The old man ran through the snowy wasteland. His breath was a visible plume of mist that vanished into the whirling white. He had been running for long minutes and he had began to feel tired. Each new stride was more difficult than the last and his boots sunk deep into the snow.
But he clutched the stone tightly. The stone was a smooth amethyst sphere. It known as the Sorcerer's Stone and even though it was wrapped in rags, the parts of it that caught the pale light of the sun gleamed.
The old man knew what it meant to have it, and he knew what it meant if it were taken from him. It was not just his life they were after; it was the power he safeguarded.
Behind him, four men gave chase. They were called Silvers, each as silent as a shadow. Their feet was loud in the snow. The old man dared to glance behind him and he saw them closing in. Their blades were drawn, and their cloaks we're as black as night, but their faces were hidden beneath cold-steel masks. They had once been legends—monster killers who roamed lands purging the evils that lurked in forests and deep caves. But now, after centuries of war with beasts, the balance had shifted. Men now filled the lands once overrun by monsters, and the Silvers, needing to keep their coin purses filled, turned to hunting people for pay: they became assassins for hire. The deadliest kind. They were ruthless, efficient, and in all the years the old man had traveled these lands, he'd never known them to show mercy.
His lungs burned, and his legs felt like lead. The old man knew he was past his prime—his hair was more gray than black, his bones creaked, and every sinew of his body screamed for rest. But there was no time. With no hope of outrunning them, he skidded to a halt, kicking up a flurry of snow.
"They will catch me, sooner or later," he thought. "It is better that I die with my sword drawn, facing the enemy. Than with an arrow in my back."
He turned to face his pursuers, his chest heaving. The sorcerer's stone gave off a strange purple light that cast eerie shadows against the snow.
The Silvers came to a halt a few paces away and formed a line. The tallest of them stood at the center of them all. Tall and broad-shouldered, he took one step forward, the frost crunching beneath his heavy boots. A gust of wind blew towards him, pushing back his hood to show a young man's face. If it was not for the gruesome that cut across his face, he could have been call d handsome. He examined the old man quietly.
"Hand over the stone," the leader finally said. His voice was a low, smooth voice, unnervingly calm for someone who had just run a mile without stopping. He didn't bark or sneer—he simply asked, as if requesting a trivial favor. "You don't have to die here, old man. Think this through."
The old man's brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face. He had expected ruthless killers, the kind who'd strike without a word. But these Silvers—this leader, especially—seemed oddly collected, almost patient. The old man couldn't help but wonder who had trained them. They were professional killers, yes, but for whom did they hunt? Who dared command the Silvers?
"Who do you serve?" the old man demanded, his voice carrying over the empty snowfield. "Who wants the stone?"
The leader tilted his head slightly, his expression hidden behind that cold, metallic mask. He did not answer.
The old man felt his heart sink. The silence told him everything he needed to know. There was only one name in all of Alaëgesia that could not be named: Emperor Salvax. The emperor was the continent's ruler. A ruthless self-important sorcerer, he conquered the once free countries with his dark magic and forced his rule upon them. He was the last sorcerer to be named on ages, and had seen to it that no other came after him.
The old man knew now that they were here for one thing and one thing only: the stone.
He gripped the Sorcerer's Stone tighter, feeling its power pulsing faintly against his palm. He knew the magic within it, and what it could do in the wrong hands. Letting it fall to these mercenaries would be a betrayal of everything he had ever fought for. With a last, defiant glare, he drew his broadsword from his belt and pointed it at the leader.
"There is only one way you are leaving with this stone." the old man spat, his voice raw with rage and desperation. He charged, a wild cry tearing from his throat, every ounce of strength he had left pushing him forward.
The Silvers moved as one, their blades flashing in perfect synchrony, sleek and deadly. The leader sidestepped, raising his lean long sword and meeting the old man's broadsword in a fierce clash of steel. The old man felt the jarring impact rattle up his arm, but he pushed harder, gritting his teeth. The leader parried easily. He grinned at the old man as he returned the blow. His strength seemingly endless, while the old man's grew weaker with each clash.
Another Silver lunged in from the side, and the old man barely dodged, feeling the rush of air as the blade sliced past his shoulder. He spun, his sword slashing out and catching the assassin's cloak, tearing through fabric but missing flesh. They moved with unnatural precision, like a pack of wolves circling their prey, forcing the old man to twist and spin to defend himself.
"Give it up, old man," the leader said, his voice still infuriatingly calm, almost pitiful. "This can end with dignity."
The old man snarled in response. "What dignity is there in chasing an old man in the snow?"
This brought a smile to the tall man's lips. When he smiled, the scar marring his face folded and looked even worse. "None." He said, chuckling. "But then, I could never be mistaken for a man of honour."
Suddenly, he lunged forward, his blade flashing as he threw himself at the old man. He managed a shallow cut across the man's arm, drawing first blood. The old man ignored the pain and hacked at him, knocking his sword aside. But before he could press the advantage, another blade swung toward him. He staggered back, only to find himself cornered by the remaining two, their masks cold, expressionless, without a shred of humanity in their eyes.
Panting, he glanced down at the Sorcerer's Stone, its deep purple glow almost mocking him. He could surrender, he thought, let them take it and perhaps spare himself a painful death. But as he looked back at the faceless assassins, he knew he could not bear the thought of letting this power fall into such hands.
With a final, furious roar, the old man surged forward, swinging his sword in a wild arc, forcing them to step back. The leader met his eyes through the slit in his mask, a flicker of something like regret there—but only for a moment. He struck out, swift and precise, and the old man felt a hot pain sear through his side.
He staggered, his vision swimming, the snow beneath him stained red as he sank to his knees. Still, he clutched the Sorceress Stone, refusing to let it go.
The leader approached, slowly, crouching down to meet the old man's gaze. "I warned you," he said softly. "Some things are bigger than one man."
The old man managed a weak smile, his grip tightening around the stone even as his strength ebbed.
"What is your name, old man?" he asked.
The old man hesitated. "Regal." He said finally. "Regal Broadsword.