At the Edge of the Abyss

Aiden Svalthren walked with a leather bag slung over his shoulder, its contents as light as the weight of his past, yet just as significant. Inside lay a tattered jacket he once wore in his youth, a silver pendant that had belonged to his family, and one more recent item—a parchment bearing the royal seal of King Veilon.

That damned parchment was the reason he now wandered aimlessly. A direct order from the king, instructing Angellon Norvel to find and recruit him into the Zhailon military.

Aiden Svalthren, a soldier of the kingdom. A military man of Zhailon.

The very thought was a mockery. Once, he had dreamed of such a fate. As a child, he had admired the warriors of the capital, longed to be among their ranks, but he knew better than anyone that it was all a lie.

He would never be one of them.

All that remained was to flee. To escape before Veilon could bind him in shackles heavier than those of his cell. His only way out lay in Rimehart, the green continent across the sea, where he hoped to find his father.

He traversed the vast expanse of the Kings Wasteland, the sprawling central region that separated Zhailon's domains. Around him, the wind swept through the tall grass, darkened by the shadow of dusk, rippling like a sea of green and gold under the last rays of the sun. The hills stretched as far as the eye could see, with jagged rock formations rising like remnants of long-forgotten battles.

The Kings Wasteland was no mere empty landscape; it was the backbone of Xhandor's domain, the most crucial of Zhailon's seven territories. Here, King Veilon Thalmyr himself ruled.

As much as Aiden wished to avoid this territory and head straight south to the Crimson Lands, he knew he had no choice. For two reasons: first, the coming night. Aiden during his confinement days heard that once the sun dipped behind the mountains, the wasteland became a hunting ground for bandits, mercenaries, and assassins lurking beyond the kingdom's reach, and during the last few weeks the murders have been on the rise. Even the soldier patrols camping in the area were not to be trusted. The second reason was money. Without funds, he could not buy supplies or pass through the checkpoints, both in Zhailon and beyond.

The problem was his name.

Being a Svalthren always brought complications. His lineage guaranteed hostility, suspicion, and the constant need to bribe officials just to move without being detained at every damned checkpoint.

After what felt like an hour of walking, the scenery began to change. The silence of the wasteland was replaced by the distant murmur of voices and the creak of wooden wheels on stone. The scent of dry earth gave way to the smell of burning wood and roasted meat. Finally, Aiden reached the first signs of civilization within Xhandor's domain.

Before him, a row of caravans rested by the roadside, forming a small makeshift settlement. Campfires flickered in the darkness, illuminating the faces of merchants, travelers, and mercenaries preparing to spend the night before entering the city. Further ahead, the true structure of Xhandor began to reveal itself—streets of dark stone, buildings of weathered brick, and the imposing wall that enclosed King Veilon's fortress.

But the caravans weren't what mattered—what lay beside them did.

Leaving the caravans behind and nearing the entrance to Xhandor, Aiden finally reached his destination—a worn-down tavern with wooden walls blackened by smoke. There was no signboard, only a faded symbol carved into the wood above the entrance: a small crown atop a large goblet, nearly invisible beneath years of dust and neglect. The ceiling beams sagged under the weight of time, and the paint that once covered the walls had faded, revealing splintered wood darkened by the elements.

The windows, small and covered in grime, let out a faint glow of candlelight, while the muffled murmur of conversations reached him. From the outside, the tavern seemed forgotten—one might expect it to be well-kept, given its proximity to the kingdom's entrance, but instead, it stood as a den of crime and corruption, a place abandoned to rogues and degenerates.

The door groaned as he pushed it open, releasing a thick air laden with tobacco, cheap liquor, and stale sweat.

The moment he crossed the threshold, conversations ceased.

For an instant, only the creak of the wooden floor beneath his boots could be heard. Dozens of eyes fixed on him, scrutinizing him with a predator's attention. Some were hostile, others wary, most calculating. Bandits, mercenaries, smugglers, hired killers. None of them were strangers to violence.

The interior was just as decrepit as its exterior. A low ceiling supported by soot-covered beams, rough stone walls stained with old alcohol and dried blood, marred with knife marks. The floor was uneven, covered in a fine dust that hid the traces of boots and dried mud.

Several sturdy wooden tables were scattered throughout, many with wobbly stools or clumsily nailed repairs. In one corner, a group of dice players laughed with hoarse voices as one of them cursed and threw the pieces to the floor. Near the bar, two men spoke in hushed tones, hunched over their drinks, casting furtive glances at the rest of the room.

The bar stretched across the back of the tavern, a long oak counter worn by countless mugs slammed against its surface. A burly man with a scruffy beard and scarred knuckles wiped a tankard with a filthy rag, observing the newcomers with detached indifference.

Aiden didn't linger at the entrance. He had no desire to draw more attention than necessary.

He moved toward a dimly lit corner, his gaze sweeping the room, ensuring no one was paying too much interest in him.

Aiden let himself fall into the chair, releasing a quiet sigh. He took a small stone he had picked up outside and rolled it between his fingers before setting it on the table.

It was a signal.

If anyone was looking for someone to handle dirty work, they would recognize it. Names and pasts didn't matter—only whether you were useful or not.

Aiden scanned the room carefully. Among those striking deals, two figures stood out, clad in attire with an almost spectral quality—Shadow Lords, assassins of Cronin Arwell's squadron, the commander of Noctaris. Aside from them, the others wore gaudy clothing, their weapons laid out on the tables, a display that drew attention but also revealed their inexperience. The more discreet you were, the better—but in excess, it could be just as conterproductive.

Then, his attention shifted to others engaged in quiet discussions or solitary drinks. Three stood out among the crowd.

The first was a soldier bearing the emblem of a golden ship on rising waves—the mark of Commander Zhyris Velmora. His domain, Aetheris, specialized in covert operations and intelligence. It was rare to see one of his men outside their jurisdiction without a clear purpose. The soldier's posture was rigid, his chin slightly raised in a gesture that betrayed discipline and pride. His complexion was sun-weathered, his blond hair nearly white—characteristic of those who lived in Aetheris, where harsh winds and water left their mark.

Behind him, a man drank alone in the shadows, his frame thin and angular, his skin an almost sickly ash-gray. An Edrilian. He didn't need further confirmation. The people of Edril spent most of their lives beneath the shadows of towering structures and dense forests, their kingdom perpetually cloaked in mist and strict governance. His hair was a dull black, barely reflecting light, and his dark eyes constantly shifted, calculating every possible threat.

The last was a man from Paradise Mountain, and of the three, he was the easiest to identify. His deep bronze skin bore the mark of a land where the heat never relented, his thick auburn hair falling in loose waves over his shoulders. Unlike the disciplined soldier and the cunning Edrilian, he had the look of a man raised in bustling markets, accustomed to negotiations and scams.

Aiden remained silent, observing. The Zhyris soldier was surely a spy, and Aiden had nothing to tell him that he didn't already know. As for the Edrilian it was better to stay away from him, and he had nothing to offer the merchant from Paradise Mountain.

He would have to wait a little longer.

Hours passed, but no one approached him.

Mourise had assured him that this was the right tavern. He was certain of it.

The conversations around him continued. Mercenaries discussing prices, smugglers exchanging information, assassins negotiating contracts. The tavern was full of movement, but no one spoke to him.

With no other choice, Aiden activated a small fraction of his Terum energy, a cold dark essence permeated around his body until it spread through the tavern. Instantly, the gazes of all those he had analyzed earlier, along with some strangers, fixated on him. Aiden met their eyes with a solemn expression before withdrawing his energy completely—that was enough.

The reason he didn't do it before is because he could attract the wrong people, but he saw no other alternative.

After about five minutes, someone approached him.

"Hey, is this seat taken?"

The man who spoke had a well-groomed reddish beard and dark eyes that carefully scanned his surroundings.

"No, go ahead," Aiden said.

The man sat across from him without hesitation. He leaned slightly over the table and lowered his voice.

"I saw the energy you released just now. You're strong, so I'll be brief." Aiden noticed how his fingers tapped on the table. "I need someone eliminated."

Aiden blinked once, slowly. The man seemed very nervous, not someone to trust. His first instinct was to reject the offer. But instead of doing so immediately, he decided to find out what this was about.

"Who are we talking about?"

The red-haired man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned his head slightly to the left and fixed his gaze on the floor. Aiden followed his line of sight and saw a man of middle age with a rigid, almost military posture. His skin was pale, but his features were sharp, with a prominent chin and defined cheekbones. His black hair was slicked back, revealing a broad forehead and a severe gaze. He wore a long navy blue coat with silver details that reflected the tavern's dim light. Aiden immediately recognized him as a man from Oscence.

"A citizen of Oscence? What did he do to deserve this?" Aiden asked, keeping his tone neutral.

The red-haired man didn't answer immediately. His eyes scanned the tavern cautiously, ensuring that no one was paying too much attention. Finally, he turned back to Aiden.

"You don't need to know. Just do the job and you'll get paid."

Aiden leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms calmly.

"How do you expect me to accept a job without knowing what I'm getting into?"

"I'll pay you well, come on, it will be good money."

"I don't make deals that way." He said with his eyes closed.

The man clicked his tongue, and he averted his gaze for a brief moment but when he did it he raised his hand over his face aswell grabbing his forehead, Aiden noted something: beneath his sleeve, a tattoo was visible. A curved and small dagger.

A symbol Aiden recognized immediately. It was from the emissary of Zhailon.

Aiden remembered the first time he had heard about that symbol. It was in Hollow Bastion, during one of those endless nights when prisoners passed the time sharing stories in exchange for crumbs of bread or simple companionship.

One night, the guards threw a man into the cell across from Aiden's—bruised, bloodied, but alive. He wasn't like the rest of them. No desperate murderer, no forgotten thief. This one had the bearing of someone who had once held power. He never shared his name, but everyone called him the Forsaken.

His crime? None. He was betrayed.

He had taken a contract. Not as a member of any guild, but as a man looking for vengeance. And someone—someone powerful—had ensured he paid the price for breaking it.

Aiden had spent years listening to rumors, piecing together scraps of information from whispers and drunken confessions. He had no reason to care about kings, nobles, or military officers. But he collected those secrets anyway, storing them away like a merchant hoarding gold, in case the day ever came when they might serve him.

So when the Forsaken, weak from hunger and regret, muttered the name of the man who had set him up, Aiden committed it to memory.

"Varik Halzren," the Forsaken rasped, voice barely above a whisper. "He used me. Told me the target was a threat to the kingdom, that it had the king's blessing. Said I'd be protected. And then… the moment the job was done, he turned on me. Gave me up like I was nothing. I lost everything because I trusted that bastard."

He tried to prove his innocence but to no avail, in the end he was sent to the Hollow Bastion, and those who come to that prison never see the light of day again. 

Aiden had never forgotten those words, and when Aiden was looking for information Oris told him that Varik Halzren was the kingdom's foreign affairs emissary.

His expression didn't change, but the decision was already made.

"You know what? Forget it." The red-haired man stood up abruptly. "I'll find someone else."

"Varik Halzren."

The man froze in place.

His muscles tensed, and for a moment, the tavern's noise seemed to fade into the background. When he slowly turned to face Aiden, his gaze was a mixture of contained fury… and fear.

"What did you say?" he murmured, his voice deep and controlled, though with a hint of uncertainty.

Aiden rested an arm on the table calmly. "Sit down and talk, or this gets out."

Varik didn't move immediately. His mind raced, evaluating his options. How the hell did he know his name? Was it a coincidence? A test? But Aiden had said it with too much certainty.

He couldn't take the risk.

With tense movements, he sat down again, remaining silent.

"Why do you think I'm Varik Halzren?"

Aiden smirked coldly. "The time for answering questions is over."

He reached into his leather bag and began searching inside.

Varik narrowed his eyes, the unease growing on his face. "What… what are you doing?"

Aiden didn't answer. He pulled out the parchment with the royal seal of Xhandor and slid it across the table.

"Do you know what this is?"

Varik glanced down, his face hardening.

He recognized the emblem instantly.

His throat tightened.

"What do you want from me?"

Aiden held his gaze coldly.

"I am a spy of King Veilon Thalmyr. I was ordered to investigate the recent murders in the region." His voice was low, barely a whisper between the two of them. "But I never expected to find Varik Halzren, the kingdom's foreign affairs emissary, conspiring to start a war against Oscence. Must be my lucky day."

Varik said nothing. But his jaw was so tense it looked like stone.

"I have orders from the king to carry out this assassination," he finally replied, attempting to regain control.

Aiden didn't move. "Oh, really? And what does Veilon gain from this? Oscence's hatred? The distrust of other kingdoms? Veilon has just consolidated his power. The last thing he needs is a diplomatic conflict."

Varik didn't respond.

"Why would I want to start a war?" Varik asked, feigning indignation.

Aiden placed both hands on the table and looked at him directly.

"Because you want to be the one to resolve it." The silence between them thickened. "All you have to do is make a scandal of his death and make it reach Oscence's ears, and then solve it!"

Varik Halzren was the architect of multiple diplomatic treaties. He had ensured that Paradise Mountain reopened its trade routes when they had closed the doors of The Limit. He had convinced the Glow to withdraw from their decision to take over the Red Port two years ago.

The conflict with Oscence would give him the opportunity to negotiate another victory… and strengthen his position.

"This is ridiculous." Varik gritted his teeth. "The king truly ordered me."

Aiden leaned in slightly.

"Then you won't mind if I go to him right now and verify it."

Varik's eyes narrowed.

They both knew they were lying eachother.

"If you're a spy for the king, show me your insignia." Varik ordered.

Aiden didn't blink. "I don't need one. This parchment is proof enough."

Even if Aiden didn't have the badge, he just needed to approach a guard with the parchment and they would investigate the matter, of course Aiden would never, but Varik didn't know that.

He leaned in slightly toward him.

"Do you want to take that risk?"

Varik clenched his jaw. His mind spun in circles, searching for a way out. If he's telling the truth… then I am already trapped. And even if not... I can't risk it. 

Aiden observed him intently.

"So, what are you going to do?"

Varik looked at the table. His contained fury was evident, but he had no options. Finally, he exhaled a heavy sigh.

"How much do you want?"

"Twenty gold coins." Responded without hesitation.

"Twenty?" he muttered through clenched teeth. "You're insane if you think I'm going to pay that much for your damned extortion."

Aiden rested an elbow on the table and looked at him calmly. "It's a fair price to avoid execution."

Varik clicked his tongue again, at this point Aiden had realized that he was a nervous tik that the man had. "Listen, we can work this out another way. How about fifteen? No, fourteen. That's more than anyone in this dump makes in nine months."

Aiden merely observed him, not bothering to respond.

"Come on, you don't even have to do anything. Just forget this ever happened, and you walk away with a good sum."

But Aiden had already given him the answer, silence again.

Varik exhaled sharply through his nose, biting his tongue to keep from cursing. His fingers drummed against the table before slipping back to his belt.

"Damn you," he growled, unfastening a small leather pouch with abrupt movements.

He threw it onto the table with more force than necessary, the coins inside clinking together. "Take it and get lost."

Aiden picked it up without haste. He weighed it in his hand, opened it slightly to count the contents, then stored it away with a smug grin.

"A pleasure to have done business."

The redhead glared at him. "I hope they slit your throat before you spend it."

Aiden shrugged, unconcerned.

Varik growled one last time before standing up and storming out of the tavern.

Aiden watched him disappear into the crowd before exhaling softly.

Deal closed.

Aiden left the tavern with measured steps, feeling the weight of the coins in his pocket while carrying his leather bag over his shoulder. Outside, the night breeze carried the scent of campfires and burning wood from the last remnants of the temporary settlement. Most of the caravans had already departed, leaving only a few still packing their goods before setting off.

He wasted no time. He made his way to the city checkpoint, where the guards maintained their watch with tired but alert eyes. At first, he tried to pass with a simple exchange of words, but Xhandor's soldiers rarely let anything through without personal gain. The parchment wouldn't help him in this situation, they would ask questions about it and it would get to Veilon's ears.

The crossing wasn't free. Without much discussion, one of the guards extended his hand with a silent, expectant gesture. Aiden met his gaze coldly for a moment, but it wasn't worth causing trouble. With a quiet sigh, he pulled out a gold coin and let it fall into the soldier's palm. 

The metallic clink was enough. Without further questions, the guard stepped aside and allowed him through.

Aiden entered Xhandor without looking back.

He crossed Xhandor's gates with firm steps, immediately sensing the change in atmosphere. From the outside, the domain didn't seem particularly imposing—dark stone buildings, cobbled streets, and a simple layout, with low-roofed structures and walls cracked by time. It was a practical design, devoid of obvious luxuries. But as he ventured further inside, the details began to shift.

The main streets were wider, with neatly aligned cobblestones and strategically placed lanterns. The windows of the buildings had iron frames, and the roofs rose with sharp inclines—a signature feature of Zhailonite architecture. Small temples were interspersed among the commercial districts, adorned with stone statues depicting ancient figures of the royal lineage.

Around him, the city's movement never ceased. Nocturnal merchants offered exotic wares under the glow of tall torches, while squads of soldiers patrolled the streets in formation, their armor reflecting the firelight. Security was tighter here than in any other Zhailon domain.

What had initially seemed modest now unfolded into a complex citadel, with bridges connecting different levels of the city and increasingly ornate stone structures. The contrast between the austere entrance and the capital's heart became more apparent with each step.

Aiden stayed to the margins, avoiding the more crowded paths. His objective was simple: find a place to rest without drawing attention. He veered into a side street, where inns typically welcomed travelers with more reasonable rates.

In the distance, he spotted an inn with a small wooden terrace at the entrance. Its structure was more refined than those in the outer districts, yet it lacked the extravagance of the city's center. A sign hung above the door, depicting a crescent moon, illuminated by the dim glow of an oil lamp.

Aiden walked toward the entrance.

And then, he felt a chill ran down his spine.

An energy.

He hadn't noticed it before, but now it manifested with clarity. It wasn't just a hunch—it was the presence of someone. His steps slowed, and he turned his body quickly, bracing for anything.

But he had no chance to react.

Something was moving in the shadows and in a moment.

Everything went black.

His consciousness faded before he could do anything.