When the stranger walked into the tavern, he drew attention at once with his feminine eyes, lean build and shoulder-length black hair framing a soft, pretty face.

A prey. In fact, many would mistake him as a runaway girl from a wealthy family. Especially since there were a few that fled to Mondeus Village in recent years, lured by falsehood and fairy-tale love, but they disappeared into the crooked alleyways as quickly as they came ‒ just as many thought this stranger would too in a day or less.

But in the tavern, even the tougher-looking ones, ranging from mercenaries to hooligans knew better than to stir trouble. Something wasn't right, and their instincts rang alarm bells. Indeed, they wouldn't be able to survive in this village without a keen sense of peril.

Firstly, the air seemed thick with power, emanating from the stranger the moment he stepped in, as though telling others to steer away.

Secondly, he was alone in Mondeus Village, an infamous place ruled by tyrants and rife with men of shady backgrounds. Yet he was unharmed, and as he gazed over the crowd, his face was unfazed in the slightest.

The stranger's eyes returned to the innkeeper.

"I need a room for the night, and a hot, piping stew. Preferably beef but any meat will work."

"Ten bronze coins," said the innkeeper, pushing a thick book for the stranger to write his name.

"You said eight for the previous guest."

"Ten for outsiders."

If the strange energy in the air affected the innkeeper, he betrayed no sign of it. The stranger stared for a moment then relented, parting with ten coins. He found an empty table and sat alone, away from the other guests.

No one went near him, except for the staff who brought the meat stew the stranger requested.

He ate silently, and was soon forgotten.

The tavern's guests returned to their banters and discussions, as the oppressive air faded away.

"Have you heard...?" A loud-mouth woman, who sat with two men just opposite the stranger, said.

"The new mercenaries hired by Ceil?" Someone else shouted.

"The Half-Brother Company," A coarse elderly voice came. "Blood money, blood duties, blood honour!"

"Piss off with the cries," the bald man opposite the stranger said.

"Nox had fallen about three full moons ago...Frath the bard's new story," said the same loud-mouthed woman. "The heart of the conquerors' kingdom, now a ruin and a shithole."

"I heard. Downed six ales the same night I got the news with my lads," said someone else, brandishing his scabbarded blade high up in the air. "The conquered conquerors."

A deep voice rumbled from within another group of ruffians, shouting about bloodletting in the streets to celebrate.

"Aye! Left standing as a lone city when they once ruled over the entire west coast...about time the decay got to the core, eh?"

"How did they fall?" shouted a man with a long scar running down his neck, who had not heard the bard's story. "I fought their soldiers before and crossed blades with Prince Nighvicto. Barely lived to tell the tale...that bowmanship commands respect. Not the best at keeping their castles, but as warriors, tough as nails they were..."

Someone called him a wuss and a weakling, and he retorted. "Dare you to say the same...that you've gone up to one of the Noxarians, let alone the prince and his lady-retainer."

"Hah! Bliaton conquered Nox," said the woman, holding a tankard in her fat grip. "I tell you...the western cities past Merchant's Hill are barbarians, rough and primitive. Good for them to kill themselves off."

The inn became rowdier at her words, as many once hailed from the western cities, which had faced the brunt of Noxarian's warmongering nature. While Nox had not undertaken any new military expeditions for decades, many had been taught from young to fear, mistrust and hate all stood for and by Nox.

"Three days...were all it took, or so I heard," said an old man at last who then drank down his tankard.

"Probably shat their britches," the woman said, and her tone betrayed a slight drunkenness. "Then died...the world without the Noxarians. When I was younger, the Kush'Tars would haunt my dreams. The march of the Noxarians...their crusades through the decades. No more! No more!"

In her overindulgence, she also leaked out a faint Valdi accent.

Someone shouted, "Did Frarth tell that? So they were all dead?"

"Don't take your words from a bard," the woman snapped back. "I said so. The Noxarians are no more!"

"Why do you celebrate destruction? Does the destruction of one country by another enliven you?" The stranger interjected before sipping his cup, the first of his words to the other guests in the tavern. The thickness in the air came back, becoming ever more stifling.

"Aren't you a pretty little thing? Since I'm in a good mood, I'll tell ya this is no place for you to be and these folks are not people you'll want to rub off the wrong way. Scuttle off while you can," said the largest man in the group of ruffians, who earlier talked about bloodletting and now grew increasingly unruly.

"I'm a man," the stranger said matter-of-factly.

A ruffian to his right smiled. It was a dreadful, hideous smile. "I know a lord who will pay my weight in gold for a slave like you. What he wants to do....to you..."

The stranger ignored him.

"Everyone here knows the history of the Nighvictorian bloodline," the woman cut in, capturing the stranger's cold stare. "The Nighvictorian clan that ruled over Nox thought they were meant to run the world. In the end, their military expeditions only sowed hate. They had it coming, pretty boy."

The stranger stared at her, his eyes dark. "Kush'Tar Expedition V, last of the crusades, was six decades ago. It was a foolish attempt, yes, to try to expand influence past Merchant's Hill but that was a long time back. An old hag like you was around during that time. I can see why you hate them."

"Whoreboy, how dare you!"

"Don't yell, woman! It's not your inn," shouted the innkeeper.

"I pay money, so I yell when I want to, you sorry piece of arse," the woman shouted back, growing more tipsy and angry by the second. Turning back to the stranger, she said. "...are you a Nox fanatic? Your dolled-up look is so pretty and weak that you need to bow down to the demons past Merchant's Hill to feel like half a man."

The stranger's face flushed red, and his eyes flashed danger. But he composed himself. "King Nighvicto VII gave up many of the conquered cities, from Eqia to Kenta. He gave them independence. Was that the act of demons?"

"Independence...only in name. Independence because they could no longer maintain control over such a big domain. I tell ya...good ol' Zegir, my half-brother from the town of Nenta, off the Nation of Narda was taxed heavily by the lord because Nox demanded tributes...yearly tributes. He lost his farm because he couldn't pay...then his daughter, who was sold to prostitution. Tell me, boy, was that independence?" A quiet man with a merchant's look said, surrounded by half a dozen people.

"The yearly tributes were requested in reasonable amounts," the stranger said. "Rather than pointing your accusing finger at Nox, I would think the lord was using the rather convenient excuse to extort more from the people."

"Get out of here, Tarian," the woman said, throwing out the name once used to describe traitors of other cities and nations who swore allegiance to Nox during the period of crusades.

"Now...Nox paid back, didn't it?" The stranger said again. "Remember the Yandi pirates, with their black-and-yellow painted faces and lamellar armours? They sailed from the Sea of Great Beyond and would have conquered and plundered much of the western land if not for Nox. Nox lost thousands of soldiers. Were the tributes not fair and square for helping the other cities keep such a frightening enemy at bay, and at so much cost to itself?"

"Young and stupid...like most rich runaway girls and boys who came to this part of the world," the woman spat. "Nox was protecting itself."

"Hah! It's fine even if the whole western land was pillaged. Subhumans, I tell ya. Must be inbreeding," the man beside her, with a scarred face and burn marks over his neck said. He seemed to have survived torture.

Veering off, the stranger said, almost passionately. "Bliaton...mustered everyone, every single citizen and soldier she had, to invade Nox. Was that what you celebrated?"

The man with the merchant's appearance said, his eyes widened. "Don't pick facts. Don't twist the words. We do not celebrate the war. We do not celebrate bloodshed. At least, I do not. I'm a merchant, and we thrive best in peace. But Nox...many of us here have a bone to pick with the ruling Nighvictorian family‒may they rest their souls. No justification from you will be able to erase years or even decades of anger and resentment. If Bliaton invaded because Nox was onto another military alliance, or so the rumours went, then I back King Fredale of Bliaton, the Grey-Haired.

A pause, then the stranger laughed. It was not a normal laughter, almost hollow and weirdly sad.

The stranger said, "Rumours are rumours, no more than lies spread by rats like many here. Tell me...you look like a merchant who travelled much of the world for business. Have you been to Bliaton since after the war with Nox?"

The air became oppressive, and men offended by the stranger's remarks remained in their seats, abandoning any sudden movement.

"Sen-senseless! That whole region is unstable," The same man said. "I would not go near there until the news says it's safe again. I'm a merchant. Do you know what a merchant does?"

"Do you know what's left of Bliaton? Mindless barbarians, still roaming Nox, for someone or something to kill," the stranger replied.

"It's true," an old man from a corner table said, his voice coarse as sand. "What the young man said is true. My son is in Half-Brother Company and not long ago, headed down to Nox to loot. He was sure Bliaton's army had gone home. But they were attacked by...fiends, who barely looked human, and forced to flee. Those fiends never chased, staying in the ruins. I thought it as one of those exaggerated tales he loved to share...but could that have been true? Have you been to Bliaton, young lad?"

"No bards, not even Frath would venture close to Nox, or dare to sing their warped and embellished versions of the aftermath, if they know the truth," said the stranger. "But I dare you, every single one of you here, to pay a visit to Bliaton. Not Nox, because it's a dead and dangerous city by now. But Bliaton...is no more too...an empty city. In more ways, it's eerier than Nox."

The air turned icy. Those who were present shuffled in discomfort, but then the woman shouted again. "Fanatic, watch your back out in the streets. Mondeus Village...does not welcome you."

"I'm not afraid of petty bandits, lowlives and murderers who will kill for a copper coin," the stranger said, drawing ire at once. "Come at me, all of you ....if you dare."

No one moved as the air was not normal again, and someone else who was bold enough broke the silence instead. "Are you a Noxarian?"

Behind, the group of ruffians stirred, seemingly gearing up for action.

"One more thing that Frath sang wrong...the Prime Sorcerer, Jerius Lyvia of Nox, is a man. And he's hunting down someone from within Nox. Someone who betrayed all and orchestrated the wanton destruction for a bigger and more nefarious goal. Remember the sorcerer's name and pray for his success, or otherwise the world's a deader and colder place."

"Who...what are...how could you?" the woman screeched, panic in her voice.

The stranger put the last sliced meat into his mouth, stood up and headed upstairs. As he disappeared into the corner, down the corridor to his room, the woman's tankard ruptured in her hand, cutting her flesh and spilling blood.

Two and a half metres away, the ruffians settled back; the largest man shook his head and waved off his men.

The last the tavern heard was the woman's frenzied scream and the last the guests saw was her men gathering her belongings and scuttling with her out of the place.

The thickness in the air went away.

⧪⧪⧪

Blasted. I did it again. This recklessness will one day kill me.

Jerius Lyvia thought as he closed the inn room's door behind him, his fingers still flickered with the remnants of a casted spell.

Blasted Frath! How dare he sing about the battle.

He was not even there...

And the inaccuracies...

...calling me Lady Lyvia...

Are they mistaking me for my late mistress...?

Jerius sighed.

While more than a month had passed since the war, he had not been able to overcome the loss of Nox, not when the folktales of the destruction twisted with half-truths and embellishments reverberated from nations to cities, to towns and streets.

His eyes closed.

Blood and fire.

The screams, the pains...

So many of them.

He recalled being wrongfully imprisoned within Nox's oldest dungeon, being completely helpless. Then he reopened his eyes, as a lone tear trickled down from one corner. "This is not what I'm here for. No more."

I'm here for something else. Jerius muttered to himself. "...the nearest village to the Guild, and the least guarded and ordered."

He mouthed a short incantation, and a protective spell covered the room. The least he needed was an interruption.

From his muddied bag, Jerius took out a scroll and unfurled it on the table. He snapped his fingers and the two candles flared into life, beating back the dark and revealing a clean bed to the left. There was a stubborn stain on the wall, but Jerius paid it no heed, his eyes scanning the scroll.

Under the candle's illumination, the indecipherable symbols began to shift, as though afraid of the light. They scrambled about on the scroll, then collapsed upon themselves and reformed into words, one letter at a time. Jerius started to mouth words of power, as magic gathered around the letters, shaping and reshaping as they broke them.

Multiple layers of sorcery began to violently unravel, not in the physical space so it remained invisible to all but those attuned to magic. In his head, a dull throb developed. If he was feeling it, the magicians in the guild would soon sense it as well.

Then as the energy within the scroll stirred to a tipping point, Jerius clasped his hands together and drew an intricate symbol in the air, while more whispers of power escaped his lips.

Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead, clumping his hair together.

A bit more...

He held tight as the symbol in the air glowed more intensely, causing even the cobbed web at the ceiling to glisten.

A bit more...

The symbols on the scroll began to swirl, without form and pattern. They just swirled, ever so violent like the waves that clashed against a stone cliff face.

A bit more...

He bit his lips, drawing blood.

His hands shook, barely maintaining the glowing symbol.

Just then, the scroll erupted into flames and a storm of black energies, invisible to those who were not sensitive to magic, gushed out and flooded the room.

From all gaps, crevices and air spaces, the black energies seeped, rising upward and even though Jerius did not peer out of the windows to see, he knew the energies would gather above and intermix with the clouds.

As quickly as that happened, a lightning flash appeared, and thunder followed. It was a strange thunder, the sound eerie against the now-darkened sky.

Jerius staggered then collapsed against the side of the bed, panting hard.

It's done. Now I just have to wait.