The first was a merchant. He began his day as usual: he kissed his wife, glanced into his youngest son's room. Outside, his well-fed horses, harnessed and rested, were waiting for him. In the cart, his goods were neatly arranged: wool, silk, leather. Off to the side, his eldest son, leaning against the gate, was rolling a cigarette.
They greeted each other. The merchant jumped into the cart, snapped the reins, and set off toward the trail leading to the city of Volaris. His eldest son blew smoke rings, watching his departing father, watching his back, unaware that he was seeing him for the last time.
Days passed, but his father did not return. It had been about a week since he was supposed to be back. He should be standing at the doorstep with a wide grin, an empty cart behind him, and a pouch full of coins tied to his belt.
The eldest son grew worried. He kissed his anxious mother, ruffled his younger brother's hair, saddled his horse, and set out for Volaris himself. But he was not the second to disappear. During that week, many merchants, laborers, and travelers heading to Volaris had not returned home, had not sent word to their families that they had arrived safely.
When the king of the neighboring kingdom learned of the disappearances, he sent a letter to the king of Volaris—Jacob—and followed it with several soldiers on a reconnaissance mission. The soldiers did not return, and no response came to the letter.
It took months to stop unwary people from setting out for Volaris. Every day, town criers in the squares warned of the mysterious disappearances. They cautioned the curious against traveling there. Some people did not believe such tales: "How can an entire kingdom just vanish?" they would say. Others, dependent on the income Volaris provided, took the risk and still went. But the time came when the wives of the missing men wept at their neighbors' doors and warned others under no circumstances to go there. People began to believe this madness. Indeed—no one ever returned from there.
For some, however, this only spurred them on. The local "heroes." They gathered in groups, planning reconnaissance expeditions into Volaris. The city guard, catching wind of such plans, would immediately put an end to these foolish ideas and throw the organizers into the dungeon until they came to their senses.
To nip such deadly ventures in the bud, the king made several attempts. First, he sent a letter to Silverden—a city within his own kingdom. This city stood out for two reasons: firstly, it was home to the Academy of Sorcerers; secondly, Volaris was only a two-week ride away on horseback.
The city's mayor at the time, who had long expected such a letter, provided the king with a few young sorcerers and several experienced old ones. With a mission to investigate, they set out for the borders of Volaris. To determine the point of no return, they had to lose two young sorcerers. Anyone who stepped onto the trail or entered the forest within a few kilometers of the kingdom of Volaris vanished, as if passing through an invisible wall. No spells could breach this wall, and the sorcerers returned home to the academy.
Dissatisfied with the results, the king resolved on more drastic measures. He announced the formation of a detachment of strong, trained warriors. They were to go beyond this "wall," locate the source of the affliction, and destroy it. All of this was to be led by several brave sorcerers.
Many volunteered. About a thousand men. Each wanted to go down in history, perform a heroic deed, return, and win the heart of a lady along with a bag of gold as a dowry. But the king rejected three hundred, settling his force at an even seven hundred.
Seven hundred warriors, amidst cheering cries and the songs of bards, set out at dawn! In Silverden, they were welcomed as heroes. They were fed, given drink, and pleasured several times over in the brothels. In the morning, they rose from warm beds, threw on their coats, mounted their horses, and, accompanied by songs and maidens waving handkerchiefs after them, set off for Volaris—and never returned. The king waited months for their return, consoling himself with only one thought: he had saved three hundred men from death.
Over the following thirty years, from time to time, the king would send a dozen men to their certain doom. With each passing year, he grew more hopeful that the magic that had swallowed an entire kingdom would weaken and allow him to rescue at least someone from there. But with the king's death, nothing changed, and all attempts to retrieve anyone ceased entirely. Volaris was avoided. For a time, a law was in effect forbidding even discussion of the kingdom, for fear that people might decide to go there and start organizing expeditions again. In time, the law was revoked as unnecessary. People began to forget about Volaris. Only a few, reckless adventurers without wives or children, would test their luck. No one remembered them; no one mourned them. From time to time, the new king of the kingdom neighboring Volaris—and later his heirs—would stand gloomily on the balcony of his study, gaze into the distance, and think: "When?" When would such a fate befall them as well? When would that calamity, that scourge, sated with Volaris, come here like a plague?
A hundred years after the disappearance of the first merchant, King Boromir, like his predecessors, stood on the balcony, gazing into the distance under the radiant sun, thinking the same thought. "First Silverden will fall, then the capital."
His dark musings were interrupted by the cries of a crowd coming from the main square…