The sky above Althaar was veiled in a thin layer of clouds, dimming the twilight.
The autumn wind carried a chill that sank deep into the bones.
This border city was no stranger to fractures but lately, the cracks felt wide open.
A lone rider arrived at the city's main gate.
Clad in a dark cloak, with a faded Imperial insignia on his left chest.
The guards tensed the moment they recognized the mark.
"Identification code," one of them demanded.
But the man only stared at him briefly.
His face pale, cold as night.
His gaze pierced without needing permission.
"Lucard Vehlheim," he said flatly.
"By order of the Archon."
No more words were needed.
The guards stepped aside, barely able to mask their unease.
Commander Alberch Varn received Lucard in his strategy room,
an old stone building at the heart of the fortress.
"You arrived sooner than I expected," said Alberch, arms crossed over his chest.
His eyes held suspicion but not hostility.
Lucard didn't respond immediately.
His eyes drifted toward the maps on the wall a new red mark had appeared in the southeast.
"Captain Tharic Elwen... I've already heard," Lucard said, voice flat.
"And do you believe this is the work of local rebels?" Alberch asked quietly.
Lucard looked straight at him.
"No. But I need confirmation. And a few holes to seal."
Alberch handed him a scroll.
"We found his body burned.
No fire at the site. Only... magical residue.
Oddly, it's unclassified in the Imperial catalog.
Not from any registered magical school."
Lucard unrolled it and read swiftly.
"We've also observed previously neutral villages starting to stir.
They're armed. Too organized. Too disciplined."
"Who's funding them?" Lucard asked, eyes still on the scroll.
"Unknown. But their weapons... hardened steel from the North.
Definitely not local."
Lucard rolled the report closed. "I'll begin my investigation tonight."
Alberch nodded. "Start with the Lower District.
That's where the loudest mouths tend to gather."
Night fell slowly, wrapping the city in a pale mist.
Lucard now wore a tattered black cloak,
passing easily for a wandering old traveler.
He moved through the alleys of the Lower District lined with harsh music, smoke, and the stench of cheap liquor.
An old tavern was his destination.
Inside, dim light flickered against dirty glass,
and laughter forced its way from lips too afraid to stay silent.
Lucard sat in the corner.
He ordered nothing.
He only listened.
Not long after, two half drunk men at the front table spoke too loudly.
"Did you see their weapons? Fireguns... and hard steel blades.
Where the hell did they get those?"
"Listen someone came to Harven village last week.
Not from here. Brought maps. Brought hope. Then vanished.
Now the village chief's talking about freedom... and attacking the garrison."
Lucard noted every word.
"And that dead captain? Body scorched. But not burned.
They say there was magic... but not from the Empire."
"Some say... it wasn't even a human who killed him."
"Or maybe... it wasn't from our world."
Their voices dropped.
Fear seeped into the edges of their conversation.
Lucard rose.
Left a few coins in silence,
and stepped out into the night streets.
In the alley near his lodgings, he paused.
His gaze turned northward toward the Imperial Palace far beyond, silent and unseen.
"Someone's orchestrating this...
and doing it without leaving a name.
But that scent of ruin... I've smelled it before."
He didn't smile.
Only a cold stare and steady breath marked the thoughts
beginning to weave threads from the scattered fragments.
And as the night deepened,
Lucard knew the shadow would soon become a storm.