First message
The tavern was loud in the way only desperation could be.
Tankards slammed. Laughter cracked like broken glass. Smoke curled thick in the air, clinging to the low wooden beams like it belonged there more than the men beneath it. Firelight flickered from iron sconces, painting everything in restless gold and shadow.
And in the far corner—away from the noise, away from the world—
Alaric Voss sat alone.
A hood shadowed his face, but it did nothing to hide the sharp line of his jaw or the tension coiled in his shoulders. His gloved hands pressed flat against a scarred wooden table, pinning down a collection of maps so worn they looked like they might disintegrate if he breathed too hard.
They weren’t ordinary maps.
Ink bled in strange directions. Coastlines shifted depending on the angle. Symbols—ancient, forbidden—were etched into the margins like warnings no one had survived to explain.
One map in particular held his attention.
It was older than the rest.
Burned at the edges. Stained with something darker than time. And in the center—
A mark.
A circle fractured into six points.
Alaric’s thumb dragged slowly over it.
“…Six years,” he muttered, voice low, roughened by too many sleepless nights. “Six damn years.”
The fire beside him crackled.
For a moment, the mark glowed.
Not brightly—just enough to make his breath hitch.
He froze.