Year 958 of the War King’s Calendar Season of Eryion (Spring)

  The southern wind brushed against my face with deceptive warmth, carrying the scent of damp earth and young leaves. The path was narrow, hemmed in by towering trees whose branches scraped against one another, whispering like distant voices.

  I had been traveling for days, keeping to the less-traveled roads. My hood stayed low, shadowing my face.

  I exhaled.

  Old battles drifted through my mind like ghosts. Steel. Fire. Screams. The mark upon my chest burned faintly beneath my tunic — a reminder that some wars never truly end. I had no desire for glory anymore. Only distance. A remote place where I could disappear before the next storm broke.

  Then the forest changed.

  A scream.

  Low, guttural snarls.

  My body moved before thought caught up. I ran.

  Through the trees, I saw a wagon trapped in the narrow pass. A young red-haired man stood in front of it, shoulders squared but trembling, blood streaking down from claw marks across his chest. Behind him, a brown-haired woman clutched the side of the cart, her knuckles white, her breath shallow and broken.

  They were surrounded.

  Four beasts.

  Wolves in shape — but wrong. Dark scales crawled along their hides. Their jaws hung too wide. Their fangs were long enough to tear through bone.

  The man swung a crude dagger wildly. One beast snapped at him, its teeth grazing his arm. He cried out.

  The forest fell silent except for the growling.

  My heart slowed.

  Focus narrowed.

  I drew my sword.

  The sound of steel leaving the scabbard cut cleanly through the chaos. For a moment — just a moment — I felt something I had not felt in years.

  Familiarity.

  I stepped forward.

  The first beast lunged. I did not retreat.

  One clean downward arc — the blade bit deep into scaled flesh. Warm blood sprayed across my face as its head separated from its body. The corpse hit the dirt with a heavy thud.

  The second leapt from the side. I pivoted, barely in time. Its claws raked across my cloak instead of my throat. I slammed my shoulder into its ribcage and drove my blade upward beneath its jaw. Bone cracked. The creature spasmed violently before going still.

  The third came low and fast.

  It hit me full force, knocking me backward. Its breath reeked of rot. Its fangs snapped inches from my face as I forced my forearm between its jaws. Pain shot up my arm as teeth sank through leather.

  I snarled and twisted, driving the blade through its side again and again until its weight collapsed over me.

  Silence.

  No—

  Movement to my left.

  The fourth beast sprang toward my neck.

  I rolled, feeling its claws tear through fabric. Dirt filled my mouth. I rose in one fluid motion and thrust forward.

  Steel punched through scaled chest.

  The beast let out a wet, choking sound as I lifted it slightly off the ground before letting it fall.

  For several breaths, nothing moved except the trees.

  I stood there, blood dripping from my blade.

  The red-haired man still held his dagger, though his arm trembled so violently he could barely keep his grip. The woman was pressed against him, her fingers digging into his vest. Her lips moved soundlessly — perhaps a prayer.

  When they realized the beasts were dead, their eyes shifted to me.

  Fear replaced panic.

  They did not know if I was salvation… or something worse.

  I wiped the blood from my sword slowly, deliberately, and slid it back into its sheath.

  “My name is Valdor Draven,” I said, my voice steady despite the blood running down my sleeve. “Are you injured?”

  They stared at me for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

  Then the man swallowed hard.

  “We… we’re alive because of you,” he managed. “My name is Meinol Kel. This is my wife, Emila.”

  Emila lowered her gaze and gave a small bow, though her hands still shook.

  I crouched slightly to inspect the claw wounds across Meinol’s chest. Deep, but not fatal.

  I reached into my pouch and handed him a small vial.

  “Apply this. It will close the worst of it.”

  His fingers brushed mine. They were cold.

  “I am searching for a newly founded village,” I continued. “Somewhere remote. I heard rumors.”

  Emila nodded quickly. “Tufnar. That is its name. We are headed there to open a small market.”

  Tufnar.

  So the rumors were true.

  Meinol hesitated before speaking again. “Travel with us. This road… you’ve seen what walks it.”

  I looked down the path ahead.

  I already knew.

  The main roads carried bandits.

  This one carried beasts.

  But I could not leave them here.

  “Very well,” I said at last. “We should move while there is still light.”

  The wind shifted again.

  And for a fleeting moment, I felt as though the forest itself was watching.

  The southern breeze carried a gentler warmth than the northern winds I had grown accustomed to—there, even spring bore the bite of lingering frost. Here, the air felt alive. Softer. Almost forgiving.

  Traveling alongside Meinol and Emila had been… pleasant. More than I expected. They were kind people—quick to laugh, quick to speak of hopes rather than grievances. They had left their former city behind due to mounting tensions between noble factions, seeking distance from politics and proximity to something quieter. Something safer.

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

  Tufnar, they told me, was an emerging settlement of scholars. An enclave built around the study of the great volcano to the south—Druraran—whose depths exhaled dense currents of mana. The place attracted researchers, mages, and thinkers drawn to its potential.

  As we walked, I felt the unfamiliar weight of simple companionship settle around me. Conversation. Shared meals. The easy rhythm of voices beside the road.

  When had I last known that?

  “Seems Tufnar might be a fitting place for new beginnings,” I said quietly.

  The words surprised even me.

  A place far from the past. Far from mistakes that refused to loosen their grip. Perhaps… one day, I could face my master again.

  The forest began to thin before I could dwell further on it. The dense canopy parted overhead, light spilling across the path as the trees opened into a vast valley.

  And there it stood.

  Druraran.

  The volcano rose like a slumbering titan from the earth, its dark slopes wrapped in an endless sea of forest. Wisps of faint vapor coiled near its peak, not violent, not erupting—simply breathing.

  Meinol slowed, staring wide-eyed.

  “So that’s the Great Dark Forest of the woodland elves…” he murmured, his voice filled with the wonder of a child beholding a story made real. “It’s… almost unsettling, isn’t it?”

  Emila stepped forward slightly, shading her eyes as she looked toward the horizon.

  “The volcano is enormous,” she said softly. “I never thought I would see it with my own eyes.”

  But my attention drifted lower.

  Nestled near the edge of the forest lay Tufnar.

  It was still young—raw and unfinished. People moved with purpose through streets half-paved in stone and half left in packed earth. Workers hauled timber. Others hammered roof beams into place. The scent of fresh-cut wood and damp mortar mingled with distant cooking fires. Laughter echoed somewhere beyond the square.

  It wasn’t grand.

  It wasn’t polished.

  But it was alive.

  We entered through the main thoroughfare, passing merchants unpacking crates and laborers wiping sweat from their brows. In the center of a modest plaza stood a white-stone building, clean and deliberate in design—a structure built not for trade or residence, but for thought.

  I stopped there.

  “It was good traveling with you,” I said, turning toward them. “I imagine we’ll cross paths again. I need to speak with the village leader and offer my services.”

  Meinol extended his hand without hesitation. His grip was firm despite the bandaged scratches across his chest.

  “I have no doubt they’ll accept you, my friend,” he said with an easy grin. “As for me, I must register with the merchants’ guild. Once we’re settled, I owe you a drink.”

  Emila stepped closer and gave a small, respectful bow, her hands folded before her.

  “Take care of yourself, Valdor. We will see you again.”

  I inclined my head.

  “I look forward to it.”

  Inside, the building’s interior was lined with polished wood and framed documents—maps, arcane diagrams, and sketches of the surrounding terrain. Softly glowing mana lamps cast a steady, cool light throughout the room.

  Directly ahead stood a reception counter.

  Behind it, a young woman with chestnut hair and pointed ears looked up as the door closed behind me. A half-elf. She wore fitted trousers tucked into brown boots, and a white blouse trimmed in earthy stitching. There was a quiet intelligence in her gaze—alert, observant.

  She offered a warm smile.

  “Welcome to the Research Hall. How may we assist you?”

  “I’ve come to see the village sage,” I replied. “I wish to offer my services as an explorer. My name is Valdor Draven. I traveled from the northern lands and spent time in Uzaug. I believe I can be of use.”

  Before she could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the adjoining corridor.

  Another woman stepped into view.

  Long black hair flowed over a muted gray tunic, her blue eyes sharp and steady. She carried a stack of documents under one arm.

  “Yliena,” she said, her tone calm but purposeful, “Father asked that these be archived in the research wing.”

  Her gaze shifted, landing on me. She paused—just slightly.

  “Oh. I didn’t realize Father had a visitor.”

  I offered a measured bow.

  “Apologies for the intrusion, my lady.”

  The half-elf—Yliena—straightened.

  “Lady Malena, the gentleman does not have a scheduled audience with your father. However—”

  I stepped forward before the sentence could harden.

  “I understand. I came without formal notice. My name is Valdor Draven. I seek to settle here and offer my skills.”

  Malena studied me in silence.

  There was something striking about her presence—not merely her features, but the composure she carried. Her gaze was sharp, assessing, yet not unkind. Authority rested naturally on her shoulders despite the softness in her posture.

  Her eyes flicked briefly to my sword, to the wear on my cloak, to the calloused edges of my hands.

  Then she nodded once.

  “Very well,” she said. “If you will follow me, I will take you to my father. He is the village sage—Dorien Aldur.”

  Yliena’s expression tightened.

  “My lady, your father does not appreciate unexpected interruptions. Allow me to announce him properly before—”

  Malena turned her head slightly, her blue eyes settling on Yliena with quiet firmness.

  No raised voice. No anger.

  Just command.

  Yliena lowered her gaze immediately and fell silent.

  Without another word, Malena gestured for me to follow.

  And so, I did.

  Valdor lowered his gaze slightly.

  “My apologies if I’ve caused any inconvenience. If there is an inn nearby, I can return another time.”

  Malena regarded him for a brief moment, then shook her head faintly.

  “That won’t be necessary. So… a traveler seeking to settle.” Her eyes sharpened just a touch. “I assume you are married?”

  A subtle question. Casual on the surface.

  “No, my lady,” Valdor replied evenly. “You are mistaken. I have traveled alone for several years now. But I believe it is time I remain somewhere… new.”

  Her expression softened—barely.

  She stepped toward a tall wooden door reinforced with iron bands and placed her hand against it.

  “Father,” she called, her voice steady but respectful, “I bring a visitor requesting audience. He may be what you have been seeking.”

  There was a pause.

  Then the door opened.

  An elderly man stood within the chamber beyond. His beard was long and silvered with age, his blue robes trimmed with subtle arcane embroidery, a gray cloak draped over his shoulders. A wooden pipe rested between his fingers, though it had long since gone unlit.

  His eyes, however, were not aged.

  They were sharp.

  Piercing.

  Assessing.

  “Leave us, daughter,” he said calmly. “I wish to speak with the gentleman alone.”

  Malena’s composure faltered for the briefest heartbeat. Surprise flickered across her face.

  “As you command, Father.”

  She inclined her head and withdrew, the heavy door closing behind her with a muted thud.

  The room was vast—more library than office. Tall shelves climbed toward the ceiling, filled with books and scrolls. The scent of parchment and dried herbs lingered in the air. Mana lamps cast a cool, steady glow across the spines of countless volumes.

  Dorien Aldur studied Valdor in silence.

  “Tea,” the sage said at last. “Or perhaps a good wine?”

  “Tea will suffice.”

  The old man poured it himself, deliberately, without haste. When he handed the cup over, his fingers lingered for a fraction longer than necessary—as though measuring something unseen.

  “Now,” Dorien said, settling into his chair, “tell me your story.”

  He raised his right hand slightly. A ring gleamed faintly upon his finger, etched with intricate sigils.

  “This ring allows me to perceive falsehoods.”

  The words did not carry threat.

  They did not need to.

  The air grew heavier between them.

  Valdor felt it immediately. There would be no convenient omissions. No softened truths.

  He lifted the cup and took a slow sip, letting the warmth steady him.

  Dorien watched him closely.

  “I understand that some histories are difficult to recount,” the sage continued, his voice lowering. “But what you speak here will remain within these walls. What we research in this place is unknown to the outside world—not to the Empire, not to the Theocracy of Deus. There are no Sanctums here. Only scholars.”

  Silence stretched.

  Valdor exhaled.

  “Very well,” he said quietly. “It may be easier if I show you.”

  He rose from his seat.

  With deliberate movements, he removed the leather breastplate. Then the mail beneath. Then his shirt.

  The room seemed colder without the barrier of steel.

  Upon his chest was the mark.

  Burned into flesh long ago. Impossible to erase.

  The crest of the Goddess Eshia—sigils woven into a sacred emblem that only one order had ever borne.

  The Monks of Eddrem.

  Dorien’s composure shattered.

  His eyes widened—not theatrically, but in genuine disbelief. The porcelain cup slipped from his fingers and shattered against the wooden floor, tea spilling across the grain.

  “That is not possible,” he breathed. “I searched for years… before coming south. I found nothing. I believed none survived.”

  His gaze lifted slowly back to Valdor.

  “How old are you?”

  “One hundred and twenty-five.”

  The number hung in the air.

  “I was among the last,” Valdor continued. “I should not be alive. I should have vanished with the others. But… I was afraid. I fled. I was not worthy to disappear alongside my brothers.”

  He did not look away.

  He did not beg for understanding.

  He simply stated it.

  Dorien studied him in long silence, then leaned back slowly in his chair.

  “One hundred and twenty-five,” he murmured. “Remarkable. The blessing persists, even after the temple’s destruction.”

  His fingers brushed his beard as he considered.

  “May I ask how it happened?”

  Valdor’s jaw tightened.

  “One of our own fell to darkness. He challenged Master Trufarius. In the chaos that followed… the Goddess acted. The monks were taken—erased. I tried to escape during the assault.” His voice grew quieter. “I was not chosen.”

  The words tasted bitter even now.

  Dorien’s gaze did not soften—but it shifted.

  “Or perhaps,” the sage said thoughtfully, “you were left behind for a different purpose. The gods perceive paths far beyond our understanding.”

  Silence returned, but it no longer felt accusatory.

  “Tell me,” Dorien said at last, “you wish to serve as an explorer?”

  Valdor met his eyes.

  “If the one who destroyed my order ever finds me… this village will suffer. I will not hide that truth from you.”

  A lesser man might have recoiled.

  Dorien did not.

  “What may come will come,” he said calmly. “Your presence changes nothing about the uncertainty of the world. We are already walking on unstable ground.”

  He rose from his chair and stepped closer, examining the mark once more—this time not with shock, but with measured calculation.

  “You are welcome here, Valdor Draven.”

  A pause.

  “Welcome to Tufnar… Explorer of the Sages.”

  But as Dorien turned away, his eyes lingered briefly on the sigil upon Valdor’s chest.

  Not with fear.

  With recognition.

  And something else.

  Concern.