The seagulls cawed above, their voices lost in the vast, salty breeze. Below them stretched the sea, an endless expanse of deep, clear blue, rippling gently beneath the warm sun. Too warm, Ronan thought, pulling the hood of his gray cloak lower over his head. His pale skin prickled under the harsh rays, but the occasional gust of ocean air provided a welcome reprieve.
Ronan leaned against the ship's railing, his staff resting against his side. The gnarled wood caught the golden light, a sharp contrast to the smooth, weathered planks beneath his feet. He inhaled deeply, savoring the tang of salt and freedom. For the first time, the sheltered boy from the Central Tower was about to set foot beyond its walls, onto the storied southern land of Azerith.
As the ship docked, he waved energetically at the crew. "Bye! Thanks for the ride!" His voice was bright, carefree, betraying none of the uncertainty gnawing at his insides.
Climbing down the gangplank, Ronan paused to secure his belongings. His pouch of crescs; flat, crescent-shaped coins made of polished brass, jingles at his side. His leather-bound spellbook remained safely tucked under his arm. Satisfied, he stepped onto the sandy docks, where the air grew heavier, thick with the mingling scents of salt, spice, and sun-heated stone.
The port city was alive. Streets wound through sandstone buildings, their pale, sun-bleached walls contrasting with the vibrant colors of merchant stalls lining the bustling bazaar. Red, gold, and green fabrics fluttered from canopies, shading displays of fruits, trinkets, and shimmering silks. The air buzzed with the sounds of haggling, laughter, and the clink of coins.
Ronan wandered through the market, his eyes wide with curiosity. Everything felt foreign, yet thrilling.
"You there!" a raspy voice called. Ronan turned to see a wiry man with sun-leathered skin waving him over from a dimly lit stall. His eyes glinted with a mix of mischief and knowing.
Curious, Ronan approached.
"I can tell there's something special about you," the vendor said, his grin revealing crooked teeth.
Ronan tilted his head. "Oh? What gave it away?"
The man leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "This morning, I found an item meant for someone extraordinary."
He reached under the counter and pulled out a glowing orb. It radiated a faint blue light, smooth like glass, yet shimmered unnaturally, as if it contained more than mere light.
Ronan's gaze flickered with faint amusement. As a trained mage, he could feel the orb's weak, waning power. A toy at best, but he played along. "Looks impressive. What does it do?"
The vendor's grin widened. "They say it brings great fortune to its chosen bearer. And look, it's drawn to you."
Feigning intrigue, Ronan leaned in. "How much?"
"For you? A mere fifty crescs," the man said smoothly, his tone laced with false sincerity.
Ronan snorted. "Fifty? You might as well rob me outright." With a dismissive wave, he turned to leave.
The vendor's grin soured into a sneer. "Suit yourself, you damned blue-eyed Chronite!"
Ronan froze, his expression darkening. He whispered under his breath, "Ignite."
A tiny ember flickered to life at the vendor's stall, swiftly growing into a flame that licked at the brightly colored fabrics overhead. The man yelped, scrambling to douse the fire as Ronan strolled away, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
The Golden Caravan tavern soon came into view, its wooden sign swaying gently in the coastal breeze. Gold-painted letters gleamed faintly in the light. Pushing open the door, Ronan entered, greeted by the lively clamor of voices and the clinking of mugs. Patrons sat at tables, drinking and laughing, while the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine filled the air.
At the bar, a tuskborn with gray, leathery skin and thick, curved tusks polished a mug with surprising delicacy.
"You looking for a meal or a room?" the tuskborn asked, his deep voice rumbling with the weight of his size.
"Both," Ronan replied, lowering his hood. "What's good on the menu?"
"Sun-baked Sandhorn," the barkeep said without hesitation.
"Sounds perfect."
"That'll be six crescs," he replied.
Ronan handed over the crescs and found an empty table. As he waited, his gaze wandered to a shadowy corner of the room, where a cloaked figure sat in silence. Though their face was hidden, scaly hands peeked from the sleeves, A Dunefang.
Ronan had read about their kind; desert-dwelling, lizard-like people with scales that mirrored the sands. Once a proud race, their failed revolution against the human kingdoms had left them broken, their reputation forever tarnished.
Ronan tore his gaze away as his food arrived: sizzling meat with a side of flatbread. The rich aroma made his stomach growl. He dug in eagerly, savoring the unfamiliar spices.
After finishing, he retrieved the key to his rented room, marked with the same golden letters as the tavern's sign: 5. The small, sparse room was enough for the night, and despite the noise from the city below, exhaustion pulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next day passed in a blur of exploration. Ronan wandered through the towering spice markets, marveled at the brightly painted shrines, and even watched a street performer summon fire into the shape of a dragon.
When he returned to the Golden Caravan that evening, the tavern was as lively as before. Ordering the same meal, Ronan noticed the Dunefang was still in the same corner. This time, their hood was lowered slightly, revealing glinting amber eyes that seemed to follow his every movement.
As he ate, the Dunefang approached. Their voice was low and gravelly. "You carry the scent of the Central Tower."
Ronan blinked, startled. "And how would you know that?"
The figure leaned in closer, amber eyes narrowing. "Because I know what they're looking for. And I know they'll find you soon."
Ronan froze, the words chilling him. Before he could respond, the Dunefang placed a small, sand-colored pouch onto the table and disappeared into the night.
Hesitant, Ronan opened the pouch. Inside was a single darkened shard, its faint glow pulsing with a sinister energy.
For a moment, he simply stared. The air around him seemed to thicken, as though the very space in the tavern had changed. A single thought echoed in his mind:
What have I gotten myself into?
He returned to his room for the night. As he lay in bed, unable to rest, he fiddled with the glowing shard. Its energy was strange, almost malevolent, a subtle hum that sent a shiver down his spine. Pondering the words of the Dunefang, Ronan wondered why the Central Tower would be interested in such a thing. It didn't make sense.
The shard's power was faint, nearly nonexistent, but it still felt… wrong. The more he held it, the more its presence gnawed at his mind.
Sleep eventually claimed him, but he was abruptly awakened by a loud crash from below. The sound of the tavern doors bursting open reverberated through the walls, followed by the deep, resonant voice of the barkeep.
"This is your last warning!" His voice was commanding, filled with authority.
The sound of cracking bone and splattering liquid was followed by a loud thud.
Ronan's heart raced. He heard a guest from one of the rooms shout, "What are y—"
The shout was abruptly silenced, followed by another thud. Ronan's mind raced. What's happening? Why attack a tavern?
The power of the shard seemed to grow stronger in his hand.
Could this be the reason?
Without thinking, Ronan quickly turned to the window, whispering a spell: "Aero."
A fierce gust of wind tore open the window, shattering it into a thousand pieces. The sound of the crash alerted the intruders. Ronan glanced outside at their faces, or what would have been faces. They were Umbrawraiths; rare, shadowy creatures once believed extinct. Their forms were a flowing mesh of darkness, their bodies lacking any true physical structure.
Ronan activated another spell, sending himself hurtling onto the roof of a nearby sandstone house. The Umbrawraiths, highly adept with magic, summoned purple flames that engulfed their hands before sending bolts of dark energy toward him.
Ronan narrowly avoided the blasts, the air vibrating with the intensity of their strikes. The bolts tore through the buildings, leaving only rubble in their wake.
Panic spread through the busy streets as chaos erupted.
Ronan melted into the crowd, heart pounding as he made his way through the marketplace. Their attacks were relentless, targeting everything and everyone. The Umbrawraiths were slaughtering the innocent mercilessly.
He ran faster, but the guards arrived too late. The Umbrawraiths merely merged with the shadows, vanishing without a trace.
Heart racing, Ronan slumped against a wall, breath shallow. Why were they after this shard? What made it so important?
All he knew was that letting it go wasn't an option. He needed answers.
And he would find them, no matter the cost.