The dining hall of the Ellensar mansion was a pce of opulence and tradition. The room was vast, its high ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes depicting scenes of Sonor, the Sun God, vanquishing the forces of darkness. A grand chandelier hung in the centre, its golden arms holding dozens of candles that bathed the hall in a warm, steady glow. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting the history of Makar, and the floor was polished marble, its surface gleaming like a still pool of water.

  At the centre of the room stood the dining table, a long masterpiece of mahogany with ornate carvings of sunbursts along its edges. The chairs were high-backed, cushioned with crimson velvet. The table was set with the finest silverware, each piece engraved with the Ellensar crest: a sunburst radiating over a shield. Servants moved with quiet precision, their bck and white uniforms immacute, their faces composed into polite neutrality.

  Lord Galvyn Ellensar sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding without needing to raise his voice. His dark hair was streaked with silver, and his sharp features bore the marks of a man who had weathered years of responsibility and power. To his right sat Lady Alenia Ellensar, a woman of striking beauty and poise, her golden hair pinned elegantly and her emerald dress shimmering in the candlelight.

  To his fathers left sat their only son, Aric Ellensar. Aric had the youthful vigour of a man just stepping into adulthood, his blonde hair falling neatly around a chiselled face that radiated conviction. His piercing blue eyes reflected a devout belief in the righteousness of Sonor and the city of Makar, which he regarded as a beacon of light in a dark world. Cd in the simple yet elegant tunic of a nobleman, Aric exuded a calm confidence that spoke of his faith and rigorous training.

  The meal began with a starter of spiced pumpkin soup, served in delicate porcein bowls. The aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon mingled with the faint scent of beeswax candles. The servants moved soundlessly, pouring wine and ensuring that every pte was impeccably presented.

  “The harvest this year has been bountiful,” Lady Alenia remarked, her voice melodic yet commanding attention. “The markets are vibrant with trade.”

  “Indeed,” Lord Galvyn replied, setting his goblet down with a measured motion. “The merchants’ guild reports strong exports to the dwarven cities. Though there’s been grumbling from the dockworkers in the Haven. Typical.”

  “They are always grumbling,” Alenia said dismissively, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

  Aric listened quietly, cutting a piece of roasted mb from the main course. The rich aroma of rosemary and garlic filled the room, mingling with the warmth of freshly baked bread pced in silver baskets along the table.

  “And what of the unrest in the Low Quarter?” Aric asked, his voice steady but ced with curiosity.

  Galvyn paused, his knife hovering over his pte. The room seemed to grow quieter. “Ah, yes. The rebellion.”

  “Rebellion?” Lady Alenia scoffed lightly. “A rabble led by some miscreant calling himself Kyrell. Hardly worth the term.”

  Do not underestimate him, Alenia.” Galvyn said, his brow furrowing. “This Kyrell is no ordinary criminal. He has united the discontented and turned them into a force of chaos. Grey Cloaks are found dead in the streets, their barracks burned to the ground. And now, bodies are hung in Bckhold Square for everyone to see, belled as spies of the High Quarter.”

  Aric’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “He hung them publicly?”

  “Indeed, a grotesque dispy.” Galvyn said, his voice darkening. “The Marshall is furious, as he should be. The Low Quarter has always been restless, but this Kyrell gives them a symbol – a rallying point. That is dangerous.”

  “Dangerous hmm.” Aric murmured, his thoughts churning. He had heard whispers of unrest in the Low Quarter, but this was the first he had heard of the figure behind it.

  “Do you truly think him a threat to the city?” Aric asked, setting is utensils down with a soft clink.

  “A threat to order.” Galvyn replied firmly. “To w. To everything that keeps Makar standing. The Low Quarter is a cesspool of poverty and resentment, but it is contained – was contained. This Kyrell threatens to upset that bance.”

  Aric nodded, his face serious. The idea of someone sowing such discord in Makar, a city he believed blessed by Sonor, disturbed him deeply.

  The meal concluded with a dessert of honey-gzed pastries and sweet wine, but Aric barely tasted it. His thoughts lingered on the shadowy figure of Kyrell; a name now etched into his mind like a dark stain on the city he loved.

  That night, as he stood on the balcony of his chambers, the city spread out before him, Aric whispered a prayer to Sonor, his voice firm yet pleading: “Grant me the strength to bring your light into the darkness. Guide me to this Kyrell, so I may deliver your justice.”

  The first rays of dawn bathed the Ellensar estate in golden light, filtering through the arched windows of Aric’s room. After a brief prayer to Sonor, he dressed in his training attire: a white tunic embroidered with a golden sunburst, brown leather breeches, and sturdy boots. A servant arrived with a tray of fresh bread, fruit, and herbal tea, which Aric consumed quickly before making his way to the family’s private chapel.

  The chapel was a sanctuary of devotion, its walls lined with stained-gss windows depicting Sonor’s triumphs. Aric knelt before the altar; his head bowed. “Sonor, grant me wisdom to see the path ahead and strength to uphold your light. Let me be your bde against the shadow.”

  After his prayer, he walked to the courtyard where his training began.

  The Ellensar estate’s courtyard was vast, bordered by trimmed hedges and cobblestone paths. A marble fountain depicting Sonor stood at its centre, water cascading over the carved rays of the sun. This was Aric’s arena – a pce where he honed his skills daily.

  His mentor, Sir Halthar, awaited him. A grizzled knight in his te forties, Halthar eas a man of few words but unmatched with the bde.

  “Ready to sweat, boy?” Halthar asked, his voice gravelly as he tossed Aric a wooden training sword.

  Aric caught it midair. “Always.”

  The sparring began. Halthar’s strikes came fast, forcing Aric to rely on reflex and footwork. The younger man parried and countered with precision, his movements fluid yet purposeful. He lunged, twisting his body to add power to the blow, but Halthar sidestepped, delivering a counterstrike that grazed Aric’s shoulder.

  “Too eager,” Halthar barked. “Control your bance.”

  Aric adjusted, adopting a more defensive stance. The exchange continued, their wooden bdes ccking against each other in a rhythm that echoed through the courtyard. Finally, Aric feinted left, then struck right, his bde stopping a inch from Halthar’s neck.

  “Well done,” Halthar said, lowering his weapon. “But remember, combat isn’t just skill; it’s conviction. The moment you doubt yourself, you lose.”

  After training, Aric donned his ceremonial armour: a gleaming breastpte adorned with the sunburst of Sonor, a white cloak draped over his shoulders, and a longsword at his side. He made his way to the temple, a towering structure of white stone and golden spires.

  Inside, the air was thick with incense, and sunlight streamed through stained-gss windows, painting the marble floor with hues of gold and crimson. Worshippers knelt in silent prayer, their faces serene.

  Aric approached the altar and knelt once more, offering his gratitude to Sonor before moving to the training hall within the temple. Here, padins of the Sun God trained not only in combat but also in the divine arts.

  The Training Hall echoed with the sounds of stell scraping against steel, and the murmured prayers of padins sharpening their minds and bodies for battle. Aric stood at the centre of the circur arena, his longsword resting lightly in his hands. Across from him, Brother Cedric adjusted his shield, his greying eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

  “You’ve been improving,” Cedric said, his voice steady but tinged with challenge. “Show me how much.”

  Aric offered a respectful nod, his gaze unwavering. He stepped forward with measured confidence, the soles of his boots brushing against the smooth marble floor. Then he moved, striking with the precision of a predator. His bde arced through the air; each swing calcuted to find an opening.

  Cedric met every strike with his shield, the cng of metal resonating through the hall. As the older padin countered with a swift thrust, Aric twisted his body to the side, narrowly avoiding the bde. His next strike came with more force, testing the strength of Cedric’s defense.

  Suddenly, Cedric raised his hand, and a burst of golden light erupted from his palm. The radiant energy shot forward, forcing Aric to stagger back, his eyes narrowing against the brilliance.

  He gritted his teeth and surged forward, his focus narrowing like the edge of a bde. Energy radiated from within him, a surge of divine power he had learned to call forth through sheer faith and determination. It flowed into his sword, and the metal began to glow faintly – just enough to make Cedric’s eyes widen.

  Aric swung the sword in a controlled yet forceful arc, the edge trailing golden light as it struck Cedric’s shield. The impact shattered the shield with a thunderous crack, fragments of glowing energy scattering across the arena like sparks.

  Cedric stumbled, his footing momentarily lost, but he recovered quickly and raised his hand to call forth another radiant strike. Aric, anticipating the move, murmured a silent prayer. A faint shimmer surrounded him, barely visible but unmistakably present. When Cedric’s radiant energy struck, it dispersed harmlessly, breaking against the unseen barrier as though striking an impenetrable wall.

  Aric didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance between them in a single fluid motion, his longsword carving a precise line through the air. Cedric’s chest pte rang like a bell as Aric’s bde found its mark, sending the older man sprawling to the ground.

  Aric stepped back, his breathing steady, and extended a hand to hep Cedric up.

  “Well struck,” Cedric said, his tone both impressed and contemptive as he rose to his feet.

  “Thank you, Brother,” Aric replied, bowing his head respectfully.

  The house was quiet when Aric returned home, the subdued murmurs of servants and the occasional distant chime of the grandfather clock the only sounds in the halls. He climbed the polished oak staircase, the faint scent of wax lingering in the air, and entered the study room. The space welcomed him with its soft, warm flow from the oil mps pced on the tall bookshelves lining the walls.

  A massive desk, made of mahogany and meticulously maintained, stood at the centre of the room. Its surface was covered with neatly arranged papers, an inkpot, and an array of quills. The room smelled faintly of parchment and leather, a comforting and familiar aroma.

  Aric moved to the high-backed chair behind the desk, seating himself with a quiet sigh. For a moment, he sat in silence, his elbows resting on the armrests, his hands steepled in thought. The day’s events repyed in his mind – the training, the conversations, the faint whispers of unrest spreading through Makar’s streets.

  He couldn’t shake the growing sense of unease. Kyrell’s rebellion wasn’t just a matter of civil disobedience or wlessness. To Aric, it felt like a challenge to the divine order of Sonor. Makar, a city blessed by Sonor’s light, was now being darkened by the shadow of this Kyrell. It was unacceptable.

  His grip on the armrests tightened. This wasn’t merely about restoring order; it was personal. Kyrell’s actions mocked the very principles of justice and righteousness that Aric had dedicated his life to.

  “I can’t let this continue.” He muttered, the words firm and resolute.

  An idea formed in his mind, its crity sharpening with each passing moment. The church of Sonor had faithful warriors, padins trained to bring light into the darkest corners of the world. If the Grey Cloaks couldn’t restore order, then perhaps the divine might of the church could.

  Aric reached for a sheet of fine parchment, dipping his quill into the inkpot. He began to write, his hand steady and his words precise, as though each stroke of the feather was guided by Sonor’s light.

  To the Honourable Marshall of Makar,

  It is with the utmost respect and concern for the well-being of our city that I write to you. Recent events in the Low Quarter have brought to light a growing threat to the stability and sanctity of Makar. The figure known as Kyrell, through his acts of defiance and bloodshed, has sown chaos among the people and disrupted the divine order established by Sonor’s grace.

  As a humble servant of the Sun God and a padin sworn to uphold justice, I cannot stand idly by while this darkness festers within our city. I propose a solution rooted in faith and righteousness: allow me to gather a force of faithful padins from the Church of Sonor. Together, we will ride to the Low Quarter to restore peace and order, guided by Sonor’s light and the principles of justice that we both hold dear.

  This is not merely a request but a call to action. Makar’s people deserve to see that their leaders and protectors will not falter in the face of such a threat. I believe that by addressing this matter swiftly and decisively, we can reaffirm our commitment to the city’s prosperity and divine purpose.

  I eagerly await your response and am prepared to act immediately should you grant me your blessing in this endeavour.

  May Sonor’s light guide and protect you.

  Faithfully,Aric Ellensar

  Aric pced the quill down and read the letter carefully. Satisfied, he dried and folded the parchment, then sealed it with the wax bearing his family’s crest. He leaned back in his chair, the weight of his decision settling on him.

  Tomorrow the letter would be delivered. If the Marshall agreed, Aric would have the means to confront the darkness spreading in the Low Quarter. For the first time in days, he allowed himself a small smile.

  Aric handed the sealed letter to the butler, an older man named Wenton, who had served the Ellensar family for decades. The man bowed slightly, taking the letter with care.

  “Ensure this is delivered to the Marshall’s office immediately,” Aric said, his tone firm but polite.

  “Of course, young master,” Wenton replied, before disappearing into the corridors of the estate.

  That evening, Aric found himself pacing in the study. Excitement coursed through him, but so did a quiet anxiety. His faith in Sonor was steadfast, yet this was a step into uncharted territory. The prospect of leading a contingent of padins to restore order in the Low Quarter was a daunting yet thrilling responsibility. He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts swirling.

  A knock on the door broke his reverie.

  “Come in,” he called, straightening his posture.

  The door opened to reveal Wenton. “The letter is on its way, young Master. Is there anything else you require this evening?”

  Aric shook his head, offering a small smile. “No, Wenton. That will be all. Thank you.”

  Wenton nodded and withdrew, leaving Aric alone once more. Taking a deep breath, Aric extinguished the mp on the desk and retired for the night. Sleep came in fits, his mind alive with visions of what might come.

  The next morning, Aric awoke to the sound of birdsong outside his window. He dressed quickly, donning a simple tunic and trousers before heading to the family chapel. Kneeling before the altar, he closed his eyes and csped his hands. His prayers were a steady rhythm of devotion, his voice low but resolute. “Grant me your strength, Sonor. Guide me to the path of righteousness, and let your light drive out the shadows.”

  Afterward, he made his way to the dining room for breakfast. The meal was a quiet affair, with only his mother present. Lady Alenia sat at the head of the table; her delicate hands wrapped around a cup of tea.

  “You seem restless, Aric.” She observed, her voice gentle.

  “I am, Mother.” Aric admitted, slicing into a piece of buttered toast. “I sent a letter to the Marshall, offering my help to dissolve the rebellion in the Low Quarter. I believe that this could be a significant opportunity to serve both Sonor and the city.”

  Lady Ania’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Your passion is admirable but remember to pace yourself. Even the sun rises steadily, nut in a rush.”

  Her words calmed him slightly, and he nodded. After finishing his meal, he decided to visit Harwin, the family’s bcksmith.

  The walk to the smithy took him through the bustling High Quarter streets, where merchants dispyed their wares and noble families strolled leisurely. When he arrived, the familiar cng of hammer on steel greeted him. Harwin, a broad-shouldered man with soot-streaked hands, looked up from his work and grinned.

  “Young Lord Aric,” Harwin said, wiping his hands on a cloth. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I need my armour polished,” Aric replied, gesturing to the bundle he carried. “And I’m in the market for a new sword. Something with finer bance and craftmanship.”

  Harwin nodded, taking the bundle from him. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  Over the next hour, Aric watched as Harwin’s assistants worked on his armour, their skilled hands bringing a brilliant sheen to each piece. Harwin himself led Aric to the weapon rack, where an array of swords gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the workshop’s windows.

  “This one,” Harwin said, picking up a longsword with an elegant hilt. “Made from the finest steel in Makar. Try it.”

  Aric took the sword, testing its weight and bance with a few swings. It felt perfect, as though an extension of his arm.

  “I’ll take it,” he said, satisfaction evident in his voice.

  Later that afternoon, Aric strolled through the gardens of the Ellensar estate. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over the estate. The crisp autumn air carried the faint scent of fallen leaves, and a chill breeze rustled through the neatly trimmed hedges. Aric adjusted the cloak draped over his shoulders as he wandered through the garden paths, his thoughts turning to little more than the pleasant walk.

  As he rounded the bend near the old stone fountain, he spotted a familiar figure standing beneath a sprawling oak tree. The wind caught at the hem of her cloak, a dark green woll that matched the season, and tugged loose strands of her auburn hair from her braid. She had her arms crossed, looking at the trees as if deep in thought.

  “Serenna,” Aric called, his voice carrying over the breeze.

  She turned at the sound, her expression softening into a smile when she saw him. “Aric,” she said, stepping toward him. “Out for a walk?”

  “Something like that,” he replied, closing the distance between them. “What brings you here?”

  “Your mother invited me,” she said, a pyful lilt in her voice. “Something about giving her ga pns a sense of ‘fresh perspective’.”

  Aric chuckled, shaking his head. “She does love to get second opinions. But what’s the verdict? Are her pns acceptable?”

  “Hardly,” Serenna said with a mock seriousness. “I suggested she do away with the gold tablecloths in favour of something subtler. I think she nearly fainted.”

  He ughed, the sound light and unguarded. “You always did have a talent for stirring up trouble.”

  “Only when it’s worth it,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “What about you? Are you actually enjoying a rare moment of leisure?”

  “Leisure?” Aric repeated, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know my entire day has been filled with the noble pursuit of… well, errands.”

  “Errands,” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “The great Aric Ellensar, errand boy. What a fall from grace.”

  “Someone has to keep the estate running smoothly,” he said with mock gravity. “Who else will ensure the cobbler gets paid or the tailor doesn’t mix up our orders again?”

  She smirked. “Very noble of you.”

  The leaves crunched softly underfoot as they continued their stroll through the winding paths of the estate. The garden was past its prime bloom, the flowers faded and the trees shedding their vibrant leaves, but it still held a quiet beauty.

  They stopped near a quiet corner of the garden where a wooden bench rested beneath the turning leaves of a maple tree. Serenna sat down, motioning for him to join her.

  For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence.

  “This estate has always been beautiful in the autumn,” Serenna said, her gaze drifting to the treetops. “The Ellensar family knows how to maintain a garden.”

  Aric leaned back, resting his arms on the bench’s backrest. “My mother would take that as the highest compliment,” he said with a faint smirk. “Though I suspect she’d tell you there’s still work to be done.”

  Serenna ughed lightly. “Of course. She’s never been one to let perfection stand unchallenged.”

  She says it keeps everyone sharp,” Aric replied. “Though I think it’s just an excuse to keep the gardeners on edge.”

  Serenna gnced at him, her expression thoughtful. “And you? Do you share her obsession with perfection?”

  He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not everything needs to be perfect. A sword just needs bance, not embellishments. A city needs order, not extravagance. Efficiency, I suppose, is what I value most.”

  She tilted her head. “Practical as always. But life without beauty is a dull thing, isn’t it?”

  As the sky deepened to a rich amber, Serenna rose from the bench, brushing a stray leaf from her cloak. “I should go. I promised my mother I’d be back before dinner.”

  Aric stood, inclining his head slightly. “It was good to see you, Serenna. As always.”

  “And you, Aric.” She said with a faint smile.

  As she walked away, her figure blending into the fading light, Aric stood for a moment longer beneath the maple tree. The air felt cooler now, the first hints of evening settling over the garden. With a quiet sigh, he turned back toward the manor, his mind already returning to the duties and challenges that awaited him.

  Aric stepped through the garden-side door of the Ellensar manor, the rich scent of polished wood and burning hearth greeting him as he crossed the threshold. The cool breeze of the autumn evening faded, repced by the warmth of his home.

  “Master Aric,” came the familiar, measured voice of Wenton. The older man stood at attention near the entrance, his posture impeccable as always. “A letter has arrived for you, delivered by courier. It is from the Marshall, sir.”

  Aric’s chest tightened slightly, anticipation surging through him. “Where is it?” he asked, his voice calm but tinged with urgency.

  “In the study, Master Aric. On the desk.”

  Without another word, Aric strode down the corridor, his boots clicking softly against the polished floor. The study door stood ajar, warm light spilling out into the hallway. He entered the room, the faint scent of ink and parchment wrapping around him like a familiar cloak.

  On the desk, precisely centred, y the letter. The seal of the Marshall’s office was pressed into the dark red wax, a symbol of authority and power. Aric’s hands were steady as he broke the seal, unfolding the parchment. The Marshall’s handwriting was sharp and deliberate, every stroke exuding command.

  He read the letter aloud to himself, his voice low but deliberate:

  To Aric Ellensar, Padin of Sonor,

  I have received your letter and considered your request. Your devotion to the city and to the Sun God is evident, and it is only right that a son of Makar’s nobility should wish to bring order to the chaos that has taken root in the Low Quarter.

  I grant you permission to gather a force of padins from the Church of Sonor to restore order. However, understand that this endeavour shall be conducted entirely at your own expense. The Grey Cloaks coffers will not be opened for this mission. You must bear the financial burden of equipping, provisioning, and managing your force.

  Furthermore, I must impose a condition upon your efforts. Should you come into conflict with the individual known as Kyrell, I require you to swear upon your honour as a nobleman and a padin that any item he carries on his person – whether it be weapons, trinkets, or documents – will be handed over to the Grey Cloaks without exception.

  This condition is non-negotiable. Kyrell has been a thorn in the city’s side for too long, and any insight or advantage we might gain from his possessions could prove invaluable to securing Makar’s future.

  Should you find these terms acceptable, you have my blessing to proceed.

  Signed,Marshall Andren Feldhar

  Aric folded the letter carefully, pcing it back on the desk as he let the Marshall’s words sink in.

  The mission was granted. He would have the chance to prove his faith and devotion not only to Sonor but to the city of Makar itself. The stipution regarding Kyrell was curious, though. The Marshall clearly had more than a passing interest in the man, perhaps seeing him as more than just a rogue with blood on his hands.

  But for now, there was work to be done.