The port of Varem lay still, its usual guardian absent. No towering beast infused with darkness loomed over the harbor, no massive form resting on the docks, eyes gleaming in the night. Tonight, the city's greatest deterrent was missing.
Through the thick veil of mist rolling over the sea, a flying ship emerged, its dark hull slicing through the waves with silent precision, a vessel of Tashran built for distance rather than battle, but unmistakably carrying something beyond mere cargo.
A soft thud sounded as the gangplank lowered, and one by one, the figures aboard began their descent. Twenty mages, clad in robes woven with arcane threads. Their gazes did not drift, their postures remained eerily composed. They did not speak as they reached the worn planks of the dock.
The first to step down into the dim glow of Varem's lanterns lifted a gloved hand, his voice as steady as still water.
