The Last Dawn - Chapter One

The Last Dawn shall mark the end of light. A night shall rise that knows no morning. Through pride and prejudice mankind shall fall, And from its ashes, a darker age begin.

The sun was sinking behind the snowy peaks of the Shaded Mountains, its dying light cast long shadows across the pine-strewn hills above Castle Black. A cold wind swept through the trees, whispering through the silence like a ghost of days long lost. Mist curled up from the barren wastelands - once lush farmlands, now forsaken, claimed by the curse. Collapsed wooden houses lay scattered in the east, awaiting their master's return, where once the hamlet of Rindlem had thrived. On a hill beyond the ruins rose a solitary tower of blackened brick, crowned with a spired roof. One window glowed with feeble light, casting a pale gleam into the gloom.

From the shadows of the forest emerged a rider, cloaked in black. He stepped to the cliff’s jagged edge and raised a rolled canvas. Upon it: the very same view, the tower in the mist, the sun retreating behind the castle - and a figure on horseback, turned towards the view.

“The curse lies heavy upon this land,” thought the rider, as he cast one last gaze across the haunted valley.

He first saw the painting in a chapel long lost to rot and rain. It was nailed to the stone wall, half-torn, edges black with fire. But the scene was clear: a dark figure on a cliff, watching the mist rise over a broken land. Himself. No doubt. The same cloak. The same wound. That was a decades ago. Since then, he had followed roads even ghosts had forgotten, chasing a place painted before he was born.

The road was harsh and steep, overrun with roots and wild weeds - no soul had passed this way in years. Once, this was the main trade route of Alsnar, a kingdom famed for its gleaming ores, golden crops, and the timber from the elder woods was wrought to wonder by the hands of craftsmen. But now, all was lost. The air echoed not with wagons or song, but with the hollow howls of wind and the restless sighs of forgotten souls. A rotted sign still hung from a leaning post, its letters faded but legible: ‘To the Butchered Lamb’. Rider took the way uphill to the wearied down Inn.

The sound of hooves echoed through the Misty Woods, a place so ancient and long forgotten that even the leaves had ceased to fall from the cursed boughs. Stones cracked beneath iron-shod hooves, worn hollow by the slow passing of uncounted years. The Rider's presence cast unease upon the trees - and though they did not move, he felt their gaze upon him, silent and mournful, as if the forest itself remembered his face. Then, breaking the hush, came the murmur of a stream. The stars above stirred, and the wind sang once more. He followed the path without faltering, though weariness gnawed at his bones and desperation hollowed his breath. And then - rising over the hill - a shape emerged through the veil of mist: a two-storey tavern, its silhouette carved from the timbers of the Ancient Woods, from an age when the ground was still strong and the sky still sang.

The stables stood empty, and the walls were weary, but the structure held - as though memory alone kept it standing. Built against the cliffside, a balcony stretched over the gorge, still scattered with stools and tables where once laughter bloomed, where songs were shared, and weary travelers found rest. But now, all was still. All save one table - and there, beneath the pale breath of moonlight, sat the Jester, telling stories to the empty chairs.

The horse was left by the hay and the water trough, where his thirst and hunger were soon eased. The Rider gave his steed a gentle pat on the neck and murmured, “I’ll be back soon, Fredo. If I do not return, remember: the road lies east, and the Sea of Stars shall guide your way home.” The old mount flicked an ear in acknowledgment and returned his attention to the feed, unconcerned.

The inn’s door stood tall - broader and heavier than most, shaped for men of old, men of great width and strength. Its iron handle was cold with age, untouched for long years, and the hinges groaned as he pulled it open. A blast of wind swept in behind him, stirring the torches along the walls to flickering life. The air inside was sharp with winter, yet warmth lingered still, kindled not long ago.

That warmth belonged to Breg, the innkeeper - a man large of frame, thick with beard, and as much a part of the tavern as the beams above his head. He stood behind the bar polishing a glass, his sleeves rolled and his eyes steady, as if time itself had never moved past him. He was always there, they said, for the Butchered Lamb was more than his home - it was his heart.

“Good morning, lad. What can I get you?” asked Breg, his voice deep and warm, as though it had been carved from oak. He spoke as if no curse had ever touched the land, as if the long years had not passed, and the folk of Rimlet still filled the seats and sang in the evenings. For a moment, the Rider stood in silence, disoriented by the gentleness - the illusion of time preserved.

“Food and water, gracious host - and the same for my horse. He has already begun,” the Rider replied. His voice was coarse, like dry stone worn by wind, and it carried the strain of long silence. He was not used to speaking with men, not for many seasons. His gaze shifted uneasily beneath the shadow of his long black hair, but deep within his eyes, the fire burned - the same fire that had brought him here, to this place he had only seen in paint and dream.

“Well now!” Breg boomed with cheer, clapping the polished glass down. “Breg’s steak, hot on coals ‘til it smokes, and a stream of star-water cold enough to bite! Coming right up, old fellow.” With practiced ease, he turned to the brass tap behind the counter, and filled the glass he had polished. From the spout flowed water that shimmered faintly, as if the night sky itself had been caught within - flecks of silver light twinkling in the stream.

Breg placed the glass upon the counter with a proud nod, the star-water within still swirling as though alive. Then, without another word, he vanished through a low archway, disappearing into the kitchen with a bounce in his step - determined to fetch his finest cut of lamb, aged and seasoned for nights such as this.

The Rider reached for the glass with a hand weathered by cold and time. He brought it to his lips, and the first sip struck him like a forgotten memory - cool as mountain snowmelt, but carrying a warmth beneath, subtle and strange. He drank deeply, and with each swallow it felt as though his strength, once lost to wind and weariness, began to return. His throat eased, his limbs grew lighter, and a calmness settled upon his mind like mist on still water.

He clenched his thirst, and so it was - for the first time in many days - that he felt again the warmth of a hearth, the comfort of walls not yet taken by ruin, and the quiet miracle of being simply... welcome.

The warmth seeped into his bones, not just from the firelight or the drink, but from something older - something woven into the walls and wood of the place. He felt his love return, not for a person, but for a home once lost. It stirred quietly, like the first breath after waking from a dream. The stream’s hum beyond the windows pulled at him, and the stars above whispered truths he had long ignored. He sat straighter, no longer hunched by the road, and the weight upon his shoulders lessened. His eyes, once dim with sorrow and silence, brightened, as though something within had stirred.

Then came the scent - a drifting current of roasted lamb and herbs. Thyme and rosemary, steeped in garlic butter, danced in the air, wrapping the Rider in memory and longing. His stomach tensed, aching not only for food but for belonging, for peace, however brief.

Footsteps returned from the kitchen, heavy but steady. Breg emerged once more, his grin wide and proud, bearing a great dish cradled in both hands like a sacred offering. Upon the plate sat a slab of seared mutton, still steaming and pink at its center, resting atop golden potatoes. A garnish of arugula, fresh and bitter, curled along the side, glistening with wine-reduction glaze.

Breg set it down with reverence, a feast worthy of legends.

Then the feast began, and the silence between them softened. Words came slowly at first - fragments of old tales, half-remembered names, questions asked more with the eyes than the tongue. And then came laughter, quiet and cautious, but warm. They ate together like two men who had not spoken to another soul in years, and perhaps they hadn’t. The food was devoured with reverence. The plates were cleared to the grain, the mugs drained until dry, and time slipped from the walls like fog before dawn.

When at last the hour grew late and the fire dipped low, they exchanged no farewells, only nods - the kind that need no speech. The Rider turned from the hearth and made his way toward the upper floor, seeking rest. But as he passed the balcony, he paused, drawn by a sound that was not the wind.

Music.

Soft, strange, tinged with sorrow. A lute’s voice - golden, thin, trembling like a memory - drifted through the open air.

Curious, the Rider stepped onto the balcony. There, bathed in moonlight and seated atop a wooden rail as if the laws of balance did not concern him, was the Jester. His instrument gleamed, polished to a sheen like burnished gold, and its strings sang songs from castles long lost, from banquets now buried beneath ash and snow.

The Jester sang.

His voice, lilting and cracked like dry parchment, wove a rhyme that might once have been merry, but now clung to sorrow like moss to stone. Each verse seemed older than the last, as though passed down not from bard to bard, but from dream to nightmare.

The King hath tried - oh yes, he hath tried, but the deed was done, and he too knew why. The curse that he wrought, brought death and despair, to fields now empty, to skies stripped bare. The people were lost, and the land, it fell. A star once fallen cast its hollow spell. And the girl, she wept - oh gods, she wept well - for the fire they lit became her farewell.

The Jester’s smile widened, painted in crimson and white - not with joy, but with something deeper, something frayed. His face, a relic of forgotten courts, glowed ghostly in the moonlight. His pale eyes stared ahead, unblinking, fixed not on the Rider but on something unseen. The Rider felt them pass through him, as though he were only a shadow in a dream.

He did not speak, nor move. He only listened - to the words, to the tone, to the madness cloaked in rhyme. For there was truth here, buried in riddle and jest. The King had tried. And failed. And the price had been paid by the land, and by the Witch whose fire still lingered in ash.

The lute’s melody faltered, shifted - no longer a dirge, but a plea. A soft call from the strings, carved from golden oak. It sang not of power or pride, but of mercy - the kind that lives in dying embers.

Yet the Rider shivered.

For the words behind the smile were sharp, and the gaze behind the paint was haunted, and whatever the Jester once was, he was no longer whole. There was venom in the song, and poison in the tale - and the name that echoed beneath it all was Angmar.

The lute that was strong - carved from oak, gilded with gold, strung with wire like whispers - sang still, though its melody turned now toward hope. A soft lament trembled in its chords, as if it mourned not what had passed, but what might yet be saved. And in its gentle strain, the Rider heard something deeper - a cry, a memory, perhaps even a prayer.

But fear stirred in him, quiet and crawling. The Jester was not simply mad - he was unmoored. His smile was a mask, cracked at the corners, and the way his voice twisted the truth was no accident. The King’s poison had not only seeped into the land - it had twisted minds, broken wills, reshaped jesters into oracles.

The music wove on, strange and lulling, until the Rider felt his thoughts begin to drift. His eyes grew heavy, not with fatigue alone, but as if the song itself were drawing him inward - into something colder than sleep.

And then he dreamed.

He was a boy again - small, frail, unarmed. He ran through the Shaded Woods, breath ragged, heart pounding, the black trees looming like giants. Behind him, wolves. Not ordinary beasts, but great shadowed shapes, lean and silent, gliding through the underbrush without sound. Their eyes glowed pale, not with hunger, but with ancient purpose.

He stumbled. They surrounded him.

But they did not pounce.

Instead, they howled - a mournful, aching call that echoed through root and rock. And in that howl, he heard not death, but wisdom. The wolves did not hunt for prey. They hunted for the boy - to find him, to speak to him, to deliver a truth forgotten by men.

The moon struck silver through the branches, and the wind stirred with words unspoken. The boy trembled - not with fear, but with knowing.

Then came footsteps. Voices. Men.

The villagers burst through the trees, chasing shadows they feared but did not understand. The wolves scattered, their wisdom unfinished, their truth unheard. And the boy - who had been chosen - was dragged back to the village, his mind clouded by noise and grief, the howl still echoing in his ears.

Saddened, he woke. The vision clung to him like damp mist, heavy on his shoulders, whispering secrets he could not fully recall. There was no sunrise, only grey light through cloud, and the echoes of the wolves still haunted his thoughts. In silence, he rose and descended to the main hall, where the scent of woodsmoke and ginger greeted him.

Greg was already seated at a table, a kettle steaming before him and two plates set for company. He nodded as the Rider approached, as if no words were needed. Upon the plate - eggs fried with herbs, and a cup of green tea steeped with slivers of ginger root - simple fare, but prepared with care.

Over the quiet meal, Greg spoke. Of kingdoms long lost, of the star that fell and the curse that followed. He told tales passed down by firelight, of how peace had reigned until the coming of the King - and how, with the King, came madness. Some say Agmar still wanders the dark halls of Castle Black, they say his hounds still howl to the restless night, unable to die.

“Beware the roads,” Greg said softly. “For the beasts hunt there. And worst among them was Fang - once the loyal hound of Rimlet’s finest hunter.”

Fang had lived well, Greg said. He hunted and played, beloved by the townsfolk. But when the King’s shadow deepened and madness took root, even the beasts grew strange. One day, the hunter’s wife returned to find her home drenched in silence - her husband and children slain, their remains torn asunder by the very creature they had raised.

The people rose to put the beast down. They gathered weapons, torches, and set out into the wild. But Fang, having tasted the blood of men, had become something more. Something worse. He no longer hunted with fang alone - he hunted with mind. Clever, cruel, unseen. He lured the hunters one by one into traps of shadow, and devoured them all beneath the trees.

The mourning was long, and loud, and the soldiers did not help - they remained at the Keep, guarding only what served the King. The Hamlet fell soon after.

And then, one moonless night, the howls returned - louder, closer, enough to shatter windows. Fang had come again, but not alone. He was no longer merely a hound, but a thing twisted, part man, part beast. A demon shaped by pain and starlight. He left the ruins of Rimlet and wandered to the mountains, where he slaughtered bears and wolves alike, growing in strength and silence.

It is said that in his slumber he dreams of his master’s return, and in his waking, he hunts for vengeance.

And his blood runs still. His kin remain in the wild places. The Fang lives - and not all his children walk on four legs.

The Rider stood, his limbs stiff from sleep, his mind still wrapped in the fog of firelight stories and silver howls. He nodded to Greg, who sipped his tea with the calm of a man who had seen much and asked little in return.

“Thank you, Greg,” the Rider said, his voice low but sure. “For warmth, for food, and for tale. I shall return - when the sky is clear, and the land remembers peace.”

Greg offered no reply, only a knowing look - half sorrow, half blessing - and raised his cup in farewell. No need for promises in a world so bent by curses and stars.

The Rider stepped beyond the door once more, into a morning grey and wide. The wind met him like an old friend, and far above, hidden behind clouds that never broke, the stars waited still.