In the southern reaches of the continent of Auralis stood a kingdom whose name echoed across the land: the Kingdom of Varnok. Known for its flourishing culture, formidable military, and well-ordered governance, Varnok had risen as both the center of power and a symbol of civilization.
The people lived upon values passed down for generations, forming a disciplined and orderly society. These traditions were etched into their art, their grand architecture, and even the manners practiced both within the royal court and among common folk. Yet behind this elegance of culture, the true pillar of Varnok's greatness lay in its military might—ranks of trained soldiers, flawless strategies, and unwavering loyalty to the crown.
On the northern edge of Varnok's domain stood a small village called Duskwillow. Nestled against the border of the Forbidden Northern Forest, it was the last settlement before the darkness of a realm infested with monsters. Its perilous location made it an important stop for adventurers daring enough to tempt fate in those shadowed woods.
Among the bustle of this modest village lived a young orphan named Zeynar. Since childhood, he had struggled alone, surviving by working as a servant in a humble tavern. But this tavern was no ordinary place of food and rest—it was the beating heart of Duskwillow, where adventurers gathered, sharing tales of monster hunts, hidden treasures, and whispers of forbidden powers.
For Zeynar, the tavern was more than just a place of work—it was a window to the wider world. From behind worn wooden tables cluttered with mugs and plates, he listened intently to stories that might one day guide him toward a fate far beyond that of a simple tavern boy.
That evening, the tavern roared with life. Mugs clashed together, laughter echoed, and the air was thick with the mingling scents of hot stew and strong ale. Zeynar moved swiftly between tables, setting down plates, handing out drinks to rough-handed monster hunters, and wiping away spilled beer from sticky wooden tops.
Then, suddenly, the tavern door creaked open. Two figures stepped inside, immediately drawing every eye in the room. An elegant Elf entered first, followed closely by a masked man shrouded in mystery. The chatter ceased at once; conversations died as adventurers turned, their gazes filled with wary curiosity.
The arrival of an Elf in Duskwillow was no ordinary sight. They hailed from the far south and rarely set foot in places like this unless on urgent missions—missions that spoke of kingdoms, legendary monsters, or ancient secrets. Yet here one stood, in this borderland village where few of their kind ever wandered.
The Elf carried herself with quiet grace. Her supple leather armor clung to a slender frame, and her silver hair shimmered under the tavern's torchlight. In her hand, she held a rune-etched staff—a clear mark of her mastery of the arcane. Behind her, her companion moved with calm poise. A greatsword hung across his back, its weight seemingly meaningless to him. His body was concealed beneath a black cloak, and his face hidden behind a mask that radiated a chilling aura. More than one adventurer's hand instinctively reached for a weapon.
Tension spread through the tavern. The laughter and noise dwindled into uneasy silence. One burly man, axes strapped across his back, rose from his chair. His voice boomed, filling the room."What business does an Elf have here?!" he demanded, his tone sharp and scornful. "Your kind thinks themselves above us, too proud to set foot in a place like this. So tell me—what are you here for? Trouble?"
He stepped forward, his axes now drawn, their steel catching the firelight. The tavern fell utterly silent. Only the clink of mugs and the sound of held breath remained.
But the Elf and her companion did not answer. They didn't so much as glance at him. They simply walked past the stares and sat in silence at a corner table.
The man's face twisted with fury. "How dare you mock me with silence!" he roared. With reckless rage, he hurled one of his axes straight at the Elf's head.
The weapon cut through the air with deadly speed—only to shatter in midflight. A metallic crash rang out as fragments clattered across the floor, as though the blade had struck an invisible wall stronger than steel.
Gasps filled the tavern. Some adventurers shot to their feet with weapons drawn, others froze in disbelief. Zeynar himself held his breath, his heart pounding wildly. None could comprehend what had just happened. One thing was certain: these strangers were no ordinary visitors.
In the next instant, the masked man vanished from his seat. Before anyone could blink, he was standing behind the burly adventurer, his massive sword pressed against the man's throat. The blade nicked skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
The room froze. No one moved. No one breathed. The threat of death hung heavy in the air, suffocating all who dared to look.
From the corner table, the Elf finally spoke. Her voice was calm, cold, yet commanding."Best you all carry on as usual," she said, her gaze sweeping across the crowd. "We have no quarrel with you. There is no reason to fear."
The words carried no anger, no arrogance—only weight. A warning draped in calm, like a storm waiting behind still skies.
The masked man slowly withdrew his blade. His form shimmered, dissolving into shadowy mist before reappearing seated beside the Elf as though he had never moved at all.
The tavern remained hushed, the weight of fear lingering in every corner. None dared to provoke them further.
In that suffocating silence, only the sound of Zeynar's footsteps broke through. Nervously, he carried an empty tray toward the mysterious pair. His hands trembled; the tray felt heavier than iron. Yet he had no choice—it was his duty to serve.
The closer he came, the thicker the air seemed to grow. A pressure bore down on his chest, each breath harder than the last. He didn't understand what was happening, only that these two radiated an aura unlike anything he had ever known.
When he reached the table, the Elf finally looked up. Her eyes, calm yet piercing, met his. She spoke in a tone steady and commanding:"Two ales, and three travel rations. Enough for a month."
No more. No less.
Zeynar almost forgot how to speak, managing only a hurried nod before retreating. His heart pounded like a war drum.
When the order was ready, he returned, carrying the ales and rations with heavy, reluctant steps. But the moment he placed them on the table, a black fog erupted around them, swallowing the corner of the tavern in darkness.
Zeynar panicked. He spun to flee, but before he could escape, the masked man's cold hand gripped his collar, holding him firm.
"Let me go, damn you!" Zeynar shouted, thrashing desperately. "What do you want from me? I'm nothing—I have nothing!"
The Elf remained silent, watching him with a distant calm. The masked man gave no answer, his grip unyielding.
Then the fog began to fade, swirling away like smoke on the wind. And as Zeynar blinked in disbelief, the tavern was gone.
In its place loomed towering trees, twisted roots, and the whisper of unseen beasts lurking in the haze. The Forbidden Forest