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The walls of Doran rose high against the morning sky, casting long shadows over the plains. Built from dark-gray stone, the fortifications were both functional and intimidating, their sheer size a testament to the city's belief in unyielding strength. Crimson banners bearing the sigil of the BloodRavens hung from every tower, fluttering in the wind like symbols of defiance.
Within those walls, the streets bustled with controlled energy. Soldiers marched in formation, their boots striking the cobblestones in perfect unison. Merchants unloaded supplies in orderly rows, while blacksmiths hammered steel into weapons under the watchful eyes of quartermasters. Every action in Valorant served a purpose, feeding into the city's grand design: to be the strongest, the safest, the most unassailable fortress in all of Alreal.
At the heart of the city stood the Crimson Frotress, the fortress within the fortress. Its walls were darker, its towers higher, and its gates thicker than the outer defenses. This was where the BloodRavens, Doran's elite order of adventurers, trained and strategized.
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The training grounds inside the Fortress were alive with the sounds of clashing steel and shouted commands. Young recruits, clad in black and red tabards, sparred under the watchful eyes of drillmasters, their forms rigid with tension as they tried to meet the exacting standards of the BloodRavens. Overlooking it all from a stone balcony was Tadeus, the Grandmaster General of the order.
Tadeus was a figure carved from legend. At over two meters tall, he was an imposing man with broad shoulders and a presence that could silence a room with a single glance. His armor, a dark-gray plate adorned with crimson accents, was dented and scarred from countless battles, yet polished to a mirror shine. A crimson cape hung from his shoulders, trailing behind him like the mantle of a king.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his steel-gray eyes scanning the recruits below. His face was lined with age—years of Fighting and leadership had left their mark—but his expression was as resolute as ever.
A faint sound of boots on stone drew his attention. He turned to see a messenger, a young soldier with the nervous energy of someone carrying important news.
"Grandmaster Tadeus," the soldier said, snapping to attention. "Taric has returned from his mission in Blackridge."
Tadeus raised an eyebrow. "So soon?"
"Yes, Grandmaster. He's already reporting to the quartermaster."
For a moment, Tadeus said nothing, his gaze shifting back to the training grounds. Then he nodded. "Have him sent to me once his report is complete."
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The halls of the Crimson fortress were cold and dimly lit, the flickering glow of torches casting long shadows on the stone walls. Taric walked through them with measured steps, his halberd resting across his back. Dust and blood clung to his armor, and a faint cut across his cheek stung with every movement, but he paid no mind.
He entered the Hall of Reckoning, where completed missions were reported and evaluated. The room was spartan, dominated by a long table where the quartermaster, Master Garrick, sat surrounded by scrolls and ledgers.
"Back already, Taric?" Garrick said without looking up, his quill scratching against parchment.
Taric set a bloodied satchel on the table. "The bandits at Blackridge won't be a problem anymore."
Garrick opened the satchel, revealing a collection of insignias—tokens taken from the bandits to prove the mission's success. He counted them silently, then nodded. "Efficient as always. Payment will be issued to your account."
Taric nodded and turned to leave, but Garrick's voice stopped him.
"There's talk," Garrick said, leaning back in his chair. "The Sea Lords are stirring near Sylvalis. Command is considering sending someone to investigate."
Taric paused but did not turn around. "Is that an assignment?"
"Not yet," Garrick replied, his tone casual. "But trouble seems to find you, doesn't it?"
Without another word, Taric left the room, his halberd clinking softly against his armor.
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As the sun began to set, casting the city in shades of orange and crimson, Taric made his way toward the barracks. Along the way, he passed the Statue of Raedon, the first hero of Valorant.
The obsidian statue towered over the square, its twin swords plunged into the ground as if to hold the earth itself in place. Raedon's face, chiseled with unyielding determination, seemed to stare out at the horizon, eternally vigilant.
Taric stopped in front of the statue, his gaze lingering on the inscription at its base:
"He stood so we could endure. May his strength guide us always."
The words echoed in Taric's mind, a reminder of the ideals he had sworn to uphold. Strength above all else—that was the creed of Valorant, and the creed he had built his life around.
But as the wind stirred the dust at his feet, a faint unease crept into his thoughts. The whispers of unrest in Sylvalis, the scars left by the undead, the growing ambitions of Doran—they all felt connected, though he couldn't yet see how.
Taric turned away from the statue and continued toward the barracks, his footsteps heavy with purpose. The shadows of the Bastion stretched long across the square, as if to warn him of the battles yet to come.
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End of Chapter 1