Year 932, Beginning of 2nd Month - Aetherwyn Calendar
"Oh gather 'round ye thirsty men,
And leave your woes outside!
The Tankard's full, the fire's bright,
And Harkan's laugh is wide!
Ho! My lads, don't fret your purse,
Nor count your coins with dread—
The first rounds paid in tales well-spun,
The second's on my head!"
The song drifted through the southern quarter of Viremoor, echoing softly over crooked cobblestones. Above the tavern's doorway, a sign etched in silver across dark oak creaked in the wind—like the rope of a hanged man, swaying gently on its noose.
Laughter and curses spilled out onto the street. The Silver Tankard was packed tonight. Nestled near the southern ridge, it was a favorite of hunters and herbalists returning from the wilds. Though its prices were steeper than most, the Tankard offered what others lacked: warmth, music, and Harkan's booming voice that could drown out despair.
In one of the darker corners of the tavern, a man sat quietly, sipping wine. He looked out of place—yet somehow, he belonged here more than anyone else.
His eyes wandered across the room, watching the smiles, the drunken quarrels, the careless ease of men who believed tomorrow would come as easily as today. His lips curled into a faint, unreadable smile.
How free they all seem, he thought. So, content in their small lives. Peering at the world through a pinhole, convinced they understand it. Believing they're the masters of fate. But when death comes—if they're lucky—they'll realize how little they ever knew.
He drank slowly, letting the warmth spread in his chest.
Ignorance truly is a blessing...
The thought churned in his mind, twisting uncomfortably. Watching them—laughing, flirting, arguing—he asked himself:
Am I really so different? Or am I just another frog in the well, thinking I've seen the sea?
A long sigh escaped his lips. He shook his head.
Then, a sharp voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.
"What are you doing here, Meryn? It's not like you to be drinking—and in my tavern, no less."
Meryn didn't turn immediately still immersed in his own thoughts. He took another slow sip, savoring the last of the wine before glancing up at the man looming over him.
Harkan stood with a half-smile, one hand behind his back, the other holding a tankard half-emptied. His apron was stained with ale and grease but his eyes were sharp despite the drink.
"I could ask you the same," Meryn said dryly, swirling the dregs of his cup. "Didn't think you still served men like me."
Harkan scoffed and dropped into the chair across from him, the wood groaning under his weight. "You're lucky I don't toss you out the back and charge you double for breathing my air."
"I'd call that a fair rate."
They sat in silence for a moment, just long enough for the laughter from the main hall to swell and fade again. Meryn stared into the firelight dancing along the edge of his glass.
"You heard the latest?" Harkan asked, finally. "City lord's talking about turning half the outer quarter into orphan homes."
Meryn's eyes flicked to him. "Sound generous."
"Sounds stupid," Harkan grunted. "Waste of time and coin. You build a roof over beggars and they'll still die with their hands out. Give them training and half will turn bandit the moment your back's turned."
"Maybe," Meryn said, leaning forward slightly. "But when has the city lord done anything without a reason? He's not a philanthropist. He's a strategist. If he's feeding the poor and educating street children, it's because he intends to own them later."
Harkan raised an eyebrow, "You think he's building an army out of orphans?"
"I think," Meryn said slowly, "he's planting seeds. Train them while they're young. Shape them before the world does. Loyalty born of gratitude is still loyalty."
Harkan snorted. "That's poetic."
"Nothing about the city lord is ever simple, Harkan. You know that."
The tavern master grunted and took a long drink. "Maybe. But if he's playing some long game, I want no part in it."
Meryn's tone shifted, careful but probing. "And yet… you keep your ear close to the ground. Any word, then? On the Blood Oath?"
Harkan gave him a flat look. "What do you want me to say? That I knocked on his door and asked? 'Oh, my lord, could you spare a word about the soul-binding curse hidden under your robes?"
Meryn didn't answer, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips.
"I've been careful," Harkan continued. "Discrete, like you asked. But this isn't the kind of thing you overhear in the marketplace. And I still don't get why you're so interested. There are plenty of bastards bound by Blood Oaths. What makes this one so special that you want me to jump into the fire."
Meryn looked into the fire again, the flickering glow painting his face in shadow. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he exhaled. "Because this one's… different."
Harkan's eyes narrowed.
"How different?"
Meryn hesitated for a while but eventually said in a low voice, "The original Blood Oath was sealed to the former city lord. But when he died… it passed on. Not just to his son—but now to his son's son."
Harkan stared. "That's not possible."
"No!" Meryn agreed. "It's not. Blood Oath don't pass like bloodlines. They're personal. Soul-bound. You die; they wither with you."
"Unless…" Harkan's voice dropped, suspicion curling at the edge. "Unless it's not a normal oath."
Meryn nodded. "Exactly. And if it's not normal, then the implications are… dangerous."
Harkan rubbed his jaw, clearly unsettled.
"You think the city lord has found a way to twist the Oath? Pass it down like inheritance rather than a curse."
Meryn set his empty cup down and stood. "Keep your ear open. If anything shifts, I want to know."
He turned and disappeared into the shadows of back hall, cloak trailing behind him.
Harkan watched him go, then sighed and poured himself another drink.
"Damn bastard!" he muttered. "Always ordering me around. One day, someone's going to answer with a knife."
And with that, he raised his cup to the firelight and drank.
…
Evening settled softly over Viremoor, the city bathed in gold as the last light of day stretched across rooftops and winding alleys. Lanterns blinked to life one by one and tendrils of smoke curled lazily from chimneys, mixing with the scent of roasting meats and spring blossoms.
From the tallest balcony of City Lord's estate, the world below looked serene—almost untouched by the weight of its history.
Algren stood at the railing, arms resting in the cool stone, his simple navy-blue robe fluttering in the breeze. No armor tonight. No council scrolls or courtly decrees. Just him and the city his father had built with blood and sweat—a legacy Algren now bore on his shoulders.
Would he be able to protect it? Guide it toward prosperity? He didn't know. But he was trying.
Just half a year ago, he'd established the Hunter's Association to encourage brave souls to explore the uncharted wilds beyond the eastern ridge. Yesterday, he and the noble houses had signed off on sweeping new reform—funding orphanages and shelters for the homeless, laying the groundwork for broader changes across the outer districts.
A small smile touched his lips. He had sworn to protect all who called this city home.
Below him, laughter echoed.
"Father, look! He lost again!"
"I let you win! Nothing to brag about!"
"Ha! That's just your excuse."
Two small figures darted through the garden path below—Liora, with her wild curls and louder laughter, sprinting ahead; and Roel, her bigger brother, trailing behind.
"Believe whatever you want," he huffed. "I held back so you wouldn't cry!"
Algren chuckled under his breath. The sound of their banter, the reckless joy of children untouched by the city's burdens, filled a space in him long quieted by duty. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of dusk and jasmine.
Then came the soft brush of a presence beside him—his wife, Aelira, graceful and silent as ever. She slipped an arm through his, her warmth grounding him.
"How long has it been since I last saw you smile?" she asked.
"Not long," he replied, his smile deepening. "Why would I be sad? I have you all."
He turned to her—Lady Aelira, ever composed, with a kind of quiet radiance in her eyes that could soften even the hardest day. In her presence, the heavy halls of power felt lighter.
"They're growing too fast," Algren said, gesturing toward the garden. "Soon Liora will be demanding her own sword, and Roel will be trying to chase the knights out to war."
"They're still children," Aelira said, her voice gentle. "Let them stay that way a little longer."
Algren said nothing for a moment. He only held her fingers tighter and looked once more at the city—the walls, the rooftops, the lives blooming beneath his rule.
Then came the cry from below.
"Father!" Liora shouted. "You promised you'd play the Three-Coin game tonight!"
"And bring snacks!" Roel added. "Mother makes better sweets than the kitchens!"
Algren laughed. "So, I'm demoted to coin-tosser and snack servant, am I?"
Aelira smiled. "You always were."
He sighed—long and fond—then turned from the railing. "The only thing left," he muttered, "is the severance of the Blood Oath. If what the emperor promised is true… then peace, true peace, might finally be within reach. I don't want power, Aelira. I just want my children to be free."
She nodded, her gaze drifting to the distant stars. "He said the curse would turn to blessing. That our bloodline would strengthen, not suffer. But still… I wonder. Can even the emperor truly reshape an Oath forged in blood?"
"We'll know soon enough," Algren said. "Only a year remains. Until then, I'll hold onto hope. That's all I can do."
He extended an arm. "Well then, my lady, shall we go fulfill our royal duties?"
She took it without hesitation. "Let's."
Together, they descended into the garden where the children waited—where laughter bloomed with the scent of jasmine.
Just family.
Just peace.
And Algren, City Lord of Viremoor, laughed freely beneath the fading sky—just as a silver streak tore across the heavens.
"A shooting star!" Liora cried, pointing upward with wide eyes.
Roel squinted. "Where? I missed it!"
"Too slow!" she teased, spinning in place. "Now make a wish, quick!"
Without needing a word, both children closed their eyes, faces tilted to the sky, hands clasped together in solemn secrecy—whatever they wished for held tight in their small hearts.
Algren and Aelira watched them in silence.
Hope.
Innocence.
He looked at his wife, her smile touched with melancholy, and pulled her a little closer. For this moment, this night, the world was whole.
No shadows. No curses.
Just a father, a mother, and the quiet wishes of children beneath a sky.
…
The heaven stirred.
At first, it was only a shimmer—barely a quiver in the vast ocean of stars. Then, with a sudden rift in the fabric of night, a line of searing brilliance was carved across the sky, slicing the firmament from end to end like a blade forged by the gods.
It burned.
A comet on fire.
And as it passed over the heart of Viremoor, the world seemed to hold its breath. Lanterns dimmed beneath its light and rooftops shimmered silver. The cobbled streets fell into silence as eyes turned skyward—peasants and nobles, guards and thieves, drunkards and poets. For one sacred heartbeat, all of Viremoor shared the same wonder.
Gasps echoed from balconies and open windows. Children shouted, hands outstretched. Lovers clutched each other closer, whispering wishes between stolen kisses.
Some prayed. Some wept.
Mostly simply stared in fascination.
And then, like all things too beautiful for this world, it moved on—twisting, faltering, descending. Not in chaos, but in struggle. A fall that did not wish to be.
Then—impact.
Far to west, beyond the edge of the city, the sky cracked open.
A shockwave split the air as a pillar of blinding light burst from the hillside, blinding, apocalyptic. Trees tore from their roots. The earth itself convulsed in pain as the star slammed into the world.
The land screamed.
Smoke rose in great whorls. A crater yawned open in the earth, steaming and scorched, its edges glowing with unnatural heat.
And at its heart—
A man knelt.
He was not dead.
He was not broken.
But he was shattered.
His silver-black hair clung to blood-specked skin. His once-glorious robe, divine in weave, now hung in tatters—burnt, torn, trailing ash. Cracks marred his skin, glowing faintly with light as they sealed themselves, only to open again as his body trembled.
He didn't speak at first.
He sobbed.
Quiet, ragged, like a child lost in a nightmare.
Then, as if his grief tore something loose, a scream burst from his throat—raw and wretched.
It split the trees.
It echoed into the air.
He clawed at the earth. "You killed them…" he choked, voice trembling. "You… you bastards…"
He slammed his fists into the dirt. Again. Again. Cracks spider beneath him.
"My father… my mother… all of them. Just because of this—"
He tore the fabric from his shoulder, revealing charred, cracked flesh. There, burned deep into his skin, was a sigil—an insect-like glyph, delicate yet alive, its divine lines pulsing faintly like veins of gold.
"A heavenly insect…" he whispered bitterly. "You called it cursed. You called it forbidden. But I didn't know… I didn't know! I only picked it up. And you—slaughtered them. Every last one."
He pressed his forehead to the ground, sobbing into the dirt. The crater was silent but for his weeping. The stars above watched, unblinking, uncaring.
The wind moaned through broken trees, carrying embers on its breath like fireflies mourning the fallen.
Then slowly, his breath steadied. His body stopped trembling.
He sat up, face wet, hollow-eyed.
His gaze lifted toward the stars. "I swear…" he whispered. "I will tear your thrones down. I will break your citadels, your laws, your chains. You will feel what I felt. You will beg in the dirt as I did."
He stood—staggering.
"I will kill every last one of you. I will turn your heavens to ash."
But even vengeance could not sustain him.
The moment his vow left his lips; the last thread of strength gave away. His legs buckled and he crumpled to the earth; body curled into the crater.
"Father… Mother…"
Above him, the stars shone cold and distant.