Three years had passed since that fateful night in the Great Forest of Naruun. Three years since Ithor had lost everything — his companion, his home, his identity. Three years of hunting and being hunted.
The man who now sat in the shadowy corner of a border tavern in Esh-Tahar bore little resemblance to the proud Naruun warden he had once been. His once-neat braids had grown wild and unkempt, partially obscuring the tribal markings on his face. His clothing was a practical mix of whatever he could find or trade for, with no trace of the traditional Naruun garments that would have immediately identified his origins. Only his eyes remained unchanged — amber flecked with silver, constantly scanning his surroundings with the alertness of a predator.
Esh-Tahar was a settlement that existed in the margins, a place where the borders between territories blurred and the usual rules of society bent. Here, members of all seven races mingled, drawn by the promise of anonymity and the absence of traditional authorities. It was a haven for outcasts, criminals, and those with secrets to hide — a perfect place for a man like Ithor.
He nursed a cup of bitter herbal brew, his attention focused on a table across the room where three figures huddled in conversation. Two were clearly Sangor mercenaries, their arms marked with the ritual tattoos of blood magic. The third was harder to identify — a nondescript individual who could have belonged to any race, their features somehow bland and forgettable.
But Ithor knew better. He had been tracking this particular individual for months, following a trail of rumors and whispers that led from one border settlement to another. A trader in rare artifacts. A collector of exotic specimens. A person who sometimes worked with a woman named Nora.
The name still sent a surge of cold rage through Ithor's body. Nora, who had manipulated him with the blue Shyrr fragment. Nora, who had orchestrated Faaron's death and Ithor's exile. Nora, who served some greater purpose that remained frustratingly unclear despite years of investigation.
In the immediate aftermath of that night, Ithor had been consumed by a single-minded desire for vengeance. He had tracked Nora and her associates relentlessly, using the hunting skills that had once made him the pride of his tribe. But she proved elusive, always one step ahead, protected by resources and connections that spoke of powerful backing.
As months turned into years, Ithor's focus had gradually shifted. Vengeance remained a driving force, but it had been joined by a deeper need to understand. What was the true nature of the blue fragment? What conspiracy did Nora serve? And most puzzling of all, what had happened to Faaron's spirit in those final moments?
For Ithor had not imagined that silver flicker of presence beside him as he fled through the forest. In the years since, he had experienced it again and again — brief moments when he could almost feel Faaron's consciousness brushing against his own, despite the severed bond. It was impossible according to everything the Naruun believed about the sacred connection between human and Anirû. Once broken by death, a bond was supposed to be gone forever.
Yet something of Faaron lingered, a ghost of the connection they had shared. It was strongest in moments of extreme danger or emotion, as if the wolf's protective instincts transcended even death. Ithor had come to rely on these fleeting contacts, these whispers of his former companion's presence, though he told no one about them. Who would believe him? Who would understand?
His attention snapped back to the present as the nondescript trader rose from the table, shaking hands with the Sangor mercenaries to conclude whatever business they had been discussing. This was the moment Ithor had been waiting for. He drained his cup, left a few coins on the table, and slipped out of the tavern through a side door, moving with the silent grace that had become second nature.
The night air was cool against his skin as he positioned himself in the shadows of an alley, waiting for his quarry to emerge. Esh-Tahar after dark was a maze of narrow streets and hidden passages, lit only by occasional lanterns that cast more shadows than light. Perfect hunting ground for one with Ithor's skills.
The trader appeared minutes later, walking briskly away from the tavern. Alone now, without the protection of the Sangor mercenaries. Vulnerable.
Ithor followed, a shadow among shadows, closing the distance gradually. He had done this dozens of times over the years — tracking, cornering, and interrogating anyone connected to Nora or the trafficking of unusual Shyrr fragments. Most knew little of value, being merely hired help or middlemen. But occasionally, he found someone with real information, pieces of the puzzle he was slowly assembling.
The trader turned down a quieter street, away from the main thoroughfare. Ithor quickened his pace slightly. The moment was approaching.
And then he felt it. A familiar prickling at the base of his skull, a sensation that had saved his life more than once. Faaron's warning.
Ithor froze, every sense suddenly heightened. Something was wrong. The street ahead was too quiet, too empty. And now that he focused, he could detect the faint magical signatures of concealment runes — the kind used to hide presences from normal perception.
An ambush.
He melted back into the deeper shadows of a recessed doorway, considering his options. He could retreat, abandon this particular lead. But opportunities like this were rare, and he had spent weeks tracking this trader. No, he would proceed, but with extreme caution.
From a pouch at his belt, Ithor withdrew a small object — a broken fang, yellowed with age, hanging from a leather cord. Faaron's fang, extracted from the wolf's body before Ithor had been forced to flee that night three years ago. His most precious possession, and more than just a memento.
He closed his fist around the fang, feeling its familiar contours. Then he closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, seeking that silver flicker of presence that was all that remained of his bond with Faaron.
Brother-soul, he called silently. I need your eyes.
For a moment, nothing happened. These attempts to actively connect with Faaron's spirit were unpredictable at best, often yielding nothing but frustration. But tonight, perhaps because of the imminent danger, the response came almost immediately.
A sensation like cold water flowing down his spine, and then his perception shifted. Suddenly he could see energy patterns that were invisible to human eyes — the concealment runes glowing faintly on walls and ground, and more importantly, the heat signatures of living bodies hiding in wait ahead. Four figures positioned strategically to trap anyone following the trader.
The vision lasted only seconds before fading, but it was enough. Ithor now knew exactly where the ambushers were located and could plan accordingly.
He moved forward again, but this time he abandoned stealth in favor of speed. Before the hidden figures could react to his sudden appearance, he had closed the distance to the trader, who turned with a startled expression that quickly morphed into fear as Ithor's knife pressed against their throat.
"Not a sound," Ithor growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Call off your friends, or this ends badly for you."
The trader's eyes widened, darting to the hidden ambushers that they clearly hadn't expected Ithor to detect. "Stand down," they called, voice remarkably steady despite the knife at their throat. "This one's different. He knew we were here."
Figures emerged reluctantly from hiding places — two from doorways on either side of the street, one from a rooftop, and one from behind a stack of crates. All were armed, all clearly professional in their bearing. Not simple thugs, but trained operatives.
"You've been following me for days," the trader said, still remarkably composed for someone at knifepoint. "I was curious who would be so interested in my humble business."
"Humble?" Ithor scoffed. "You trade in Shyrr fragments. Specifically, the unusual ones that have been appearing more frequently in recent years. The ones with blue energy patterns."
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed the trader's face. "You're well-informed. Most people don't know to distinguish between different types of fragments."
"I've had an education," Ithor replied grimly. "Now, you're going to tell me everything you know about these fragments, about who you're collecting them for, and about a woman named Nora."
At the mention of Nora, something changed in the trader's demeanor — a subtle tensing, a new wariness in their eyes. "I don't know anyone by that name," they said, but the lie was obvious.
Ithor pressed the knife slightly harder against their throat, drawing a thin line of blood. "Try again. And remember that I have nothing to lose. Three years ago, everything was taken from me. The only thing keeping me alive is the need to understand why."
The trader swallowed hard, clearly reassessing the situation. The four guards remained in position, awaiting orders, but making no move to intervene while their employer was at risk.
"If I tell you what I know," the trader said carefully, "what guarantee do I have that you'll let me live?"
"None," Ithor admitted. "But if you don't tell me, your death is certain. Choose."
A tense silence followed as the trader weighed their options. Finally, they sighed. "Very well. But not here. My guards will stand down, and we'll go somewhere more private to talk. What I know... it isn't safe to speak of openly."
Ithor considered this. It could be another trap, of course. But he had survived countless such situations over the years, and the genuine fear in the trader's eyes when Nora was mentioned suggested they did indeed have valuable information.
"Your guards will drop their weapons and leave," Ithor countered. "Then you and I will talk. Here. Now."
More hesitation, then a reluctant nod. "Do as he says," the trader instructed the guards. "Return to the safehouse. I'll contact you when this is resolved."
The guards exchanged glances, clearly unhappy with the order but trained to obey. One by one, they placed their weapons on the ground and backed away, disappearing into the labyrinthine streets of Esh-Tahar.
When they were alone, Ithor marched the trader to a small alcove off the main street — still public enough that a scream would attract attention, but private enough for conversation. He kept the knife visible but lowered it from the trader's throat as a gesture of limited good faith.
"Talk," he commanded. "Everything you know about the blue fragments and Nora."
The trader rubbed their neck where the knife had broken skin, then sighed heavily. "My name is Liran. I'm a collector and trader of rare artifacts, specializing in items of magical significance. The blue Shyrr fragments are... exceptional finds. Unlike normal fragments, which are essentially dead pieces of the Dome, these contain active energy. They're alive, in a sense."
"I know that much," Ithor said impatiently. "What I don't know is why they're being collected, or by whom."
Liran hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. "There are... factions. Groups with different beliefs about the Dome and what lies beyond it. The dominant religious view across all seven races is that the Dome is a natural protection, shielding Inhevaen from external chaos. But some believe it's actually a prison, constructed by our ancestors to contain something."
"The First," Ithor supplied, recalling Nora's words from that night three years ago. "The Creator and Prisoner."
Liran's eyes widened slightly. "You do know more than most. Yes, some call it the First. The being that supposedly created Inhevaen and its inhabitants before being imprisoned within the Dome."
"And these factions — they're collecting the blue fragments because...?"
"Different reasons, depending on which faction," Liran explained. "Some believe the fragments can be used to strengthen the Dome, to ensure the prison remains intact. Others believe they can be used to communicate with what's imprisoned, to learn from it. And some..." They paused, lowering their voice further. "Some believe they can be used to break the prison entirely, to free what's contained within."
"And which faction does Nora serve?" Ithor asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"The Lady of Shadows," Liran replied, confirming Ithor's suspicion. "A figure few have seen but many fear. She believes that freeing the First is not just possible but necessary — that it will elevate all seven races to a new level of consciousness and power." "Or destroy us all," Ithor suggested grimly.
Liran shrugged. "Perhaps. The texts disagree on what would happen if the First were freed. Some predict apocalypse, others transcendence. The Lady of Shadows clearly believes the latter."
Ithor absorbed this information, fitting it into the puzzle he had been assembling for years. "And the blue fragments? How do they factor into her plans?"
"They're keys," Liran said, echoing what Nora had told Ithor that night. "Or perhaps more accurately, they're messages. The Dome is weakening — that much is observable fact, with Dead Zones increasing in frequency and size across Inhevaen. As it weakens, these special fragments break off, each containing what appears to be directed communication from what's imprisoned within."
"Communication to whom?" Ithor pressed.
"To those who can hear it," Liran replied. "The fragments seem to... call to specific individuals. Most people feel nothing when handling them. But certain people experience a connection, a compulsion. The Lady of Shadows believes these individuals have been chosen by the First to play roles in its liberation."
Ithor thought back to the strange compulsion he had felt that night, the way the blue fragment had seemed to call to him specifically, overriding his normal judgment and values. Had he been "chosen" somehow? The thought was disturbing.
"Where is Nora now?" he asked, returning to his most immediate concern.
Liran shook their head. "I don't know her current location. She moves constantly, never staying in one place for long. She's one of the Lady's most trusted agents, responsible for finding and recruiting those who respond to the fragments."
"Recruiting or manipulating," Ithor said bitterly.
"Both, I imagine," Liran conceded. "The Lady's cause doesn't allow for half-measures or ethical niceties. The stakes are too high."
"And what's your role in all this?" Ithor demanded. "You collect the fragments for her?"
"I collect for whoever pays," Liran corrected. "I'm not aligned with any faction. I'm a businessman, not a zealot."
Ithor studied the trader's face, looking for deception. Finding none, he asked his final question: "Where would I find more information about these factions? About the First and the Dome's true nature?"
Liran considered this for a moment. "There's a Sangor elder who sometimes stays in Esh-Tahar. He deals in information rather than goods — ancient knowledge, forgotten lore. If anyone knows more about the factions and their beliefs, it would be him." They provided a location — a shop in the eastern quarter of the settlement, marked by a sign showing a red eye.
Ithor committed the details to memory, then stepped back, lowering his knife completely. "If I discover you've lied to me about any of this..."
"I haven't," Liran assured him quickly. "Everything I've told you is true, as far as I know it. Which isn't as far as I'd like — the Lady's organization operates on a need-to-know basis, and I'm merely a supplier, not an insider."
Ithor believed them. The information aligned with the fragments he had gathered over the years, filling in gaps rather than contradicting what he already knew.
"Go," he said finally. "But know that I'll be watching. If you alert Nora or anyone else about this conversation..."
"I won't," Liran promised, already backing away. "I value my life too highly to risk it for someone else's cause. Besides..." They hesitated, then added, "I've seen what happens to those who get too deeply involved with the Lady of Shadows. It rarely ends well."
With that ominous statement, the trader turned and hurried away, disappearing into the night-shrouded streets of Esh-Tahar.
Ithor remained in the alcove for several minutes, processing what he had learned. Factions fighting over the true nature of the Dome. The First, imprisoned yet somehow communicating through special fragments. The Lady of Shadows, working to free this entity in the belief it would transform their world.
And somewhere in all of this, Nora — the woman who had destroyed his life on the orders of this mysterious Lady.
He touched the broken fang hanging around his neck, seeking that flicker of Faaron's presence. It came immediately, as if the wolf's spirit had been waiting just beyond perception.
Did you hear all that, brother-soul? Ithor asked silently, not expecting a coherent response but feeling the need to communicate nonetheless. We're getting closer. To understanding, if not yet to justice.
There was no answering thought, but Ithor felt a warmth, a sense of approval and encouragement that couldn't be explained by normal means. It was enough. It had to be.
With renewed purpose, he set off toward the eastern quarter of Esh-Tahar, seeking the shop with the red eye sign. If the Sangor elder there truly possessed ancient knowledge about the Dome and the First, perhaps Ithor would finally understand why his life had been shattered that night three years ago.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he would find a way to restore what had been broken — not just his place among his people, but the bond with Faaron that somehow persisted despite death and separation.
The wolf without a pack continued his hunt, one step closer to his prey.