The wind howled outside like something dying, carrying flecks of black ash that pattered against the tavern's warped shutters. Inside the Crooked Anchor, the air was thick with the smell of sour ale, wet leather, and the faint metallic bite of fear-sweat. A low fire sputtered in the hearth, throwing long shadows across scarred tables and the faces of men and women who had long since stopped pretending the world outside could be bargained with.
Augustus stood just inside the doorway, shoulders hunched as though the weight of his embroidered cloak were trying to pull him into the floorboards. He was older than most expected an envoy to be—late fifties, perhaps—hair gone entirely silver, thin hands trembling despite the way he clasped them behind his back. The two Aurian knights flanked him like marble statues, their pearlescent plate gleaming unnaturally even in the dim light. No one could see their faces behind the smooth, featureless helms; only the faint crest of the rising sun worked in gold filigree on their breastplates marked them as royal guard.
The room had gone quiet the moment they entered. Tankards paused halfway to mouths. Eyes flicked from the envoy to the knights, then to the black-veined expanse visible through the single grimy window. The Agathoon Plains stretched beyond the outpost like an open wound that refused to heal.
Augustus cleared his throat. The sound was small, swallowed almost immediately by the crackle of the fire.
"I-I seek a guide," he said. Although his voice slightly cracked it was reedy and cultured. The accent of high Auria was unmistakable. "One familiar with the planes. One who has crossed them before—or at least believes they might survive the attempt."
A low chuckle rolled from the back of the room. A woman with a shaved head and a lattice of burn scars across her jaw leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"You mean one mad enough to walk into Void-storms for coin?" she asked. "Because that's what you're asking, old man. Not a guide. Someone with a death wish who barely wants to draw any breath."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the tavern. Someone spat into the sawdust.
Giving a nervous glance to his bodyguards. He reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a small leather pouch. When he upended it onto the nearest table, gold crowns—old mint, heavy with the sunburst stamp of House Embervane—clinked and rolled. Enough to buy a small estate in any city that still stood.
"I am Augustus of House Embervane," he continued, louder now, though the tremor in his voice had not left. "Envoy extraordinary of Her Radiance Queen Lirienn. I am bound for the continent of Kalos. For the Kingdom of Meridion. The matter is urgent beyond your imagining. Delay costs lives—perhaps kingdoms."
He looked around the room, searching faces for anything resembling courage or greed strong enough to overcome terror.
"I will pay triple what any sane man might ask," he said. "And I will pay half now, before we leave this room."
Silence again. Thicker this time.
A grizzled man near the bar—half his face replaced by crude iron plating—finally spoke.
"You've seen them plains? Friend. Really seen them? Not from a safe tower window or whatever golden carriage got you here. I mean up close. The obsidian veins move sometimes. I've seen it. Slow, like breathing. And the storms… don't get me started on the fucking storm" he pauses to take a drink from tankard. "They don't just rain black water. They whisper. Names. Promises. Things that make a man forget who he was supposed to be."
"I have read the accounts," Augustus replied stiffly.
The scarred woman barked a laugh. "Accounts. Fuck me. You've read accounts."
She then glared at the envoy. "I lost my husband to the damn planes, to those...things."
"I have no choice," the envoy said. The words came out almost pleading. "None of us do, if the reports from Meridion are true. The Void is spreading. Faster than before. If it reaches the western shores of Kalos unchecked—"
He stopped himself, as though realizing he had already said too much.
No one moved to take the gold.
One of the knights shifted—barely a creak of plate—but the motion drew every eye. The helmed head turned slowly toward the envoy, then back to the room. The gesture was unmistakable: We will protect him. But we will not drag him.
Augustus's shoulders sagged another fraction.
"Please," he said quietly. "I do not ask this lightly. I ask it because there is no one else."
The fire popped. A log collapsed into embers.
Outside, the wind rose to a shriek.
Then—
The double doors of the Crooked Anchor slammed open with such force that the iron hinges screamed and one of the lanterns guttered out.
Cold air rushed in, carrying the bitter reek of ozone, wet char, and fresh blood.
A towering figure filled the doorway—six feet of hard muscle and old scars, built like the void bears said to roam the deepest fissures of the Agathoon Plains. Late thirties, short hazelnut hair matted with rain and something darker. A livid scar carved a brutal line from the crown of his right temple, across the scalp, down through the brow, and all the way to the jawline on the right cheek. It pulled his mouth into a permanent half-snarl even when he wasn't trying.
He carried a bloodied adventurer slung over one broad shoulder like a sack of grain—the man's armor rent open, one arm hanging limp and black-veined. Behind him stepped a small woman, most of her face hidden beneath the deep hood of a battered blood-red cloak that looked as though it had been used to mop battlefields. Only her eyes showed—sharp, unreadable, the color of storm clouds. At her side came a younger man, dark-skinned, lean and watchful, a strange long crossbow of blackened bone and steel slung across his back. Its limbs were curved wrong, as though grown rather than forged.
All three of them were battered: cloaks torn, faces bruised and streaked with grime and drying blood, boots leaving wet red prints on the floorboards. They moved with the bone-deep exhaustion of people who had already spent everything they had and still kept walking.
The big man strode straight past the envoy and the glittering pile of gold without so much as a glance. He didn't pause for the stares, the whispers, or the sudden hush that swallowed the room whole. He went directly to the bar, lowering the wounded adventurer onto the nearest long table—the one where Augustus's untouched meal still sat cold. The tabletop groaned. Blood immediately began to spread beneath the man's back, soaking into the bread and pooling around the wooden bowl.
Calleb Willright turned to the tavern-keep—a squat, barrel-chested man who had frozen mid-pour behind the counter.
"Alcohol," Calleb said, voice flat and final. "Strongest you've got. Bottle. Then clean rags—whatever you use to mop blood off the floor will do. And a knife. Sharp. Clean if you can manage it."
The keep blinked, mouth opening and closing once before instinct took over. He scrambled beneath the bar, producing a dark, unlabeled bottle of something that smelled like paint thinner and regret, a fistful of stained linen strips, and a narrow boning knife with a handle wrapped in frayed leather.
Calleb took them without thanks, already turning back to the table. The red-cloaked woman moved to the adventurer's side, peeling back torn leather to expose a deep gash across the ribs that wept black-tinged blood. The young crossbow-bearer took up position at the foot of the table, eyes sweeping the room in slow, deliberate arcs—weapon still slung, but fingers resting near the trigger.
Augustus stood rooted where he had been, the pouch of gold still dangling forgotten from his fingers. His mouth worked soundlessly. The envoy's gaze flicked wildly—from the dying man bleeding onto what had been his dinner, to the scarred giant who hadn't even acknowledged his existence, to the silent trio who had walked out of the very hell he was begging someone to guide him through.
No one looked at him. Not Calleb. Not the woman. Not the crossbow-bearer. Not even the knights, whose helms had turned fractionally toward the newcomers but remained statue-still.
The bottle was opened with a pop. Calleb poured a generous stream over the wound; the adventurer's body jerked once, a wet gurgle escaping his throat. The big man didn't flinch. He pressed a wad of rag against the gash, then took the knife in his other hand, testing the edge against his thumb without drawing blood.
Augustus's hand rose slowly to his throat again. His fingers trembled against the high collar. The room seemed to tilt, the fire's heat suddenly too hot, the air too thick with blood and storm-scent and the absolute indifference of the only people who might have been mad enough to take his coin.
He choked on nothing at all—on the silence, on the gold no one wanted, on the sight of a man being patched together like old sailcloth while the black plains waited outside like an open grave.
His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts. The words he had rehearsed for hours—urgent, kingdom-saving, impossible—died somewhere behind his teeth.
Calleb didn't look up.
No one did.