Part - 1
Hey, it's me again, Lethan.
Yes, that Lethan. The broom-holder of Mnemonrae. The idiot now carrying the kind of secret that could split kingdoms in two.
And today? Oh, today was the worst day of my life. And I've had plenty of those.
See, Master Maerlin gave me a list. A list. Not a pouch of coins, not a blade, not even a half-hearted "good luck." Just names scratched into parchment. And the first one the first soul I must deliver this cursed news to is none other than Drossvain Marr.
Yes. The Weaponmaster.
The man who (they say) once erased an island because its people didn't bow fast enough. The man who can wield any weapon with the grace of a master sword, spear, whip, even frying pan, probably. I've never seen him, of course, but everyone swears he never takes off his armor. They say even his shadow looks armed.
And I, who could barely swing a broom at a rat am supposed to walk up to him and say, "Excuse me, honored sir, your rank changed in the Ledger's top ten. I'll be lucky if he doesn't cleave me in half before I finish the sentence."
But what choice do I have? Run? If I flee, the Library will brand me traitor. Traitors don't get second chances they get hunted, strung up, and left for the crows. So no, I must go forward. Forward into death.
Now, let me tell you about my journey today.
Gods, I still don't know if it was real or if Lady Mnemonrae is playing tricks with my memory.
First, I was riding along the old road that cuts through the marshlands, my horse plodding like it hated me which it probably did. Then, out of nowhere, a man leapt onto the path, waving a knife and shouting at me to hand over the bag. My bag.
How did he know? How did anyone know? Was he a spy sent from one of the kingdoms? Or a thief with uncanny luck? He kept shouting that he knew what I carried, that the "truth itself was in my satchel."
I swear my heart stopped. I whipped the reins and rode like a madman. I didn't look back not until I heard his boots pounding behind me, faster than any sane man should run.
I thought I was dead.
And then, as if the gods wanted me to soil myself further, I saw a farmer on the roadside. For one brief, shining moment, I thought, oh thank the heavens, a decent soul will help me.
No.
He picked up a crowbar and ran after me too.
Why? I don't know! Maybe he wanted my horse, maybe he thought I was a thief, maybe he just hated my face. But there I was, chased by a knife-wielding madman and a farmer armed with rusty iron. My horse snorted in fury and nearly threw me.
And just when I thought it couldn't get worse bandits. A whole pack of them. They blocked the road, dragging chains across it, shouting for me to dismount. They yanked me off my horse, kicked me, and one of them pressed a blade against my cheek. They wanted the bag too. Everyone wants the bag!
I thought I was done.
But then miracle of miracles happened, a group of mercenaries appeared, the bandits fled like whipped dogs. Saved, I thought. Saved at last.
I was wrong.
The mercenaries crowded around me, heavy hands on my shoulders, smiles that weren't smiles at all. They said they'd protect me of course, for a fee. And when I said I had little coin, they said perhaps my satchel was worth something.
I gave them 2 silvers just to get away. Coins that I had scraped together in Mnemonrae, gone in a heartbeat.
By then, I was shaking so hard I could barely sit my saddle. I whispered prayers to Lady Mnemonrae, goddess of memory and knowledge. I begged her, please, please let me live long enough to deliver this cursed news. Just once, show me kindness.
And maybe she did. Because at last, when the sun dipped and the shadows grew long, I stumbled into a village. Not an ordinary one no, this was different. A place of steel and laughter, of weapons hung on doorframes, of scars worn like badges. An adventurer's village.
The sign said Brackenwell. (That's what the locals called it I nearly wept at how solid and safe the name sounded.) And at its heart stood the guild hall, a hulking timber structure with lanterns glowing warm through the windows. Above the door, painted in bold crimson letters, was the name of its bar:
The Drunken Boar.
And that's where I am now. Standing in the cold night, staring at the door, clutching my cursed satchel. My legs want to run, but my heart whispers maybe, just maybe, I can buy protection. Maybe a party of mercenaries will agree to shield me from this nightmare until my burden is gone.
Gods help me.
Because if not… the next time you hear from me, i'll probably next to you.
Part - 2
The door of the Drunken Boar creaked open, and a thick stew of smells rolled out, must, sour ale, sweat, and the sharp tang of pipe smoke. Inside, the tavern was alive with the clamor of too many voices and not enough space: mugs slamming against tables, chairs scraping, the laughter of men half-drunk, and fists already raised to settle quarrels that needed no reason.
At the heart of it all was Mira, the bar's owner. She was old enough to command respect, young enough that half the men in Brackenwell swore she still belonged in their arms. Tonight was no exception. A cluster of thick-shouldered brutes crowded the bar, vying for her smile, for her glance, for any scrap of attention she might cast their way.
And then Lethan Aric walked in.
Thin, pale, eyes darting like a hare sniffing wolves. He looked like a boy lost in the wrong story one written for men with scars and broken teeth, not for him. The tavern swallowed him whole as he shuffled toward the counter.
"E-excuse me?" he stammered, barely audible over the noise.
The men turned as one, squinting down at him like butcher dogs eyeing a stray cat.
"Huh? What do you want?" one growled.
"You don't just stroll in and speak to Mira," sneered another.
"Best keep walking, little rabbit. We'll be taking her out tonight, not you."
Lethan's mouth opened, closed again. He looked ready to collapse.
Then Mira's voice cut through the smoke:
"Enough!"
Her hand slammed down on the counter, making the mugs jump.
"Cut it out, all of you, or I'll throw you on your arses into the street."
The men groaned like chastised children.
"All right, Mira…"
"Yes, Mira…"
In unison, disappointed, they slouched away to their corner, muttering into their beards.
Lethan blinked, startled. Mira turned her eyes on him, eyes that had made harder men than him forget their purpose.
"What's up with you, boy? You don't look like you're from here."
The question cracked him wide open. He sat, shoulders slumping, and to his own horror began to sob. The words tumbled out between hiccupping breaths, half-garbled, a mess of fear and desperation. He told her of dangers and chases, of enemies everywhere and no safe place to turn.
Mira listened, tilting her head, her mouth twitching somewhere between sympathy and confusion.
Behind them, the rejected suitors watched with wide eyes.
"Gods," one whispered, "did we make him cry?"
"She's going to throw us out, isn't she?" another muttered.
Mira reached across the counter, her voice low and firm.
"There, there. Stop crying. I can't hear a word when you're blubbering like that."
Lethan gulped, wiped his face on his sleeve, and forced himself to explain again, clearer this time.
She nodded along, thoughtful, until his tale wound itself dry.
"So," Mira said at last, "you require a party, eh? Protection."
He nodded miserably.
"Well, you're in luck. With the coin you've got, I can think of a few names. Enough for a Warden-level party."
Lethan nearly leapt from his stool, eyes shining.
"Really? Truly?"
"Yes." Mira's lips curved. "He used to be rank fifty-one. Now he's fallen to eighty-two. But don't let that fool you he's still one of the strongest you'll ever meet."
Lethan's chest loosened for the first time that day.
"Fifty-one, now eighty-two… doesn't matter. That's brilliant! Who is he? What's his name?"
Mira leaned in, and her voice dropped low.
"They call him… The Warden of Dust."
End of Chapter.