Rawlings Crawford was working late. The enchanted gem on his desk, a luminous, pale-blue stone purchased from an Eldridan merchant during his last visit to Silverleaf,cast an eerie glow across the parchment-strewn surface. Its light flickered occasionally, as if reacting to some unseen disturbance in the air, but it was steady enough to work by. Outside, the night had swallowed Carbonis whole, leaving only the faintest glimmer of stars obscured by the ever-present coal-smoke haze that clung to the city.
The Lord of Carbonis was a portly man, his pale complexion a testament to long hours spent indoors, poring over reports and ledgers. His dark hair, streaked with the first hints of silver, was neatly combed, and his ordinary brown eyes held a sharpness that belied his otherwise unremarkable appearance. His clothes were of the finest make, a deep emerald doublet with silver embroidery, tailored in the latest fashion of the capital. Even stranded in this frigid, coal-stained city on the edge of the White Wilds, he refused to let himself slip into provincial obscurity.
He rubbed his temples as he reviewed the latest trade reports. Ships had arrived in the harbor today, bearing vital supplies: food, salt, wine, and thick woolen garments to withstand the coming winter. But the quantities were meager, the prices exorbitant. The war with the Republic Nation of Amen had disrupted everything. The kingdom's military was hoarding resources—food, cloth, even salt, leaving cities like Carbonis scrambling to secure enough to last the season.
A frustrated sigh escaped him. This city survives on coal, he thought bitterly. And coal alone. Once, that had been enough. But now, with the demand shifting to iron and steel for weapons, his usual trade routes were strained to breaking. His agents had managed to secure only half the usual shipments, and at twice the cost.
His quill scratched against the parchment as he drafted new orders. If he acted quickly, he might yet turn this disaster to his advantage. Buying up excess salt and grain now, while prices were still manageable, could prove profitable come spring, when the war would inevitably escalate.
He was nearly finished when a soft knock interrupted him.
"My Lord, a woman by the name of Nala is here to see you, sir," his butler, Bob, announced from the doorway.
Rawlings frowned. It was far too late for unexpected visitors. What business could possibly warrant disturbing the Lord of Carbonis at this hour?
"Why did you let her pass the gate, Bob?" Rawlings growled, his irritation flaring.
Bob, an elderly man with a permanently weary expression, bowed slightly. "Forgive me, my lord, but she bore the crest of a Watcher."
A Watcher. Rawlings' stomach twisted. The Watchers of the Black Gate were not known for social calls. If one had come all this way from the northern frontier, it could only mean one thing: disaster.
"Thank you, Bob. See her in, please," Rawlings said, forcing his voice into calm. He finished the last line of his order with deliberate precision, set his quill down beside the inkpot, and looked up just as the woman entered.
She was of average height, her amber hair cropped short in the practical style of a soldier. Her eyes,a striking, almost unnatural shade of amber, marked her as a southerner, rare in these frozen reaches. Her armor, though battered and scorched in places, clung to her lean, muscular frame like a second skin. The sight of it sent a chill down Rawlings' spine. Whatever she's been through, it wasn't gentle.
"I greet the Lord of Carbonis," she said, her voice rough with exhaustion. "I am Nala Frost, of the Watchers of the Black Gate."
Rawlings gave a polite nod. "You bear the crest of the Watchers. That grants you certain privileges, for your service to the Races of Light. You may speak freely here."
Nala's jaw tightened. "Thank you, your grace. But I do not come seeking privilege. I bring… terrible news."
Of course you do. Rawlings braced himself. "Then speak, Watcher. What brings you to my office at this hour?"
She took a shuddering breath. "The Black Gate has fallen."
For a moment, the room seemed to tilt. Rawlings' hands gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles whitening. Impossible. The Black Gate was the last bastion, the only barrier between the Realm of Light and the horrors of the Grey Ones. If it had truly fallen—
"What did you say?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
Nala's eyes burned with grim certainty. "The Black Gate that guards the Realm of Light… is no more."
Rawlings felt the blood drain from his face. This is the end.
"Tell me everything," he demanded.
And so she did. She spoke of the final stand, of the Guardian's fall, of the Watchers' desperate last defense. She told of her escape, of the handful of survivors who had fled with her, only to be hunted down one by one by the pursuing Grey Ones. She spoke of the creatures splitting into packs, scattering across the land like a plague.
"And the other groups?" Rawlings pressed.
Nala shook her head. "I do not know. We only learned of the split when… when the others were taken. I am the last." Her voice cracked, but she clenched her fists, refusing to break.
Rawlings exhaled slowly, his mind racing. We must prepare. Warn the kingdom. Evacuate? Fortify? There was no time to waste.
He picked up a small brass bell from his desk and rang it sharply. Bob reappeared instantly.
"Prepare the messenger horses," Rawlings ordered. "Summon the city guard commander. And have the head maid arrange quarters for our guest."
Bob bowed and vanished.
Rawlings turned back to Nala. "You have given us a warning when none might have come. For that, the Realm owes you a debt."
She saluted, fist to chest. "I do not deserve praise, my lord. I ask only that when the fighting comes… I be allowed to stand with your forces."
"Of course," Rawlings said.
A soft knock signaled the arrival of the head maid, a stern-faced woman with iron-gray hair.
"See that our guest is given a warm meal, a bath, and proper rest," Rawlings instructed.
The maid nodded and guided Nala away.
Alone at last, Rawlings sank into his chair. Is this truly the end? He stared out the window, into the suffocating darkness beyond. Somewhere out there, the Grey Ones were coming.
With a slow, steadying breath, he picked up his quill once more. There was no time for despair. Only preparation.
He dipped the nib into the inkwell and began to write. Orders. Warnings. Pleas for aid.
He could only pray that somewhere, anywhere, forces were gathering to halt the world's slow, inevitable path into the end.