About this universe
On the eve of a moonless night, Feywild shadows slip across the Thornbriar line and leave grisly signs near Highreach Vale. As the village warden, Sir Corin Valerin must unravel why the border wards are failing and what has provoked the creatures to grow bold. With the next dark night approaching, he and Mother Wenna Thirnby have little time to prevent the village from being overrun.
Tone
Brooding and tense, with a constant sense of looming dread. Small moments of grim camaraderie serve as the only respite.
Themes
broken trust, duty vs. debt, the price of bargains, isolation
Protagonist
Sir Corin Valerin
Sir Corin Valerin moves with a deliberate, battle-worn grace, his wiry frame and sun-darkened skin marked by a diagonal scar from brow to jaw. Silver threads his short hair at the temples. The warden’s chain at his throat gleams dully in the morning light. He holds himself with quiet formality, voice steady and dry, eyes sharp and patient beneath heavy brows. Every step betrays a lifetime of discipline and the weight of a promise he has never broken.
Goal: To uncover the cause of the Feywild creatures' boldness and prevent further incursions before dusk.
How it begins
Sir Corin Valerin stands ankle-deep in wet grass as dawn bleeds grey over the shattered fence behind the mill. He squats, fingers pressed to a torn patch of earth, tracing the outline of claw-marks too long and too clean for any valley wolf. The iron tang of last night’s blood clings to the air. Mother Wenna Thirnby kneels beside him, her skirts trailing in the mud, silverfern still clutched in one hand. She mutters a word in the old tongue and glances at Corin with a look that flickers between worry and accusation. Behind them, the villagers keep their distance, whispering low. Corin rises, warden’s blade sheathed at his side, and turns to Wenna.
“This wasn’t like the last time.”
His voice is hoarse from a sleepless night. She meets his gaze, eyes rimmed red.
“No. The wards sang at midnight, then went silent. Something slipped through while you were on patrol.”
Her hand tightens around the fern.
“We have until dusk to find what’s still hiding in the vale, or it’ll call more.”
About this world
Ardenfell is a kingdom of bitter alliances and wary borders, where encroaching Feywild magic strains the uneasy peace between crown and coven. The Thornbriar line, a warded barrier of iron and runes, keeps out most Fey incursions, but the veiled wood creeps ever closer. Steel and suspicion rule a land scarred by King Aldric's refusal of the Skyblind Order, with each village protected by a sworn warden and secrets traded more dearly than coin.
Ardenfell is a somber kingdom, flanked by the mist-shrouded Greengloom Valley to the south and the smoke-stained northern cities clustered around the Black Citadel at Thornvein. The land is cut by ancient rivers, Ash, Vren, and Galehome, whose convergence marks the stronghold of the Three-River Covens, a secretive order of witches fiercely protective of the border wards. The air is heavy with the metallic tang of iron and the low hum of rune-magic that saturates every village boundary. The Thornbriar line, a spiked perimeter of iron stakes and etched stone, separates Ardenfell from the uncanny depths of the Feywild’s veiled wood, where daylight falters and strange creatures prowl.
Since King Aldric shattered the Skyblind alliance, trust is rare and alliances brittle. The old nobility grumble in their marble halls, while most villages rely on wardens: grim, oath-bound defenders who wield rune-marked arms and enforce the crown’s wolfhead bounties, rewards for slaying Feywild intruders, paid only if proof is delivered swiftly. Blood still stains the marble steps where Aldric slew the envoys, and the Feywild’s magic grows bolder every year, causing the forest to creep forward and the weather to twist unpredictably.
Society is stratified: the crown’s law rules from Thornvein, noble families manage their fiefdoms with iron and ink, and the covens work in the shadows to maintain the border wards. Magic is practical, bound by oath and rune, and closely tied to loyalty, a warden’s blade loses its edge if their oath fails. Daily life is marked by vigilance: villagers leave silverfern bundles on their thresholds, children are taught to recite warding rhymes, and every adult knows the price of breaking faith with the crown or the coven. The darkness beyond the Thornbriar line is never far, and every moonless night is counted with dread.
