It was a cold night in Narvaria, one of the most important port cities in the kingdom of Drinevar.
Beyond being a strategic military point, it was a region that held the interest of the great and prestigious wealthy families of the area.
Its streets exuded the smell of the sea breeze, which seemed more like a curtain of smoke due to its intensity.
Hvom sat in one of the frontmost chairs in the tavern where he usually drank.
The place was near an old, decaying pier, far from the royal port—and generally frequented by people with minimal hygiene and maximum problems with local authorities.
"I already told you I'm getting out of this, Aurelius. One day this whole mess charges more than it gives. And I've been in the red for a long time," Hvom said, holding his beer mug and vaguely pointing at his companion at the table.
"Hvom, by Exelion, my boy! I've known you for at least five winters!" Aurelius replied, slapping his hand on the table with a nervous laugh.
"You say that every time someone screws you over... but two days later you're back, tail between your legs, on another harebrained mission. It's your cycle, kid!" the old drunk continued.
Aurelius had always been the closest thing Hvom had to a friend since he became a mercenary for the Vulture's Sons, eight winters ago.
He was a truculent-looking man, hasty and deceitful. Always eyeing loose pockets or coin purses. If his alcoholism weren't so pronounced, he might have become a noble just from the thefts he'd committed throughout his life.
"You talk as if it's easy for me to break free!" Hvom retorted.
"Most of the time, my share of the contracts is always the smallest. Sometimes I think if you talked more with Larontes, maybe he'd give me a fat sum of coins... and then, who knows, I could finally leave the group," Hvom said, sipping a bit more of his lukewarm beer.
Aurelius let out a long, pained sigh. A rare gesture from him.
He finished his mug in a single gulp, clicked his tongue, and then thrust his greasy hands inside his worn fur gambeson.
From there, he pulled out a small scroll, tied with a cord.
"Seriously now, kid..." he said, carefully placing the scroll on the table.
"I know this desire of yours to go home is real. And as much as I like you, I also know when a man needs to choose a new path. It just depends on him... and an opening," Aurelius followed.
Hvom raised an eyebrow, suspicious.
"I recently met with the rest of the group. Larontes showed up—and this time, not with cheap wine or the usual bullshit," Aurelius continued. "Said he found a new backer. A guy with a heavy name. He's going to give us contract work... with fat payments. For everyone." Aurelius flashed a wide, shrewd grin.
"And guess who he wants to see first?" Aurelius said, pushing the scroll across the table towards Hvom.
Hvom stared at the roll for a moment, then snorted and leaned back in his chair.
"This must be just another one of your damn jokes, Aurelius. Larontes wouldn't want to talk just to me for a job of this caliber," he said, shrugging, incredulous.
Aurelius didn't answer immediately. He just watched him, with a more serious expression than usual—as if, for once in his life, he was weighing his words before using them.
"I thought the same thing. But it wasn't at the usual bar. Not in a tent, not in a gambling house..."
"It was in Oldtown. In the middle of the noble district. In a fucking mansion, so large and exquisite that we looked like mere beggars at its entrance. And we really were," Aurelius continued.
"And he wasn't laughing. Nor drinking."
"He was... quiet. Thinking."
Hvom frowned, still suspicious—but now attentive.
"He said the new backer only wants one name for the mission, and Larontes mentioned yours," Aurelius said, arching an eyebrow.
The silence that followed was thicker than the smell of salt in that damp tavern.
Hvom didn't respond immediately. He just stared at the scroll on the table for a few moments; it had a seal engraved on the paper bearing the symbol of an anchor entwined by two serpents. The situation became an impasse. As if an inevitable crack had formed there between continuing to breathe... or sinking for good.
Hvom took the scroll in his hands, opening it cautiously. The text that followed contained some information:
To the appointed Hvom, of the Vulture's Sons.
At the request of Lord Larontes, you will be granted a private audience with the backer of this house, on the eighth day of this fortnight.
Location: Valmorin Mansion. West Wing of Oldtown, bronze gate.
Subject: Service under exclusive contract, payment for high risk.
Confidentiality expected. Preparation recommended.
Bring only your decision.
"Well, today is the eighth day of the fortnight, Aurelius," Hvom said to his companion.
"Then I imagine you have an appointment," the old man replied, with a fleeting smile.
"When the mission is done and your pockets are full, I hope you remember me... as Aurelius, the benevolent soul who brought you to a peaceful and quiet life," he continued, banging the table and laughing afterward.
•
The contrast was cruel.
The streets of the district were paved and clean, silent. Polished and ornate facades filled the eyes of passersby. The architecture of each mansion seemed carefully planned to stand out from the common neighborhoods of Narvaria.
Hvom walked in silence under the night sky, following the directions on the scroll.
Even the sky seemed clearer there. The stars twinkled like pearls under the dim light of enchanted lamps.
After a few minutes of searching, the bronze gate finally appeared before him. Tall, imposing, bearing the same crest as the scroll: an anchor entwined by two serpents.
"There's no turning back from here, I hope this is worth something."
Hvom knocked on the gate.
The sound reverberated deep, metallic, as if echoing from within a crypt.
Two minutes passed in absolute silence, until a figure emerged from the shadows of the inner garden. A man of refined appearance, wearing an impeccable purple velvet tunic.
"You must be Hvom. A pleasure," he said with rehearsed courtesy.
"My name is Lucius, servant of House Valmorin. Please, follow me. Lady Domitia awaits you along with your commander, Lord Larontes," he added, opening the gate with a restrained gesture.
"I didn't expect so much ceremony for a mere mercenary… how did Larontes get such an important backer?"
Hvom nodded to the servant.
Lucius then began to walk, without looking back, expecting the young mercenary to follow.
Hvom did so in silence.
In front of the mansion stretched a majestic garden.
All the plants seemed to be pruned daily, shaped with precision to maintain geometric patterns of columns and green walls.
The stone path led to the main entrance—a large manor house of dark stone, robust and imposing.
At the center, a black marble fountain spouted water from two angelic statues, both leaning, spitting the liquid from their mouths.
The servant then opened the double doors of the mansion, and the interior view was even more exquisite, the walls of carved white marble, weaving various maritime symbols into the stone.
"Lord Hvom, please accompany me to the meeting room," Lucius said.
The two walked into the mansion and quickly reached a dark wooden door left ajar.
"Good luck, sir," the servant said, moving away having fulfilled his objective.
Hvom pushed the dark wooden door open and entered the room. The atmosphere was dense, almost palpable, and the fireplace crackled in the corner, painting the walls with dancing shadows. A rectangular table, polished and imposing, dominated the center of the space.
To the left of the door, Larontes waited. The man, robust and weathered, bore the scars of countless confrontations on his body, marks of years of battle. He wore his usual padded jacket, reinforced with metal plates and mail that made up his armor. His spear, a faithful companion, rested beside him, an extension of his posture.
At the opposite end of the table, majestic and serene, sat the backer. The one they called Domitia.
A woman with an austere face, her eyes deep, perceptive. She was dressed in a dark cloak adorned with furs and golden embroidery.
She exuded a silent, almost intimidating authority—that of someone truly important.
"Hvom," Larontes greeted, with a serious look.
"Hello, Commander. Lady Domitia," Hvom nodded to both.
"Please sit, Hvom," Domitia's hoarse voice sounded. "We appreciate your presence. Lord Larontes mentioned your name with... certain insistence," Domitia continued. "We have a task. One that few would dare even consider."
Larontes, silent until then, cleared his throat.
"She has a knack for complicating things," Hvom thought, feeling uneasy.
"It's about a recovery, Hvom," Larontes completed, his voice grave.
"Something that is... buried," the commander concluded.
Hvom felt a chill. "Buried." The word sounded heavy, and he feared what it truly meant. He had dealt with "recoveries" before, and they all ended in blood and pain. Hvom crossed his arms, trying to hide the tremor in his hands. "Why me?"
"May I know the nature of what was... Buried?" Hvom's voice sounded firmer than he expected.
Domitia smiled, making a subtle gesture with her hands. "The nature, Lord Hvom, is of something… primordial. Invaluable. A power that predates kingdoms and even the memory of common men," she said, her voice a whisper that cut through the silence of the room.
"A fragment of the one who held all knowledge," Domitia completed.
Hvom felt his blood run cold. Sah'tak. The name of the ancient god hung in the air like a curse. Robbing the tomb was one thing; desecrating the remains of a god was something else entirely.
Madness.
Larontes, noticing Hvom's sudden pallor, intervened, his voice sounding like gravel compared to Domitia's silken tones.
"It's a relic, Hvom. A small piece. They say it contains echoes of ancient power. Power that Lady Domitia believes has… utility," Larontes explained.
"Utility?" Hvom thought, his stomach churning.
As if reading his mind, Domitia tilted her head slightly.
"Lord Larontes mentioned your… resilience, your ability to operate in the shadows. And, perhaps more importantly, your… availability. Few would have the courage, or the desperation, to accept such a task."
Desperation. There it was. The word that defined him.
"The dungeon where… the corpse… rests is guarded," Larontes continued. "Not by men, but by… echoes. Things left behind. Dangers we don't fully understand. But the reward…" he paused. Letting the weight of the promise hang. "The reward will ensure you never have to set foot on a battlefield again, or dirty your hands," Larontes said.
"It's the guarantee of a king's life," Domitia added.
Hvom swallowed hard. The smell of the fireplace now seemed like the smell of his own soul burning.
Going home. Father. Mother. The words echoed along with the name of the dead god. It was a choice between almost certain damnation and guaranteed misery.
He looked at his trembling hands, then at Domitia's face, and finally at Larontes, who, though serious, watched him with a certain expectation.
He took a deep breath; the cold air of the room offered no relief.
"Where… where is this dungeon?" asked Hvom.
"It lies in the depths of the Akavir Forest, home of the elves," Domitia replied.
"However, the dungeon has several entrances throughout the forest, one of which was found in the forest dividing the territory of Drinevar and the elven territory," Larontes continued, leaning over the table.
"Exelion forbade the use of the entrance, placed guards in front of the dungeon, but... you don't need to worry about that part," Larontes concluded, leaning further over the table.
Hvom stared at him for a few seconds.
"And why should I believe that?" he retorted.
Domitia answered before the commander. "Because those guards answer to gold before they answer to orders," she paused and then continued. "And gold... well, it answers to me," she shrugged.
Hvom remained silent. He felt like a pawn on a chessboard.
"Passage will be granted for the right price. You just need to have the amount," Domitia proceeded calmly.
"And what if, by some chance, they don't accept the bribe?" Hvom questioned.
"Then you will have died without even passing through the door. Spares us complications," she replied, almost smiling.
Larontes stared intently at Domitia. But said nothing.
"How do I get there?" Hvom asked finally.
Larontes reached out and pulled a second scroll from within his gambeson. "A map, detailed instructions. You will go alone. Apenas com isso." He also placed a bag of coins on the table. "Enough to silence who needs to be silenced," Larontes said.
Hvom looked for a while at the map and the bag of coins on the table.
"Go back to Salinae..."
"See Father, Mother… try to get rid of this life that has only stained my hands with blood."
These were the thoughts swirling in Hvom's mind, yet he knew he couldn't return empty-handed.
And with a long sigh, he said.
"You know exactly what you're offering me, don't you?" he said, his gaze fixed on both of them. "It's not gold. Nor glory. It's an excuse," he continued.
Larontes didn't answer.
Domitia tilted her head slightly.
"For some, an excuse is all that remains," she murmured.
Hvom closed his eyes for a moment.
He remembered his father's wooden table.
The surgical tools.
The smell of brewing tea.
And the hope in his mother's eyes when he said he was going to "see the world."
Then he looked up. There was firmness in his gaze now.
"I accept." He paused and added, in a lower voice. "But I have conditions." Holding the bag of coins, he continued, "I want fifty percent of what would be mine sent to the Dunhall house, in the village of Salinae." He looked into Domitia's eyes. "And I want this arranged the moment I step out of this mansion," he declared.
Larontes stood up, about to say something.
Domitia raised her left hand, motioning for Larontes to stop. "Deal," she said. "You will have to leave as soon as possible, the journey should take about four hours on foot. Everything has already been arranged." She then picked up a small silver signet that rested on the table and slid it towards Hvom. "Give this to the guards. They won't ask questions," Domitia concluded.
Hvom took the signet and tucked it inside his fur jacket, along with the map. "And if I don't come back?" he asked, already turning to leave.
Domitia didn't answer immediately. Then, with a cold smile. "Then you will have served your purpose. Sometimes, a man's value lies in where he stops. Not where he arrives."
Hvom said nothing, just walked to the door.
Before it closed behind him, Larontes's grave voice echoed, "Good luck, kid."
That didn't sound like a wish for success. It sounded like... a farewell.
Hvom left the mansion.
The night air seemed colder now.
The sky, previously clear, began to cloud over sparsely, like thin veils hiding the stars. Not even the light from Oldtown's lamps seemed to offer him any solace in the face of his decision.
He walked in silence through the empty streets, crossing alleys, bridges, and lanes, until he left the noble district behind.
He also left the city, following the trail indicated on the map.
After hours of walking...
The forest was dense, surrounding him like a living tunnel. Twisted branches cast strange shadows under the faint light of the oil lamp.
The silence was almost absolute in that place, except for the sound of his own steps on the damp earth.
Then he saw it.
On the rocky slope was a gate, embedded in the stone itself, hidden among the gnarled trees of that ancient forest.
Two men stood before it—guards in reinforced steel armor, hoods partially covering their faces. One smoked a small pipe, the other just watched the path Hvom emerged from.
After approaching, one of the guards said, "Another idiot trying his luck at the god's tomb?"
Hvom didn't answer immediately. He reached under his armor, pulled out the signet and the bag of coins, and tossed both into the right guard's hands.
The men looked at each other. The one on the right gave a dry laugh.
"At least this one paid the entrance fee. Good luck with the worms inside, friend," the left guard said mockingly. Then they moved away from the entrance, giving him passage. Both laughing and counting the coins as they walked away—"He won't last a night, hahaha!"
Hvom looked at the gate. He rested both hands on the stone doors that sealed the dungeon.
"Let's go."
The doors opened. Hvom walked into the dungeon. The doors then closed, and darkness swallowed him.
•
Darkness.
It was everything.
No sound. No shape. No time.
Just the void.
Until something began to unfold in the gloom.
A smell of smoke, a warmth against the skin.
Hvom forced his eyes open. The firelight danced on the broken stones, casting crooked shadows on the walls of that place.
He was lying on the rubble. He recognized the remains of the pillars he had toppled. The sickening smell of the creature's corpse he had crushed.
His body ached in more places than he could count.
He tried to sit up. His head hurt.
And then he realized he wasn't alone.
Sitting near the fire was an elf, in white robes and a black blindfold covering his eyes, with a surprised expression.
"I almost walked right past you," the elf said, with a half-smile. "But one can smell from afar those who refuse death... even when it has already touched them."