chapter one

The sky was clear, and the sun was shining brightly in the blue sky, casting its light over the city below. The sand was scorching, and the stone buildings in the city were absorbing the heat, turning it into a giant oven. The sun-bleached skeletons scattered around the city were like eerie decorations, forever preserved as monuments. What expressions did they wear in their final moments? Tranquility, fear, defiance? It was a question left unanswered. Alongside them now lay the bodies of the treasure hunters the young man had killed, stripped of everything, denied a proper burial. Their rough, contorted faces were now hidden beneath their own decaying remains, baking in the desert heat. Only a thin layer of sand covered them, like a protective blanket shielding the world from the gruesome scene. It was as if the city itself was a mother tucking her child in for the night.

Reflecting on them were the virtues and vices of those shaped by the crucible of war, each hardship etched on their skin as a testament to their strength. These marks were either badges of honor or shame. In this way, they were similar to the young man who ended their lives, soaring over ancient battlefields in forgotten wars.
The sounds of scavenging birds and other creatures feasting on the remains, the stench of decaying bodies baking in the sun, remained a disturbing experience for him, no matter how many times he encountered it. It was a sickly-sweet Odor that overwhelmed the senses – the smell of death.

During this time, Tharos sought refuge from the sun’s rays within the temple, finding solace in a secluded spot in the main hall where sunlight could not penetrate. The temple’s interior was kept neat and clean, serving as a place of sentimental value for Tharos. It held a significance that went beyond mere nostalgia, though he had long forgotten the origin or purpose of these feelings. Tharos was determined to preserve the temple, despite the paradoxical nature of his attachment to it.

In front of him, there were several shelves holding various ornaments and trinkets, a large stone table, and a few small stone chairs. A massive earthen jug filled with dark red liquid sat on the table. He poured himself a drink from the jug into a simple silver chalice until it was full. Taking a deep sip from the chalice, he barely let the dark red liquid touch his lips as he drank it down. With his free hand, he rummaged through the belongings of the people he had defeated. Swirling the chalice in his hand, a few drops of red liquid splattered on the lightly sand-covered stone floor.

One thing he truly enjoyed about the treasure hunters was their habit of bringing great drinks. This alone would have been reason enough to welcome them with open arms. The rich taste of the wine on his tongue brought back memories of simpler times in his youth, memories that were fading with time. Unfortunately, these people seemed so different from him, almost alien. Tharos was certain that they probably viewed him the same way. Their language and customs were so unfamiliar and strange to him that forming any kind of connection with them seemed impossible. There was no common ground between them. If only there was a way to bridge the gap, perhaps they could avoid bloodshed. But without shared understanding, it seemed unlikely that people from such different worlds could ever come to an agreement.

“They probably think I am rather strange as well.”

He chuckled somberly at the thought. Even when it came to the inhuman races like elves and dwarfs, who were more alien in both body and mind compared to humans, there were still some commonalities that existed between his people and them that helped ease the tension. For example, with the elves, there was a shared love of the finer things in life such as art, poetry, music, or simply appreciating nature’s beauty. Beauty came in many forms, like a well-crafted sword. One could appreciate how the blade sang through the air as it cut into flesh and bone, or how it effortlessly pierced through the thickest Armor with its finely sharpened edge. The way it shimmered and shined in the light, or how the faint droplets of blood slowly dripped onto the ground after a kill. In contrast to the elves’ idealistic and spiritual view of the world, the dwarfs held a more pragmatic and materialistic perspective.

“There is not a man alive in the world, whose heart, and mind couldn’t be swayed by gold.”

An old dwarven saying that held a kernel of truth to it. Wealth and material possessions were powerful motivators for many people, a universal truth of humanity. The desire for wealth, power, and control was something that everyone experienced at some point in their lives. While this sentiment resonated with his people and the dwarfs, the dwarfs embraced this love and avarice with a greater intensity than any human.

“I wonder if they are still around.”

It had been centuries since Tharos had last encountered an elf or a dwarf, and in his current state, he found he had more in common with elves than with dwarfs or other humans. He let out a rather somber sigh as he contemplated this. The gear and equipment he had acquired from the treasure hunters would serve as suitable replacements for his dwindling resources. However, most of it was designed in a way that would require time to become accustomed to and use effectively. The books and maps, while aiding him in deciphering possible intentions, were written in a language that was foreign to him. The only thing he could glean from the crude writings of these individuals were the words they might use to describe or name things. However, without any translation or even approximation to his native language or the several other languages he spoke, this was simply speculation on his part. But the two things that did catch his attention were the symbol on the books and maps, along with a series of words that appeared regularly. The symbol was white and in the shape of a bird he was unfamiliar with. From the appearance of it, this bird seemed gentle, unlike the carrion or birds of prey Tharos was accustomed to.

“Maybe a symbol of some new religion or the banner of some king.”

he pondered. The phrase that frequently came up regularly was

“From the desk of Lord Eilis.“

Tharos was puzzled by the recurring mention of this phrase, as it seemed to hold some significance. It appeared that the treasure hunters were highly organized and on a specific mission, possibly seeking something more valuable than just riches. Tharos wondered if more treasure hunters would be arriving soon and if it would be more practical to set traps and activate the city’s defenses rather than trying to track down each group individually. However, Tharos was not a hunter, and he did not have the knowledge or ability to activate the city’s defenses, as that required arcane rituals known only to mages like his friend Vartark, a high-ranking official at court.

The temple or palace archives might have the knowledge he sought. However, it had been many decades since Tharos had last visited the temple archive and centuries since he had set foot in the palace. It was one of the few places that Tharos neglected to keep clean or maintain regularly. As he descended the stone stairs into the archives beneath the temple, he was met with a sight of thick cobwebs and dust covering the archives like a blanket. It had been a while since he had last cleaned this place, and the only relief Tharos felt was that no sand had managed to find its way in. As he walked in, running his pale hand across the dusty shelves, the dust underneath his fingertips felt like he was petting a sheep whose wool had been slicked with grease. A slight look of disgust crossed Tharos’s face as he finished tracing his hand on the shelf. Sorting through the various shelves, he found a mix of decaying scrolls and books. None of them were legible; some had holes in them, others were moth-eaten, and some had ink faded to the point of obscurity. This was what Tharos disliked about paper items – they were rare and valuable, but the writings didn’t last like the clay and stone tablets that held the words and wisdom of past eras. He would have to check the palace for any legible writings.

“They might be in the palace archives.”

He pondered to himself as he made his way out of the temple archives. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, a noise caught his attention from behind. Turning swiftly, he looked down the stairs to see an elderly woman standing at the bottom. She was of short stature and adorned in elegant white robes. As Tharos focused on her, the temple surroundings seemed to transform into a pristine and orderly state. The echoes of conversation from the main hall reached his ears, where the head priest was delivering his sermon to the devoted congregation. The sounds of scribes diligently transcribing the sermon filled the air, ensuring its preservation for future generations.

“Tharos!”

The woman sternly called out to him, her face showing a hint of fatigue, indicating that this was a familiar exchange for her.

“You’re going to be late. His majesty is expecting you at the palace soon for consul, you cannot keep him waiting forever.”

Tharos was on the verge of speaking, bewildered by the unfolding events. Just as he was about to utter a word, he heard a voice – his own voice – but he wasn’t the one speaking. Turning around, he saw himself. The sight left him questioning his own existence. Who was he, really? And who was this person staring back at him. Before Tharos could make sense of it all, the once pristine temple was engulfed in a storm of sand, obscuring everything around him. The sounds of people were drowned out by the howling wind. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying outside the temple, covered in a thin layer of sand. As he rose to his feet and brushed off the sand, he noticed the sun setting in the distance, casting a golden glow over the stripped corpses in the fading light.

“Was that genuine? A form of illusion?”

Tharos hurried back into the temple, moving with a sense of urgency as if driven by a force beyond his control. He meticulously searched every corner of the temple, but found it deserted. The absence of the old woman, the priests, and the scribes left him unsettled. Who was she, and why did she seem familiar to him? These questions lingered in his mind as he headed towards the palace. Walking through the deserted streets, he observed the sun setting and felt a chill in the air, reinforcing the stark reality that he was completely alone in the city, with only his thoughts for company. As he approached the front gates of the place and gazed up at the palace, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in a long time washed over him – fear. Tharos couldn’t pinpoint the reason for this sudden feeling and scanned his surroundings for any signs of danger but found none. Despite the absence of any visible threat, the fear persisted. Determined, Tharos pushed through the front gate, crossed the courtyard, and ascended the imposing stone stairs leading to the main chamber and eventually the throne room. With each step, the fear intensified, causing his heart to race and his pulse to quicken. Taking a deep breath, he entered the main hall, ready to face whatever awaited him in the palace.

His fear dissipated, replaced by shame and regret. The main hall was filled with dust, sand, and cobwebs, with several worn statues dedicated to different gods. As Tharos made his way to the throne room, he felt the statues’ eyes on him. Inside, he found a room in desperate need of maintenance, with cracked floors and walls, a damaged roof, and a complex magic circle on the floor surrounding the throne. The throne had definitely seen better days, with the bronze casting twisted and the seat area marked by a massive scorch mark. The melted crown and golden scepter added to the sense of decay, with the crown adorned with jewels and gemstones that once symbolized wealth and power now cracked and shattered. It was a stark reminder that nothing lasts forever, no matter how grand or imposing. As he studied the throne, his vision suddenly blurred and flickered. When it cleared, he heard a voice behind him, this time belonging to a young woman.

“Tharos… you’re late my husband is waiting for you.”

As Tharos turned to face the voice, he saw a woman who was voluptuous, with long curly sandy brown hair tied in a ponytail. Her wide hazel eyes lit up as he approached. She wore a white silk robe with a golden trim, adorned with jewelry. Her luscious lips formed a warm smile as she responded to his attention.

“I understand that your studies are a priority for you, but it’s important that you also fulfil your responsibilities.“

Just as Tharos was about to reply, the woman vanished, and in an instant, the faint sunlight that had been shining in the room disappeared. The room was now bathed in a soft blue light, cast by the full moon in the night sky. With darkness outside, Tharos suddenly felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. It was time to go home and get some rest, he decided. He would resume his research the next day when his mind was more alert.