In a far, far away land, there was a kingdom known as Eryndor—a realm once brimming with magic, where rivers shimmered with life and skies stretched unbroken above fields of golden wheat. The people flourished under the harmony of ancient spells, their lives bound to the world's magical essence. Great kingdoms rose, their banners flying high, and the lands formed a patchwork of prosperity.
But prosperity is fragile, and magic carries a cost. Centuries ago, the Great Fracture tore through Eryndor, shattering not only its lands but also the balance that held its magic in place. The skies turned gray, the rivers ran dry, and forests once lush twisted into labyrinths of despair. Cities crumbled, their proud walls reduced to ash.
And from the void left behind, he came. A figure cloaked in shadow and wreathed in whispers. The one they called Zerathys, the Shadow King. No one knew where he had come from—whether he was the work of fractured magic or a curse born of the land's suffering. His name became a hymn of fear, spoken only in hushed tones, lest his gaze be drawn to those who dared utter it.
With Zerathys came an army of wraiths and the dead, unrelenting in their march across the kingdom. He offered no mercy, no diplomacy—only conquest. Those who resisted were swallowed by his darkness; those who bowed found their cities twisted into barren husks. The world became his canvas, painted in ash and despair.
Nestled within the decaying heart of this fractured kingdom was the city of Draven's Hollow. Here, life clung stubbornly to the edges of ruin. The streets were lined with crooked buildings, their windows glowing faintly against the storm that battered the city. The heavy rain turned cobblestones into winding rivers of filth, while dark clouds hung low, swallowing any trace of light.
Inside the Rusty Flagon tavern, the storm was barely noticed. Laughter and the clinking of mugs filled the air, defying the gloom outside. Patrons drank, sang, and spun exaggerated tales, their voices rising above the plucking of a bard's lute. It was a fragile bubble of warmth—a brief escape from the decay of the world beyond its doors.
Then, the door burst open with a crash.
The warm glow of the firelight flickered, threatened by the gust of cold wind and rain that swept into the tavern. All eyes turned toward the figure standing in the doorway—a man cloaked in shadow, his armor tarnished and battered, dripping with water and mud. Aldric stepped inside, his imposing frame filling the room as easily as his presence silenced it. The jagged scar on his face caught the firelight, a sharp reminder of the battles he'd survived. His piercing gaze swept the room, lingering on no one and yet commanding everyone.
Without a word, Aldric moved forward, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. The bard's lute faltered, a string snapping with a sharp twang. Whispers buzzed through the room as the warrior passed, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his sword. He reached an empty table and sank into a creaking chair, placing his blade within arm's reach. The faint clink of metal was the only sound as the tension in the room thickened.
The tavern's patrons slowly returned to their revelry, though their laughter was quieter now, as though the shadow of Aldric's presence lingered in the air.
From across the room, Elara watched him with unblinking eyes. She had taken a seat in the far corner, her hood drawn low over her face. The flickering glow of the lanterns revealed the faint glint of her silvery hair and the pale curve of her lips. She blended effortlessly into the shadows, her presence unnoticed by most.
Unlike the others, Elara didn't flinch or avert her gaze as Aldric strode past. Instead, she studied him—his movements, the subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hand never strayed far from his sword. There was strength in him, yes, but there was also something else. Something broken.
Elara's fingers curled around the stem of her goblet, her thoughts hidden behind her enigmatic expression. She leaned forward slightly, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips. "So," she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible over the din, "the warrior has arrived."
Outside, in the rain-soaked streets of Draven's Hollow, another figure moved with purpose—though far less conspicuously. Bram darted between the stalls of the marketplace, his hood pulled low to shield him from both the rain and prying eyes. The young thief was a blur of motion, slipping past merchants and drunken patrons alike with an ease born of years surviving on the streets.
To Bram, the marketplace was a treasure trove of opportunity. A ring from one pocket here, a loaf of bread from another there—it was all part of the game. And Bram was good at the game. Very good.
He had spotted Aldric as the warrior passed through the market earlier, his imposing figure cutting a path through the crowd like a blade. Bram's eyes lingered on the purse at Aldric's hip, its weight unmistakable even from a distance. A grin spread across his face—mischievous and knowing.
"Wouldn't want that slowing you down, big guy," Bram muttered under his breath.
Moments later, Bram was inside the tavern, weaving between tables and drunken patrons with practiced ease. His target was seated in the corner, the faint clink of his armor almost drowned out by the noise of the room. Bram approached carefully, his footsteps silent against the floorboards. Just as his nimble fingers brushed the purse, however, the warrior moved.
A calloused hand shot out, gripping Bram's wrist in an iron grip. The young thief froze, his grin faltering as he looked up into Aldric's piercing gaze.
"Wrong move," Aldric growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Bram gave a sheepish grin, tilting his head like a scolded puppy. "Just making sure it's secure," he said quickly. "You know, wouldn't want anyone else snatching it."
Aldric's grip tightened. "You've got guts, boy. Or no sense at all."
"Bit of both, really," Bram quipped, though his wince betrayed his bravado. "Alright, alright—how about we call it even, and I walk away with my hand still attached?"
Before Aldric could respond, a calm, measured voice cut through the tension. "Let him go."
Both men turned to see Elara standing a few paces away, her hood still drawn low over her face. Her tone carried a quiet authority, one that seemed to still the air around her.
"You'll want to hear what I have to say," she continued, her gaze shifting between the two. "All of you will. Zerathys' reach grows stronger every day, and if you think you can survive alone… you're wrong."
The room seemed to hold its breath. The faint howl of the wind outside was the only sound as the three strangers locked eyes, the weight of fate settling heavily upon them.