The morning sun bathed the city of Greyfall in a golden hue, casting long shadows from the towering spires and ancient buildings. The caravan had made it through the night after the ambush, and the caravan workers and guards were busy assessing the damage and preparing to continue their journey. Despite the carnage of the previous day, the city's bustling activity provided a stark contrast to the grim aftermath of the attack.
Aric, now with a bruised but determined resolve, walked through the market district of Greyfall with Fenrir at his side. The city's streets were alive with the clamor of merchants, the chatter of townsfolk, and the occasional clink of coin as transactions were made. The smell of fresh bread and spices filled the air, mingling with the scent of horse dung and sweat.
Fenrir glanced at Aric, noting the young man's somber expression. "You look like you're about to face another ambush," he said, trying to lighten the mood.
Aric forced a smile. "Just trying to wrap my head around everything. That fight yesterday… it's hard to shake off."
"Don't let it weigh you down," Fenrir advised. "It's part of the life we lead. Besides, you did well. The caravan's safe, and we're moving forward."
They arrived at a large, ornate building with a sign that read "Harlon's Trading Post." The merchant Harlon was already inside, barking orders at his workers and inspecting the damage. His face brightened when he saw Fenrir and Aric.
"Ah, you made it," Harlon said, his relief evident. "I was afraid we'd lost you in that mess."
"We're here," Fenrir replied, clapping Harlon on the shoulder. "We managed to drive off the bandits. But we've got something else to deal with now."
Harlon raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"
"This," Fenrir said, handing Harlon a small, blood-stained pouch. "A few of the bandits were carrying this. It might be important."
Harlon took the pouch and opened it carefully. Inside, he found several pieces of parchment, each covered with strange symbols and markings. His eyes widened as he examined them.
"Where did you find these?" Harlon asked, his voice tense.
"On the bandits we took down," Fenrir explained. "They seemed to be using them for communication. Any idea what they mean?"
Harlon's face grew pale. "These are symbols from an ancient language—one I've only seen in old texts and legends. They speak of an order and its relics. It's troubling that bandits were using them."
Aric's heart skipped a beat. The mention of an ancient order tied directly into the medallion and his father's last words. "Do you know anything about this order?" he asked, leaning in.
Harlon shook his head. "I'm not an expert, but if these symbols are correct, the order was a group that sought out powerful relics and ancient knowledge. They disappeared long ago, but their artifacts are still sought after. You might want to consult someone knowledgeable about ancient lore."
Fenrir nodded in agreement. "I know someone who might help. There's an old scholar named Alistair who deals in such matters. He's located in the northern part of the city."
Aric's resolve hardened. "Then we should go see him."
Harlon handed Fenrir a bag of coins as payment for their protection and then turned to Aric. "Be careful. The world has changed since the days of the old order. Many seek these relics for their own ends."
With that, Aric and Fenrir set off toward the northern quarter.