The morning sun broke over the horizon as Vyros and Taren Holt made their way toward Ashenfield, the small farming village where the rumors had pointed. The fire of the previous night had already died down, leaving behind an eerie silence that hung heavy in the air. The village itself looked like a place untouched by time—small cottages with thatched roofs clustered around a cracked stone well at the center. Smoke still drifted lazily from the fields, and from behind shuttered windows, the villagers peered out at the newcomers with fearful eyes.
The atmosphere was thick with unease. A quiet murmur spread through the villagers as Vyros approached, his black cloak billowing around him like an ominous shadow. Children clung to their mothers, and hardened farmhands nervously gripped their pitchforks, watching the Battlemage with a mix of awe and fear.
At the front of the gathering stepped Edran Vale, the village elder. He was an aging man, hunched over with a crooked back, but his eyes were sharp, filled with the weariness of someone who had lived through more than he cared to remember.
Edran Vale:
"You've driven the things off the fields? Then Aidonia's Guild has finally sent someone who isn't all talk. Tell me, Battlemage… what did you find in the night?"
Vyros took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the crowd. He wasn't sure what to expect, but the feeling in his gut told him that whatever lay ahead was far more dangerous than the simple report of goblins or rats.
"I faced enchanted scarecrows, with runes burning green fire," Vyros explained, his voice steady. The gasps from the crowd confirmed that the mention of runes had struck a chord. Edran's jaw tightened, his face grim.
Edran Vale:
"That confirms it. For weeks, we've felt… watched. Livestock gutted with no tracks. Scarecrows moving at night. And three nights past, someone saw a cloaked figure at the old shrine of the Harvest God, long abandoned. We feared it was no goblins."
A younger villager, his voice tinged with fear, blurted out:
Villager:
"They say he wears a mask of bone, Elder! A warlock, drawing power from things best left forgotten!"
Edran silenced the young man with a single, withering look. He turned his attention back to Vyros, his expression grave.
Edran Vale:
"We cannot pay much more than the Guild's silver… but if you have the will, go to that shrine. If there is a warlock meddling with these fields, he will not stop with our crops. He will spread."
Vyros nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. There was no longer any doubt that the dangers here were far beyond goblins or common pests. This was something darker, something older.
By the time Vyros returned to Aidonia, the streets were already bustling with the early morning trade. The Guild Hall was alive with the noise of adventurers and mercenaries, their voices filling the air as they discussed upcoming quests and battles. The Quest Board inside was buzzing with activity, each parchment fluttering in the wind, but none seemed to match the gravity of what Vyros had just faced.
He made his way to the counter where Receptionist Elira stood, scribbling in her ledger. Her silver hair was neatly tied in a braid, and her sharp eyes looked up as he approached.
Elira (raising an eyebrow):"You've returned. Tell me, did you encounter anything more than rats and goblins?"
Vyros recounted the events, omitting only the true extent of his power. He didn't want to draw attention just yet. After all, he was still just a Copper-ranked adventurer in the Guild's eyes.
At the mention of the warlock and the runes, Elira's expression changed. Her pen paused mid-sentence as she processed the new information.
Elira (frowning):"Scarecrows animated with rune-magic? A warlock near Ashenfield? This isn't Copper business, Vyros. This is bigger."
She leaned in, her voice lowering."Considering what you've reported, I'll forward a recommendation. You've completed something far beyond what a Copper should. Consider yourself Bronze-ranked as of this day."She slid a bronze pin across the desk to him, freshly inscribed with the Guild's crest.
With that, Vyros's rank in the Guild officially increased. The whispers that followed him as he walked out of the Guild Hall were already growing—a new recruit, surviving an encounter with animated scarecrows and a warlock.
For the next three days, Vyros disappeared from the Guild. The quiet streets of Aidonia became the backdrop for his indulgence—ale, mead, and hired companions. It was a time of fleeting pleasures, of laughter and warmth, where the world outside didn't matter. But beneath the surface, Vyros's mind was always calculating, always watching.
At the tavern, where mugs clinked and dice rolled, Vyros was just another adventurer—no one suspected the power hidden beneath his cloak. He let them think him a reckless Copper-ranked mage, wasting his coin on the warmth of hired company. It was a mask he wore well.
But beneath the indulgence, Vyros knew the truth. He was far from ordinary. His true strength was greater than most Silver-ranked adventurers, and the Guild still hadn't figured it out.
As time passed, word spread among the Guild that the Harvest Shrine quest had been reassigned to a Silver-ranked party. The Guild had taken notice of the warlock, though they had still underestimated the scale of the threat.
The Silver party, now tasked with the quest, consisted of three experienced adventurers: Captain Marlowe, a disciplined spear-fighter; Jorik Ironjaw, a hammer-wielding brute with a reputation for his drinking as much as his fighting; and Lyanna Crestvale, a healer of noble blood, dressed in white and silver, with a calm yet determined air.
Vyros, still cloaked in black, followed them from a distance, his eyes never leaving the trio. To them, he was nothing—just another Bronze adventurer, trailing behind. But to him, they were just another piece in the puzzle. They underestimated the danger, but Vyros knew better. There was more to this cursed land than they realized.
As the Silver party made their way east, avoiding villages and traveling down hidden paths, Vyros trailed them from the shadows. His movements were smooth, blending into the night like a phantom. His dark magic cloaked him, and he moved with the stealth of a predator stalking its prey.
He overheard bits of their conversation as they set up camp each night:
Lyanna (softly):"The elder's report said 'warlock,' but the Guild suspects worse. A cult, perhaps. If it's true… we may need reinforcements."
Jorik (laughing):"If it's just more scarecrows, we'll smash 'em to bits. Easy silver pay. But I don't like the smell of this."
Captain Marlowe (sternly):"Stay sharp. A Copper nearly died here last week. Something doesn't add up. Why assign this to Silvers and not Golds?"
Vyros couldn't help but smile at their underestimation. They had no idea.
As the Silver party arrived at the Harvest Shrine, Vyros stayed hidden on a distant ridge, watching their every move. The shrine's cracked stones gleamed faintly under the moonlight, and the air felt thick with magic.
At the entrance, Lyanna Crestvale took a step forward, her presence commanding, yet graceful. Her silver eyes glinted with determination, and Vyros couldn't help but notice the strength beneath her calm exterior.
She spoke softly, her voice filled with purpose:"This place is cursed. I can feel it."
The warlock had been here. And soon, Vyros would uncover the truth.