Castle Eldenreach stood as a moo the union of aradition and cutting-edge innovation. Its t spires, carved from dark basalt and reinforced with shimmering luminite alloy, pierced the sky like the teeth of a slumbering giant. The walls were lined with mortar turrets—massive, drical structs that hummed with tent energy, their surfaces etched with glowing ruhese turrets, powered by luminite cores, could unleash devastating barrages of are-infused projectiles, capable of redug even the most formidable siege eo ash. Above the battlements, holographic projes flickered to life at regur intervals, dispying annous for the citizens of Vallorien. The holos cast an eerie, bluish glow over the castle grounds, their translut images of royal decrees aher forecasts floating serenely in the air.
The Verdant Vale was sidered a backwater p by most nobles, its rolling emerald forests and rustic vilges a far cry from the gleaming spires and bustliropolises of the core worlds. But Vallorien, the capital, was different. Here, the streets were paved with luminite-ione, and the air buzzed with the hum of magitech. It ce where the old world met the new, where tradition and progress coexisted in an uneasy bance.
Nine years had passed sihe i at the soiree—nine years since Garett had been thrust into this strange, magical world. He was no lohe uain child he had been then. Now a young man of een, he carried himself with a quiet dignity and fidehat anded respect. His dark brown hair framed a face that was both sharp and thoughtful. His pierg blue eyes, so like his father’s, held a quiet iy, but behind them y the mind of a stist—a man who had once lived in another world, aime.
In the castle’s training grounds, Garett moved with a fluid grace, his body a well-oiled mae honed by years of disciplihe courtyard ce of hard-packed earth ahered stone, where the air rang with the csh of steel and the grunts of exertion. Here, he practiced the forms of the Fenralis School of War—swords, halberds, polearms, spears, and war-axes—each on aension of his will. As he trained, his mind wandered, drifting baories of his family. He wondered what his father would think of him now, a warrior and a schor in a world so different from their owhought of his sister, her ughter like musid his mother, her quiet strength. Were they safe? Were they happy? The questions lingered, unanswered, as they always did.But Garett’s true passion y not iraining grounds, but in the castle’s library. The library was a sanctuary of knowledge, its shelves lined with aomes and scrolls, their pages filled with the wisdom of geions. Garett spent hours here, surrounded by stacks of books and part, his brow furrowed in tration as he scribbled equations and diagrams. He articurly fasated by the works of Azeroth Valcairm, a schor who had lived turies ago. Valcairm’s theories oure of magic resonated deeply with Garett, especially his famous quote:
“All magic is probability made real. Every intation, every sigil, every ritual—merely a method of colpsing the infio the iable.”
Garett muttered to himself as he worked, his voice low and thoughtful. “Schr?dinger was right,” he said, quoting the 20th-tury physicist. “The cat is both alive and dead until observed. Magic is no different—it’s all about colpsing the wavefun.”
In the evenings, Garett ofteured into the city, his armor and visage cealed beh a heavy cloak. The tavern he frequented doubled as the local adventurer’s guild hall, its wooden sign creaking in the wind as it bore the image of a frothy mug and a crossed sword and staff. Ihe air was thick with the st of ale and roasted meat, the low murmur of versation punctuated by the occasional burst of ughter. The barkeep, a burly man with a thick beard and a no-nonsense demeanor, also served as the guild’s receptionist. He o Garett as he entered, it's hard to miss "The helmed man" roaming the streets of Vallorien. his eyes flicked to the pouoonblossom petals the man carried.
“Another successful hunt, I see,” the barkeep said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “You’ve got a knack for finding those petals. Most adventurers e back empty-handed—or not at all.”
Garett shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Luck,” he said simply, sliding the pouch across the ter.
As the barkeep ted out his payment, Garett’s attention was drawn to a pair of adventurers arguing at a nearby table. One, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, was gesturing emphatically. “Three Gold Ranks, Jarek! Three! And none of them came back. You really thiand a ce?”
The other adventurer, a broad-shouldered woman with a braid of fiery red hair, smmed her tankard oable. “We ’t just leave that thing out there, tearing up farms and killing travelers. Someone’s got to take the job.”
Garett was listening. The manticore had been a growing problem, its ir a blight oskirts of the Vale. But where others saw only danger, Garett saw opportunity. The Azeroth Drive—still in its experimental stages—o be tested in a real battle, and the manticore was the perfect challenge. More than that, the beast was causing trouble in his demesne, and as a man of duty, he couldn’t ighat.
He finished his drink and stood, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “I’ll take the quest,” he said, his voice calm but firm.
The adveuro look at him, their expressions a mix of surprise and skepticism. “You?” the scarred man said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re just a Silver Rank. What makes you think you handle a manticore?”
Garett met his gaze, his blue eyes steady beh the frog-mouth slit in his helm. “I’ve faced worse,” he said simply. Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked out of the tavern.
The streets of Vallorien were quiet, the only sound the soft tig of the device at his side. He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting to the horizon, where the first hints of dawn were beginning to lighten the sky. The manticore’s ir y in that dire, a pce of darkness and danger. But it was also a pce of opportunity—a ce to prove that a man of sce could stand against the foragic.
As he made his way back to the castle to prepare for the jourhe Azeroth Drive hummed softly at his side, its gears tig in time with his heartbeat. He was ready.
