Ashborne Dunsmore—the heir of the northern family that ruled over the frostbitten reaches of Zhero Ryth—carried himself with the unshakable gravity expected of his name. The weight of lineage and responsibility sat heavily upon his broad shoulders, as if even his breath belonged not to himself but to the bloodline he upheld.
The streets of the northern town stretched before him in muted shades: stone walls veined with moss, timber houses leaning with age, banners snapping in the dry wind. His steps were slow, measured, yet the gaze he cast over the cobbled path betrayed the relentless discipline in him. He could not afford weakness. He could not lose.
A fleeting sight froze his stride. A child—scurrying past, chasing after a rolling hoop—looked startlingly like his younger sister. Her dark hair tied into a ribbon, her small laughter spilling into the air. Ashborne's lips, usually pressed into a line, curved faintly. A small smile, rare and fragile, ghosted across his face. It passed quickly, almost like a mistake, but it was real.
He let the moment go and walked on. His boots echoed in the narrow lane until they brought him before a tavern. The signboard swayed with a groan of wood, painted letters worn nearly to a blur. He tilted his head slightly, considering. Then, without hesitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The air hit him first—smoke, sweat, spilled ale, and roasting meat blending into one indistinguishable haze. Light came thinly through stained windows, cut into beams that revealed dust motes swaying lazily in the tavern's breath. A dozen drunken men sat hunched at their tables, eyes hazy with intoxication.
Conversation faltered. Heads turned.
There was nothing remarkable about his attire—dark cloak, sturdy boots—yet what drew their gaze were the things he could never disguise: the sharp, angular features that marked his heritage, the glint of his blood-red eyes, and the stark white of his hair that seemed to catch every stray flame of torchlight.
Whispers stirred, but quickly died as mugs clattered again and laughter returned.
Ashborne ignored them. He crossed the tavern with calm precision, each step betraying neither hurry nor hesitation, and sat at the far end of the counter where the noise thinned.
"Drink?" The voice came from a woman behind the counter. She had a mature, unbothered face, framed by yellow hair braided loosely down her back, her black eyes sharp but not unkind.
Ashborne paused. For a man raised in wealth and aristocracy, the names of cheap drinks were not familiar to him. His silence stretched, so he chose the simplest answer.
"The best you can offer," he said, voice dry, clipped.
The woman raised a brow at the formality of his tone, but said nothing. She turned and began to prepare.
Ashborne leaned an elbow on the counter, eyes narrowing as he let his senses sweep across the room. He caught half-muttered words, drunken boasts, dice clattering against wood. Nothing useful. He exhaled softly, a sigh meant only for himself.
Thud.
A glass was set before him, filled with a golden-brown liquid that shimmered under the torchlight.
"I haven't seen you around," the woman remarked, folding her arms casually. "Traveler?"
Ashborne lifted the drink, the rim cold against his lip. "Yes," he answered with a single nod, withholding the rest.
The liquid touched his tongue. Bitter, sweet, with a burn that lingered down his throat. Not to his taste, but tolerable.
Before he could place the glass back down, a shift of perfume drifted to his side. A woman slid onto the stool beside him. Her hair fell in glossy waves, her lips painted a cherry red that glistened even in dim light. She ordered rum with a sultry lilt, and when her eyes turned to Ashborne, they lingered like a hand refusing to let go.
"You free?" she asked, voice honeyed, her smile promising more than words.
Ashborne turned his gaze to her, and for a moment his face was carved from stone. Then, like a mask sliding into place, his expression melted into something else entirely. A soft hum escaped his throat as his lips curved into a smile—one he had used before, a smile that looked natural, effortless, playboy-like.
The woman leaned closer, hooked. Ashborne let the facade hold. Behind his crimson eyes, however, calculation never ceased.
---
Liora
On the other side of town, the quiet hum of a melody floated under Liora's breath as she walked along the stone paths near the outer wall. The sun caught her hair, gilding it faintly, and her hands brushed against the cold stone as if grounding herself in the moment.
Two guards marched past her. She barely noticed—until their voices reached her.
"…payment still hasn't arrived… Threnz will not be pleased…"
Her step slowed, though her expression remained untouched, gaze wandering as though admiring the weathered houses by the wall. She trailed after them just long enough to catch fragments.
"…elixir shipments… secrecy… Threnz…"
The name hung oddly in her mind. She could not tell if it was a man, a group, or something else entirely. But she memorized it. Every detail mattered.
---
Reiyell
In the heart of the town, Reiyell chose a café rather than a tavern. Its walls were painted soft cream, its wooden floor polished and faintly scented with herbs. The clinking of cups and low murmur of conversation filled the space.
Even stripped of her noble aura, Reiyell carried an elegance she could not hide. Heads turned when she entered, necks craning, eyes caught by the quiet radiance that seemed to follow her. She moved like starlight, like someone who had never known dust or shadow.
She sat by the window, ordered tea with a gentle tone, and waited. When the cup was placed before her, she lifted it with slender fingers, sipping gracefully. Even this small act seemed like a performance of beauty, unintentional yet undeniable.
Then a voice broke the moment.
"My lady."
A man stood by her table. His attire—embroidered coat, polished boots—marked him as someone with standing, not a mere commoner. His confident smirk tugged at his lips as he bowed lightly.
"I haven't seen you around. A traveler, perhaps?"
Reiyell's first instinct was to silence him with magic, to turn this intrusion into ash. But information was scarce, and she could not waste a chance. She forced a smile—a gentle curve of lips that cost her effort.
The man's composure cracked; his face flushed. Without invitation, he pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down.
Reiyell's eyebrow twitched, an imperceptible flicker. All her life, she had been treated with reverence and restraint. To have a man sit so casually before her was a thorn in her pride. Yet she said nothing, only sipped her tea as he began to speak.
And speak he did. Endlessly.
---
Keiya and Klyden
Meanwhile, two figures took different streets before chance brought them together.
Keiya spotted Klyden first—his hands juggling skewers, buns, and fried delicacies, his mouth full as he grinned widely at townsfolk like an old friend. His presence was warm, chaotic, and utterly out of place.
When his eyes met hers, he lit up, waving enthusiastically before trotting toward her like a boy with too much energy.
Keiya sighed. "Are you here to do a mission or to sightsee and stuff your mouth with everything you see?" Her voice was flat, unimpressed.
Klyden swallowed noisily. "But it's good! Try it." He held out a fried skewer toward her.
She brushed past him without a glance. He followed anyway, happily chewing, waving at strangers, and spilling half-formed stories to anyone who would listen.
Then Keiya stopped. A stall shimmered with trinkets—rings, pendants, and bracelets laid out on faded velvet. Her gaze settled on one: a bracelet of silver kissed with a faint red hue, the kind of color that seemed eternal.
"You interested in something?" Klyden leaned in, nosey and curious.
The stallkeeper, a frail old man with eyes sharp despite his hunched frame, saw her pause. "Ah, a fine choice, miss. That bracelet—crafted with care, color that never fades. It's one of a kind. Protective, too, they say." His voice pressed eagerly, persuasion woven into each word.
Klyden grinned. "Looks good on you. You should buy it."
Keiya frowned faintly but listened. A moment later, she handed over the coins.
As the old man wrapped the bracelet, his mouth rambled almost absently. "Finally, a sale today… now I can pay the Threnz."
Keiya's brow twitched. Her eyes sharpened. "The Threnz?"
The man froze, then chuckled bitterly. "A group. Collecting from us vendors. Sketchy bunch, they are. Tax, they say. Protection. They sell some kind of elixir, too. Dangerous things, if you ask me."
Keiya and Klyden exchanged a glance. A silent agreement passed between them.
---
Back at Greg's Inn
The day dimmed into evening, and the group reassembled in the modest room of Greg's inn.
Keiya entered first, steps firm, followed by Klyden burdened with food stacked in both arms.
"Why do you have so much food?" Ashborne asked, voice flat, unimpressed.
"Uh… because food is life?" Klyden replied innocently, plopping onto the wooden floor with a shrug.
Keiya claimed her bed with a tired exhale. Reiyell rested with composure on hers, Liora curled at her side, and Wads sat quietly on the single chair. Ashborne leaned against the wall, arms crossed, gaze steady.
Klyden, oblivious to the tension, tossed a snack to Liora when she asked, munching noisily on roasted barbecue himself.
The air grew heavier as eyes shifted.
Each of them carried something back. Each of them had heard something.
And now, as the room stilled, the information they had gathered pressed like a storm at the door—waiting to be unleashed.