In the Inn Room
On an old wooden chair in a spacious room, Gasper sat upright. The oil lamp hanging from the ceiling cast long shadows across the stone walls. His aging eyes narrowed, fixed on the pile of letters scattered across the desk. His hand—wrinkled yet steady—pulled three sheets from the stack. The dark-red wax seals, stamped with crests, were still fresh.
"From the Main House of Viscount Braskall, Family of Zeyr Braskall."
"From Marquis Meredric, Marquis Carius Meredric."
"From the King of Aetheris, King Valen Aetheria."
All three bore the same name.
Gasper Weyr Braskall.
Grand Merchant.
The Golden Scrambler.
Gasper's face looked weary. The lines at his temples deepened, his eyes heavy with burdens that never truly faded. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, when—
Knock… Knock…
At once, Gasper slid the letters to the edge of the desk.
"Come in…" he said.
Creeeak…
The wooden door opened slowly.
A tall man entered, his face smeared with road dust, a worn scarf draped around his neck.
"How are the streets?" Gasper asked without lifting his gaze.
"Quiet enough," the man—Selim—replied flatly. "But I saw the boy. Yesterday's boy. He was walking around the market with Doria."
Gasper's brow arched slightly. "How is he?"
"Better than before."
Gasper nodded faintly. He lifted his hand, signaling Selim closer.
"There's a new task for you. Starting tomorrow, watch the eastern gate of Azbirut. Bring some mercenaries with you. If you see a caravan bearing Baron Uvelim's crest, block them… until I'm gone from Azbirut."
"Yes, Chief," Selim answered calmly but firmly. With a curt nod, he left without another word, shutting the door softly behind him.
I can't let Marquis Meredric's pawns get to me first. I have to prevent whatever schemes those bastards are weaving from the shadows.
Silence reclaimed the room. Gasper drew a heavy breath, reaching into a drawer. He pulled out an old gold coin—one side inscribed with Aetheris, the other engraved with a knight in armor raising a sword.
"Come in."
His voice was barely a whisper.
Creak…
The door opened again, slower this time. It wasn't Selim.
It was someone cloaked in black, aura laced with tendrils of faint magic.
He stepped in, his jet-black cloak concealing his frame, face hidden behind a silver mask of intricate carvings. Every movement was sharp, precise—without a single wasted gesture. His gaze pierced deep, unsettling.
"Pardon me, old man," he said lightly, though the room itself seemed to tremble at his words. "Long time no see. Seems you're not dead yet."
Gasper met him with a flat stare. "Sit."
Without protest, the masked man pulled out a chair and sat cross-legged, leaning back. His eyes wandered across the room—dusty letters, aged tomes, the faint stench of stale coffee—before resting once more on Gasper.
"I'm thirsty. Got anything to drink? My throat's dry."
"In the corner," Gasper answered. "Brew it yourself."
The man rose wordlessly, found the packet of ground coffee, and poured it into a cup. The kettle hissed softly. Soon, the air filled with the scent of fresh coffee.
"Your life seems quieter now, Elrac…" Gasper murmured. "Where are you heading this time?"
"The East. Solmaria. I've been summoned by The Radiant One and the High Saintess," said the masked man—Elrac.
Gasper's brow furrowed. "You truly mean to meet them?"
Elrac chuckled, a trace of mockery in his tone. "Yes, Why not? old man?"
Gasper's reply was gentle. "Nothing."
"You too, weren't you the one who visited them often back then?" Elrac countered.
Gasper fell silent. Elrac sipped his coffee again. "Want me to make you a cup?"
"No. I've already had mine."
A pause settled between them.
"How's your family?" Gasper asked quietly.
Elrac turned, a faint smile at his lips. "You mean Alaric."
Gasper nodded.
Elrac's voice grew flat, tinged with memory. "Alaric has two children now. Haven't you visited? It's been years."
"Maybe someday," Gasper muttered. "When this is over."
Elrac stared into his cup. "Anyway, I'll be staying a few days in this city."
For a moment, silence pressed between them, broken only by the faint creak of wood. Then Gasper leaned back in his chair, his voice heavy.
"You know the King of Aetheris is after you?" Gasper said slowly. "He sent me a letter. Half of it was a plea to persuade you."
"I already told them—I'm not interested. They only want me to lead the northern border. They'll manage without me."
"Guarding the border…?" Gasper repeated. He paused. "If I recall, the creatures in that region are the Acuti."
He fixed his gaze on Elrac. "I thought they'd stopped attacking since… that incident."
"They had," Elrac replied. "But word is different now. I hear they've made a pact with demons. That's why they're striking again."
Gasper exhaled slowly. "I see…"
"And you, old man?" Elrac grinned. "I hear you've troubles of your own. The Marquis, hmm?"
"It's fine. I can handle it," Gasper answered calmly. But his tone sharpened, cutting through the quiet.
Since Elrac's arrival in Azbirut, Gasper's thoughts had shifted. He had considered fleeing with his merchants—fearful of mercenaries striking at the city in secret. Especially since Aldric, the Baron and Azbirut's protector, had been sent far east by royal decree. Yet relief stirred in him now. Elrac was here. Someone he could trust—sitting across from him.
"As expected of the man who once shook the world's economy," Elrac chuckled.
But Gasper's voice lowered, almost to a whisper.
"I have another problem… Will you help me?"
Elrac raised an eyebrow. "You? With a problem?, You said before that you can handle your own problems."
Gasper's silence lingered before he spoke, his tone softer.
"I'm certain… in a few days Azbirut will face an attack. I want you to stop it. Since you'll be here anyway."
Elrac laughed lightly. "You predict something like that, old man?"
But Gasper's face held no humor. "I'm sure mercenaries have been hired. Their aim isn't only my life—but to shake the power of House Ashenblade."
Elrac narrowed his eyes. "They mean to strike at the Duke's kin?"
"I doubt the city guard can hold… not without Aldric Ashenblade."
Elrac studied Gasper for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Very well. I'll deal with it."
Relief washed over Gasper, though he wasn't finished.
"And… one more request."
He drew in a deep breath, his words weighted with hope.
"Take with you a boy I want saved."
Elrac frowned, nearly disbelieving.
"His name is Evaran," Gasper said softly. "Take him. Teach him… for the next two years."
Elrac let out a mocking laugh. "You want me to raise a child?"
"Just two years," Gasper insisted. "Teach him how to survive this cruel world. I don't want that boy to die too soon."
Elrac tilted his head back, staring at the cracked wooden ceiling. Then murmured, "Old man… I think I still owe you, don't I?"
"Yes," Gasper said. "I remember you still do."
Their eyes met. Gasper's gaze brimmed with hope.
At last, Elrac nodded. "Alright, old man. But only if this clears my debt to you."
A weary yet warm smile crossed Gasper's face. "Thank you…"
Elrac rose, adjusting his cloak. "That's all then? I'll go find an inn."
Without waiting for an answer, he left. His footsteps faded into the night, leaving behind the lingering aroma of coffee.
Gasper leaned back slowly, eyes lifting to the cracked ceiling. Silence settled once more. Only the swaying lantern whispered faintly.
And on the desk—
the gold coin still lay, gleaming faintly in the dim light.
---
Morning in the City of Azbirut
Morning descended upon the city of Azbirut with its golden light. A thin mist still lingered among the stone buildings and market tents, while the scent of damp earth mingled with spices filled the air. In a modest inn near the town square, sunlight slowly slipped through the thick curtains of an upstairs room.
Inside, a man with jet-black hair stirred from his sleep. His body was sturdy, muscles hardened like that of a knight accustomed to battlefields, yet his face remained calm, as if the burdens of the world could not disturb the serenity within.
He rose slowly from his bed and walked toward the large window at the corner of the room. With his long, firm fingers, he pulled the curtains aside. Morning light pierced in, illuminating the simple yet clean walls of the chamber. Fine specks of dust danced in the golden glow.
The man yawned widely, stretching his body until the sound of taut muscles crackled. He tidied the bed in a careless manner—just enough so it didn't look untidy. Without haste, he moved toward the washroom. A moment later, the sound of trickling water followed, accompanied by the fresh aroma of Azbirut's herbal soap.
When he came out, his body was still damp, a white towel draped over his shoulders. His black hair was wet, droplets of water trickling down his neck, glimmering beneath the warming light. He stood before the mirror, staring at his reflection.
The figure staring back was a young man—handsome, with deep dark eyes. A face that carried the composure of a nobleman, and the coldness of a shadow-hunter.
His name was Elrac Vos.
He exhaled slowly.
"Huuuh…" a faint sigh escaped his lips.
Then, he reached into a small space that seemed to open in the air itself—a personal dimensional rift. From within, he retrieved a silver mask of unique design. Its surface was smooth, with faint patterns resembling ripples of water, radiating a mysterious aura. Without a word, he placed it over his face.
As his right hand brushed across his visage, the reflection in the mirror shifted—the young masked man transformed into a stout middle-aged figure, with hardened features and a weighty gaze. His voice, too, turned deep and commanding.
He regarded his new form in the mirror.
Then he donned dark formal attire, fastened a small-engraved black bracelet onto his wrist, and took a long cloak from the hat stand by the door. Beside it lay a broad-brimmed dark hat, worn yet still carrying authority, which he placed upon his head. He raised the cloak's collar high, concealing the face hidden beneath the illusion of the mask.
His hand grasped the door handle, pushing it gently open. The morning breeze welcomed him, along with the sounds of the city's life. Elrac stepped outside, descended the creaking wooden stairs, and blended into the growing bustle of the marketplace.
The streets of Azbirut had begun to stir. Street vendors arranged their goods upon wide cloths, while the mingled scents of spices, smoked fish, and warm bread filled the air. In the distance, the clanging of bells and the cries of merchants echoed.
"Did you hear? Our mayor has conquered the ruins in the East…"
"A new coffeehouse just opened across the square! They say the bread smells divine."
"Come, come! Fresh smoked fish from the Great River! Only for today, get it fast!"
Elrac's steps were steady, his eyes sweeping his surroundings. Unhurried, unremarkable—as though he were nothing more than a stranger leisurely strolling on holiday.
Nothing of interest… he thought to himself.
Until the aroma of fresh coffee and toasted bread from a small shop at the corner of the street caught his attention. A simple wooden sign hung above the door, carved with the words: "Town Square Coffeehouse."
Elrac halted briefly, reading the sign, before pushing the door open. A small hanging bell chimed softly. Behind the counter stood a young woman with a bright smile.
"Anything I can help you with, Uncle?" she asked cheerfully.
Elrac gave a slight nod. His voice rumbled heavily, like a weary father sobered only recently from drink.
"I'll have what's most ordered here."
"Alright… one authentic Americano and a slice of warm bread with honey glaze. Three silvers, Uncle."
From his cloak, Elrac drew a golden coin and set it on the wooden counter.
"Keep the rest."
The young cashier froze, eyes widening. "R-really…? Thank you, Uncle!" she exclaimed with delight.
Without another word, Elrac made his way outside, choosing a seat beneath the shade of a tree whose leaves whispered in the breeze. He sat, letting the wind play with the edges of his cloak. Sunlight filtered through the branches, casting mottled shadows upon the wooden table.
Not long after, a ragged boy with unkempt hair approached, his hands clutching a stack of freshly printed newspapers.
"Newspaper, Uncle! Today's got plenty of exciting news!"
Elrac turned his gaze slowly, sharp eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his hat.
Perhaps I might find a lead in these papers.
He studied the boy briefly, then spoke with a hint of warmth in his heavy voice. "Very well, give me one."
The boy handed him a paper with a wide smile. "Thank you, Uncle. May your day be bright!"
Elrac gave only a slight nod, watching the boy leave before lowering his eyes to the newspaper in his hands.
Before he could read, his order arrived. A steaming cup of black coffee and a slice of warm honey-glazed bread were set upon the table. Elrac lifted the cup, sipping slowly.
Hm… better than what I ever brewed back at the old man's place, he thought, the corner of his lips tugging faintly upward.
He tore a piece of the bread, biting gently. The sweet honey mixed with the rich scent of toasted loaf, as though easing a weariness that never truly left his shoulders. The morning breeze stirred softly, rustling the hem of his cloak. Above, the leaves murmured in song, whispering the melody of Azbirut's dawn.
Elrac took another sip of coffee, deeper this time. Its bitter warmth coursed down his throat, grounding his drifting thoughts. He opened the newspaper.
Bold headlines filled the front page:
Holy Kingdom of Solmaria Hosts Gathering of Nobles and Important Figures.
Cresvaris, City of Knowledge, Creates Nano Core — An Artifact Capable of Regeneration.
Ruin Explorers Discover Signs of a High-Level Demonic Awakening — Believed to be One of the Disasters of Doom.
King of Aetheris to Choose Crown Prince Among Three Heirs.
Aetheris Defenses Threatened by the Dark Kingdom's Advance — Will It Withstand?.
Elrac exhaled slowly, finishing his last sip of coffee.
"Slrrrp…"
His eyes narrowed at the report of the Disasters of Doom.
So… one of them truly is about to awaken, he thought grimly.
Fragmented memories began to rise from the depths of his mind.
The distant roar of a dragon echoed. Explosions tore through the air, flames devouring the night sky.
A city once proud and towering… now reduced to twisted ruins, bones of a civilization consumed by time and wrath.
Elsewhere, another land crumbled.
A forest once lush, now turned to calamity.
Gigantic flora, once magnificent, corroded and dripping venom each passing moment. A single touch would blister the skin.
The poison seeped, merging with desert sands, staining them a dreadful shade of violet.
The beasts within went mad, stripped of reason—becoming hunters of anything in sight.
And among it all… a lone figure stood.
Far behind the frontlines of chaos, his silhouette melded with shadow.
His cloak was black, swallowing light, and in his left hand he clutched a dark pendant—its faint glow harboring something that words could never describe.
In the heart of destruction, he remained unyielding.
A man.
A voice long lost with time, but never erased from Elrac's memory.
That man smiled.
He strode forward with calm steps, drawing his massive blade—standing alone against two calamities that tore the world asunder.
He fought while smiling…
Amidst the rain of fire, through bodies hurled and strewn, within a massacre beyond counting.
"Listen, Elrac… my blood… your blood… from the blood of the noble, the blood of Do—"
The words shattered abruptly.
Swept away by the fog of memory, unwilling to fully return.
Yet one sentence remained. Clear. Undeniable.
"You have no right… to lose against a mere lizard with wings or the disgusting crow."
That man stood tall upon the carcass of a dragon freshly slain, his figure unwavering, brimming with confidence—as if the beast's death was but a trivial step in a long day.
Elrac blinked back from his reverie. His eyes fell upon the empty cup before him, nothing left but residue at the bottom. The warmth of the morning that had briefly touched him now felt cold once more.
A day that seemed ordinary… was never truly ordinary for someone like him.