Vol 2. prologue[1]

"Did you hear? Prince Edward is gonna be named as the heir instead of Prince Leopard. They say Edward is much more fit to follow after Leopard lost that battle in the west with the kingdom of Lothria," a burly man said with an enthusiasm that didn't match his size.

The old, crooked tavern was filled to the brim tonight as usual, with drunken peasants laughing loudly and barmaids skirting between crowded tables. The fires roared hot, casting a warm, golden glow on the new faces that had trickled in from the bitter cold outside. In the corner, an old bard plucked a merry tune on his lute, while a group of soldiers on leave clanked their overflowing mugs together in another triumphant toast. The savory smell of roasting meat and fresh bread wafted from the kitchens. Serving girls emerged balancing plates loaded high with sautéed vegetables, grilled fish, and braised game meats prepared from the day's hunting spoils. Despite the crowded, noisy atmosphere, there was a genial warmth shared by all taking temporary refuge inside the tavern's sturdy timbers from the harsh winter night.

"Yeah, didn't you see Master Rovan hasn't been at the guild for two days now?" the old man in the trio commented, taking a swig of ale. "It's been, what, 2 years since a prince was last named heir? It was about damn time they put an end to this farce - the kingdom's been divided for far too long."

"You're forgetting Prince Jax," the burly man responded. "He was technically named heir for half a day before he vanished to gods know where."

The old man scowled. "That coward doesn't deserve to be remembered. We Caitians are a proud people - I'd rather die with honor than think that the milksop of a prince was ever considered to rule over us."

The third man, who had been silently nursing his drink, finally spoke up. "Either way, perhaps Prince Edward can finally unite the factions. He's said to be a skilled negotiator and commander both. If anyone can consolidate the crown's power again, it's him."

The burly man nodded. "Aye, and it doesn't hurt that he's in good with the Merchant's Guild. Trade has suffered long enough - if Edward takes the throne, gold could flow back into the kingdom's pockets."

"Gold won't mean anything if the western barons rebel against another crown appointment," the old man growled. "Mark my words - the factions won't unite easily, no matter who wears the crown."

"Let's just hope Prince Edward doesn't suppress the Adventurer's Guild like the old king did," the third man commented, a hint of venom in his voice. "If not for that, we would have prospered way more than we have."

The old man scowled. "Hah! You adventurers already have more personal than our army as it is. If the old king hadn't set those restrictions, the people would have all joined your precious Guild instead of the crown's forces."

He took a long swig of ale before continuing. "Look at the Kingdom of Lothria - they make even you wandering mercenaries commit to fight in their wars. Unlike us, who still let you roam free as you please."

The burly man raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Now, now. The Adventurer's Guild has done right by Caito despite the crown's obstacles. And Edward seems less wary of free companies - with the barons threatening revolt, he'll need all the swords he canmust er to keep the kingdom intact."

The third man nodded. "For once, I agree with you, my large friend. Here's to hoping Prince Edward sees the Guild as an asset to stabilize the realm. Gods know we can't afford another civil war." The trio raised their mugs in solemn hopes that the newly-named heir would prove wise enough.

Just as they were taking the last sip of ale from their frothy mugs, a loud, blaring horn suddenly sounded from the village lookout tower. The horn blew not once, not twice, but three bone-chilling times, the echoes ringing out across the valley. An eerie silence immediately fell upon the tavern as all the boisterous talks and laughter died on the lips of the patrons.

Everyone froze in place, mugs halfway to their open mouths, eyes wide with dawning terror. The barmaids gasped, one dropping a tray of mugs which crashed to the floor, shattering the tense silence. All knew the meaning of the village alarm horns - one blow for a minor C rank threat, two for a more dangerous B rank. But three horns could only signify an impending calamity of the high order.

Chaos erupted as everyone jumped to their feet, chairs screeching back from tables. There was a stampede toward the doors as people shoved and scrambled over one another in mad panic. Many tripped and were trampled underfoot by the mob in their desperation to flee. The previous scene of community and camaraderie was replaced by total dismay and horror at the prospect of the doom to come. Outside people ran screaming through the streets, mothers frantically searched for lost children, the most stalwart men quaked in their boots at the thought of a foe mighty enough to warrant three dire horn blasts.

The trio hurried out of the building, the old man fuming. "What's going on here? Do we have time to escape?" he demanded. 

"Should do," the burly man replied. "They usually sound the warning horn long before any monster horde attacks. But who knows what an A rank threat warning means. We'd better get as far away as we can, just in case. You still have that teleportation scroll right?" the burly man asked.

"Yes," the third man replied. "Let's get somewhere nobody can see us."

He led the trio through the alleys until they reached a secluded dead end. Glancing around to make sure they were alone, he turned and took out a scroll from his belongings. The scroll was old and yellowed, with arcane symbols etched along its edges that glowed faintly as the third man unfurled it. He began reading the spell inscription to activate the teleportation magic. The air around them shimmered, and they could feel the scroll's power gathering to whisk them away.

But then the glow around the scroll flickered and died. The shimmering in the air faded. "Something's wrong!" the third man exclaimed. "The teleportation isn't working!"

"Try it again!" urged the old man anxiously.

The third man attempted to reactivate the scroll's magic, to no avail. "Someone must be restricting spatial transportation spells in the area. We're trapped!"

The old man grabbed the collar of the third companion in anger, his weathered face twisting into a scowl. "What good is this useless scroll you purchased? I gave you 300 gold coins to buy a teleportation spell that could get all of us out of danger! Instead you fetch this worthless scrap of parchment that these monsters somehow negate with their infernal magic!"

The brawny warrior sank to his knees in despair upon hearing the old man's furious words. "Gods save us, We are all doomed! There is no escape from this vile place with whatever enchantments blocking our gateways and portals." He raised his anguished face to the night sky. "That horde of monsters will surely flay the skin from our very bones! We cannot flee or hide from their numbers. Our lives are finished!"

The old man released his grip on the luckless third man, his initial spark of rage vanishing as quickly as it had flared, replaced now by resignated grief. It had not been the young man's fault that somehow they were in middle of an A rank horde attack, nor did the monsters had means to counter common magical scrolls. The hunched figure sighed deeply, a single tear tracing through the dirt and blood dried upon his weathered cheek. "There is no escape except as food for the worms."

As the old man and brawny warrior sank into depths of despair, the third companion withdrew a glittering dagger from the folds of his cloak. His youthful face was pale but set with quiet determination even amidst their dire circumstance. "If these be my final moments in this world, then I choose to meet them with steel in hand." He clutched the blade tightly, moonlight from the cavern entrance glinting along its razor edge.

With these bold words hanging in the gloom, the brash youth turned on his heel and sprinted back up the dark alleyl alone, not waiting to see if his doomed comrades would join in one last act of defiance. The darkness soon swallowed his retreating form, leather boots splashing through stagnant water the only sound. The old man and warrior stared after him, neither making a move to follow.

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