At first, the sight of scattered columns of sunlight piercing through the mist-laden canopy was overwhelming for the Haunted Cloak. Never before had it left its native dungeon, and no tome illustration could have prepared it for the imposing grandeur of untouched nature.

  But its moment of wonder didn't last long. A cold, gentle breeze stirred its mud-streaked rags, carrying with it the faint reverberations of clashing steel, anguished cries, the clatter of armor in desperate retreat, and the guttural growls of beasts in pursuit.

  The familiar symphony of combat, invigorated by this strange new setting, beckoned the Cloak forward. It glided swiftly between trunks, its frayed silhouette rippling like unfelt wind. An unseen hand reached for the sword on its would-be hip.

  And with no hesitation, the puckish creature breached a thorny barrier, emerging into a bright glade where life and death contended.

  A woman clad in battle-worn plate stood protectively before a child, her stance unwavering despite the exhaustion weighing on her limbs. Her blade slanted upward, poised to strike. Her shield was emblazoned with the coat of arms of house Valiendre.

  Before the distressed pair, a slender figure brandished a spear ready to strike, sided by two massive hounds baring their silvered fangs, eyes alight with menace.

  "Don't be foolish!" They snarled with an elvish voice, while taking a cautious step forward. "Surrender the child and I'll let you live!" They added, threateningly.

  "Never!" The woman retorted sharply, dismissing the offer without a second thought. The infant cowered behind her, covering his face, unable to stifle a sobbing whimper.

  Suddenly, as the defender struggled to gauge who would charge first, the dogs' ferocity crumbled into a torrent of distressed whining, and they warily gave ground.

  "Halt, vile ruffian!" The Haunted Cloak crowed, picking a side in the conflict. It leaped in front of the woman and child, sword swishing through the air as it confronted the assailant.

  "Leave us! What business have you here?" The elf hissed, before reaching the stupefying realization that there was no one beneath the cloak. The beasts, now fearful and timid, begged their master to be allowed to flee.

  The Haunted Cloak gleefully cackled as it lunged against the enemy.

  ***

  The combatants engaged in a fast and deadly dance where each side was often reduced to a fleeting blur of motion.

  The elf's spear struck with unrivaled speed and precision, perfectly targeting the usual vital points of a humanoid opponent; the Cloak, however, flowed around the thrusts, easily regaining distance and countering from unpredictable angles.

  A fraught silence crept over as the distant echoes of other battles faded —the assault on the knight and child's convoy had ended, leaving the duel in the glade as the last focus of action. Ominous birds roosted at the tree tops cackled sporadically, cursing the scene.

  Staggered by the unexpected interloper, the armored woman stood motionless, reaching protectively toward the scared child. The hounds shrank into the background.

  Elves are capable of stunts that far surpass human limits, making them formidable foes. Yet, the otherworldly sword-swinging shroud seemed impossible to harm and showed no signs of ever fatiguing.

  With each swing of its sword, unwaveringly strong in a steadily rising tempo, the Haunted Cloak gradually wore down its opponent. Soon they would make a fatal mistake.

  "It seems the day is yours, creature," the elf panted, breathing sharply. "But make no mistake: we will meet again!" They snapped, glaring at the child, before darting off into the foliage.

  Sheathing its sword, the cape turned its hollow hood back to the knight and the child. "Fret not, fair dame! Thou may'st offer thy thanks at thy leisure, be it in words or weight of coin!" It warbled proudly, conveying a triumphant smile in its tone.

  ***

  The Haunted Cloak followed the lady and her ward back to the road where they had been first assailed —a short and awkward trudge, during which few words were exchanged.

  Reluctantly, the knight introduced herself as Ophelienne, duty-bound guardian of the boy. She explained that they had been traveling with a merchant caravan when bandits ambushed them.

  The ragged company was hardly worth a glance: its poorly-dressed merchants and guards in patchwork armor, wielding dull weapons, couldn't possibly be carrying anything of value.

  Nonetheless, the attackers were brutal: the ground was littered with dismembered and disfigured dead. No survivors were left. Barrels laid splintered, crates overturned. Chests were neglected, some still locked, others yawning open, with its insides left to the elements.

  "Hm, so brigands, wast it? Most strange indeed. Methought their keenest want wast for the wee one," the Cloak noted nonchalantly, rummaging through the scattered goods around the bodies and destroyed carts, searching for anything of interest to plunder.

  Lady Valiendre was visibly uncomfortable, both with the unearthly creature's shameless looting and its astute observation. "Say, 'friend'… Why did you intervene in our favor back there? Why do you follow us?" She questioned.

  "I did recognize the designs upon thy shield," it droned, absorbed in sorting through the late merchants' possessions.

  This revelation drove Ophelienne into deep suspicion. The Valiendres, as traditional and honorable as they were, didn't have much of a presence on this side of the world.

  The knight readied herself for an aggressive interrogation of the apparition, but was cut off by the child, now recovered from the shock and utterly fascinated by their new companion.

  "Are you a ghost!?" He asked candidly, his eyes sparkling with hidden electricity. "The people back home said this forest is full of ghosts!"

  "Aha!" The Haunted Cloak gleamed. "What a bright lad, honing in on the queries that truly do matter! Long have I mulled o’er this riddle! Maybe! Maybe not! I’d be most delighted to share mine endless meditations on it, shouldst thou care to listen!"

  "Yes! Can we keep it?" The boy demanded from Lady Valiendre with beseeching eyes. "It did save us!"

  "Master Aurethian, please…" She sighed. There was no end to her list of objections.

  "I command we keep it!" Drustan Aurethian, inheritor to the High Seat of the Holy of Holies, made a decision. That settled it. Ophelienne could advise the young master, but was sworn to abide by his authority.

  Before they resumed traveling, the Cloak fixed a carry-on for itself, so it could carry its worthless plunder. The knight sighed heavily.

  ***

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Ach, 'tis a wicked omen, that’s what it is! It came from Wraithfen, y'hear?” A scout sneered, spitting onto the stone floor. From his post atop the ramparts, he watched Drustan and the Haunted Cloak caper about the fortress' patio below.

  "I thought the lad was meant tae be guarded. Why’d they up an’ leave ‘im with that bleedin'... thing?" Another soldier grumbled, leaning on her spear as she peered down at the strange pair, her silhouette integrated to the shadows of a flock of impudent ravens perched on the stone walls.

  Since their arrival at the castle the week prior, the boy and the specter had been inseparable. As the Cloak recalled neither its Master’s identity nor the means and purpose of its own conjuration, Drustan became obsessed with uncovering the creature’s nature. To this end, he devised a series of increasingly elaborate experiments.

  On the first day, he tried to have the Haunted Cloak remove its shroud —an impossible anti-tautology. It couldn't even pull back its hood. Yet, strangely enough, it could wear boots or gloves of various sizes without issue.

  Come the second day, at young Aurethian's urging, the draped figure submerged itself in molasses, hoping the sticky goo would outline whatever form lurked beneath the cape. Instead, the result was just heavily stained fabric that needed to be rinsed with vinegar.

  By the third day, Drustan made the Cloak attempt to bite into an apple and blow a flute, hoping to determine if it had a mouth or lungs. It did not. Later, he covered its head with a jute sack to test whether it could be blinded, as if it had eyes. Surprisingly, it could. And so it continued.

  Between trials, the ghostly rogue watched Drustan’s unwavering dedication with great interest —the way he scribbled notes late into the evening, muttering to himself, theorizing, revising, and setting new challenges for the next day.

  “Prithee, what boon dost thou seek in this, young master? What curious fire doth drive thee so?” It eventually inquired.

  Drustan was silent for a long moment before speaking. "Back then, I thought Lady Valiendre might... not make it. She's real tough! But not like an elf...” He sighed.

  “But then you showed up, and you saved us! You’re strong! Not like a person, but more like... a monster? I mean, I’m sorry, but you are... And if you're already a ghost, you can’t die, right? The people coming for me, they're powerful, and I don’t want anyone getting hurt because of me... Again..." His voice wavered, and he turned away, blinking back tears.

  "So, what thou art saying is this: if I assist thee 'gainst such mighty foes, 'twould be a deed most glorious, one that bringeth fame and fortune?" The Cloak asked, indifferent to being called a monster and unmindful of Drustan's distress.

  "Y-yes... I suppose..." The boy swallowed hard.

  "Aye, then! Thou hast thyself a deal!" It assured, triumphant.

  The final experiment of the day was carried out without hesitation: overcome by dread and relief, Drustan rushed forward and wrapped his arms around the unsuspecting Cloak. It turned out it could be hugged tight for comfort.

  ***

  Unable to sleep by its very nature, the Haunted Cloak drifted through the Keep each night, its tattered hems whispering against the stone. The guards were further spooked by it whenever they spotted the ghostly rags idly exploring corridors and chambers.

  It even managed to spook itself. One night, as the draped figure hovered by a rusted gate leading to an ancient underground, it was certain it could hear Drustan crying below.

  What it found, however, was a catacomb filled with shattered urns and slumped skeletons. The only sign of a child was a set of remnants smaller than the rest; smaller than Drustan even, but just as fragile.

  The Cloak tilted its hood. It prodded the tiny skull with its sword tip. A golden locket spilled from the ribs, tarnished green with patina. The clasp broke at a touch, revealing a lock of hair and a scratched inscription:

  "Ellia, who danced on the moon’s mirror."

  A draft stirred. The Cloak’s fabric stiffened as a voice slithered up from the stones —not in words, but in the cadence of its long-gone Master.

  "…my timeless servant…"

  The Cloak spun, blade raised. The darkness yawned back, empty and silent. Yet the voice clung, a murmur beneath the Keep’s foundations:

  "…thou shall kneel again…"

  A bell tolled far above. Dawn approached. The Cloak fled the underground chamber, but the whispers followed, tangled in its stitches like cobwebs, strumming beneath the subtle sounds of the night.

  ***

  Lady Valiendre, meanwhile, spent her days conferring with the castellan, Lord Jaufre. As was customary when knights of noble blood lodged at Gildsheaf Keep, she was invited to conduct a full inspection of the fort —a lengthy exercise in ritualistic pomp and military minutiae.

  Each morning, Ophelienne walked the ramparts with the fort's commander, surveying fortifications, overseeing troop drills, and reviewing grain tallies. The Keep loomed over endless fields of golden wheat, a relic of a bygone era when the Republic upheld, and fed, a righteous alliance of all nations.

  Now, Gildsheaf stood precariously as one of the last bastions of unity in a continent fractured by self-serving warlords. It endured in the heart of a delicate web of vague verbal pacts, trade agreements, war tributes, and peace levies through which it still fed much of the surrounding territories, but always under threat of bloodshed.

  Every evening, Lady Valiendre compiled detailed reports regarding her escort mission —from the moment she picked up Drustan at his family's isolated villa to the recent ambush in the forest, and the Haunted Cloak’s timely but troubling intervention.

  "Folks speak o' queer wraiths lurkin' those woods," Jaufre mused on the second day of her stay, after spending some time observing the roguish ghost himself. "Legend claims a great battle was fought there, centuries ago. Each tree sprang from the blood o' the fallen, trappin' their souls in the bark. We dinnae go choppin' fer timber there."

  Gildsheaf was unique in that it had a warden from a commoner background; a deeply pragmatic man, but also attuned to the timeless knowledge of ordinary people.

  "With due respect, sir, indulging in the superstitions of the little people is a dangerous pastime," she countered coldly. "I know of sorcerers who can conjure such creatures. It could even be a trick of that very elf. My greatest wish is to be rid of it, yet the young master is utterly taken."

  He arched a brow. "Ach, is that what ye think? Ye made it sound as if the sharp-ear could’ve taken young Aurethian then and there if it wasn't for the thing."

  Lady Valiendre stiffened at the barb. The man had not missed her earlier slight against his compatriots.

  "Elves are wily and deceitful," she said, recovering. "That Cloak may be their eyes and ears, planted among us to collect information. They have spied on us long before this: no one knew we hid in that caravan. And when was the last time one of them walked so openly among humans?"

  Lord Jaufre pondered. "Och, a good few decades at least. Maybe over half a century… Ye're right, we must remain vigilant. Just as our kingdoms joined a secret pact to restore the Holy of Holies and the Republic, so too can those who would see us fail join forces," he added ominously.

  By the fifth day of daily inspections and late night conferences, the knight’s patience was wearing thin. The journey had already been delayed longer than she liked. If not for the need to carefully review her next steps, she would have set out the morning after their arrival.

  But before she left for good, the castellan had one final matter to address. That evening, he led her down the winding stairwells into the keep’s damp undercroft.

  "Did ye ken they call this place the Sunken Hold?" he asked as they descended. "This valley was a great loch once. But back in the days of the Republic, they diverted the Red River to feed new colonies to the north, drainin' the waters an’ revealin’ these lowlands."

  He glanced at her before adding, "And if ye ask the little folk," he emphasized these words, "they'd tell ye this was a place o' sorrowful sacrifice. The ole cult o' the Witch Mother drowned virgins in its depths."

  Lady Valiendre grimaced. "Barbaric."

  "Aye," the Lord agreed, guiding her into a low-ceiling chamber. "But it made the land fertile, sure enough. And when the first wheat pushed through the soil, it carried strange gifts —gold rings, necklaces, and trinkets tangled among the leaves and spikes. Some imbued with Magic. The old regents feared to claim them, thinking them cursed, but they did take what they could."

  He pressed against a loose stone in the wall. A soft click echoed, and a hidden door swung open. "After ye."

  Valiendre stepped cautiously inside. As the castellan lit the torches, the chamber gleamed. Delicate displays lined the room, bearing jewelry untouched by time.

  "This ring," he said, lifting an ornate gold band set with an emerald, "is said to shroud its wearer from all forms of divination. I reckon ye might find it useful on yer path to the Old Capital."

  Ophelienne took it with careful hands. "I know how rare such an artifact is. I will keep it safe," she vowed, bowing solemnly. She had hoped for an armed escort, but this might be even better.

  Jaufre’s gaze held steady. "And Lady Valiendre," he said firmly, "heed the words o' a faithful ally: we seek to rekindle an ancient Order. Dinnae be so quick to cast aside the history o' this land. One thing cannae stand without the other."

  CODEX

  A noble knight stands her ground against an elven hunter and their ferocious hounds, protecting a frightened child. What's a sentient cloak to do? Why, pick a side with theatrical flair, of course!

  It's a shame the merchant caravan never made it out of the haunted forest, but hey, they were caught in the middle of a proper quest here!

  Now bound to young Drustan and his stern guardian Ophelienne, the Cloak join their journeys after a spooky stay at Gildsheaf Keep —where crumbling walls whisper of drowned sacrifices and ancient pacts. Troubling questions linger:

  Their goal is to rekindle an ancient alliance… But why is a child needed for that?

  Why do the elves care about this?

  And how do the people of Gildsheaf Keep sleep at night with a backstory like that? Brrr!

  Turn the page, let's leave this grim castle behind, it's giving me the jitters!

  CLOAK'S INVENTORY

  FORTUNE: ☆☆☆☆☆

  The bag of a rich peasant still makes for a poor adventurer...

  FAME: ★☆☆☆☆

  There goes Cloak, in the nick of time to save a noble heir! Too bad the only witness is not very pleased.

  The guards and farmers of Gildsheaf now hush about the ghost from Wraithfen forest that lives inside the castle walls. Yikes!