The smoke had a taste. Bitter and mineral, like scorched iron and rot. Every breath felt borrowed as the four travelers picked their way through the ruined treeline, boots sinking into ash that still whispered with the memory of flame. The forest had not burned naturally. This was a place struck down—a battlefield turned mausoleum.
Rudever was the first to see the armor.
A hulking silhouette of blackened plate that caught the light in glints of copper and ember. At first, it seemed a corpse — a knight slain and left in an unnatural state.
The sound was wrong. Not the clatter of metal, but a low, resonant groan — a furnace taking breath.
Lucia’s hand went to her sling. Stermberg reached instinctively for the relic at his belt, a demon bone blade that had felled many enemies. Zara whispered a prayer under her breath, eyes narrowing against the red glare that began to pulse from within the armor’s helm.
And the massive knight turned toward them and burst into fire. The very air of the forest seemed to catch flame and burn out in their lungs.
The knight’s sword came alight with fire that spilled over its blade like molten glass. Its movements were slow, almost regal, each step sinking deep into the ruined earth. The air trembled with heat.
“Back!” Sternberg barked, but the word came too late.
The burning knight’s first strike split a dead tree clean in two. Its second nearly took Rudever’s head. He barely rolled aside, the impact sending shockwaves through the ground. Lucia’s sling bullet snapped harmlessly against the thing’s chestplate — the bullet bursting and melting in the same instant it touched.
“She cannot be harmed!” Zara shouted.
The realization hit them all at once. Every blow, every spark of magic, every desperate strike — nothing found purchase. The knight fought like a storm given form, inexhaustible, indomitable.
Rudever’s spear arm went numb. Stermberg’s lungs burned. Lucia’s vision blurred as the heat rose around them, the edges of her sight flickering white.
They tried to press forward, but the ground itself rebelled — split with molten cracks, trees collapsing into flame. The scorched knight advanced like judgment itself.
Then the ravens came.
A hundred black wings erupted from the treeline, sweeping in a spiral above the clearing. The air cooled by degrees, the scent of ozone mingling with the smoke. The flock descended, merging and twisting until the shape of a woman stood before them, a cloak of feathers settling over her shoulders.
“You have angered the dead,” she said, voice cutting through the inferno. “And she is not easily appeased.”
The party barely had time to process her arrival before the giant knight turned, drawn to the intrusion. The mysterious woman’s hand rose, glyphs of light flaring briefly around her fingers, and a wall of spectral wind swept between them.
It bought seconds, nothing more.
The flaming monster drove through the barrier with the sound of cracking glass, sword sweeping in a broad arc that scattered feathers and flame alike. The firelight painted the raven woman’s face in flashes of gold and crimson, but she stood unmoving, gaze steady upon the knight.
The flames bent away from her.
Where the druid stood, the inferno seemed to lose conviction. The air rippled around her like water, the heat dulling into something merely mortal. Her black cloak scattered into a hundred flickering feathers before reforming around her shoulders, the scent of ozone cutting through the smoke.
The burning knight turned toward the raven-witch, sword raised, the glow from within her helm pulsing brighter in response.
“You should not be here,” the woman said softly.
Her voice carried—not loud, but commanding in the way old trees command silence. The monster paused, head tilting slightly, a sound like iron grinding beneath the helm. Then the knight moved, dragging that molten blade through the ash toward her.
A gust of wind flared from the witch’s open palm. The impact shattered against the knight’s armor with a burst of blue light, the force halting her charge but not turning her aside.
The spell bought them only seconds, but it was enough.
The woman turned to the party and roared at them to flee to a clearing in the northeast. There they would find an ancient henge circle. She would buy them time to escape and find them later.
Not needing an invitation, the adventurers dove into the dense forest and ran for their very lives. They didn’t slow down until the din of battle could no longer be heard.
After a few hours’ march, the group burst into a clearing that had been undoubtedly tended to with care over the years. Their exhaustion finally catching up to them, all of the party fell to the ground, hoping the ordeal was over.
Lucia stirred where she had fallen, half-conscious, the world a haze of red and grey — an unknown amount of time had passed. A shadow passed over her — the raven witch kneeling, eyes as black as the feathers at her throat.
“Do not move,” she murmured. “You are badly hurt.”
Lucia’s lips cracked as she tried to speak. “We—”
“You fought bravely,” the woman interrupted, touching two fingers to Lucia’s temple. A pulse of cold spread through her skull, clearing the fog. “And foolishly. But you are not done yet, sister.”
Lucia blinked. “Sister?”
Veralda’s gaze flicked to the necklace at Lucia’s throat—the small obsidian charm she had never spoken of. The mark of the Raven.
“You hide your feather,” Veralda said quietly. “But the storm still knows its own.”
Lucia felt the breath catch in her chest. She had followed the Raven in secret for years, the prayers whispered in solitude, never daring to claim the title aloud. But in this woman’s eyes, she saw no accusation—only kinship.
“Help me stand,” Lucia said.
The witch’s lips curved into the smallest, sharpest smile. “In time. First, you must understand what you face.”
She rose, speaking now to the others gathering around the quiet clearing. Stermberg’s face was pale beneath the soot, Rudever’s arm hung limp, and Zara’s bowstring had snapped from the heat. They looked like survivors, not heroes.
“I have heard of you,” the raven witch said. “But I hold an unfair advantage because you have not yet heard who I am. You may call me Veralda Bloodbeak.“
The pronouncement was met with a gasp by some in the party — especially Lucia. The witch known as Bloodbeak was a legend made flesh. Unlike most of the Raven Sisters, this woman was not content with meekly caring for the people in her village — this sister was on a holy mission.
While none of the party knew which legends were true, they all knew that Bloodbeak was not someone to be trifled with.
“Good,” Veralda said. “I see some of you know of me. That will make what I ask of you next much easier.“
The Raven Sister told them how she had been tracking the burning knight for months. It would be key to her plan to destabilize a malevolent power that adventurers had contended with before — the Rust Church. However, it would require a great bit of danger on their part and Veralda could not guarantee their safety.
“Why should we do as you ask?” Stermberg declared. “Could we not simply run and put distance between us and that thing?”
“Only for a time, master dwarf,” Veralda replied. “Teramalda may be slow, but she has unending patience to meet her undying flame. She has never lost a quarry once she has set her sights on it. It might take her months or even years, but she would track each and every one of you down.”
She gave the party a few moments to ponder those words. Finally breaking the silence, the witch told them that if they followed her plan, they might have a chance to end the knight’s curse upon the land and become legends in their own right. But first, they needed to know what they faced.
“Teramalda was once a knight of the Rust Church,” Veralda said. “A champion of their creed, sworn to the bloody god. She believed the Rust was purity—cleansing the world of imperfection. Teramalda led the forces of the faith in battle against all kin — elves, dwarves, orcs — and non-believers. It was against the dwarves she met her grim fate hundreds of years ago. Beset on all sides, somehow the dwarves managed to bring Teramalda down and drove a spike into her heart. The magic the stone singers used that day is still unknown, but what is known that it has cursed to remain in a half-life, forever burning, forever tortured — just like her many victims. So long as it remains, she cannot die.”
Stermberg spat into the ash. “A slave made into a god.”
“No,” Veralda corrected. “A god made into a weapon. She burns because she hates. And she hates because she remembers.”
Her eyes turned to Grimnir. “She remembers the dwarves who cursed her to this fate, and she will not stop until every stone of their kind is dust. That is her oath.”
The dwarven thief met her gaze without flinching. “Then we break the oath.”
Veralda nodded once. “Yes. But you must understand—the moment that spike is drawn, the fire will die… and so will she. What remains will not forgive you. She will drag you into the earth if she can.”
She looked to the magnetic pillar standing at the clearing’s edge, its surface pulsing faintly with unseen force.
“The iron within her yearns for that stone,” Veralda said. “It is an old relic of the world’s bones, a remnant of the Maker’s forge. If we can draw her close enough, it will hold her fast. Only then can the spike be removed.”
Stermberg nodded grimly. “You have a plan, then.”
“I have a hope,” she replied. “Plans belong to mere mortals.”
They moved quickly. Veralda murmured instructions while tracing sigils in the air—wards of cooling wind to shield them from the worst of the heat. Stermberg prepared his weapons and armor, muttering prayers under his breath. Zara stripped what arrows remained and bound their heads with oil-soaked cloth.
Lucia stood beside Veralda now, her body still weak but her resolve burning steady.
“Why tell me all this?” she asked quietly. “Why call me sister, when you’ve seen what I am?”
Veralda regarded her for a long moment, then reached out to brush a thumb against Lucia’s cheek, leaving a faint smear of ash.
“Because I know the look of someone who runs from their wings,” she said. “The Raven does not choose the pure. She chooses those who survive. And you will survive this, even if I do not.”
Lucia’s throat tightened. She wanted to answer, but the ground began to shake.
Terramalda was moving again.
The knight advanced, every step ringing like a hammerfall. The clearing glowed anew, fissures opening beneath her feet as molten light spilled upward from the earth.
Veralda raised her hand. “Positions!”
Zara took to the flank, Sternberg moved toward the pillar, Rudever crouched low behind a fallen tree, waiting for the signal. The plan was fragile, but it was something.
The knight’s smoking path could be seen in the distance, making their fate inevitable. This conflict was coming whether they were prepared or not.
“Now!” Veralda shouted.
Rudever was the first to harass Teramalda. He would grab its attention and be the first to lead it to the magnetic henge. His feet got the better of him, though, and he stumbled several times before finally finding his footing. Teramalda’s scorching heat nipped at his heels until he was able to duck out of the way.
Zara was up next. Yelling and barking numerous insults, she pelted the giant with arrows until it gave up on Rudever and turned toward her. The wolfkin was then a shadow in the forest. She deftly navigated thorny brush and exposed roots with ease — stay just far enough ahead of Teramalda to avoid injury but not fast enough to have it lose interest.
Lucia was the next leg of the chase, and the gods did not shine on her. The young Raven Sister turned to run after getting Teramalda’s attention with a flurry of stone pellets. Unfortunately, she tripped and injured her legs badly, giving the giant time to get close to her.
Terramalda turned—fast, faster than any living thing should move. She struck the ground with the flat of her blade, sending a wave of molten stone in all directions. The blast hit Lucia squarely, throwing her through the air.
The wind barrier Veralda had conjured shattered under the pressure, the protective sigils bursting like glass. Teramalda roared, a sound like a forge screaming open, and advanced again.
The giant lurched forward, and just as it was about to bring her massive sword down on Lucia, Stermberg lunged into the fray. He know that his sword wouldn’t hurt the monster but it would buy his friend time to crawl away.
Veralda took no time in making use of the opening. Quickly shifting into her raven form, she swooped out from the henge and covered Lucia in her feathered cloak. The experienced witch dragged the young druid into some nearby brush and out of harms way.
Do not move,” the raven-witch said, eyes scanning the wounds. Her touch was cool, the light from her palms soft but insistent. “There is still work for you in this world, sister. Rest, and doubt not.”
The spell took hold. The bleeding slowed. Lucia’s breath came easier.
Across the clearing, Rudver watched the exchange through the shimmer of heat. His hands trembled around the haft of his axe. He knew the truth now — Terramalda could not be killed, only freed. The spike had to be removed. But how could any mortal get close enough?
Then came the idea. Dangerous. Desperate. The kind of thought that only strikes in the moment before death.
Rudver muttered a prayer to the wild spirits, voice raw and quiet. The world blurred around him — muscles swelling, bones shifting until fur replaced flesh and claws tore through his gauntlets. The bear rose where Rudver had stood, roaring with primal fury.
Teramalda turned at once, fire reflecting in her eyeless helm. The heat thickened, her sword dragging a trail of molten glass behind her as she advanced.
“Now!” Stermberg shouted. “To the stone!”
The magnetic pillar hummed, the air around it vibrating like a struck bell. Its pull was faint but growing, responding to Teramalda’s armor and the iron spike in her chest. Rudever lunged, the bear’s bulk slamming into the knight with bone-rattling force. For an instant, they locked — flame and fur, life and death.
“We can’t hold her,” Stermberg shouted. “She’s—”
“We don’t have to hold her,” Rudever cut in. “We just need to pull the damn spike out.”
He turned to Veralda. “You said the spike binds her?”
Veralda nodded. “It anchors her soul to this world. Remove it, and the fire will die.”
“Then I’ll tear it free.”
Rudver roared, charging toward the towering monster and driving it straight into the magnetic aura of the pillar. The massive bodies collapsed against the ancient stone.
The two collided with a sound like a collapsing forge. The bear’s claws tore at the armor’s joints, scraping uselessly against enchanted steel, while Teramalda’s blade came down in a burning arc. It cut through fur and hide, and Rudever howled in pain, but he held fast, grappling the knight’s arms.
“Hold her!” Veralda cried. “Just a little more!”
Lucia tried to rise but her legs gave out beneath her. Veralda knelt beside her, hands pressed to the ground, chanting in the old tongue. The sigils reformed—barely visible, pale as moonlight beneath the ash.
The pull began—a faint shimmer of force tugging at the iron within her armor. Sparks skittered across the ground.
Then came the scream.
It wasn’t human. It wasn’t alive. It was the sound of something sacred breaking.
Teramalda threw her head back and roared, and the flames burst outward. The blast shattered Veralda’s wards and sent Stermberg sprawling. Zara ducked, shielding her face from the wave of heat.
Lucia could only watch as Rudever was flung aside, his massive form crashing into the other stones.
The plan—the fragile, desperate plan—was coming apart.
Veralda stood amidst the inferno, her cloak burned to cinders, eyes reflecting the knight’s fire.
“She will not stop,” she said, voice raw but steady. “Not until one of us is ash.”
Lucia forced herself upright, clutching the Raven’s charm at her throat. The world swam in flame and smoke, but her mind was clear now.
“Then we end it,” she whispered.
Veralda turned to her, and for the briefest moment, smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “Sister. We end it.”
Then a sound split the chaos — a horn, long and low.
Rudever — now back in his normal form — held the relic Whale’s Horn to his lips, the ancient horn glowing faintly as he poured every ounce of his will into the note. The air rippled. The ash at their feet swirled into a cyclone, and the gust hit Teramalda square in the chest, driving her backward.
For a heartbeat, all was wind and thunder. Then the knight slammed into the magnetic stone.
The impact rang like an anvil strike. Sparks leapt across the clearing as iron met iron. Teramalda’s sword fell from her hand, the blade hissing out in the dirt. She struggled, body thrashing, but the invisible pull of the pillar held her fast, every plate of her armor trembling with force.
“Now!” Veralda’s voice echoed through the smoke. “End it!”
Stermberg and Zara moved as one. He reached the knight first, boots sliding through ash. The iron spike jutted just inches from her chest, heat still rippling from it. He grabbed hold with both hands, skin blistering instantly through his gloves.
Zara appeared at his shoulder, adding her weight, her own hand over his. The magnetic pull tore at their armor, threatening to drag them in too.
The spike held fast.
“Pull!” Sternberg grunted through clenched teeth. “By the Maker—pull!”
Their muscles screamed. The air itself seemed to resist them. Then, with a sound like a dying forge, the spike came free.
The fire died in an instant.
Flame winked out from Terramalda’s sword, her eyes dimming to black. The metal beneath their hands cooled rapidly, turning from red to dull iron. For a moment she stood there — an empty husk held upright by habit or will — and then collapsed against the stone, the weight of centuries coming to rest all at once.
No one spoke. The only sound was the slow hiss of cooling metal.
Then came the rush of wings.
Veralda’s form blurred once more into a storm of ravens, spiraling upward and then collapsing inward again, her shape reforming mid-fall. This time, when she landed, a sword was in her hands — black steel with a red edge.
Without hesitation, she stepped forward and brought it down.
The strike was clean. Teramalda’s head rolled free, landing in the soot with a hollow clang. Veralda held it aloft, the last embers of the knight’s fire flickering out in her grasp.
“Monster slayers,” she said, her voice both reverent and proud. “Let the lands remember your names.”
None of them spoke at first. The words felt unreal, fragile. Rudever stood panting beside the fallen knight, blood and soot ruining his clothes. Zara wiped the ash from her bowstring, eyes distant. Stermberg stared at the spike still in his hand — the iron now cold, heavy, ordinary.
Lucia, lying half-propped against a stone, watched Veralda’s ravens take to the sky once more.
The air was still. The fire was gone.
For the first time in days, the wind carried only silence.
And in that silence, the legend of the slayers of the Burning Knight was born.
In the days that followed, they would not speak often of what happened in that clearing. Some victories burn too brightly to be held in memory without pain. Yet somewhere in the blackened hills, where ash still whispers in the wind, the faint scent of iron remains—and those who pass through at dusk say they sometimes see the shape of a woman in feathers, watching, guarding what was freed.
JesseFolk.com 