Note: If you haven’t read the Prologue, please read that first.
Also, here’s a map of Vorpal Vale. You’ll find Cushing Cottage at the bottom center. Enjoy!
A mischievous shadow moved in the patchy, pre-dawn fog outside Cushing Cottage. She’d planned this job for days, carefully watching staff rotations and guard patrols.
Ella Wellington wore her best thieving gear, well broken-in and slightly faded—just the way she liked it. Whisper quiet, she blended seamlessly into any reasonably dark shadow.
She reviewed her map and notes. Cushing Cottage had been a military outpost and was built like a fortress. The lower levels were heavily fortified; all first and second-floor entrances were sealed from the inside or protected by heavy wrought-iron bars. She would have to climb the cottage’s outer stone wall and enter through a third-story bedroom window—a standard infiltration route she’d used countless times.
Following her planned path, she scaled the wall effortlessly and slipped into a dark bedroom. The cool, stale air indicated this room was seldom occupied. Her target lay on the second floor, and her escape route would lead down to the ground floor, exiting through any available side entrance.
She stepped cautiously into the hallway, muffling her footsteps on a luxurious carpet runner. The cottage's interior was lavishly decorated in a style befitting a Countess, though Ella privately considered it gaudy. Heavy brocade curtains hung beside tall, leaded-glass windows, tied back with braided gold cords. Dark polished oak walls displayed ornate paintings of the kind of people she hoped she’d never meet.
Ella’s gaze flicked disdainfully to a large, gilded chandelier overhead. Gaslights cast long, wavering shadows over gilded mirrors and intricate tapestries. She grimaced at the excessive gold leaf accents on furniture and frames.
She turned onto a grand staircase that swept elegantly downward, its polished mahogany banisters gleaming excessively. Halfway down, Ella paused; a guard stood at the landing, scratching under his collar. She crept silently behind him, blackjack ready, but at the last moment, he sighed and wandered off toward the east wing.
Ella exhaled slowly, stowing her blackjack and moving onward to the second-floor gallery. Marble pedestals lined the corridor, displaying statues and vases—more unnecessary wealth, she thought bitterly.
Ahead, prominently displayed on a carved pedestal inside a protective glass case, lay her treasure. She swiftly opened the case, carefully grasping the handmade object, savoring its fine texture.
Footsteps approached from the next room. She quickly hid the object in her sack and closed the case door, retreating to the nearest shadowy corner. A guard entered, silhouetted by hallway lights, heading directly toward the display.
“What the!” The guard rubbed his chin. “Hmmm… I thought there was…”
Ella slipped unnoticed through the open door behind him.
“Probably being cleaned,” he muttered as she vanished.
Her mission complete, Ella descended to the first floor via a dim service staircase. Staff were active here, forcing her to wait patiently before dashing through an exterior door into the courtyard. Dawn air crystallized dew into frost, shimmering briefly in the emerging sunlight.
Smiling, Ella hummed contentedly, entering her modest domicile. Breakfast awaited, laid out neatly. She lowered her hood, inhaling the aroma appreciatively. She set her prize—a small doll with black yarn hair, a blue dress, and button eyes—on the table against a candlestick. Nearly worthless monetarily, it was priceless to Ella.
“Have a good night, ma’am?” asked a familiar voice.
Ella sprang up, dagger drawn instinctively.
A smiling Mrs. Baybridge emerged from the shadows.
“For fuck’s sake,” Ella groaned. “Mrs. Baybridge, you’ve missed your calling.”
“Have I?” Baybridge replied, clearly delighted.
“Not many can sneak up on me,” Ella admitted.
“Oh, indeed?”
“No,” Ella confirmed, sitting back down and sheathing her dagger. “But before I forget myself, thank you for breakfast.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Baybridge gestured toward the doll. “Speaking of forgetting yourself, Countess, why exactly are you sneaking around your own home and stealing your own property?”
Ella sighed, biting her toast. “I’m not doing well with retirement.”
“I can see that. You don’t even stay in your own house?”
“I feel more comfortable here,” Ella explained. “The Cottage is too big—too much open space.”
“I understand,” Baybridge softened, adopting a maternal tone. “You’ve been here just over a month. A transition period is understandable. Your previous job was exciting, from what I hear.”
“You could say that,” Ella replied dryly.
“Yorke’s Intelligence Corps,” Baybridge said approvingly. “And a Commander, no less!”
“Not anymore,” Ella corrected her. “And I’m not sure about the fru-fru title either.”
“The noble rank is an honor,” Baybridge pointed out gently. “Few earn it; many die trying.”
“I don’t mean disrespect,” Ella said quickly.
Baybridge smiled. “If adventure is what you miss, explore outside the grounds. Plenty to see from the old world—before the Day of Fire.”
“Outside the compound, huh?”
“It’s not a compound. You’re not imprisoned here. But consult Captain Shelling first; monsters have been sighted nearby.”
Ella nodded. “Thank you, I’ll consider it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Baybridge withdrew.
***
Countess Ella Wellington strode confidently toward the front gatehouse. The sun was higher now, gently pushing back the last traces of dawn chill around Cushing Cottage. Yet within Gloamwood, thick mist stubbornly clung to the ground, swirling slowly through the trunks of ancient, gnarled trees. Occasional bright shafts of sunlight pierced the dense canopy above, spotlighting the eerie scene below.
The gatehouse buzzed with activity as guards moved briskly, attending to their morning tasks. Seeing Ella approach, several guards paused, offering polite nods or respectful salutes.
"Good morning, ma'am," said a young guard stationed at the gatehouse entrance. "Looking for someone?"
"Indeed," she replied. "Please fetch Captain Shelling for me."
The guard quickly complied, disappearing into the gatehouse and returning moments later with Mr. Shelling, Captain of the Guard. Shelling was a broad-shouldered man nearing fifty, with streaks of gray highlighting his close-cropped hair. His eyes carried the sharpness of experience and caution.
"Countess," Shelling greeted, nodding respectfully. "How can I assist you this morning?"
"I intend to explore some ruins beyond the Cottage walls today," Ella explained. "Mrs. Baybridge suggested it might ease my restlessness."
Shelling frowned slightly, shaking his head. "I admire your spirit, Countess, truly—but Gloamwood isn't safe lately. There have been sightings of creatures large enough to threaten entire patrols."
Ella smiled. "Gloamwood?"
Shelling nodded, eyes narrowing. "Yes. Old name, from before the Day of Fire. The woods grew strange after…changed, they say. It's beautiful, but deadly."
"I'm familiar with danger, Captain. You know that," she said gently.
"No question," Shelling conceded. "But humor me. Take two of my men at least, if only to keep me from worrying myself into an early grave."
Ella laughed warmly. "All right. Two guards, if you insist."
Minutes later, she exited the compound gates accompanied by two young guards. They were strong and eager, stepping briskly as they entered the shadowed paths of Gloamwood. Shafts of sunlight shifted and danced around them, casting unsettling shapes across their path.
"An honor to escort you, Countess," said the first guard, a sandy-haired youth named Finn. "We've heard so many stories."
"Yes," added the second, slightly shorter but sturdily built, named Bran. "They say you're unstoppable. Like the time you freed all those prisoners from Cragscliff prison."
Ella shook her head, amused yet melancholy. "Exaggerations, I'm afraid. It was only one prisoner. And… she didn't make it out alive. A terrible loss, and one I deeply regret. I managed to recover her intel, and command called it a victory. But it wasn’t. Not for me."
The two guards exchanged an uneasy glance. Bran pressed further, hesitant but curious. "What about the time you stole the ring right off the King of Saug's finger? Everyone talks about it."
Ella chuckled softly. "Oh, that one's true—but it's not as glamorous as it sounds. The king was drunk, asleep in his chambers, and guarded only by incompetence. Hardly a daring feat."
Finn grinned, clearly delighted to confirm at least one of the legendary stories. "But it changed the course of the negotiations, didn't it?"
"It did," Ella admitted. "Though I'd prefer diplomacy over thievery, given the choice."
They fell quiet as they reached a cluster of ruins—a long-abandoned strip mall. An overgrown parking lot stretched out before them, weeds and grass pushing through cracked pavement. Rusting vehicles sat silently, mysterious relics from a forgotten age.
"What are those?" Ella asked, genuinely puzzled as she examined the strange metal objects.
Finn stepped forward, inspecting them closely. "I heard they were private booths. You know, where people sat to eat their food."
Ella raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Strange way to dine."
Nearby stood crumbling storefronts, signs barely readable through centuries of decay. One read “'Merica Diner – Welcome!” next to an abstract American flag faded with age. Another storefront bore a cheerful logo featuring a muscular anthropomorphic bison: "Bison Burg," the sign proclaimed boldly. Beside it, the once-bright colors of "Beanie Supermarket" were now dimmed, the large brown bean logo cracked and weathered.
Suddenly, from somewhere deep within the forest, a low, menacing growl echoed through the trees. Ella's senses sharpened instantly.
"What was that?" Bran whispered urgently, drawing his sword.
Ella stood perfectly still, listening carefully. Another, louder growl reverberated, followed by heavy, rhythmic thuds growing rapidly closer.
"Time to leave," Ella said sharply. "Back to the Cottage. Now."
Finn and Bran fell into defensive positions as they moved swiftly toward safety. Behind them, branches cracked ominously, something massive emerging from the shadows. Ella felt a thrill surge through her veins, familiar yet chilling, as they raced back toward the protection of Cushing Cottage.
***
Countess Ella Wellington climbed out onto the roof of Cushing Cottage, sweaty and breathing heavily from the exertion. She had scaled the outer wall using a decorative, ivy-covered lattice, the exhilarating final obstacle of her “confidence course”—a winding series of climbs and jumps around the property designed to keep her skills sharp.
She paused, heart rate gradually steadying. Closing her eyes, Ella attempted to savor the calming sounds of nature, but instead, distant, rhythmic thumps of siege engines echoed through the valley. Saug was clearly pressing an aggressive advance, the battle lines extending farther south than usual. Over the two decades of intermittent conflict, the front had fluctuated frequently, but always centered around the Ramparts—a fortified, mountainous stretch that divided the Kingdoms of Yorke and Saug. Although Yorke was currently on the defensive, Ella wasn't overly concerned; such ebb and flow had defined her years in intelligence.
Countess turned her face toward the setting sun. Late summer air, laced with woodsmoke and pine sap, brushed coolly against her skin. She noted fires being lit below, the gentle murmur of staff preparing for a chilly evening.
Vorpal Vale spread majestically beneath her, bathed in a warm, golden hue. To the east, the Hud river shimmered serenely. Beyond it, the towering, impenetrable cloud wall of the Forbidden Land loomed ominously—a swirling barrier perpetually shadowed in eerie shades of gray, shot through occasionally with mysterious flickers of light.
Cushing Cottage, once a military stronghold, retained its austere exterior with robust observation towers and a spacious central courtyard now softened by flourishing gardens, statues, and a grand fountain. Ella peered down into the courtyard and spotted a woman in a dirtied apron collecting herbs, softly humming a hymn. Ella waved down cheerfully, but the woman merely scowled, emitted a disdainful “hmph!”, and strode away.
Ella shook her head slightly, returning her gaze to the valley. Her reverie was violently shattered by the harsh clang of the iron gates. Alarmed cries rose sharply from below. She swiftly moved across the roof to investigate, observing about twenty soldiers surging into the courtyard. They wore armor or battle uniforms, armed with swords and bucklers displaying Yorke heraldry.
Ella squinted sharply for details, but her vision suddenly blurred and brightened in rapid, disorienting pulses. She rubbed her eyes vigorously, a flash of concern tightening her chest. Was this exhaustion, illness—or something more insidious? The sensations eased after a moment, but her anxiety lingered.
Refocusing, she noted the soldiers’ refined uniforms and muted shoulder piping, indicative of a protective detail rather than typical guards. Highly trained and potentially deadly.
A familiar adrenaline surged through her veins. She relished this sensation, signaling adventure and purpose. But with her usual rooftop routes blocked, she swiftly descended the exterior wall to a third-floor dormer, retrieving lock picks from her utility belt. As she was working the latch, a gruff voice from below shouted, “You there!"
Ella tensed and looked down. But the voice was not directed at her. She hadn’t been spotted.
The latch gave way, and she slipped quickly into the darkened interior, unseen. Voices below barked urgent orders, heightening the stakes.
Ella navigated through the dimly lit room filled with luxurious furnishings—ostentatious pieces she privately loathed. Gas lanterns flickered along the hallway, casting wavering shadows across gilded frames, thick carpets, and overly ornate tapestries.
Sudden footsteps prompted Ella to duck silently into a tiled bathroom. Holding her breath, she watched through the cracked door as a soldier walked into the empty room she'd just exited. Seizing her chance, she moved silently behind him and put a dagger to his neck before he could react.
“Quiet,” she whispered fiercely. “Or I’ll open your throat.”
The soldier dropped his sword obediently.
“Why are you here?” she demanded softly.
“Colonel Mosley’s orders," he stammered nervously. "Looking for an old lady—the Countess.”
Her indignation tightened her grip momentarily. “Where’s your commander? Who’s in charge here?”
“Kitchen. Lieutenant Anson. Probably reading his stupid map.”
Ella swiftly knocked him unconscious, hiding him and his sword beneath a nearby bed. As she moved toward the kitchen, another guard blocked her staircase descent. Ella hesitated—but suddenly, he collapsed silently. Her confusion intensified as Mrs. Baybridge stepped calmly forward, tucking a blackjack into her apron.
Baybridge’s hands flashed in practiced Intel signals: “Three more ahead. I'll handle them.” Then she vanished into the shadows, dragging the unconscious soldier with her.
Ella grinned widely, impressed and delighted, and carefully avoided the remaining guards.
In the kitchen, Lieutenant Anson studied a map by candlelight. Ella crept up silently and pressed her dagger firmly to his throat.
“What are you doing in my house?” she demanded sharply.
Anson stiffened, but relaxed his tone quickly. “Commander Wellington, I presume. You say it’s your house, but your staff says you don’t even sleep here. Quite the statement.”
“I'm adjusting poorly," she admitted reluctantly, tightening her grip. "Now explain."
“I’m here by order of Colonel Cole Mosley. We must bring you to him immediately.”
Two more soldiers entered cautiously, stopping short at Ella’s threat. They lowered their weapons at Anson’s gesture.
“Yes, Countess," Anson continued smoothly, "we mean no harm—”
Both soldiers collapsed abruptly. Mrs. Baybridge stepped into the candlelight, a serene smile on her face.
“—Could you…ask your housekeeper to stop knocking out my men?” Anson pleaded.
“Thank you, Mrs. Baybridge,” Ella said warmly. “That will be all.”
“My pleasure, Countess,” Baybridge replied, withdrawing elegantly.
Ella released Anson, sheathing her dagger. She noted Anson’s uniform—subtle, functional, and well-crafted. She towered over him slightly, though his presence was composed.
“You haven’t lost your edge,” Anson remarked respectfully. “That’s good. As I said, we’ve been urgently recalled from the front to get you. Mosley can explain further.”
“I don’t know this…Colonel Mosley,” said Countess. “Why should I go see him?”
Anson looked uncomfortable. “Look, I wasn’t supposed to say this, but Mosley’s orders come from…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Baron Greystone.”
Countess’s eyes widened. The Baron was her old boss in the Intelligence Corps. The big boss. Baron Greystone ran the Intelligence service for the entire kingdom, and he reported directly to King Leopold.
Ella sighed deeply, acknowledging her inevitable involvement. "Fine," she conceded firmly. "Take me to Mosley."