The ship finally docked at the shore. The rustling of the sea waves echoed against the stone pavement of the pier. Rigel clutched his cloak tightly against the wind as he walked through the crowd. The only thing greeting them at the shore was a small stone pier and a few dockworkers. Everyone disembarked in silence, avoiding eye contact.
Midas stepped off the ship right behind Rigel, absentmindedly feeling the key in his left pocket as he glanced around. "This is my first time here," he said, his voice thoughtful. "But I didn't expect it to be this quiet."
Rigel leaned in and whispered, "What does this place look like to you? A village, or just a passage point?"
Midas squinted at the wooden buildings in the distance. "Just a port town, it seems. But… something's missing. It looks too empty."
Rigel didn't answer. He simply kept walking. The echo of his footsteps against the stone ground made it feel as if they were the only ones left on the shore. The others had disembarked, vanishing almost instantly.
As they moved further, they reached the center of town. This place was even less inviting than the port. In the middle of the empty square stood a tall stone pillar, covered in various symbols and deep cracks. Nearby, the chimney of a bakery remained cold, and though the tavern's door was open, no sound came from within.
"This place isn't welcoming at all," Rigel muttered, glancing around. His fingers brushed against the hilt of his dagger for a brief moment—it gave him a small sense of security.
Midas observed their surroundings in silence before speaking. "Maybe this town is on the verge of being abandoned," he said. "A plague, some other disaster… who knows?"
Just then, an old man appeared from the corner of the square. His shoulders were slumped, his hands trembling. He leaned on a cane, tapping its end against the stone ground as he slowly made his way toward them.
"What are you looking for here?" the old man asked, his voice rough and uneven. His eyes carried the weight of a lifetime.
Rigel and Midas exchanged a brief glance. Rigel stepped forward. "We just got off a ship," he said carefully. "We were looking for a place to stay for a while."
The old man eyed them from head to toe, paying particular attention to Rigel's black cloak and the glove on Midas's hand. "Then you've come to the wrong place," he said curtly. "No one here wants you."
Midas lowered his head slightly and whispered, "Do you think he's threatening us or warning us?"
Rigel met the old man's gaze and spoke. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't they want us here?"
The man remained silent for a moment, as if afraid of the answer he was about to give. Finally, leaning on his cane, he spoke slowly. "If you stay here… they will find you. They find everyone."
Rigel's brow furrowed. "Who are they?"
The old man glanced around. Between the towering gray clouds in the sky, it almost seemed as if a shadow had descended. "Suit yourselves," he muttered before quickly walking away, disappearing into a side alley off the square.
Midas took a deep breath. "I don't think we should stay here for long."
Rigel hesitated for a moment, trying to suppress the unease creeping through him. One thing was certain—this town was far more dangerous than they had anticipated.
"Yes. We need to leave on the next ship, no matter what," Rigel said. "But for now, we need shelter."
They looked around and walked for a while before finally coming across a lone, decrepit tavern.
The place was suffocating in its heavy silence. Inside, a handful of patrons sat buried in the shadows of the corners, sipping their drinks or softly humming forgotten songs.
As Rigel approached the man he assumed to be the tavern owner, he noticed the man's eyes locking onto his own. A hard, scrutinizing gaze—studying every line, every crease on Rigel's face, as if committing them to memory.
"Hello… If it's not a problem, could we rent one of the rooms?" Rigel asked, trying to add a polite tone to his voice.
But the man's expression didn't change. His gaze remained just as hard, and it unsettled Rigel. After a brief pause, the man raised an eyebrow and gave a short, firm reply:
"No."
That single word seemed to echo through the tavern. Behind him, Midas let out a low grumble and shook his head, but Rigel wasn't ready to give up. Despite the man's resolute stance, he sensed something—doubt, or perhaps greed—lurking in his eyes.
"I'll pay twice the usual rate," Rigel said, locking eyes with him. His tone wasn't bargaining—it was sealing a deal.
The man hesitated for a moment. His gaze drifted from Rigel's face to his shoulders, then to Midas standing beside him. Finally, he let out a rough grunt, turned away, and walked heavily toward the bar. As he pulled open a drawer, the groan of old wood filled the room. He retrieved a key and, with a sharp motion, thrust it toward Rigel
"The usual rate was 300 silver per night," the man said, his voice now lower, laced with sarcasm. "But if you're offering double…"
Rigel reached into the inner pocket of his coat and, without a moment's hesitation, pulled out a gold coin. As he placed it into the man's calloused palm, a few of the tavern's patrons turned their attention toward them.
The man's eyes widened in shock. He held the coin up to the light, inspecting it as if to confirm its authenticity. "One gold… that's worth 1,000 silver, kid. You do know that, right?" he asked, his voice laced with unease.
Rigel gave a slight smirk and nodded. "I know," he replied calmly. "But I don't have any silver," he added with a mocking tone.
The man pocketed the coin, then lowered his head and pointed a finger upward. "Third room on the first floor. But don't draw too much attention to yourselves. This isn't the kind of place that gets… generous travelers like you."
Rigel took the key with an indifferent expression, as if he barely acknowledged the warning. "Thanks," he said shortly, then turned toward the stairs with Midas.
As they ascended, Rigel glanced back over his shoulder. The tavern keeper was still watching them, his gaze filled with a mix of greed and caution.
Midas muttered under his breath, "You really didn't have to flash the gold like that."
Rigel responded with a smirk. "There's plenty more where that came from," he said coolly as they climbed the stairs.
When Rigel and Midas stepped into the room, they immediately noticed how simple—and somewhat cold—it was. There was only one bed, the wooden walls were covered in scratches that hinted at their age, and the dim light seeping through the window barely illuminated the space. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling in some spots, but none of this caught Rigel's attention.
As soon as he stepped inside, he locked the door behind them and reached into his pockets.
From the depths of his trousers, he pulled out a small pouch that felt heavy in his hands. Without a word, he walked over to the bed, loosened the pouch's strings, and poured its contents onto the blanket.
Brilliant, gleaming gold coins tumbled out, scattering across the fabric like fallen stars.
Midas froze for a moment, then rushed forward, his eyes practically bulging from their sockets. He reached out hesitantly, running his fingers over one of the coins. The cold surface sent a shiver through him—it was real.
"Well, aren't you a rich bastard…" Midas muttered, his voice laced with disbelief.
Rigel watched Midas' excitement in silence. Just as he had suspected, Midas had no idea who he really was. And that worked to Rigel's advantage. "He doesn't need to know where this came from," Rigel thought.
Taking a step back, he slowly removed his coat and hung it over the chair.
"Instead of gawking at the gold, why don't you start explaining your own secrets?" he said, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. Then, shifting the topic, he added, "That key you've been carrying—what's it for? Tell me that, and maybe I'll tell you where this gold came from."
Midas hesitated. His fingers, which had been idly flipping a coin, suddenly stilled. The excitement drained from his face, replaced by something more guarded. Straightening his posture, he turned to face Rigel, his expression now unreadable.
"This is something else," Midas murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Without removing the leather glove from his left hand, he reached into his pocket. He took a deep breath, then slowly pulled out a small silver key, cradling it in his palm.
At first glance, the key looked ordinary, but the intricate carvings and delicate grooves etched into its surface told a different story. Under the dim light of the room, it gleamed with a faint shimmer.
"They call this the Nirith Key, Rigel," Midas said, gripping it tightly as if reluctant to reveal it fully. "This key unlocks the Nirith of this dimension."
Rigel listened carefully, his expression unreadable yet filled with curiosity. Midas couldn't quite decipher what was going on inside his head, but one thing was clear—Rigel still wanted to know where all that gold had come from.
"There was a time when people possessed supernatural power," Midas continued. "Back then, their strength could transcend dimension. Now? They're weak. They die from a single blade."
His voice grew more intense, his eyes gleaming with something close to fervor. "But if we can awaken that power… we'll become stronger. Strong enough to stop the wars ravaging between worlds"
Midas turned to Rigel, his gaze burning with expectation.
"Now, tell me—where does all that gold come from?"