Chapter Two: The Gathering Storm
Kaelion Grayforge pulled his cloak tighter against the biting wind as he trudged through the muddy streets of Blackharrow. The once-prosperous port town was now a shadow of its former self, its stone walls cracked and its markets sparse. War had drained the kingdom of Almerya, leaving places like this to fend for themselves. Kaelion didn't care much for politics anymore—he had abandoned those concerns years ago.
What mattered now was coin. And a stiff drink.
The tavern, The Broken Lantern, was a dingy hovel with warped wooden beams and a faint stench of sour ale. It wasn't much, but it was enough for a man trying to disappear. Kaelion pushed open the door, letting a swirl of cold air follow him in. The patrons barely looked up; they were too lost in their own miseries.
He approached the bar, tossing a silver coin onto the counter.
"Mead. Whatever's strong."
The barkeep, a wiry man with sunken eyes, poured the drink without a word. Kaelion took the cup and leaned against the counter, savoring the brief warmth as the alcohol burned its way down his throat.
"You don't belong here," a voice said behind him.
Kaelion turned slowly, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword. The speaker was a young woman, her auburn hair tied back and her leather armor dusted with travel grime. She had a smirk that spoke of trouble and a dagger resting casually in her hand.
"And who are you to decide that?" Kaelion replied, his voice low.
"Someone with a proposition." She stepped closer, the smirk fading. "Name's Vanya. I hear you're good with a blade."
Kaelion raised an eyebrow. "You heard wrong. I'm retired."
"Sure you are," she said, rolling her eyes. "Look, I've got a job. Dangerous, yes, but it pays well. Better than whatever scraps you're scrounging up here."
Kaelion drained the last of his mead. "Not interested."
"You haven't even heard what it is yet."
"I don't need to."
Vanya sighed and leaned in, lowering her voice. "It's about the Crown of Emberveil."
Kaelion froze, his hand tightening on the cup. "You're lying."
"Am I?" she countered, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "There's a meeting tonight. At the old shrine on the hill. If you've got the guts, come and see for yourself. If not…" She shrugged. "Enjoy your retirement."
Before Kaelion could respond, she slipped away, disappearing into the crowded tavern. He stared after her, his mind racing. The Crown of Emberveil? It was a myth, a story told to children. But if there was even a chance it was real…
He shook his head. Foolishness. He'd left that life behind.
---
The old shrine was little more than a ruin, its stone walls overgrown with moss and ivy. Kaelion stood in the shadows, watching as figures emerged from the darkness. There were four of them—Vanya among them, along with a tall elf in a green cloak, a broad-shouldered dwarf carrying a warhammer, and a hooded figure whose face was hidden.
"You're late," Vanya said as Kaelion stepped into the light.
"I'm here, aren't I?" he replied. "Now, what's this about?"
The elf, Lirien, spoke next. Her voice was calm, but her sharp eyes betrayed her impatience. "We've uncovered a map. One that leads to the Veilstorm."
"The Veilstorm?" Kaelion frowned. "You're serious about this?"
"As serious as the grave," the dwarf growled. "The Raven King's forces are moving. If they get to the crown first…" He didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear.
Kaelion looked at the group, his instincts screaming at him to walk away. This was madness.
And yet, some part of him—buried deep beneath the cynicism and regret—felt a spark of hope.
"Fine," he said at last. "But if this goes sideways, I'm out."
Vanya grinned. "Welcome to the hunt, old man."
Above them, the wind howled, carrying with it the promise of a storm.