The bar was dimly lit, its wooden walls soaked with years of spilled ale and secrets shared in hushed tones. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the patrons gathered around scattered tables. Tankards clinked and the air was thick with the smell of mead and roasted meat.
At the corner table, a group of adventurers leaned in close, their voices low but animated.
"I'm telling you, I saw him with my own eyes," said a wiry man in a patched leather coat, his face half-hidden by a hood. "The traveler. He walks into a fight with nothing but his bare hands, and then—boom! The air around him warps, and this dark energy explodes out of nowhere."
"Dark energy? You sure you didn't just have too much ale?" another snorted, a burly dwarf with a braided beard. "Plenty of charlatans out there throwing smoke and mirrors to impress the gullible."
The wiry man shot him a glare. "Do you think I'm an idiot? I know what I saw! It wasn't magic—not like any magic I've ever seen. This was… darker. Wrong. The kind that makes your blood run cold just watching it."
A young elf with bright green eyes leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. "They say he doesn't belong to any nation, any guild. Just drifts from place to place, leaving chaos in his wake. They say he uses demonic energy—the kind that eats away at the soul."
The dwarf frowned, his jovial demeanor dimming. "If that's true, we're all in trouble. No one messes with demonic energy without paying a price."
The group fell silent for a moment before the wiry man changed the subject. "Speaking of trouble, have you heard the other news? The Swordmaster of the Mana continent is said to be hiding out in Helmond Canyon."
"The Swordmaster?" the elf perked up. "The one who defeated the Crimson Legion single-handedly?"
"Aye," the wiry man said with a grin. "They say he's been there for weeks. Training, or waiting for something—or someone. Nobody knows why he's there, but Helmond Canyon isn't exactly a vacation spot."
"Probably avoiding the war," the dwarf grumbled. "Can't say I blame him. Every kingdom's after someone like him to tip the balance."
The door to the bar creaked open, and the conversation died as every head turned. A woman stepped inside, her presence commanding the room instantly. She was clad in a long, elegant cloak of silver and white, her golden hair braided with gemstones that caught the firelight. Her face was calm but regal, her eyes scanning the room with quiet authority.
"That's…" the elf began, her voice trembling.
"The Princess of Priestilia," the wiry man whispered, sitting straighter in his chair.
The princess stepped forward, her boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. She approached their table with the poise of someone who knew she was not to be ignored.
"Good evening," she said, her voice smooth and steady, though it carried a subtle edge. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation."
The group exchanged uneasy glances, but the princess continued.
"I am in need of information," she said. "About the traveler who wields demonic energy—and about the Swordmaster of the Mana continent. Tell me everything you know."
Her gaze swept across the table, and the wiry man swallowed hard. "Your Highness, with all due respect, those are dangerous topics."
"And you think I am not accustomed to danger?" she countered, raising an eyebrow.
The elf, perhaps emboldened by the princess's presence, spoke up. "The traveler… he's been spotted near the northern borders. There's talk that he's looking for something—or someone. As for the Swordmaster…" She hesitated. "They say he's in Helmond Canyon. But that's a treacherous place, Your Highness. Even the Swordmaster might not be safe there."
The princess nodded thoughtfully. "I will be the judge of where I am safe." She placed a gold coin on the table and turned to leave, her cloak billowing behind her.
As she reached the door, she paused and glanced back. "Thank you for your honesty. If any more rumors reach your ears, ensure that they reach mine as well."
With that, she disappeared into the night, leaving the bar buzzing with whispers.
***
The scent of ash and blood hung heavy in the air.
Trevor stood at the edge of what was once a small, bustling village now a blackened husk of its former self. Wind whistled through the charred beams and shattered roofs, the only sound of accompanying the broken silence of Greythorn. Smoke coiled lazily from distant embers, as though reluctant to rise from the ruin below.
A movement caught his eye. Near toppled cart, a figure in ragged clothes stumbled through the ruins barely upright. A monster followed, eight feet of scaled hide and razor claws, its eyes glowing crimson as it dragged its hulking body forward. It pushed the figure and gave a sound that seemed like laughter.
Trevor exhaled sharply. He hated creatures that toyed with their victims.
Pulling his hood lower, he stepped forward. His boots crunched softly on soot-covered stone as he moved with the kind of deliberate calm that came from practice. The figure tripped again and fell. The monster pounced, snarling, jaws wide….
The whistle of steel split the air. A single, clean arc of his blade severed the monster's head before it could land its prey. A dull thud followed as the body collapsed, its grotesque claws twitching once before lying still.
Trevor didn't offer the survivor a glance. "Get out of here."
The man scrambled to his feet gasping his thanks, but Trevor was already walking away, flicking dark blood off his sword.
Trevor's footsteps carried him deeper into the ruins. Somewhere in the distance, laughter echoed, a cruel sound, unnatural. More of the creatures were nearby, no doubt drawn to the destruction. Monsters fed on weakness, the strong devour the weak. He knew that better than anyone.
Trevor paused beside what was left of a stone wall, running his gloved fingers across its cracked surface. His gaze hardened. Why am I still here?
It had been five years since he abandoned his name. Two years since he became Trevor, no longer a prince, no longer the heir to a throne that betrayed him. He'd shed Xavier like old skin, but moments like this…. moments when he stared into ruin and death… they clawed at him.
This could have been home.
He pushed the thought down like he always did.
A sharp desperate scream tore through the silence. Trevor froze, the voice belonged to a child. The sound cut through his resolve like an unseen blade, shaking loose a memory he didn't want.
He turned, his grip tightening on his sword. For a second, he hesitated. "You owe no one anything" a voice whispered in his mind.
But against his will, he moved. Faster this time, his cloak snapping behind him as he followed the sound to a half-collapsed building.
A girl, no older than ten was cornered against a wall. A monster loomed over her, its teeth dripping venom as it slithered closer. The girl's face was streaked with tears, her hands trembling as she tried and failed to lift a rusted dagger in defense.
Trevor cursed under his breath.
"Useless."
In three strides, he was there. His blade sang as it cut through the air slicing into the creature's hide. It screamed high-pitched and furious. Two strikes later, the creature fell
Trevor stood still, breathing hard, his sword buried in the dirt.
The girl stared at him, wide-eyed.
"You're…"
"Go," he said sharply, his voice rough and low. "Get out of here before more show up."
She flinched but didn't move.
Trevor turned, irritation flaring. "I said go…."
"Is that how you treat people you save?" A voice interrupted him. Calm, confident, and out of place in this wasteland.
Trevor's head snapped up. A woman stood at the edge of the rubble, a sword strapped to her back, her cloak embroidered with faint golden sigils and a cross on her chest. She was tall and steady, her gaze sharp despite the softness of her features. Sunlight framed her in stark contrast to the ruins around her, as though she didn't quite belong here.
And yet, she looked at Trevor like she'd seen his kind before.
"Who are you?" he asked darkly, the grip on his sword tightening.
She smirked faintly, stepping forward. "My name is Beatrice, and I'd like to ask for your help."
Trevor frowned. "You've got the wrong man."
She didn't flinch. "Do I?"
He glared at her. For the first time in years, Trevor felt a strange, sinking unease.
Trevor's eyes narrowed as Beatrice stepped closer with a calm demeanor.
"This isn't a place for royalty," he said, his voice cold and low. He flicked his sword clean of blood and sheathed it, turning his back to her. "Go back to your castle."
"I don't have time for games," Beatrice replied, unfazed. "You're the one I've been looking for."
Trevor stopped. He turned his head just enough to look at her over his shoulder, his gaze narrowing on her. "Looking for me?"
Her lips curved faintly, the smirk of someone who had the upper. "Word travels fast, even out here. Rumors of a traveler who slaughters monsters with skill no ordinary warrior could match. Someone who wields demonic energy and still lives.
Trevor's jaw tightened. "And what if I am that traveler?"
"Then you're exactly who I need."