A week after the Forest of Hollow Thorns, Kaelira stood before the Guild request board, arms folded, brow furrowed.
"You need real party experience, Myrelion," she said.
"I prefer working alone," he replied.
Kaelira smirked. "And I prefer ale that doesn't taste like goat piss. We don't always get what we want."
She waved over three adventurers lounging nearby.
"Oi! Riven! Got a quest for you lot."
The trio approached:
—Riven, a red-haired knight in battered plate mail, all bravado and scars.
—Elin, a stoic half-elf archer who barely spoke.
—Tobin, a pudgy cleric with trembling hands but a sharp wit.
"Meet Myrelion," Kaelira said. "He's green, but sharp. You'll be taking him on a C-rank mission. Escort a noble's caravan to the border village of Blightrest."
Riven laughed. "This runt? He looks like he's twelve."
Myrelion stared blankly at him. "I am."
"…Wait, really?"
Kaelira shoved a scroll into Riven's hand. "You leave at dawn. Keep the boy alive—and don't be idiots."
As the group left Valewind the next morning, tension buzzed in the air. Tobin tried to lighten the mood with jokes, Elin ignored everyone, and Riven treated Myrelion like a mascot.
"Stick to the middle of the formation," Riven ordered.
But Myrelion wasn't listening. Something gnawed at him—an odd pull, like a thread in his soul tightening.
At dusk, they set up camp near the old Graveshade Ruins, a known haunt of undead. As Tobin erected a warding totem, Riven grumbled about "noble scum and their delivery demands."
Then came the sound—distant footsteps. Dozens.
Elin rose silently, bow drawn. "Too many. Human… but shambling."
Risen corpses.
The Graveshade Curse had awakened.
And in the center of them walked a robed figure with silver eyes, holding a black dagger identical to Nyxfang.
Myrelion's blood turned to ice.
"Impossible…"