Umbrval was not a village, but a stifled sigh. A harsh islet, planted in the distant South, where freedom was still measured by rusty blades and nights without the cries of war horns. Further north, beyond the fetid Gorges of Morgath, the territories languished under the yoke of the orcs. The fields were plowed by their hooves, villages nailed to the ground by scorched banners, free men reduced to bleating in chains. But here, in this South forgotten by both the heavens and the conquerors, the air still breathed without the stench of dried blood—at least, not entirely.
Its black stone houses, with moldy thatched roofs, clung to the hillsides like poisonous mushrooms. The narrow alleys, winding between the leprous walls, exhaled the scent of soaked earth and cold ash. The only remnant of a past consumed by flames, a watchtower struck by lightning during the Great Rift, pointed toward the sky like an accusing finger. North, always north, where the storm of armored hordes rumbled.
The old ones still whispered the name of Tharion. A century ago, this sparkling kingdom covered these hills with marble and fortresses. But the Rift had reduced the fallen colossus to a myriad of starving hamlets, of which Umbrval was but a gaping scar—a puzzle of blackened stones, where citadels had once risen.
In this town, where shadow seemed to ooze from the stones, children were taught to wield swords before they could even write their names. By dawn, one could see them practicing in the hollows of the hills, crude bows in hand, wild horses tamed by fist and will. Their games were duels, their tales, stories of bloody hunts. Umbrval nourished no weakness. To survive in the ruthless world born from the ashes of the Rift—one hundred winters since Tharion lay splintered, its once fertile lands torn into squalid fiefs where scraps of glory were fought over—youth had to grow in symbiosis with iron and blood.
Thus, the men of the village were all, or nearly all, bounty hunters. Their eyes, cold as the steel of their blades, scanned the horizon, ever watchful for prey. They would leave for weeks, saddles creaking under the weight of chains and promises of death, returning only with tattered trophies or bags clinking with cursed gold. A meager loot, some thought, for those who wandered over the ashes of a giant. No one questioned their methods. In Umbrval, one learned from the cradle that morality was a luxury, and pity, a thorn offered to the scavengers.
It was here that Kael, Elyna, and Lorath grew up, between fire and stone.
Kael, with his tall frame and steel-blue stare, carried the rugged beauty of the Southern lands. His black hair, glossy as the wing of a nocturnal raven, often held back by a simple leather tie, framed a sharp, proud face. He had the bearing of a prince without a kingdom, the insolent charm of a tamed beast—at least, on the surface.
The twins, Elyna and Lorath, seemed cut from the same cloth—the stuff of legends. With an almost ethereal beauty, they attracted looks without meaning to. Their fine features were enhanced by blonde hair inherited from their mother. Their eyes, a clear green, seemed to see beyond the veil of appearances. But while Elyna wore this grace with a fierce gentleness, Lorath wielded it like a weapon—a mocking smile on his lips, a tightrope walker's gait ready to bite.
Together, they formed an inseparable trio, children of a broken world, reflections of an uncertain future.
And it was here, among the hills of Umbrval, in this South that survived in silence, that their destiny took root.
On that day, Kael, Elyna, and Lorath had been grimacing since dawn, their hands buried in the mud of Madame Orlaine's garden.
Elyna plunged her hoe into a mound of earth with a heroic grimace, her blonde braid smeared with mud.
"If I had to choose between weeding this field and licking Garin's boots, I'd pick the boots. At least they'd have some flavor."
Lorath, crouched by a row of spindly carrots, held up a misshapen vegetable to the light.
"Check this out! This carrot looks like Madame Orlaine's nose. We should give it to her as a gift … or a declaration of war."
Kael, bent over his wheelbarrow, grunted without looking up.
"If we don't finish before nightfall, she'll make us eat her famous nettle stews," he said, imitating the old woman's cavernous voice. "'It strengthens the soul, you bunch of softies!'"
The twins burst out giggling, but Elyna's laughter choked off when a clump of earth landed on her shoulder.
"Kael ! If you do that again, I'll…"
She stopped mid-sentence when she saw Garin, the blacksmith's son, walking past the garden.
The shy giant dragged a cart full of scrap metal, his muscular arms gleaming with sweat.
"Oh, look!" Lorath chuckled. "Our secret admirer has found another excuse to pass by here."
He whispered, "He circled the well three times to adjust his belt in front of you, Elyna."
Elyna blushed, furious, and threw a handful of dirt at her brother.
"Shut up! He … he's looking at Kael, not me!"
Kael raised an eyebrow skeptically, but Garin, spotting Elyna, turned crimson and quickened his pace, making the cart creak.
"Bravo. You've just broken a heart … and probably an axle."
A silence fell over the trio, disturbed only by the distant song of cicadas and the wet sound of tools in the earth.
Then Elyna spoke again, her tone more serious.
"Do you remember the time we took down those poachers near the old bridge? They were armed, yet we subdued them in the blink of an eye."
Lorath gave a quick nod.
"Yeah. And I still have the scar on my shoulder to prove it. We know how to fight, it's not just a dream."
Kael sighed as he loaded the last wheelbarrow.
"No one here is going to give us a serious mission. Not as long as we look like kids playing at being heroes."
"And yet," Elyna said, straightening up, "we could've been bounty hunters. We could've traveled the realms, captured bandits, protected caravans…"
She looked at her hands, covered in mud.
"Instead, we're stuck weeding beets for next to nothing."
Lorath gave a bitter smile.
"Great legends surely started in the mud, right?"
As if to mark the end of their ordeal, Madame Orlaine hobbled over, a cloth bag in hand.
"Well, I owe you your due. Honest work."
She handed each of them three copper coins before turning back toward her cottage without another word.
They looked at each other, their hands wrapped around the meager coins. No one spoke. Then Kael sighed wearily.
"Come on. We've been trampled enough by vegetables for one day."
The trio walked away from the garden in silence, leaving the dust of the vegetable patch behind for the familiar hum of Umbrval.
Chased by fatigue and the lingering smell of damp earth, they turned into the Street of Sighs, the main thoroughfare of Umbrval. To the left, the Flameiron forge belched acrid plumes of smoke. Garin, shirtless and hammer in hand, was striking a sword on the anvil. Sparks danced around him like angry fireflies.
"He's got…" Elyna cleared her throat. " … pretty broad shoulders. For a blacksmith."
"You want me to ask him to forge you a necklace?" Lorath grinned. "For Elyna, who prefers iron … to hay."
To the right, Helion's shop, the traveling merchant, displayed tarnished trinkets: twisted nails, candlesticks without candles, and a cracked mirror where the faces of passersby were reflected in jagged fragments.
"Young man!" Helion called in a smooth voice. "This dagger once belonged to a hero of the great alliance! It's slit a hundred throats … or maybe cabbages."
Kael examined the dull blade.
"It's mostly slit your honesty."
Further along, in front of the Herb House, the old Marla hung bundles of misty thyme. Her gnarled fingers trembled, but her gaze pierced through souls.
"Elyna Veyr…" she held out a dried leaf. "Put this in your boot. It'll keep away those persistent stares."
Elyna blushed, understanding the reference to Garin.
At the heart of the village, the Well of Whispers gurgled secrets. The washerwomen murmured gossip while beating the laundry, as children ran around, mimicking the cries of crows.
Lorath leaned against the stone edge, staring into the black water.
"They say if you shout your wish here, the spirits of the Four Kingdoms will grant it … or curse you."
"We'll see," Elyna murmured. "I'd like a real meal."
A rotten fish floated to the surface.
"Or not…" she added, her dream of a feast shattered in an instant.
A crowd suddenly gathered near the Merry Boar Tavern. A man in a torn cloak, Cedric the Dreamer, was addressing the crowd.
"I saw a unicorn in the woods! It had silver hooves and eyes … eyes like moons!"
"You've been drinking Marla's potion again, Cedric!" a villager shouted back.
Kael watched the scene, a rare smile tugging at his lips.
"At least he sees something other than mud and turnips."
Lorath shot back, "If I die in this rat hole, with my hands full of mud, I'll drag you both to court!"
When they reached the hut, a hovel nestled against the wall of the old watchtower, it was barely possible to make out the fragile structure made of reclaimed boards, some of which were as cracked as the soul of the place. The walls, wooden and weathered, seemed barely able to stand, held up by posts that had seen too many seasons. The tiny windows, adorned with torn webs, let in only a few shards of pale light, insufficient to brighten the ever-present darkness inside.
The roof, made of broken tiles and ill-fitting boards, creaked under the pressure of the wind. Inside, Elyna hung her muddy tunic on a nail driven into one of the wooden walls of the hut and made her way to the old, rusted stove to start a fire, as the air was damp and cold. Straw beds and a rickety table completed the decor, on which sat Grogmash, the group's mascot: a stone surprisingly resembling a potato, both in shape and color. Eyes, a nose, a bushy mustache, and a small, awkward goatee had been drawn on it. Two irregular bumps on top of the stone gave it a horned appearance, accentuating the strange personality of this rock potato.
"One day, this hut will have carpets. And walls without holes," Elyna said.
"And a throne for Grogmash," Lorath added, giving a nod to the potato.
"Oh, King of Vegetables, grant us your wisdom … and a bit of gold to buy your crown."
Kael, leaning against the door, observed his friends. In the flickering firelight, he dared to imagine something else: gleaming armor, legendary quests, a destiny forged in steel … and contracts. Lucrative contracts.
"What if we leave?" he suggested, unfurling an old map he'd stolen from Helion, marked with red circles around the Gloommire's Stairs. "The caravans are just the beginning. I've heard there's a thousand-coin bounty on the head of the Raven of Gloomgrove. A killer who hunts travelers … and might have a hidden treasure."
Elyna sat down beside him, their shoulders brushing. She drew her short blade—rusty but sharp—and made it dance in the light.
"We've got our blades … and my arrows. Remember, Kael, the day I took down the poacher of Valcreux? His head was worth fifty coins. Fifty. With that, we could've patched the roof, but no, we had to feast for three days like lords and buy that damned griffon bone lyre no one knows how to tune."
Lorath, lying on a bed of straw, flashed a crooked smile.
"I dream of a bounty so big we could buy a castle for Grogmash. Imagine it: him on a throne of roasted vegetables, us in silk cloaks, and an army of … let's say, elegant mercenaries." He grabbed the potato and raised it like a scepter. "The King of Vegetables demands a quest worthy of him! Why not that Sorcerer-Cook who turns people into stew? His head must be worth its weight in spices."
Kael laughed, but his smile faded into something more serious.
"The Stairs are full of bounties like that. Traitors, monsters, corrupt lords… We could be free. No one would call us vagabonds anymore. We'd have a real roof over our heads," Kael added, his expression distant in thought.
Outside, the mist thickened, swallowing the stars. Somewhere, in the Gloomgrove forest, a wolf howled—but for the first time, that howl seemed like an invitation. A promise of trails to follow, blood to spill … and coins to collect.
Elyna tightened her grip on her blade, already picturing the Raven's face hidden among the dense fern leaves.
Lorath mumbled some absurd plan involving wolf traps and a feast of giant potatoes.
The wind roared against the walls, making Grogmash shudder on his wooden throne. Lorath snapped his fingers, breaking the charged silence where dreams of bounties still lingered.
"We're freezing in here, and the Merry Boar—that tavern at the world's edge—is still serving lukewarm beer at this hour. Even reheated, it'll be better than our stash of lichen broth," he said, glancing at the stove as it spat out feeble embers. "Let it heat the shack a little. Maybe it'll chase away this bone-deep mist so we can sleep … or maybe it'll decide to roast the place instead."
Kael, standing by the door, observed Elyna as she packed with the precision of a warrior he knew far too well. She ties her hair when she's tense, he thought, noticing how her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword. And she always forgets that one lock falling across her forehead. For a moment, he imagined brushing it back and tucking it behind her ear—a gesture he carved in memory before burying it beneath his stone-faced stillness.
"Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to move?" she snapped, without looking up, adjusting the strap on her scabbard.
He fixed his attention on a crack running through the wall. Three copper coins. Enough for a piece of honey bread. She likes that.
The thought hit him like an arrow—pointless and tender—and he silently cursed himself. He had the nerve to fight a troll barehanded, but not the heart to speak a single feeling aloud.
Lorath shoved the door open with his shoulder, releasing a flood of mist.
"Onward, my noble friends! If we drag our feet, even the tavern rats will be gone!"
At once, a frigid downpour began, turning the trail into a river of mud. Lorath threw his arms to the sky, drenched in seconds.
"Brilliant! Even the rain's turned against us!"
Elyna burst into laughter, her voice mingling with the patter of heavy drops.
"You were begging for a bath, weren't you? Well, here you go—fresh and scented with rotting leaves!"
Kael couldn't help but grin, rain running down his face. She only laughs like that in the rain. A stolen moment, tucked away with the others.
Lorath stomped through the muck, brandishing the dead branch like a royal decree.
"I decree this: whoever catches a cold will have to lick Grogmash's boots!"
Elyna flung a handful of mud at him.
"Better get your tongue ready, then."
They ran toward the distant lights of the Merry Boar.
The rain lashed against the stone walls of Umbrval, cascading in muddy torrents down the tarnished windows of the Merry Boar's Den. Inside, the warmth of the crackling hearth battled the icy dampness, and the scent of burning wood mingled with the sour aroma of beer and mutton stew. Garlands of dried ivy hung from the blackened beams, and the worn velvet cushions on the benches seemed to have absorbed a century's worth of confidences and raucous laughter. The stuffed boar above the fire watched the room with a mocking stare, its tusks yellowed with age, faintly gleaming in the dim light, as though it knew some secret the living were oblivious to.
Kael, Elyna, and Lorath had taken refuge at a table near the flames, their clothes still drenched. Elyna spun her knife on the table with menacing grace, piercing an abandoned potato in the process. Nearby, a group of bounty hunters in gleaming armor burst into laughter as they studied a map marked with golden runes. A man in purple silk, clearly wealthy, had just handed them a scroll.
Lorath raised his mug of sweet cider with a theatrical flourish, clinking it against Kael's.
"Shall we drink to our future glory?" he said, a roguish grin on his lips. "Or to our future epitaphs. Here lies Lorath, dead from an excess of charm … and a lack of alarm."
Elyna chuckled, plunging her blade into the wood near Kael's fingers with devilish precision.
"As for me, I want: Elyna Veyr, the one who made a troll weep … and a fool smile." She threw Kael a dark glance, too pointed to be sincere. "The fool being you."
Kael didn't catch the jab, reaching for the cider mug the waitress had just placed in front of him.
"To your health," the rosy-cheeked waitress mumbled, avoiding Kael's eyes. She quickly walked away, and Kael instinctively watched her go, under Elyna's watchful eye. Elyna nibbled her lip and turned her head.
Lorath stretched his arms in an exaggerated fashion, nearly spilling a nearby patron's mug.
"Can you imagine if we left tomorrow? Becoming bounty hunters, like in the tales!" He mimicked a herald announcing a triumph, pointing to a mercenary at the neighboring table who was displaying a pouch full of gold coins. "To me, the plump orcs and the distressed princesses!"
Elyna snapped her blade against his, a predatory smile on her lips.
"I prefer: To me, the disappointed dreams and the full purses," she said, fixing the waitress with a sly smile.
Kael sighed, running his hand over the rusted hilt of his sword. In a corner of the room, a portly man was returning a bloodstained dagger to a customer, while a woman with a scarred face argued over prices with an armored warrior.
"No one's hiring unknowns in Umbrval," he murmured, pointing to the Wall of Glory, where the trophies of local champions were piled high: goblin skulls, necklaces of claws, and a bouquet of withered flowers from a secret admirer. "Here, we're just shadows."
Elyna tossed a crust of bread at him with the precision of a crossbow.
"Then let's change the lighting," she said, nodding toward the window, where the rain traced trails like tears on the glass. "Out there, even the shadows have legends."
A coarse laugh abruptly drowned out the discordant scraping of the lute. Thalion Eryndor, a foreigner in a gray cloak edged with silver threads, had slid into their table. His golden eyes, laced with black veins like ancient roots, swept across the room. Beneath his hood, pale scars crisscrossed his angular face, and a dagger engraved with bluish runes hung at his belt.
"Legends come at a price, young warriors…" he began, placing a scroll sealed with violet wax onto the table.
Lorath, unable to hold his tongue, brandished a half-eaten apple.
"If it's to prune cursed trees or hunt giant slugs, we charge by the day. And we take payment in—"
Thalion interrupted him with a curt gesture, unrolling the scroll. The ink began to pulse, revealing the portrait of an elf of breathtaking beauty. Emariel's features resembled those of a living constellation: moon-blonde hair interwoven with celestial threads; ocean-green eyes where mysterious glimmers seemed to shimmer. Her perfectly sculpted lips moved silently, forming incomprehensible syllables—"Voryn… Dhal…"
Kael leaned forward, his brow creased.
"It's unbelievable… She's moving."
Lorath, equally mesmerized, blinked as if he couldn't trust his own sight.
"It's impossible… Is this a real portrait?"
Elyna stepped closer too, her eyes wide with awe.
"It's … it's elvish magic, surely. No human scribe could animate a face with this kind of precision…"
They remained suspended, staring at the scroll, almost hypnotized.
"What kind of spell is this...?" Kael whispered. "I've seen hundreds of wanted notices, and never anything like this. Usually, they're rough sketches … barely enough to tell whether it's a man or a woman."
Lorath nodded slowly.
"Here, it looks like she's going to step out of the paper and enchant you herself."
Kael gave a nervous smile, then straightened up, his expression turning serious again.
"But still, why not hire some experienced bounty hunters? There are plenty of them—"
Lorath elbowed him in the ribs, cutting his sentence short. Kael winced but didn't protest.
"Shh! You want us to lose the contract, or what?" he whispered, beaming a foolish grin at Thalion.
Thalion ignored the exchange and pointed to a sketch of the Dragon's Spine at the margin—a simple inn with weathered wooden shutters.
"Disappeared near the Dragon's Spine. Reward: ten thousand gold coins for her return. Signed: Aelar Velwën, Lord of Elyndor."
Lorath whistled as he grabbed the document, making the candlelight dance across the violet runes.
"Ten thousand coins! That's two thousand pints of cider. Or a palace. Or…" He smiled dreamily. " … a whole life free from weeding."
He paused, still staring at the numbers.
"But seriously … who could have ten thousand gold coins to themselves?"
Kael raised an eyebrow, intrigued now as well.
"And if he's willing to throw that much just to find an elf, imagine how much more he must have in reserve…"
Elyna, though cautious, tilted her head slightly toward Thalion.
"Why this inn? The orcs must have taken her somewhere else, right?"
Thalion lightly touched a hoofprint on the parchment.
"The tracks lead to the Morgath Gorges. But the Spine…" He paused, observing Kael, who was staring at the silent lips of Emariel. "... holds the answers."
A violent gust of wind made the windows tremble. Thalion stood, his grayish cloak absorbing the light of the flames.
"Leave at dawn. The orcs only keep their prey long enough to break them."
He stepped out into the storm and vanished as if he had never existed.
Barely had Thalion crossed the door when Kael and Lorath lunged for the abandoned parchment, like two dogs fighting over a juicy bone. Their elbows collided as they reached for it, each pulling in opposite directions to keep hold of the vellum, where the sultry elf's portrait seemed to come to life. The paper threatened to tear under their frantic fingers.
"Look, her hair even shines on the paper!" Lorath exclaimed, waving the document under Kael's nose.
"It's magical ink, idiot, not glitter!"
Elyna, remaining in the background, crossed her arms with a disgusted shrug.
"Idiots…" she muttered, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, as though she were about to vomit.
On the parchment, the image of Emariel now seemed to curve into a sly smile. Outside, the wind whistled in echo to Emariel's silent syllables. Somewhere in the Morgath Gorges, an orc war horn answered.
As Elyna turned her gaze away, a cold whisper passed through the tavern—a feminine voice softly murmuring "Voryn..." from the parchment, too faint for anyone to hear … except Kael.