Aiden Svalthren moved with great difficulty, carrying a jacket on his shoulder and a leather bag. Inside lay a silver pendant that had belonged to his family and one more item: a parchment with the royal seal of King Veilon.
That damned parchment was the reason he now moved without a fixed destination. A direct order from the king, instructing Angellon Norvel to find him and recruit him into Zhailon's militia.
Aiden Svalthren, a soldier. A military man of the kingdom of Zhailon.
The mere thought was a mockery. In another time, he had dreamed of that destiny. As a child, he had admired the frost squadron his father led in Zaerhast, and in his adolescence, all the soldiers of the great and powerful Xhandor, but now only resentment remained towards those who had taken everything from him. He would never be one of them.
All that was left for him was to flee. To escape before Veilon Thalmyr managed to bind him with heavier shackles than those he had in his cell. His mind reviewed the lands of Erdas, searching for an escape, a needle in a haystack of desperation. Mereos, the continent to the south, was out of the question; the damned Norvels and their influence in Asnar were a shadow he could not escape, controlling every corner of those lands. Kharis, the desert continent to the east, was not an option either; Zhailon's strength reached even there, clinging to power through the son of the former King Thareon Zephandor. The only continent he could go to was Rimehart, to the west. But the path was a beast in itself: first, survive crossing the central domains of Xhandor, then find passage through the elusive Aetheris, and finally, face the immensity of the Clear Water Sea. Only then, perhaps, would he find in Oscencia, or in some other kingdom, the freedom he so longed for.
As much as Aiden wished to evade Xhandor's territory and head west immediately, towards the distant coastal domain of Aetheris and the promise of passage to Rimehart, he knew he had no choice. Two chains prevented him. The first, the imminent arrival of night. His years of confinement had not erased the stories that the Hollow Bastion guards themselves spread, perhaps to keep any escape attempts at bay, or perhaps because they held a stark truth: when the sun hid behind the mountains, the moor became a hunting ground for bandits, mercenaries, and wandering assassins, scum that lurked outside the protection of the domains. Recent rumors spoke of an increase in murders, and not even the soldier patrols that camped out were trustworthy. The second reason was as stark as the first: he needed money. Without funds, he was lost; he couldn't buy provisions, much less bribe his way through the countless checkpoints that plagued both the kingdom of Zhailon and the lands beyond.
The problem? His clan's name.
Being a Svalthren always brought complications. His lineage was a sentence that ensured hostile treatment, looks filled with doubt, and the constant, humiliating need to grease the palms of corrupt officials just to move a few miles before being stopped again at another checkpoint.
After four hours of dragging his feet under the growing weight of fatigue, while his body clumsily tried to regain a connection with the Terum that felt more like an icy scratch than a relief. The landscape, at last, began to yield. The oppressive silence of the moor broke, first with a distant murmur, then with the rattling of wood and stone. The smell of dry earth was invaded by the smoke of firewood and the aroma of roasted meat. By then, the sunset had died, giving way to the blackness of night when Aiden finally reached the first, dubious vestiges of the Citadel of Xhandor.
In front of him, a line of caravans rested by the road, forming a small, improvised settlement. Bonfires flickered in the darkness, illuminating the weathered faces of merchants, travelers, and mercenaries preparing to spend the night before attempting entry into the Citadel.
But what mattered wasn't the caravans, but what lay beyond them.
After leaving them behind, Aiden finally reached his destination, a worn-down tavern with wooden walls blackened by smoke. There was no sign, only a faded symbol carved into the wood above the entrance: a small crown above a long goblet, almost invisible after years of dust and mistreatment. The ceiling beams were warped by the weight of time, and the paint that must have once covered the walls had faded, revealing the blackened and splintered wood, weathered by the weather.
The small, dust-covered windows let out a faint glow of candles, while the muffled murmur of conversations reached him. From the outside, the tavern seemed like a forgotten place; one would think its appearance would be neat, with well-kept walls and a modern look, being only a few meters from the entrance of the Citadel of Xhandor. Instead, it stood as a den of crime and corruption, an abandoned place for rogues and degenerates.
Aiden took a moment to grab a handful of stones from the ground and put them in his bag before opening the door. The door creaked as he pushed it open, letting out a thick air, heavy with tobacco, cheap liquor, and stale sweat.
For a moment, Aiden met a few gazes among the murmurs, scrutinizing him with predatory attention. Some hostile, others calculating. The place was filled with bandits, mercenaries, smugglers, and hired assassins, none of whom were strangers to violence.
The interior was as precarious as its exterior. A low ceiling supported by thick, soot-covered beams, rough stone walls where alcohol stains and old blood mixed with knife marks embedded in the wood. The floor was uneven, covered in a fine dust that hid boot prints and dried mud.
Several sturdy wooden tables were scattered around the room, many with wobbly stools or repaired with makeshift nails. In a corner, a group of dice players laughed with hoarse voices while one of them cursed and threw the pieces to the floor. Near the bar, two men conversed in low tones, leaning over their drinks, with furtive glances directed at the rest of the room.
The bar stretched across the back of the tavern, a long oak table worn down by countless glasses slammed against its surface. A stout man, with an unkempt beard and scarred knuckles, wiped a tankard with a dirty rag while observing the newcomers with indifference.
Aiden didn't stop at the entrance. He didn't want to draw more attention than necessary.
He moved towards a dimly lit corner, his eyes scanning the place, making sure no one was too interested in his presence. Upon reaching it, he dropped into a chair, letting out a faint sigh. He took the small stones he had picked up outside and placed them in the center of the table.
It was a sign. If anyone was looking for someone for a dirty job, they would understand. The name and history didn't matter, only whether you were useful or not.
Aiden looked around attentively. Among those making deals were two who stood out with spectral-looking attire; they were Shadow Lords, a group of assassins belonging to Cronin Arwell's squadron, the commander and archon of the domain of Noctaris. Apart from them, the others wore pompous clothing, their weapons on the table, a display that attracted attention but also revealed their inexperience. The more discreet you were, the better. But in excess, it could be just as counterproductive. Then, his attention shifted to the others who were engaged in quiet discussions or solitary drinking. Three stood out from the crowd.
The first one who caught his attention was a military man whose uniform bore an unmistakable emblem: a stylized golden ship, with sails that looked like wings, sailing on a rising wave from which tiny crystals or sparks of energy seemed to emanate; the symbol of Archoness Thalassa Velmora and her domain, Aetheris. A kingdom of merchants and sailors, whose specialty was the intricate maritime trade operations that connected Zhailon with distant lands. Seeing one of her men so deep in Xhandor, far from the salty breezes of his coastal jurisdiction, was unusual and undoubtedly served a clear purpose.
The soldier's posture was erect, not so much rigid as alert, his chin slightly raised in a gesture that exuded the discipline and pride of a naval power. His sun-tanned complexion and his hair, so light a blond it almost looked white, were characteristic of those who spent their lives in Aetheris, where strong winds and the constant embrace of the sea left their unmistakable mark.
Behind the military man, huddled in the deepest shadows, a man sipped his drink with the stillness of a spider in its web. His figure was thin and angular, his skin a pale, almost ashen tone, as if sunlight had rarely kissed it; a sickly pallor that spoke of a life under perpetually overcast skies. An Edrilian, no doubt. Aiden needed no further confirmation. The people of Edril, it was said, spent most of their lives under the oppression of imposing surveillance structures and among the dense, damp forests of their kingdom, a land of constant shadows and fog, ruled by the iron fist of the Regent Order. His dull black hair seemed to absorb the scarce light of the tavern, and his dark eyes never stopped moving, scrutinizing every corner, every face, calculating threats with an almost palpable paranoia, a reflection of his homeland's perpetual state of alert.
The last individual who caught his attention was, perhaps, the most striking of the three, and Aiden identified him almost instantly as a native of Mount Paradise. Not because of a uniform physical trait, but because of the air of opulence that enveloped him. His skin, healthy and well-cared for, contrasted with the Edrilian's, and he wore clothes of fine fabrics and vibrant colors—oranges and deep greens peeking out from under a good wool traveling cloak—a clear sign of the wealth that flowed in the mountainous peaks of his kingdom. His brown hair fell in well-treated waves over his shoulders. Unlike the martial bearing of the Aetheris soldier and the tense caution of the Edrilian, this man had the relaxed demeanor and cunning gaze of someone raised among the bustling high-altitude markets, an individual accustomed to the subtleties of negotiation and, most likely, the art of well-disguised scams.
Aiden simply observed in silence. Thalassa's soldier was surely a spy, and Aiden had nothing the soldier didn't already know. As for the Edrilian, it was better to stay away from him, and he had nothing to offer the merchant from Mount Paradise.
Hours passed, but no one approached.
Conversations continued around him. Mercenaries discussing prices, smugglers exchanging information, assassins negotiating jobs. The tavern was full of movement, but no one spoke to him.
Seeing that hours passed and no one approached, Aiden knew he had no other choice. He had avoided resorting to it, aware that displaying his power, however minimal, could be quite dangerous. But necessity urged him on. He closed his eyes for a moment, searching within himself for that still unstable and painful connection to the Terum. It was a conscious effort, a struggle against fifteen years of atrophy. He forced the energy to flow, and a cold, dark essence, almost like an echo of the Dead Zone he had left behind, seeped from him, permeating the dense atmosphere of the tavern.
The Terum is the energy present in all living beings as well as in the environment, a tool, which has a natural affinity for physical refinement, combat, domination, or stealth. Not everyone is capable of manipulating this energy. Only the awakened can channel it consciously; its use implies fatigue, emotional or physical drain, depending on the nature of the power.
Despite having been locked up for fifteen years, Aiden's connection to the Terum was still quite strong, to the point that he was capable of using it to enhance his body or in cases like this where he had to use it to make himself noticed in the crowd.
It wasn't a controlled demonstration of power, but rather a contained leak, an icy whisper that caused him to gag slightly. The effect, however, was immediate. Conversations died down, laughter ceased. The gazes of those he had been analyzing (the Aetheris soldier, the stealthy Edrilian, and the merchant from Mount Paradise) fixed on him, now with a different intensity, a mixture of caution and speculation. Other anonymous faces in the crowd also turned. Aiden held their gaze with a deliberately solemn expression as the scene turned icy moments before he withdrew the manifestation of his Terum. He hoped that would be enough.
And after about five tense minutes, it was, as a figure emerged from the shadows and approached his table.
"Hey, is this table taken?"
The man who spoke had a well-kept reddish beard and dark eyes that, despite his attempt to appear casual, scanned the surroundings with evident caution.
"No, go ahead," Aiden said, his voice firmer than he felt. The man sat down across from him without hesitation. He leaned slightly over the table, and his voice was a confidential whisper.
"I felt the energy you released a moment ago," he said, his fingers drumming impatiently on the worn wood, his eyes fixed on Aiden. "I've never felt a Terum like that before, you're not from around here, are you?" But before Aiden could answer, he added, "I'll be brief, I need you to eliminate someone."
"Who are we talking about?"
The redhead didn't answer instantly. Instead, he turned his head slightly to the left and looked at the floor. Aiden looked over his shoulder and saw a middle-aged man with a stiff, almost military posture. His skin was pale, but his features were sharp, with a prominent chin and high cheekbones. His black hair was combed back, revealing a broad forehead and a severe gaze. He wore a long, dark blue coat with silver details that reflected the dim light of the tavern. Aiden knew instantly that he was a man from Oscencia.
"A citizen of Oscencia? What did he do to deserve that?" Aiden asked, keeping his tone neutral.
The redhead didn't answer immediately. His eyes scanned the tavern cautiously, making sure no one was paying too much attention. Finally, he turned his gaze back to Aiden.
"You don't need to know. Just do the job and you'll get paid."
Aiden leaned back in his seat, calmly crossing his arms, although inside he was a bit desperate; it was already night, he had to get something, but he didn't want to seem needy.
"How do you expect me to accept a job without knowing what I'm getting into?" he asked, with feigned indifference. The red-haired man clicked his tongue, irritated, and avoided his gaze for a brief moment.
"You know what, forget it." The redhead stood up abruptly, mistaking Aiden's impassivity for a lack of interest. "I'll find someone else."
Aiden watched him rise, and a quick calculation crossed his mind. If this guy left, he'd have nothing. "One moment," he said. "How much are we talking about?"
The redhead stopped, indifferent to the change, as if he had already seen it coming. He turned slowly, his muscles still tense, his gaze now suspicious.
"Interested after all?" he murmured, his voice grave.
Aiden nodded. "I'm interested in the money," he said, despite feeling a pang of doubt inside.
Was he really capable of taking a life in cold blood? He had spent fifteen years imagining revenge, but the reality of a contract killing was different. Still, the image of the Hollow Bastion's walls rose in his mind, drowning out the hesitation.
"I just need a weapon," he added, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't exactly come armed."
The redhead seemed to weigh his words, the tension in his face lessening a bit. He sat down again, though this time more upright, like someone regaining control of a negotiation.
"Good," he said, his tone now more like that of a businessman. "It's a merchant from Oscencia. He's become an inconvenience." He paused, observing Aiden's reaction. "He needs to disappear at all costs. I'll give you five gold coins for him."
Five coins was a lot; was a life worth that much? Perhaps this merchant wasn't a simple man. Besides, that man was from Oscencia, exactly where Aiden planned to flee. If it came to light that Aiden had finished off one of its inhabitants... then he would have nowhere to go. Was this really a good idea? Aiden swallowed hard; he had no alternative.
"The weapon?"
A fleeting, almost predatory smile crossed the redhead's lips. He reached into a worn leather pouch at his belt and, after a moment, pulled out a narrow, dark-bladed razor with intricate details and small stones wrapped in an oiled cloth. He slid it across the table with a quick movement.
"Here you go. Make it look like a robbery gone wrong, something believable around here." He leaned back, his confidence visibly restored. Then he left a couple of silver coins on the table. "I'll leave you these coins in case you have trouble getting into the Citadel. I'll give you the rest in this very tavern when you bring me proof that the merchant is no longer a problem."
Aiden took the razor. The cold, smooth steel felt heavy in his hand, a brutal contrast to the lightness he felt in his stomach. It was just a piece of metal, but it represented a line he was about to cross... The doubt was still there. But he still nodded, his face an impassive mask.
"Understood."
The redhead watched him intently.
"Don't fail me. I don't like mistakes." Aiden held his gaze, though inside, the image of his only past victim fought to surface. He shrugged.
After this, the man grunted and stood up.
"By the way, don't even think about trying to escape with the razor and the coins, because we'll find you," he said, disappearing quickly into the tavern crowd. Aiden was left alone, the razor hidden in his bag and a few silver coins in his leather pouch, with the weight of five gold coins and another's life pressing on his chest.
An assignment. An opportunity. And a question that echoed in the back of his mind: Could he really do it? Well, he didn't really have a choice anymore.
Aiden waited a moment, watching the comings and goings of the scum that populated the place until he saw the man from Oscencia leave with another person. Then, he slipped out of the tavern with measured steps, the razor hidden but within reach. Outside, the night breeze brought him the scent of bonfires and burning wood from the last vestiges of the temporary caravan settlement. Most had already departed. His gaze searched for the man, spotting him as he hurried away towards the first walls of the Citadel.
He wasted no time and headed for the city's checkpoint, where the guards kept watch with tired but alert eyes. Initially, he tried to pass with a simple exchange of words, but Xhandor's soldiers rarely allowed anything to pass without personal gain. The parchment with the royal seal was still in his bag, but it wouldn't help him in this situation; it would only generate questions that would reach Veilon's ears.
The crossing wasn't free. Without much discussion, one of the guards extended his hand in a silent, demanding gesture. Aiden looked at him coldly for an instant, the idea of stabbing him with the newly acquired razor fleetingly crossing his mind before being crushed. With a slight sigh, he took out a few coins the redhead had given him and dropped them into the soldier's palm.
The metallic sound was enough. Without further questions, the guard stepped aside and allowed him to pass.
Aiden entered the Citadel without looking back, his eyes fixed on the figure of that merchant from Oscencia.
The great Citadel of Xhandor, heart of the Kings' Moor and all of Zhailon, unfolded before any traveler in three concentric rings of increasing importance and opulence. The outermost, known simply as the Common Circle, teemed with the lives of those less fortunate: artisans, small merchants, laborers, and the countless northern refugees who had arrived with the new king. Its streets, though cobbled, were narrower, and its buildings, though of dark, functional stone, lacked the ornamentation of the upper levels, reflecting the daily struggle for subsistence.
Ascending inward, the Ring of Districts opened up, a wider, more orderly area. There, the streets were wider and better maintained, flanked by multi-story buildings with iron window frames. It was home to the most influential guilds, the central markets where goods from all over the kingdom converged, renowned academies like Eilhart, and the imposing but austere administrative buildings of the ministries. Small temples and the residences of officials and minor nobles were also found in this Circle, a testament to the machinery that kept the vast kingdom running.
Finally, at the very heart of the Citadel, rising above the others, stood the Third Circle, where the king resided. Surrounded by its own inner walls, this was the sphere of absolute power. There stood the imposing Sun Zephandor Palace, now Thalmyr Alcazar, with its marble towers and obsidian and gold domes. Within this sacred Circle resided the royal court, the high nobility, the Royal Guard, and the council halls where Zhailon's fate was decided. It was a place of palpable greatness and power, the epicenter from which King Veilon Thalmyr attempted to rule a kingdom of divided loyalties.
Aiden didn't plan to venture beyond the first Circle; the murder had to happen right there, or the coins wouldn't last him. As he pursued the merchant, the main streets widened, with better-aligned cobblestones and strategically placed wrought-iron lampposts, their flames dancing and casting unsettling shadows. The buildings' windows had iron frames, and the roofs rose with steep inclines, a characteristic detail of Zhailonite architecture. Small temples, perhaps dedicated to forgotten gods or the state faith he so distrusted, were interspersed among the commercial districts, their facades adorned with stone statues representing ancient figures of the royal lineage.
Around him, the city's movement didn't cease, even in the darkness. Night merchants offered exotic goods under the flickering light of tall torches, while groups of soldiers patrolled the streets in formation, their polished steel armor reflecting the firelight. Surveillance was stricter here than in any other domain he had known.
Every step he took towards his target filled his mind with a sea of questions. The razor in his bag felt like a block of ice and fire at the same time. Could he really do it? The idea of plunging steel into a stranger's flesh for a few coins made him nauseous, but the image of his freedom, of Rimehart, of leaving the Svalthren name and the stench of prison behind forever, was a powerful desire.
Aiden kept to the margins, using the shadows of arcades and the nooks of side streets, avoiding the busier routes where patrols were more frequent. Finally, the man accompanying the merchant turned into a narrower surrounding street until he disappeared in the distance, leaving the black-haired merchant near the inns. Aiden waited a moment, hidden in the darkness, his heart pounding hard against his ribs. It was now or never. He had to decide if he would cross that line. He adjusted the leather bag on his shoulder and walked with deliberate slowness towards the inn's entrance, his hand instinctively near the razor.
And then, he felt it.
An icy shiver ran down his spine, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
An energy. Different. Powerful.
He hadn't noticed it before, too focused on his prey and his own internal storm, but now it manifested with alarming clarity. It wasn't a mere premonition. It was the presence of someone else, someone who hadn't been there a second ago. His steps slowed to a halt, his body tensing, spinning on his heels with the speed of a cornered animal, preparing for any eventuality.
But he had no chance to react.
Something moved in the shadows to his left, a dark blur faster than a blink.
Everything went black.
His consciousness faded before he could even process the blow.