Heran walked cautiously through the dimly lit streets of Port Haradem. The midnight rain battered against the hood of his black cloak, his fingers hooked around the embroidered ivory handle of his silver dagger.
The pirate haven of the Southern Isles lay dormant. The street vendors had stowed their carts, and the several taverns along the boardwalk remained darkened with their windows shuttered.
Even while covered by the cold, Heran felt a chill jolt up his spine.
Evil roamed the night, searching to extinguish traces of the light.
The Dragoness, a witch from the Cursed Lands, and her serpent army had come to the isles three years prior, seizing control of the monarch castle in the region's capital, Roxundam.
Like many of Tysceras's other dark disciples from woeful occurrences across Aphora, the Dragoness had vowed to compel the world's nations to worship her corrupt master with the hope of tipping the scale of the spiritual war in their favour.
It was a mission that had to be stopped, but for years, defeating the Dragoness seemed unattainable.
Until the whispers began one year ago.
Amidst their oppressed state, the people of Roxundam awoke one morning, overjoyed by a prophecy spoken to them in their dreams.
"Rise against evil, for the light of the world has come. By standing together, the Dragoness will wither and die, and her armies will have nowhere to run."
While the prophecy encouraged the enslaved people, its cryptic state made it impossible to decipher its details.
Who or what was the light of the world?
Where could it be found?
Was it real?
Only a few knew fragments of the answer, the knowledge gifted to nomads and vagabonds wandering the isles. These individuals were known as Oracles, speakers of the truth.
Heran had come to Port Haradem in search of one tonight. Sailors in the neighbouring port declared that an elf possessing a map to the whereabouts of Roxundam's saviour had taken up temporary tenancy at the Deja Vu, a tavern and inn on the edge of the harbour.
Hiring a small boat, Heran set out to find her at once, trapped in a race against time.
Soon, word would reach Roxundam, and the Dragoness would smell the blood in the water, arriving to upturn every building until the threat was destroyed.
Every minute lost without the map was one moment closer to damning the Southern Isles to an eternity of corruption, wickedness and eventual extinction.
The very thought of it caused Heran to quicken his pace.
He looked ahead and noticed the dim framework of a slumped figure shuffle towards him, the flickering street lanterns summoning the man in and out of existence. His body crept towards Heran like a shadow, silent and possibly deadly.
The light above the man suddenly vanished, and his body dissolved into the night. Heran pulled the dagger free from his belt, anticipating an ambush.
Drunk or no drunk, never underestimate a pirate.
Heran walked into the dark patch where the man had once stood, partially crouched, eyes desperately searching for any hint of motion.
The air was silent. Nor a crunch of boots or unsheathing of a sword attracted his attention. Life had vacated the area, leaving Heran standing alone.
He lowered the dagger and finally released a breath from his now-burning lungs, easing his posture.
Crunch.
YOU ARE READING
RISEN | ONC 2024
Fantasy[3 X FEATURED STORY] A boy born with Serpentblood. An exiled dwarf in pursuit of his destiny. A she-elf guided by a religious prophecy. Together, they must rise to find the coveted Light of the World, a saviour who promises to tip the scale of wagi...
