Colt yearns to join the legendary Knights of Midol, protectors of his realm. But his dreams are shattered when he stumbles upon Nola, a cunning rogue with a cryptic mission. Nola seeks the Orb of Elysium, an artifact rumored to hold immense power. L...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The rhythmic clatter of tankards and the boisterous laughter of weary men slowly ebbed in the Stag's Horn Tavern. Gaust's evening crowd - merchants with calloused hands, soldiers boasting of battles won, miners tracking coal dust across the worn floorboards - all filtered out, leaving a settling silence. Colt, a young man collecting cups and glasses, surveyed the emptying room with a practised eye.
"Lock up, boy, and scrub those pots till they gleam," a gruff voice boomed from behind the bar.
Colt, his unruly blue hair peeking from under a low table where he'd been collecting dropped coins, straightened with a sigh. His tatty baggy clothes were already a canvas of grime, a testament to a long evening. "Sure thing, Uncle Marcus," he muttered under his breath, adding a silent grumble about shoving a broom...well, somewhere unpleasant.
Uncle Marcus, a burly man with a thick beard that hid the bottom of his face, grunted something unintelligible before disappearing through a swinging door to the back.
Colt turned towards the door with a resigned sigh, about to lock the door and ready to face the mountain of dishes, when it swung open with a bang, sending him sprawling backwards. The tray of mugs clattered to the floor, glass shattering with a sharp crack.
Shaking off the surprise, Colt glared at the intruder. A young woman on the floor there, her cloak unlike anything he'd ever seen, shimmering faintly as if woven from moonlight. A staff, curiously knotted at one end, clutched in her hand. Her face, pale and etched with fear, scanned the room frantically.
Before Colt could react, another figure burst through the doorway. This one was imposing, cloaked entirely in darkness, its face hidden by a deep hood. A tremor of unease ran down Colt's spine. This was no ordinary tavern patron.
Instinct kicked in before Colt could think. Reading the raw terror in the girl's wide eyes, he lashed out. With a well-aimed kick, he sent a nearby stool skittering across the floor. It slammed squarely between the legs of the pursuing figure, who let out a surprised yelp and crumpled to the ground.
The girl darted a glance at Colt, her fear momentarily replaced by a flicker of something akin to gratitude. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words that tumbled out were a torrent of sounds completely foreign to his ears. Yet, somehow, the sincerity in her voice, the way her brow furrowed in helpless frustration, transcended the language barrier. He understood.
The man scrambled to his feet, a cruel glint igniting in his eyes as he locked onto Colt. He raised a gloved hand, pointing at the boy and spewing a torrent of words in the same alien tongue the girl spoke. Though Colt couldn't understand the language, the venom in the man's voice and the menacing gesture left no room for misinterpretation.
Then, a spark. It danced across the fingertips of the gloved hand, crackling with a malevolent energy. Colt's gaze snagged on the mark etched onto the leather - the sigil of the Shadow Mages. A shiver ran down his spine. He'd seen it before, a faded symbol in an old book his uncle kept under lock and key. Whispers about these elusive figures, rumoured to dabble in forbidden magic and serve shadowy masters, echoed in his memory. This cloaked figure's intentions were suddenly crystal clear.
