Prologue

The morning sun painted shimmering golden rays upon the solitary eye of the creature, illuminating it in a soft and dazzling glow.

The eye seemed to hold secrets within its inky void, like a portal to another world.

Its jet-black feathers were laced with iridescent hues of purple and blue, giving it an otherworldly aura. The secrets whispered within its eye were ancient prophecies that had been passed down through generations, waiting to be unraveled.

The one-eyed bird perched on a nearby tree, its head swivelling to watch the usual morning ritual. In front of a quaint house, three werewolves stood connected, their hands clasped together as they lowered their heads in unison. A faint orange glow emanated from their nostrils, hidden from any curious eyes.

The youngest werewolf, dressed in worn, tattered clothes, bit his lip before speaking. His parents, both covered in thick fur and sporting sharp claws, stood protectively beside him. "I don't think the treatment is working," he murmured.

The mother's deep growl silenced her son as they reached a hamlet without any signs to declare its name.

Suddenly, an old and scrawny man appeared from the shadows, leaning on a gnarled cane.

"Good morning, Eoin," the werewolves greeted, their deep voices resonating through the quiet hamlet.

Eoin's bent and twisted body leaned forward, his squinted eyes studying the flames in their nostrils. With a nod, he gestured for them to follow him into one of the huts.

A one-eyed bird swooped down and perched on the roof beam as they entered. Inside, shelves lined the walls, overflowing with jars and vials containing mysterious specimens. The air was heavy with the scents of dried herbs and fragrant flowers.

Eoin gestured for the werewolves to take a seat at a large wooden table in the center of the room.

A man in his late twenties stood at a table pounding dried herbs with a mortar and pestle. As the door opened, he carefully lifted his head and greeted the newcomers with a warm smile. "Good morning, Redwoods," he said.

But then, his attention was drawn to the two werewolves as they entered, their flames-filled nostrils flickering and expanding like a living thing. The man rounded the corner of the table, studying the flames with a furrowed brow.

"Torin, perhaps you should ask Mage Wyrm about this," the father of the Redwood family spoke up, concern etched onto his forehead. "The flame did not get better with the potion you made."

Before Torin could respond, another voice filled the room. It resonated with power and experience, startling everyone inside. "Well, well, well," it spoke. "It is just simple breath fever that nothing that Torin can't manage."

The Redwood werewolf who had been speaking stopped mid-sentence and blushed at the sound of this new arrival. "Mage Wyrm..." he muttered.

An old man entered the hut, his eyes shining with wisdom and experience. His disheveled grey mane framed a face weathered by time, lined with deep wrinkles that told tales of a life well-lived. His pointed nose gave him a distinctive and almost hawk-like appearance, while his long and slender arms hung by his sides like branches of an ancient tree.

Mage Wyrm approached the towering Redwoods with purpose, his sharp gaze narrowing as he closed in. With a flick of his wrist, a spherical glass appeared in his hand, its surface shimmering with a faint glow. The three werewolves standing in front of him were caught off guard, unable to follow the speed at which he conjured and swiped the flame from them.

In a fraction of a second, the air inside the spherical glass ignited into a blazing inferno, hovering weightlessly as if suspended by an unseen power.

A young boy standing at the entrance of the hut quickly snatched up the glass containing the fiery orb and hurriedly carried it into the next hut. Inside, hundreds of other spherical glasses floated about, each one containing a flame of varying intensity.

Mage Wyrm's voice cut through the tense silence that had settled over the room like a heavy blanket. "Breath Fever," he spoke slowly, his words carrying weight and authority. The room fell into a hushed stillness as all eyes turned towards him. "It is a highly contagious fever, its cause still not fully understood. It can be exacerbated by intense emotional distress or rare lunar alignments." As he paced around the Redwoods, his expression grave, his words hung heavily in the air. "However, it can be easily controlled and treated with a potion made from Avograss and Knot Mace. Unless..."

The Redwoods hung their heads low, their ears perked up attentively like chastened children.

"Unless they fail to comply with the requirement of abstaining from meat for three days," Torin finished in a hushed tone, his eyes glinting with newfound understanding.

"Mage Wyrm," the female Redwood struggled to clarify, but Mage Wyrm had already turned and stalked out of the hut.

The one-eyed bird trailed behind Mage Wyrm as he stormed through the village, barking orders at his apprentices with such ferocity that even the trees themselves seemed to cower in fear.

In one hut, a frail elf lay on a cot, their once beautiful skin now tarnished with a silver sheen from the dreaded Silverleaf Fever. Every ray of sunlight that filtered through the cracks in the hut's walls seemed to cause them immeasurable pain. Mage Wyrm's apprentice worked diligently, using her knowledge of magic and weaving skills to create enchanted robes made of shimmering Silverwood Tree leaves for the elf. These robes would protect them from the sun's harsh rays and soothe their sensitive skin.

In another hut, a large centaur writhed in agony, their lower half plagued by Hoof Rot. Their normally sturdy hooves were now inflamed and infected, causing excruciating pain with every step. Mage Wyrm suggested soaking the hooves in water from a sacred hot spring, hoping it would provide some relief.

But not all ailments could be cured so easily. In the last hut, a small imp sat hunched over, examining her skin with a look of desperation and disgust. Underneath the surface, parasitic creatures burrowed and feasted, leaving behind painful sores and eventually transforming her skin into scales. Mage Wyrm shook his head sorrowfully, knowing there was no known cure for this condition.

As his rounds came to an end, Mage Wyrm finally allowed himself to sit down and enjoy a well-deserved breakfast. However, his peace was short-lived as he heard a familiar voice approaching - one that always seemed to disrupt his morning tranquility.

The sound of a familiar voice echoed through the morning air, and Mage Wyrm turned his gaze towards the river. As expected, a raft manned by a fellow werewolf emerged from the misty horizon, gliding towards their location with each rhythmic stroke.

Mage Wyrm's hut stood at the edge of the riverbank, adorned with symbols and markings that only those with knowledge of ancient magic could understand.

Next to it was a magnificent garden filled with rare medicinal plants that shone in the gentle sunlight. The Moonlight Blossom glistened like silver and the Whispering Willows seemed to murmur secrets to anyone who passed by.

On the other side of the clearing, a pool of shimmering water hosted a Celestial Lotus surrounded by ethereal ferns.

As the raft drew closer, Mage Wyrm made his way down to the riverbank where Treston, a young werewolf in his early twenties, greeted him with an enthusiastic wave. Mage Wyrm couldn't help but roll his eyes at Treston's typical behavior - reveling in bars and ignoring his responsibilities.

Despite his disapproval, Mage Wyrm tolerated Treston's deliveries because he was one of the few willing to venture into "The Blight Haven" - as many called Mage Wyrm's isolated home on the outskirts of Wessig City.

Though many villagers whispered rumors of curses and dark magic surrounding The Blight Haven, Mage Wyrm had found peace and purpose here as a mage using ancient healing techniques passed down through his family. Despite the disapproval from the healers of Crissaven Sanatorium, who believed in more modern methods, Treston admired Mage Wyrm's knowledge and dedication.

Treston skillfully secured the raft to a tree root and joined Mage Wyrm on land, ready for another day of deliveries and lively banter.

A young boy with a tattered cloak and muddy boots trailed behind the powerful Mage Wyrm, carrying a heavy load of supplies on his back.

The raft they were standing on gently rocked as Treston helped unload the goods, carefully laying them out for inspection: Moonwater collected under the light of a full moon at Granrose Peaks, Mistvine that could only be found in areas shrouded in mist, Soulvine that emitted a soft, pulsating light from its underwater home. However, as always, Treston had forgotten the Dreambloom.

Mage Wyrm's disappointment was evident as he counted the items and pointed out the missing Dreambloom. Treston scratched his head apologetically and promised to remember next time. He eagerly accepted the ten honor golds handed to him by Mage Wyrm, already planning how he would spend it on drinks later that night.

As Treston pocketed the money, he repeated the list of requested items under his breath, trying to commit them to memory. "Whispering Falls Water, Starlight Moss, Wispwillow Bark, Dragon's Breath Fern..." But despite his efforts, he knew there was a good chance he would forget some of them during future deliveries.

The one-eyed bird perched on a nearby branch watched this ritual with sharp interest. It seemed to know that its next task was approaching as Treston boarded the raft and untied the rope. With a flap of its black wings, the bird took flight and followed along as Treston steered the raft back towards Wessig City.

The river shimmered under the radiant sunlight, its crystal clear waters flowing tirelessly through every corner of Wessig City.

As it flowed, the river bore witness to the secrets and stories of the city, gathering them in its depths before joining with other rivers to form the magnificent Sea of Mamaryth.

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Wessig City, a captivating metropolis, sprawled along the rivers flowing to The Sea of Mamaryth, saturating every corner with vitality. These rivers resembled sprawling branches of a colossal tree, seeking to acquaint themselves with every twist and turn of the magnificent city. The melodious rush of the river echoed as nature's symphony graced the city daily, breathing life into the northern expanse of the Sereton Kingdom.

These rivers were not just sources of water for the city, but also served as connective threads for all denizens. They flowed through neighborhoods, connecting people and cultures, and imbuing them with the same blessed waters to the grandeur of the Sea of Mamaryth. It was these rivers that gave Wessig City its unique charm.

In the heart of the city, the bustling streets were filled with a harmonious mixture of voices - the chattering of merchants selling their wares, the laughter of children playing, and the lively conversations of friends catching up.

But amidst it all, one sound stood out above the rest - the dreamlike singing of female elves as they went about their daily routines. Their voices were like pure honey, floating on the air and filling the city with a sense of enchantment.

As they prepared breakfast in their homes, their harmonies mingled with the gentle clinking of pots and pans, creating a soothing melody that was both comforting and invigorating.

And when fresh loaves of bread emerged from ovens, their warm aromas wafted through the streets like a welcoming embrace. Even the one-eyed bird perched on a nearby rooftop seemed to chirp along happily to this blissful chorus.

As the warm rays of the rising sun illuminated the city of Wessig, the centaurs emerged from their stables and began their daily tasks. Their impressive bodies, a combination of human and horse, glinted in the light as they galloped with ease through the vast mountainous terrain. With remarkable speed and precision, they plucked ripe fruits and vegetables from the rich earth, their keen eyesight allowing them to spot even the smallest morsels. The earthy aroma of freshly picked produce filled the air, signaling the start of another productive day.

Meanwhile, the werewolves started their work as couriers, either using rafts to collect goods from customers or venturing into the forest where rickshaws were parked for business purposes. The river dwellers were busy purchasing wood logs to craft new rafts to sell.

The imps, a controversial group in Wessig City, led a more complicated existence. Some engaged in illicit activities in the black markets, while others traded in forbidden goods or attempted to establish connections with merchants from other lands against the king's orders.

Despite these imperfections within the seemingly perfect city, it remained a dream destination for many. Humans made up a small minority of the population but contributed greatly with their intellectual talents. Some ran stores that offered letter-writing services and facilitated communication with distant acquaintances through the centaurs' delivery services. Others specialized in crafting furniture and inventing tools to make daily life easier for all inhabitants of Wessig City.

In a quieter corner of bustling Wessig City, a distinct group of humans resided. The air was thick with the aroma of medicinal herbs and plants. The one-eyed bird perched atop a thatched roof, observing the busy street below. Townsfolk rushed past, nibbling on bread as they hurried to their workplaces and exchanging nods with familiar faces. As they read through the latest news, a sense of urgency consumed them, afraid of missing important updates before starting their daily tasks.

In a quaint shop, an old mage stepped forward, his long white beard swaying as he spoke. His gnarled hands trembled as he pointed to the dusty tome on the counter. "This is the Treant Spasm," he rasped. "If you don't treat it properly, it'll wreak havoc on your body - violent spasms, difficulty breathing, and even death."

The elf scratched his forehead in disbelief. "But I'm only experiencing eye twitches..."

The mage shook his head firmly. "I am certain. If you doubt it, you can visit the sanatorium for confirmation. They may even suggest removing your eyelids..." He visibly shuddered at the thought.

Reluctantly, the elf nodded and asked, "How much for the medicine?"

A smug smile appeared on the mage's face as he spread his hands wide. "Ten honour golds."

The imp, who had been diligently recording in a ledger, stood from behind the store's counter and retrieved herbs from a tall chest of drawers.

As the elf departed with a considerably lighter purse, the mage waved enthusiastically and remarked, "All he truly needs is a good night's sleep."

Casually pocketing the ten honour golds, the mage shrugged, "And some peace of mind. That's what he paid for."

Life in Wessig City appeared serene, despite the recent changes brought on by their new king. Native creatures and humans coexisted harmoniously, a result of generations of trade along the northern borders. However, with the new regulations cutting off communication with neighboring nations, the city's dynamics had shifted.

High above in the branches of a tree, the one-eyed bird observed the busy streets below. Its keen ears picked up on the sweet melodies of the city's birds, their voices intertwining to create a symphony in the morning air. The one-eyed bird couldn't help but feel a hint of envy as it watched them dance and sing together.

As the wind carried the music across the city, the one-eyed bird followed its sound until it reached its source – the grand belling tower of the Crissaven Sanatorium. Rising above the surrounding monochrome buildings, this towering structure stood proud and regal in its golden stone exterior. With each chime of its bells, it exuded a sense of authority and elegance that commanded attention from all who beheld it.

Dong... Dong... Dong...

The one-eyed bird lowered its head in reverence towards the belling tower, acknowledging not only its impressive stature but also its purpose - to awaken and guide those within its walls. And it wasn't just the patients inside who were affected by the tolling bells – even an old man sweeping leaves in the courtyard paused to listen, his daily chore transformed into a ritual as he honored the solemn sound echoing through the sanatorium and its surroundings.

Groups of individuals streamed into the sanatorium; cloaks drawn tighter against the morning breeze. The courtyard buzzed with voices, exchanging morning greetings. The rhythmic rumble of rickshaws over cobblestone paths melded with occasional murmurs from patients being brought in for treatment—a scenario not exclusive to mornings and certainly not limited to that time of day.

Hidden within the depths of the sanatorium's basement lay the Guardian Hall of Emergencies, a sanctuary known only to licensed werewolf transporters tasked with delivering patients. The familiar route took them through an empty registration counter and down a flight of stairs, leading to the emergency hall that some deemed as a design flaw.

Countless discussions had taken place about implementing a more convenient slope for access, but they always ended in indecision. Instead, everyone continued to rely on the conventional yet cumbersome path.

Upon entering the Guardian Hall of Emergencies, one was met with a chaotic scene - healers and nurses barking out orders amidst the clamor of patients nursing broken limbs from drunken altercations the night before.

Cleaners tirelessly scrubbed away blood and vomit stains from the floors, their efforts futile against the constant stream of new emergencies.

This place was full of contradictions - simultaneously safe and perilous, eerie yet indispensable. Those who frequented it were well aware of its multifaceted nature.

Amidst this organized chaos, bewildered students clutched thick textbooks as they tried to navigate through successive groups of patients being ushered in.

But amidst all the turmoil, there was one department that stood out as the busiest and loudest - the basement.

On higher floors, wards housed patients categorized by gender, illnesses, injuries, and specific treatment requirements. The atmosphere in these wards was calmer and less frenetic than that of the emergency hall.

Diligent nurses distributed medication and tended to their patients' needs with care and precision, ensuring their well-being in this unpredictable environment.

Like a well-oiled machine, the daily routines within the sanatorium operated smoothly and efficiently. It was customary for its workings to resemble a colossal wheel, relentlessly propelling each task forward.

As the sun rose over the compound, casting warm rays on the shingled roofs and manicured lawns, the lone one-eyed bird bid adieu with a mournful caw. In the distance, the belling tower chimed its final toll, signaling the start of what seemed to be a promising morning…