Fate.
Something many described as the invisible force that drives a world and its inhabitants onwards. As fate dictates the end of the common fly in three days' time, so too does fate dictate the rise and fall of the mightiest kingdoms and empires. Whether through the machinations of others, their own hubris, war, greed, religion, love, or countless other worldly things.
Gods and men alike have struggled to fully escape its influence. Yet only a few have ever truly found what lies beyond its control. But what is fate? To the gods, fate could be seen as a construct of their own design or as a force even they must contend with. For not all gods are equal and not all of them have influence over fate.
To the academically-inclined, fate is a convergence of the alive, the divine, and the deceased. It's the tapestry of what was supposed to happen, what's happening now, and what will never occur, all woven and sewn together into a glowing fabric of possible, parallel outcomes and realities.
To the common folk however, fate is merely the inevitable. A normal peasant man's life is to be born into a simple family, learn the simple trades, live out a simple life, and die on a simple bed. But that's only if fate is kind to this man.
At any point in that man's life his entire world can be snapped away with the random wrath of a god, a natural disaster, a band of bandits, a wandering dragon feeling hungry, or some other manner of danger.
"Fate truly is just a bitch."
A young man's voice speaks out. He punctuates the statement by slamming his empty mug on the scarred wooden table, making the candle flames dance.
"Yeah she is."
"Aye!"
"Right on!"
A few other voices agree in unison, their own mugs raised in bitter salute.
Draped in a tattered cloak, with a pauldron beaten beyond repair, and clothes rugged from use covering a strong but lean frame, one would imagine a bandit or exile had snuck into town. The lone sword sheathed at his back and dagger strapped to his boots only added to that impression. But the striking yellow eyes, charcoal-dark hair, and face that sported a handsome mediocrity marked him as something more than a common cutthroat. A man that goes by the name of Cael.
"The only thing fate's done to me is give me the shortest end of the short stick that was used to poke at a dead nargrull." He gestures wildly with his mug, nearly knocking over Old Gareth's ale. "I mean, how else do you think I wound up here as a sword-for-hire in this backwater town?"
An old man clears his throat and shifts on his stool, wood creaking under his weight.
"Well sometimes fate just has other plans. Maybe you're still waiting in line."
Cael lets out what can be described as a laugh, but one that contains more bitterness than someone his age should reasonably possess. He runs a hand through his dark hair, a nervous habit he's developed over the past three years.
"Waiting in line? Old Gareth, I think fate took one look at me and decided to skip right over to the next poor bastard."
He takes another gulp from his mug, the ale warm and watery like everything else in this forgotten corner of the world. Being twenty-six winters of age, Cael feels older than he should, like the past few years have aged him beyond his time. The town of Millbrook is exactly what one would expect from a place with such a name. A cluster of buildings that have seen better days, centered around a mill that grinds grain when the wheel isn't broken, populated by folk whose biggest concern is whether the harvest will be good enough to make it through winter.
For someone like Cael, who's walked roads that stretch across kingdoms and seen cities that touch the clouds, this place feels like being buried alive before his time. The walls seem to close in a little more each day, and the sameness of it all makes him want to scream. Six months of the same faces, same conversations, same watered-down ale. He's going mad from sheer boredom.
"You know what your problem is, boy?"
Old Gareth speaks up again, jabbing a gnarled finger in Cael's direction, his voice carrying the wisdom that comes from having lived three times as long as the young mercenary sitting across from him.
"You think about things too much for someone who ain't even seen thirty summers yet. Sometimes a man's just got to focus on what's in front of him instead of what might be."
"What's in front of me is another day of hunting wolves for farmers who pay in turnips and promises." Cael stares into his mug, swirling the contents like they might reveal some cosmic truth. "Hell, sometimes I wonder if I should just let the wolves have the sheep. At least then something interesting would happen around here."
The other men chuckle at that, though there's a note of concern in their laughter. Most of them remember when Cael first showed up in Millbrook six months ago, looking like he'd been through something that had stripped the easy confidence from his young face and replaced it with the wariness of a hunted animal.
"Speaking of work though..."
Marcus the tavern keeper interrupts while cleaning mugs with a rag that's seen better days. He leans across the bar, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Word's going around that Lord Aldwin's looking for someone with your particular talents."
Now that gets Cael's attention. His hand stills on his mug, knuckles whitening slightly. Lord Aldwin Frod is the regional lord who governs this stretch of nowhere, and he's known for two things: paying fair coin and not asking too many questions about why a young man with obvious education ends up working as a sellsword in the middle of nowhere.
"What kind of work?"
"The kind that involves old ruins and things that probably should stay buried." Marcus sets down the mug he's cleaning, his expression serious. "His lordship's been asking around for someone experienced with dangerous places. Someone young and expendable enough that it won't be a major loss if things go wrong, if you catch my meaning."
The words hit harder than Marcus probably intended, but Cael learned to swallow his pride when coin is on the table. At his age, pride is a luxury he can't afford, not when he's got nothing else to fall back on. Besides, the idea of doing something beyond hunting wolves and standing guard at harvest festivals makes his blood sing with anticipation.
"Where would I find him?"
"The old manor house up on the hill. But boy..." Old Gareth grabs his arm as he stands up, his grip surprisingly strong, calluses rough against Cael's skin. "Ruins ain't nothing to fool around with. You may think you've seen danger in your few years on the road, but the old places... there's a reason they're old and empty."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Cael nods his thanks and finishes his ale in one long pull. The bitterness washes away the taste of monotony that's been building for months.
The walk through Millbrook's narrow streets gives him time to think, though his hand never strays far from his sword hilt. Old habits. The cobblestones are uneven and cracked, and more than a few buildings lean at angles that suggest they're held up more by habit than by any sound construction. A mangy dog watches him pass from an alley, ribs showing through patchy fur. Even the animals here look bored.
The manor house sits on a small hill overlooking the town, its stone walls weathered but still solid, speaking of a time when this region mattered more than it does now.
The guards at the gate know who he is. In a place this small, everyone knows the young mercenary who showed up one day looking like he was running from something. They wave him through without question, though their eyes linger on his sword. One of them, a boy barely old enough to hold a spear properly, whispers something to his companion as Cael passes.
A servant clothed in an old butler's garb greets him at the door of the manor. The man's face is creased like old leather, but his eyes are sharp as any blade. He bows with practiced precision.
"Good day sir Cael. What brings you to the abode of Lord Aldwin Frod?"
"Spare me the formalities Pete. I heard your lord was offering work."
The servant's eyebrow raises for a second then lowers as he nods. Something flickers in his expression, perhaps amusement or maybe warning. He gestures for Cael to enter the manor.
"Very well, this way. Follow me to Lord Aldwin's study."
Cael and the servant Pete make their way through the mansion. Their footsteps echo on worn stone, and Cael notes the strategic positioning of decorative suits of armor that could easily be manned in a crisis. They pass mediocre displays of art and somber old rooms worn down by the passage of time and disrepair. A portrait of some long-dead Frod ancestor watches them pass with painted eyes that seem to follow their movement.
At the end of the corridor the servant opens a door to the left, hinges protesting with a squeal that sets Cael's teeth on edge.
Aldwin Frod is the sort of man who looks like he's earned every gray hair through hard decisions and harder years. His bearing speaks of education gained through necessity rather than privilege, and eyes that have learned to miss very little in a region where oversight can mean the difference between prosperity and disaster. He's writing something when they enter, quill scratching across parchment with determined strokes.
The study is lined with practical texts, regional maps, and various artifacts that suggest a man who balances scholarly curiosity with the real concerns of keeping a frontier territory stable. Books pile on every surface, some left open to specific passages. Cael's eyes catch titles about pre-Sundering history and bloodline genealogies before he forces himself to look away. When the door opens, the lord looks up from a collection of old texts spread across his desk.
"What is it now?"
"My lord, this man came here looking for work."
"Ah, the young mercenary of our quaint town. Cael, isn't it?" The lord's voice carries the educated accent of nobility, but there's something almost paternal in his tone, like he's looking at someone's wayward son. He sets down his quill with deliberate care. "Please, enter. We have things to discuss."
Cael enters the room and makes his way to the front of the desk where Aldwin sat. He positions himself where he can see both the lord and the door. Paranoia has kept him alive this long.
"I shall take my leave my lord."
Pete the servant closes the door behind them and footsteps fade down the hallway, leaving them in a silence broken only by the tick of an old clock on the mantle.
Cael remains standing, a habit he's developed over the past few years of not knowing when he might need to move quickly. His weight shifts subtly to the balls of his feet, ready to spring in any direction.
"Heard you were offering work. Something about ruins."
"Direct. I appreciate that in a young man." Lord Aldwin sets down his quill properly this time and leans back in his chair, fingers steepled before him. The gesture is calculated to project thoughtfulness, but Cael catches the way the lord's eyes dissect him like a specimen. "Tell me, what education did you receive before you took to the sellsword life?"
The question lands like a crossbow bolt. Cael's hand twitches toward his sword before he masters the impulse. His mind races through possibilities. How much does this minor noble know? Who's been talking? The stall owner from this morning flashes through his memory, watching too intently.
"Enough to know that the Sundering Wars ended when the gods withdrew from mortal affairs." He keeps his voice carefully neutral, offering truth without context. "Most of the old battlefields are forbidden ground now."
"Interesting. Most mercenaries your age wouldn't know that much detail." Lord Aldwin stands with careful movements, joints protesting age, and moves to a large map mounted on the wall. His finger traces locations marked in red ink, and Cael notes they form a pattern around ley line convergences. "Tell me, do you know what happens to noble bloodlines when their houses fall?"
Ice forms in Cael's gut. He forces his breathing to remain steady, but his fingers curl into fists at his sides. "They tend to end up as sellswords in backwater towns, from what I hear."
"Indeed." Aldwin's knowing smile makes Cael want to reach for steel. "Two days' ride north of here lie the ruins of Vaelthas Hold. It was a fortress of considerable importance during the wars, built where several ley lines converge."
The change of subject is so abrupt it takes Cael a moment to adjust. He studies the map, noting the strategic positioning of the fortress. Even with his limited experience, he knows that ley lines are conduits of magical energy that crisscross the world. Where they meet, the concentration of power can be significant. And dangerous.
"What's your interest in it?"
"My scholars believe there may be artifacts or knowledge within the ruins that could benefit our understanding of the old magic." Aldwin's finger taps the fortress location with peculiar emphasis. "Knowledge that could help protect this region from the various threats that seem to multiply each year. However, recent expeditions have encountered complications."
"What kind of complications?"
"The kind where expeditions don't come back." The lord returns to his desk, movements precise and deliberate. "I need someone to enter the ruins, assess what's there, and retrieve anything of value. Someone young and quick enough to get out if things go wrong, but experienced enough to recognize real danger when they see it."
Cael can read between the lines. Someone expendable, but not completely useless. Someone whose disappearance wouldn't cause political problems. But there's something else here, dancing around the edges of their conversation like a blade in the dark.
"And you think my... particular background makes me suitable?"
"I think a man who's survived three years on the road after his family's unfortunate demise might have developed certain skills." Aldwin's words hit like physical blows. "The Xerion family was known for producing excellent warriors, after all. Before their tragic end."
Cael goes perfectly still. Even his breathing stops for a moment as his mind processes the threat wrapped in sympathy. Aldwin knows who he is. Knows about the massacre. The question is what he intends to do with that knowledge.
"Interesting theory." His voice comes out steadier than he feels. "But Cael the sellsword has no family name. Just a sword and a need for coin."
"Of course." Aldwin opens a strongbox beside his desk, the lock clicking open with well-oiled ease. "Which brings us to payment. Ten gold pieces. Half now, half when you return with results."
Cael's breath catches. Ten gold is more money than he's seen since he left his old life behind. Enough to disappear properly if things go wrong here. Enough to stop hunting wolves and standing guard duty. Enough to maybe find some answers about who ordered his family killed.
"There's always a catch."
"There is." Lord Aldwin begins counting out coins with practiced movements. "My researchers believe the site may contain information about bloodline magic, the old hereditary powers that ran through certain families during the wars."
Something cold settles in Cael's gut. Bloodline magic is the kind of topic that gets people killed, especially young people who might carry it in their veins. His hand drifts to his chest, where beneath his shirt a scar marks where a blade once pierced his heart. Where his bloodline gift first manifested, saving his life when it should have ended.
"Why would that matter to someone like me?"
"Because I suspect you're not quite the simple mercenary you pretend to be." Lord Aldwin's eyes meet Cael's with sharp intelligence. "Your education, your bearing, the way you carry that sword. You're nobility, aren't you? Minor house, perhaps, but nobility nonetheless. Which means you might understand the value of such knowledge better than most."
The words hang between them like a naked blade. Cael weighs his options. Run now and confirm Aldwin's suspicions? Play along and risk walking into a trap? Or take the gold and use it to get far away from whatever game this minor lord is playing?
Boredom wins. Six months of the same walls, same people, same nothing. At least ruins promise something different, even if that something might kill him.
"When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow at dawn. My scholars will provide you with maps and what information we have about the site." Lord Aldwin counts out five gold and slides it across the desk. The coins gleam in the lamplight like tiny suns. "A word of advice, young man. Whatever sent you running from your old life, remember that some secrets are more dangerous than others."
Cael pockets the advance payment, feeling the weight of the coins against his chest. They seem heavier than mere gold, weighted with implications and unspoken threats. "Understood."
He turns to leave, but Aldwin's voice stops him at the door.
"One more thing. You're not the only one interested in the ruins. If you encounter competition, I trust you'll handle it appropriately."
"Competition?"
"The kind that strikes from shadows and leaves no witnesses. Be careful, young Xerion. Your particular heritage makes you valuable to the wrong people."
The use of his real name is deliberate, a final twist of the knife. Cael doesn't give Aldwin the satisfaction of a reaction. He simply nods and leaves, though his mind races with calculations. How long has Aldwin known? Who else has he told? Is this job genuine or an elaborate trap?
Morning comes with an overcast sky that hangs low and oppressive, the kind of weather that makes everything feel more serious than it should. Cael spent the night at the local inn, using some of his advance to enjoy a proper meal and a real bed for the first time in weeks. He also spent it watching shadows and starting at every creak of the floorboards.
In the room he rented out, Cael takes inventory of what he has. His gear is simple but well-maintained for a mercenary. The sword at his back served him well for three years, its weight familiar as an old friend. The dagger in his boot has saved his life more than once when enemies got too close. His leather armor bears the scars of countless fights but still turns a blade. Hidden beneath his shirt, an amulet made of Sabyte rests against his chest, warm with inherited magic. The only memorabilia of his family left, and the only thing that might explain why someone wanted them all dead.
The scholars provided him with a detailed map of the ruins and a journal full of their previous findings, but Cael trusts his instincts over academics and paper maps. Still, he studies them by candlelight, memorizing passages about the fortress's construction and the artifacts believed to rest within. References to something called a soul thread appear repeatedly, described in terms that make his bloodline gift stir uneasily.
After a while he exits the room with all his belongings, greets the innkeeper on his way out and heads over to the post where he tied his horse Moxx. The mare he found one day by the roadside with his previous owner dead in the saddle from arrows to the back. She's not the finest horse, but she's reliable and doesn't ask questions.
"Morning Moxx, how was it out here?"
The horse neighs in response as if it really understood what Cael said. Her breath mists in the cool morning air.
"Yeah I know buddy, shit was cold and damp."
Moxx neighs back again and trods at the ground before leaning down to eat from the patch of grass at its feet. Cael unties the leash from its post, checking the saddle and bags with practiced efficiency before mounting Moxx and riding off.
Before leaving town, he makes a detour to the market and buys rations for the journey. The stall owner from yesterday is gone, replaced by a woman who barely looks up from her knitting. He stops by a different stall selling jerky and dried fruits. This vendor seems genuinely disinterested in anything beyond making a sale, which suits Cael perfectly.
"How much for this, this, and that?"
Cael points to pieces of rabbit, mutton jerky, and a handful of dried khopps. The man barely glances at the items before responding.
"One silver piece for all three."
"Fair enough."
The transaction completes without incident, though Cael can't shake the feeling of being watched. He's felt it for days now, that prickle on the back of his neck that says predator eyes are tracking prey. Maybe Aldwin's people. Maybe whoever's been hunting him finally caught up. Either way, staying in Millbrook is no longer an option.
The journey north takes him through country that gets wilder with each mile. The maintained roads around Millbrook give way to old trading paths, then to game trails that wind through forests that seem older than kingdoms. By afternoon, he's navigating more by sun position than any visible trail.
By the second day, the game trails have faded into little more than suggestions carved by deer and wild boar. Cael makes camp in a small clearing beside a stream that runs clear and cold. He tends to Moxx first, as always, removing her saddle and checking her hooves before seeing to his own needs.
He's just setting up his bedroll when he hears it. A low, rumbling growl that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The sound bypasses his ears and speaks directly to the primitive parts of his brain that remember when humans were prey.
Moxx's reaction is immediate. Her ears flatten against her skull, and she pulls against her tether, eyes rolling white with terror.
The creature that emerges from the treeline is something between a bear and a wolf, but larger than either and wrong in ways that hurt to look at directly. Its fur shifts color in the firelight, and its eyes reflect not yellow but a deep crimson that suggests intelligence fed by malice.
"Well, shit."
Cael reaches for his sword, feeling his bloodline gift stir in response to danger. Heat builds beneath his skin, promising strength and speed if he needs it. But using it always comes with a cost, and he's learned to save it for when normal human ability isn't enough.
What follows is a deadly dance that tests every skill Cael's learned in his years on the road. The creature moves like liquid darkness, but Cael flows like water around its strikes. He uses the terrain to his advantage, forcing the beast to navigate fallen logs and tangled roots that slow its charges.
The beast lunges with claws extended, and Cael sidesteps at the last moment, his sword leaving a shallow cut along its flank. Black blood hisses where it touches the ground, and the smell makes his eyes water.
"What's wrong, you mangy bastard? Not used to prey that fights back?"
The creature's response is a roar that makes the trees shudder. It abandons strategy for raw aggression, launching itself in a leap that would crush most fighters.
Cael triggers his bloodline gift just enough to enhance his reflexes. He drops to one knee and brings his sword up in a perfect thrust. The beast's own momentum drives the blade deep into its chest, hot blood streaming down the fuller.
The creature's eyes hold too much intelligence as the light fades from them. In that moment, Cael sees not just animal cunning but something else. Recognition. As if it knew what he was and approved of the manner of its death.
The corpse begins to dissolve almost immediately, returning to shadow and mist until only scorched earth remains. Cael retrieves his sword and spends several minutes just breathing while the borrowed strength fades from his limbs.
The third morning brings his first sight of Vaelthas Hold rising in the distance.
The entire structure was built on a hill that commands the surrounding valleys, a strategic position that explains why it was important during the wars. Even in ruins, the place maintains an imposing presence. Broken towers reach toward the sky like accusing fingers, walls that have withstood centuries but couldn't withstand whatever ended the keep's usefulness.
He ties Moxx to a tree well away from the ruins, ensuring she has access to water and grass. If he doesn't return, she'll eventually break free and find her way back to civilization.
"Be good, girl. With any luck, I'll be back before dark."
She whickers softly, nuzzling his shoulder as if she understands the danger he's walking into.
The scholars' map shows several possible entry points, but Cael trusts his eyes over paperwork. The main gate is partially collapsed but passable, offering the most direct route to where anything valuable might be found.
The moment he crosses the threshold, everything changes. The sensation he'd felt from a distance intensifies, like walking into a storm made of invisible pressure. His bloodline gift responds immediately, heating beneath his skin like fever. The very air tastes of old magic gone sour.
The courtyard beyond the gate is overgrown with vines and flowers that seem to glow with their own light. The stonework is cracked and broken in places, but the underlying structure remains sound. Doorways and corridors lead deeper into the keep, each one promising secrets that someone his age probably has no business investigating.
But boredom and gold and the chance for answers drive him forward. Cael consults the map and chooses a path that should lead to what the scholars believe was the main hall of the structure.
High above in the broken tower that overlooks the courtyard, a figure in dark leather watches the young mercenary disappear into the depths of the ancient keep. Silver hair catches the morning light as ice-cold eyes track his movement with the patience of a predator that has learned to wait for exactly the right moment to strike.
The hunt has begun.