunks, a Scavenger emerged. It was a creature of scrap and spite—a construct left over from the old wars, its body a mess of gears and rusted plates, walking on four spindly legs.
It lunged.
Alaric didn't dodge; he met the machine head-on. He parried a jagged limb with a force that sent sparks flying into the gray air. He stepped inside the creature's reach, his boots crunching on the ash-covered ground. With a two-handed swing, he brought the Cinder-Brand down.
The impact was deafening. The sword sheared through the construct's central chassis. Oil, thick and black as bile, sprayed across Alaric's breastplate. The machine shuddered, its internal gears grinding to a halt, and collapsed.
Alaric leaned on his sword, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was old. His knees ached, and his lungs felt like they were filled with the very ash he walked upon. But the vow held him upright.
At the center of the valley stood a single tree, different from the rest. It was white, reflecting the pale light of the overcast sky. It looked like marble, but when Alaric touched it, the surface was warm.
Hanging from the lowest branch was a single fruit. It wasn't silver, as the legends suggested. It was clear as glass, and inside, a small flame flickered.
As Alaric reached for it, a voice rang out—not from the air, but inside his mind.
"What would a man of war do with a seed of peace, Alaric of Bel-Amon?"
He froze. Before the tree stood a figure clad in robes of tattered white silk. It was a woman, but her skin had the same marble sheen as the tree, and her eyes were pools of liquid mercury. The Guardian of the Orchard.
Alaric dropped to one knee. He placed his sword on the ground—a gesture of total surrender.
"You seek to break your vow," the Guardian said, her voice like wind through chimes. "You think that by bringing this fruit to the ruins of your capital, you can regrow a world you helped burn."
Alaric looked up. He couldn't speak, but his eyes pleaded.
"The price of the fruit is not gold, Knight. It is the thing you value most. Not your life—that you have thrown away a thousand times. Not your honor—that died at Bel-Amon."
The Guardian stepped closer, her hand touching his helmet.
"The price is your memory. You will save the land, but you will never know that you were the one who did it. You will wander the world as a nameless beggar, forgetting the name of your father, the face of your mother, and the weight of your sword."
Alaric didn't hesitate. He nodded.
The travelers at the waystation were surprised to see the knight return three days later. But he was different. His armor was gone, replaced by a simple gray tunic. He carried no sword.
He sat at the table, looking confusedly at the wooden bird the little girl was playing with.
"Sir?" the girl asked, holding it out to him. "Do you want it back?"
The man looked at the bird. He looked at his calloused, scarred hands. He felt a strange lightness in his chest, a vacuum where a heavy burden used to be. He opened his mouth, and for the first time in seven years, sound came out.
"It's a fine bird," he said, his voice husky and soft. "But I don't think it belongs to me."
"What's your name?" the merchant asked, leaning in.
The man paused. He searched his mind, finding only the smell of rain and the warmth of a flickering flame. He smiled, a genuine, tired smile.
"I don't know," he said. "But it's a beautiful morning, isn't it?"
Outside, for the first time in a century, the clouds over the Borderlands began to break, and a single ray of golden sunlight touched the blackened earth.