Tillerday, 26th of Verdantcrest, Year 1064 V.E. (Vaeltharian Era)

  Asherean’s mind was a storm of thoughts as he raced through the underbrush, his boots pressing into the damp earth with each hurried step. The evening air carried the crisp bite of approaching night, tinged with the scent of pine and wet soil, but his senses remained fixated on the weight of his actions.

  He had always considered himself pragmatic—neither a saint nor a villain—but there were certain moments, certain choices, that unsettled even him.

  Those choices left a mark, no matter how steady the hand that made them.

  The image of the Berael mother and her young flashed in his mind, their yellow eyes wide with primal understanding just before his blade struck true. There had been no hesitation in his actions. Hesitation got people killed. Still, a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—lingered in the corners of his thoughts.

  At least I gave them a fast death. He exhaled sharply, dismissing the thought.

  Within twenty minutes, he arrived at his impromptu camp. His first instinct was always caution. Slowing his pace, he crouched and scanned the area for any disturbances—broken twigs, misplaced foliage, anything that suggested an unwelcome presence. Finding nothing amiss, he made his way to the Ironwood tree and climbed with practiced ease.

  The sturdy branch that had served as his resting place for the past three nights creaked faintly beneath his weight. His rucksack remained where he had left it, tightly secured against the rough bark. He loosened the knot and retrieved the pack, carefully placing the emptied vials inside before adding the rope from his waist. Those vials, once filled with venomous concoctions, had been essential in tilting the odds in his favor. A quiet victory, but a necessary one.

  Asherean ran a gloved hand along the tree’s bark, its faint metallic scent oddly familiar now. The Ironwood Tree had been his silent guardian, keeping away prowling beasts and allowing him the peace to observe and plan. He had no gods to pray to, so he muttered a quiet thanks to the tree before descending.

  With everything secured, he turned east, setting out on the long journey home.

  Valhendar, capital of the Agensal Kingdom, lay a day’s journey away, and he had no intention of pushing through exhaustion. He would rest in Erstonia, the waypoint town along the route.

  As the evening stretched on, the dense forest gradually thinned, giving way to faintly worn paths carved by travelers before him. Asherean moved swiftly, his thoughts settling into the rhythm of the journey.

  The hunt was over, the mission complete. Now, it was time to return.

  Asherean jogged toward the direction of the distant town, his boots kicking up dust as he left the outer reaches of the Tyrgar Forest behind. he dense canopy receded into memory, replaced by the open expanse of rolling fields and scattered shrubbery. The dirt road to Erstonia stretched ahead, winding through the lowlands like a well-worn scar.

  His gaze swept the horizon, quickly noting the border outpost up ahead—one of several along the kingdom’s frontiers. A dozen soldiers patrolled its perimeter, clad in the newly-issued khaki uniforms of the border control corps, a recent initiative born from the kingdom’s ongoing military restructuring.

  The outpost is a utilitarian building built of weathered stones, enclosed by wooden palisades and a watchtower looming above, giving a sweeping view of the surroundings. Built as a safeguard for the nearby towns and villages, it stood as a first line of defense against the creatures that prowled the forest’s edge. Such fortifications were not mere precautions—they were necessities.

  Tyrgar had never been tamed. Nor would it ever be, as the saying went.

  As Asherean approached, his eyes picked out two men conversing near the entrance. One was a rugged-looking figure with a well-kept beard, clutching a few sheets of parchment. His stance was firm, his expression calm yet attentive.

  This was Ol’ John, as the locals of Erstonia called him—the veteran captain of the outpost, a man well-versed in the perils of the Eastern Frontier.

  The other man, by contrast, was of an entirely different mold. His attire was fine, a brilliant blue cloak draped over his shoulders, its fabric shimmering faintly in the fading sunlight. A polished medallion sat upon his chest, the emblem of his station clear to those who knew its meaning. A pursuivant—one of the low-ranking heralds in service to some noble house, a messenger of the aristocracy.

  Unlike Ol’ John’s composed demeanor, The herald's voice was taut with urgency, his sharp gestures slicing through the air. Even from a short distance away, Asherean caught snatches of his hurried words—mention of the capital, of something that had happened there.

  His curiosity piqued, Asherean slowed his pace, angling closer to the two men. If news from the capital had reached even this remote corner of the kingdom, it had to be something of significance. And he intended to find out what.

  Ol’ John was the first to spot Asherean approaching the outpost. His sharp eyes tracked the young man’s steady jog along the dirt road, and after a brief exchange with the pursuivant, he lifted a hand and gestured for Asherean to come over.

  Asherean returned the wave before quickening his pace. By the time he reached them, his breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself.

  Ol’ John chuckled, his face creasing with amusement. “Good hunt today, I hope?” he asked, his voice carrying the easy confidence of a man long accustomed to dangers of the Tyrgar wilds.

  Without waiting for an answer, he unhooked a leather waterskin from his belt and held it out.

  Asherean accepted it with a grateful nod, uncorking the flask and drinking deeply. Cool water rushed down his parched throat, soothing the raw burn left by exertion. He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, exhaling as the lingering fatigue eased.

  As he drank, the pursuivant studied him intently, his gaze narrowing. He turned sharply to Ol’ John, his tone laced with intrigue. “So, he's that kid—Ash, was it? The one who ranked up to Iron so fast?”

  Ol’ John nodded, his expression one of quiet pride. “Aye. Not just that—he’s the youngest to ever reach High Iron rank in the guild.” He cast Asherean an approving glance. “Pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

  At that, the pursuivant’s demeanor shifted, his interest sharpening as he turned fully towards Asherean.

  “Well now,” he said, his voice taking on a refined tone. “A rare honor to meet someone of such promise.

  He placed a hand over the medallion on his chest, a subtle yet deliberate display of his station. “I am Maxim Dut Hollenbar, in service to Viscount Marthal Dut Vistoris. One does not often hear of a man so young rising through the ranks with such speed and distinction.”

  He gave Asherean a measured look, his words oozing with an unmistakable weight of someone accustomed to looking down on commoners “Young men like you—driven, capable—are the sort my lord values.”

  Asherean inclined his head slightly, bowing “Greetings to you as well, Sir Maxim.” His voice was polite but reserved, he made sure to keep his expression unreadable.

  Maxim studied him for a moment before letting out a quiet chuckle. “Quite the measured one, aren’t you? That’s good. Caution and discipline are virtues, especially for those who wish to rise above the common rabble.”

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  He straightened, his tone turning more deliberate. “Should you ever wish to align yourself with House Vistoris, do not hesitate. My lord is seeking skilled adventurers—individuals of real ability, not mere sellswords. And you, Asherean, would be welcomed as an asset, not just another blade-for-hire.”

  He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “Consider it a rare privilege. Not many are granted such an offer.”

  With that, Maxim turned back to Ol’ John, his formal demeanor returning like a mask slipping into place.“Now, as I mentioned earlier—ensure that all identities are properly checked before anyone departs for the forest. We cannot afford any oversights.”

  Satisfied, he gave a curt nod. “Farewell.”

  Then, with the poise of a man whose business was always pressing, he strode off, his blue cloak billowing behind him.

  Watching the pursuivant stride away, Asherean exhaled and handed the leather waterskin back to Ol’ John.

  He hesitated for a moment, then quietly asked, “So, Captain…what exactly brought that fellow all the way out here?”

  Ol’ John let out a gruff sigh, his expression darkening. “Some kind of kidnapping in the capital,” he said, rubbing his chin. ““Word is, the culprit slipped past the city’s defenses and vanished. We’ve been ordered to keep an eye out—just in case the bastard tries to disappear into the forest.”

  He pulled out a few parchments, unfolding them with one hand. “There’s not much to go on—ust these rough sketches of the suspect.”

  Asherean barely glanced at the parchments before his brows shot up in disbelief. “You mean to say someone kidnapped a person… inside the capital—of all places— and escaped?!”

  Ol’ John sighed and nodded his head. “Indeed. As absurd as it sounds, that’s exactly what’s written in the missive. And the pursuivant swears by it.” His voice carried skepticism, but there was no denying the official nature of the orders.

  It was absurd. The capital’s security was no joke—high walls guarded by trained sentries, watchmen stationed at every major thoroughfare, and checkpoints enforcing strict inspections. No one came or went without scrutiny, and yet, somehow, a criminal had defied all of it.

  Asherean’s mind whirled. Either the culprit was someone with connections, someone powerful enough to bypass security… or they were extraordinarily skilled.

  Either way, this wasn’t the kind of trouble that usually spilled into the western frontier. And yet, here it was.

  Ol’ John shrugged and turned toward the outpost entrance. “Anything else besides the horse, Ash?”

  “None, Mr. John.”

  With a grunt, the captain strode over to the weathered notice board near the gate, pulling a nail from his belt and pinning one of the parchments onto the splintered wood. The inked likeness of the wanted man stared back at them—a crude rendering, more suggestion than detail, offering little beyond the most basic feature. His sharp, angular features were accentuated by hollow cheeks and a gaunt frame with his hair, cropped short.

  Without turning around, Ol’ John called over his shoulder, “Franklin! Fetch a steed.”

  A lanky soldier with a pronounced forehead and a hooked nose—Franklin—gave a sharp nod and disappeared toward the stables. Meanwhile, Asherean lingered, his conversation with the captain circling back to the abduction.

  Apparently, the victim was a noble’s daughter, and the situation was all the more scandalous because her fiancé was the son of Viscount Vistoris. Beyond that, details were scarce, but the entire kingdom was abuzz with the news. Whispers had spread like wildfire in mere days.

  Not long after, Franklin returned, leading a sturdy brown horse by its reins. The beast snorted and flicked its ears, muscles rippling beneath its coat as it came to a halt. Franklin gave the reins a firm pat before holding them out.

  "Here you go, Young Ash," he said, his lips curling into a smile.

  Asherean took the reins but then, as if struck by a sudden thought, turned to Franklin with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So… I hear you’re getting married, brother.”

  Franklin’s breath hitched. "Auhh—"

  The poor man visibly froze, his brain short-circuiting as his face turned the color of a boiled lobster. Franklin had long been known around town as the shy, soft-spoken type—hardly the sort anyone expected to be making grand romantic gestures.

  The fact that he was only two years older than Asherean made his embarrassment all the more entertaining.

  Asherean, of course, had no intention of letting such a golden opportunity go to waste.

  “Blushing already?” Asherean grinned wickedly. “Save some for the wedding night, eh?”

  A strangled noise escaped Franklin’s throat, halfway between a sputter and an outraged gasp. “You—!”

  The outpost erupted into laughter. Soldiers clapped Franklin on the back, their booming guffaws only deepening his embarrassment. His face, already red, somehow grew even brighter as he spluttered, trying and failing to come up with a proper retort.

  "Damn, Franklin, I never thought you had it in you!" one of soldiers hooted.

  "Who's the poor girl? Or did she propose to you?"

  "Must've trapped her in a barn and begged!"

  Before he could muster a comeback, Asherean swung onto the saddle with practiced ease and dug his heels into the horse’s flank. As he galloped off, he heard Franklin’s indignant shouting behind him, mixed with the raucous laughter of his comrades.

  "That’s not—I wasn’t—! Bloody hell, I wasn’t blushing, damn it!"

  Shaking his head in amusement, Asherean let the cool wind wash over him, the crisp scent of the forest filling his lungs.

  If there was one thing he preferred about this world compared to the one he had left behind, it was the air—pure, untouched, and untainted by the choking filth of pollution.

  With a quiet chuckle, he urged the horse onward, pressing on toward the waypoint town of Erstonia.

  One might expect medieval towns and cities to be filthy, reeking of unwashed bodies and streets littered with refuse. Yet, surprisingly, the settlements of this kingdom were mostly clean, with no waste strewn haphazardly along the roads.

  Whether this was a peculiarity of the Agensal Kingdom alone or a widespread practice across the known world, Asherean could not say—he had never traveled beyond its borders.

  The farthest he had ever ventured from his birthplace—the capital—was the Bastion of the Three Crowns, a formidable fortress where the three northern kingdoms met. It stood on the southernmost edge of their domain, overlooking the vast, unyielding desert plains where nomadic beastmen tribes roamed.

  A frontier of ceaseless skirmishes and nomad incursiona, it was a place where steel and survival often dictated law as the Bastion is a neutral city with disagreements happening frequently between the troops of the three kingdoms.

  He had also seen the eastern border, where the kingdom’s massive coastline stretched endlessly into the horizon, teeming with marine monsters lurking beneath the waves. There, the Agensal Kingdom stationed two divisions of its army—hardened veterans who waged a relentless struggle against the marine beasts that threatened their shores.

  Yet despite his travels, the western frontier remained the place where he had spent most of his two-year adventurer’s life.

  And at the heart of this frontier was Erstonia, the largest waypoint town in the region. It served as a vital hub, linking smaller towns and villages to the wider kingdom, a crossroad of trade, governance, and military vigilance in the western frontier.

  The town is currently ruled by Baron Harlan Dut Erstonia, a man who had risen from a mere banneret knight to nobility by the decree of the Bloody Queen herself—Catherine dut Agensal. His ascension was carved in blood, much like his legacy.

  They called him the One-Eyed Baron.

  Seventeen years ago, during the brutal war against the nomads, he had lost his right eye on the battlefield. His legend endured, immortalized in stone within the town library—his statue depicted him clutching his wounded eye with one hand while raising the other in a victorious fist. It was a striking image, a symbol of resilience and sacrifice.

  Asherean had come across the story while browsing the library’s records, though his true reason for visiting had little to do with history. He sought knowledge—the kind that might unravel the mysteries of this strange, fantasy-like world and show him the path to greater power. And for that, the imperial library in the capital would be his next destination.

  The rhythmic pounding of hooves against packed earth brought his focus back to the present. Before long, the outskirts of Erstonia came into view, where vast farmlands stretched across the rolling landscape.

  Peasants moved about, finishing their work for the day— some gathering tools, others tending to the last rows of vegetables. A few stragglers lingered, straightening their backs and brushing soil from their hands before making their way toward the town.

  The sight was a familiar one— a quiet contrast to the chaos of battle and the uncertainty of his own path.

  And yet, in that moment, as the scent of freshly tilled earth mixed with the crisp countryside air and the occasional bark of a farm dog filling the air, Asherean felt something rare settle within him.

  A fleeting sense of peace.

  He exhaled slowly, letting the moment linger before nudging his horse onward, the dirt path leading him toward Erstonia’s waiting gates.