Tylus was in his element. The tavern he chose was called The Broken Tankard, a low, smoky den filled with the kind of rough sailors and street thugs who knew exactly where to find trouble. He was on his third mug of the cheapest, strongest ale and had already loudly won a round of dice by purely accidental luck. His dark, curly hair was even messier than usual, and his infectious laughter rang out above the ruckus of shouts and poor lute music.
Tylus was not subtle, but he was effective. He was in the thick of a rowdy tavern, using his boundless energy and bottomless mug of ale to charm and challenge the dockworkers. He'd won a coin toss, lost a wrestling match, and had loudly declared to the room that he was looking for "a story so big it could sink a ship!"
He was halfway through a booming laugh when a figure caught his eye: a woman who looked old enough to remember the war itself. She was cloaked in heavy, dark rags despite the warm air and sat huddled in a corner, nursing a thin glass of cheap spirits. Her eyes were bright, feverish, and unnervingly clear. Her attention was fixed on him.
"You speak of sinking ships, giant," the woman rasped, her voice cutting through the noise like a rusty knife. She pointed a trembling, age-spotted finger at him. "The sea does not sink the greatest ship. It is the shadow that does the work."
Tylus leaned in, intrigued. "Shadows? Are you talking about the tides, granny?"
Her eyes burned with a terrible, knowing light. "I speak of the Sunless," she hissed, her voice barely a whisper but somehow demanding attention. "They crawled back into the earth when the great power vanished, but the earth can no longer hold them. The shadow is moving again. The Sunless are on the hunt, and their shadows darken the fields of Erenia."
She didn't wait for him to respond, and didn't ask for a coin. She simply turned her back to the wall, her slight frame trembling. She began muttering to herself about the coming cold.
Tylus, despite the several mugs of ale sloshing in his belly, felt a cold knot twist in his gut. The words were vague and terrifying.Tylus blinked, the word Erenia acting like a splash of cold water. He immediately pushed himself off his stool and stumbled toward the old woman's corner.
"Hey! Granny, wait!" Tylus said, his voice dropping from a drunken roar to a slightly slurred, anxious plea. He knelt down beside her, ignoring the stench of the damp stone wall and the foul odor coming from the woman. "What does the Sunless mean? What are they hunting? Tell me!"
The woman didn't turn around. Her mutterings became frantic, speeding up into a terrified, incomprehensible stream of words. She squeezed her eyes shut, her trembling accelerating until her entire body was shaking violently.
"Don't speak the name! Don't call the shadows to you, fool!" she wailed, her voice high and thin, her hands desperately clutching the cloak around her head as if to seal herself off from the world. "They do not ask for gold! They ask for power! And they leave only the cold and the silence! Be quiet! Be quiet, or the shadow will find you first!"
With a sound somewhere between a gasp and a dry sob, the woman suddenly scrambled to her feet with shocking speed, darting away from Tylus and out the tavern door, her ragged cloak flying behind her.
Tylus was left kneeling on the grimy floor, the vague but chilling warning echoing in his ears. He was too shaken to be drunk anymore. He had to tell Chayne and he had to tell him now.
Tylus, now fully convinced he held a prophecy of doom, couldn't risk leaving without a final boost of courage. He stumbled back to the bar, grabbed a fresh mug, and downed the strong ale in two quick, hard gulps. He slammed a handful of coins onto the bar, far more than the drink cost, and staggered out the door.
He emerged onto the dark, winding streets of Repudi, the eerie words of the old woman mixing with the potent alcohol in his head. He knew he had to get to the Shadow Kraken, he knew the sun was nearing, and he knew his secret was vital.
The problem was, after visiting five too many taverns in his dedication to "research," Tylus was hopelessly lost. Every cobbled alleyway looked the same, every shadow held a potential threat, and the distant, dark shapes of the docked ships seemed to shift and blur. He was a giant, powerful man standing alone and disoriented in the heart of a cutthroat port.
Despite the alcohol clouding his mind, Tylus's sailor instinct kicked in. He ignored the confusing street signs and the shouting voices, closing his eyes briefly and running toward the deep, steady rhythm of the sea. He ran frantically through the winding, chaotic streets, guided only by the distant thoom of the ocean waves crashing against the coast, a sound he could feel in the very bones of the port town's foundations.
Meanwhile, in the musty, silent gloom of the local, beaten-down library, Westleh worked with methodical focus. He confirmed the Mercer name had been wiped from all official ship and merchant logs, reinforcing the secrecy.
He moved on to a neglected shelf holding old regional almanacs and weather logs. Tucked into a book detailing agricultural patterns was a section marked The Time of Unraveling. It wasn't history but it was a fearful prophecy written in the style of an official record from centuries past.
The text spoke of an era when the ability to control the elements had failed, resulting in mass destruction:
The days were blackened and the sky wept ash, for the Fire could not be quenched. The Water rose in great, unnatural storms that stole the coast and devoured the land. The Air turned to poison and choked the breath from the young. Where the masters once held the Balance, the Chaos was let loose, bringing forth unnatural, harsh climate shifts and the promise of endless winter. None could command their power, for the Six themselves were broken.
This ruin comes when the hearts of men seek to master the Elemental Gods themselves, chasing the shadow of the Powerhart. When the artifact is disturbed, the Gods turn their gaze from the world, and their gifts are corrupted. Seek not to wield the ultimate command, lest the world pays the price in ruin.
Westleh reread the lines, his heart pounding a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. This was a terrifying, definitive link: the Powerhart wasn't just a political target, it was an object whose misuse threatened to plunge the world into a global elemental apocalypse.
Westleh's usual scholarly demeanor gave way to sudden, decisive urgency. He carefully, but quickly, tore the brittle, ancient page containing the terrifying prophecy from the book's spine, folded it, and tucked it securely into an inner pocket of his coat. He then moved his finger along the spines of the books on an adjacent shelf, maintaining the look of a casual researcher.
A low, gentle voice interrupted his thoughts. An older man, slightly hunched with the thin, papery skin of someone who spent more time with books than the sun, stood near him.
"Late night reader?" the man asked with a slight smile.
"Looking for information, actually," Westleh replied smoothly, moving his finger along the spines. He didn't look directly at the man.
"Well whatcha looking for, sailor?" the older man pressed, stepping closer. "This old place is a labyrinth. I've worked here thirty years; I know where the good secrets are buried."
Westleh finally met his eyes, offering a calm, professional look. "I'm a ship's clerk, sir. I'm looking for old regional almanacs—anything that might detail currents or weather anomalies from before the Frozetria war. Trying to find a reliable, forgotten passage through the Shifting Storms."
The man hummed thoughtfully. "The Shifting Storms, eh? Tough passage. No book here will help you. But if it's the old war you're interested in, there was a shipment, some special cargo, that came through Repudi right before the big war turned cold. It was logged, but the records were pulled immediately. They say the crew who handled it all disappeared or died shortly after." The old man's eyes went wide. "Not currents, son. You're looking for ghosts."
Westleh knew the man had given him gold disguised as copper. The "special cargo" could easily be linked to Sophron or the Powerhart's fate. He gave the old man a courteous nod.
"Thank you, sir. I think I've taken up enough of your time." Westleh let a small smile cross him lips.
Westleh paused, his hand already on the heavy door handle. He turned back to the old man, his voice a low, casual inquiry that masked his true intent. "One last thing, since you know this area so well," Westleh said. "Do you know about the Mercer family at all?"
The old man frowned, a distant look coming into his eyes. "Powerful family, about a hundred years ago. I don't know what happened to 'em all, not a whole lot of records or stories about them anymore. The Great Elemental War practically wiped them all out. Now, if their name is said, most of the time it draws eyes."
Westleh gave another nod, the final piece of the puzzle fitting into place: the Mercer name was ancient, powerful, and historically cursed.
"Thank you for your help," Westleh said, and he quickly slipped out the door, the precious prophecy hidden safely in his coat.
Westleh emerged from the hushed quiet of the library into the cool pre-dawn air. Unlike the lost Tylus, Westleh navigated the streets of Repudi using the mental maps he had stored away as he traversed the streets. He knew where the Shadow Kraken was docked, but he also knew Tylus would be in a bad way.
He didn't have to look hard. Just two blocks from the main pier, Westleh heard an incredibly loud, slurred declaration that was unmistakable.
"I am not lost! I am simply... conducting tactical perimeter evaluation!" Tylus bellowed, weaving precariously in the center of an alleyway, covered in dust from a frantic run. The sound of his frantic, drunken running had indeed led him toward the sea, but he'd missed the correct pier entirely.
Westleh sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Tactical perimeter evaluation, Tylus? You're blocking the only decent path to the main wharf."
Tylus spun around, his eyes wide with relief. "Westleh! You found me! I have news!"
Westleh, holding the key to a global disaster in his pocket, remained calm. "I have something better than news, Tylus. I have danger. Now, come." He started walking quickly toward the ship, forcing the drunken Tylus to follow.
"We need to wake Chayne and tell him he's inherited a problem and we should probably stop it at the source." Westleh stopped and sighed again, the weight of the ancient prophecy finally making him falter. "I guess it's only a problem if Damurah's brother can't control himself."
The two men quickly made their way back to the Shadow Kraken. They found Chayne and Damurah already awake on the main deck, silently waiting for the last glimmers of sunrise before setting sail.
"What do you mean by that?" Tylus demanded, finally catching up to Westleh and dropping his voice to a hiss. "Doren being unable to control himself? I just heard some crazy old woman say the Sunless are hunting in Erenia! That's the problem!"
Westleh didn't break stride, his eyes scanning the quiet dock. "That is the current danger, Tylus, but Doren is the source of the catastrophe. Look at this."
Westleh paused just long enough to pull the ripped, faded parchment from his inner pocket, quickly unfolding it to display the ancient, grim script. "This isn't just gossip, Tylus. This is a prophecy I found in the oldest part of the library, confirming the danger of the Powerhart is world-ending. The Mercers are cursed with the ultimate power, and the Elemental Gods punished the world."
"It says when the power is broken, the elements go wild. Blackened days, rising seas, harsh climate changes," Westleh recited grimly, refolding the page quickly. "If the power is a birthright, as Damurah claims, and Doren can't control it, then his instability is the same thing as setting a charge to the whole world. The hunters are merely after the bomb."
Tylus stumbled again, but this time it was from shock, not drink. "A bomb... that's why the old woman was so afraid. She said they leave only the cold and the silence, looking for power! She said the Sunless are on the hunt now, in Erenia." He looked at Westleh, a rare moment of fear eclipsing his good humor. "They're going after the source, Westleh. They're going after that kid!"
"Precisely," Westleh confirmed, reaching the gangplank of the Shadow Kraken. "We need to wake Chayne and tell him his simple pirate life just bought him a seat in the next Great Elemental War."
Tylus and Westleh quietly climbed the gangplank and stepped onto the main deck. The first rays of the rising sun were just starting to touch the eastern horizon, painting the sky in deep oranges and reds. Chayne and Damurah were already there, standing near the quarterdeck, silently surveying the port.
They turned as the two men approached. Chayne's expression was patient but stern. "You two took your time. What did the streets and the dust-bunnies tell you?"
Tylus, despite the residual alcohol and terror, managed to stand mostly straight. Westleh stepped forward, placing a hand on Tylus's shoulder to keep him anchored.
"Captain," Westleh began, ignoring the fact that Maurzer Espadar was not present, addressing Chayne as the authority. "We have a problem that outweighs our usual concerns about naval patrol and coin. Tylus found a threat in Erenia, and I found an ancient prophecy."
"They're both about the same thing," Tylus added, his voice still too loud. "People called the Sunless are hunting the Powerhart. Some old woman said their shadows are darkening the fields of Erenia."
"And the reason for the hunt is far worse than we thought," Westleh continued, his voice low and serious. He pulled the ripped parchment from his coat and laid it on a coiled rope, the brittle page cracking faintly. "This is a prophecy I found. It confirms that the Powerhart, when misused, has previously plunged the world into elemental chaos, what with rising seas, poisoned air, uncontrollable fire."
"The ruin comes when men try to master the Elemental Gods themselves," Westleh summarized, looking directly at Damurah. "The hunting is only part of the problem. If the Powerhart is unstable, the very structure of the world is at risk."
Chayne looked from the prophecy to the frantic Tylus, and finally to Damurah. "Hold on, hold on," Chayne said. He gestured for them to sit down on an upturned coil of rope. "You two just bought us a front-row seat to the end of the world. Now, tell me, Damurah, is the 'thing' in your family really capable of all this?"
Damurah's face, usually a mask of guarded resentment, was now pale with shock. He stared at the ancient parchment, then at Westleh's grave expression. "I... I don't know," he finally managed, shaking his head. "My father was a master yes, and we knew he was keeping something secret. But the Powerhart? It was just a name—a bedtime story our mother told us to explain why our father was special and why we had to be quiet."
Damurah leaned forward, his voice dropping to a desperate plea. "I only know what I told you: it controls all six elements. That's all I was told. A prophecy? Elemental Gods? That's too big. I left before I learned anything more, and Doren... he was the one who was meant to inherit the knowledge. He knows more than I do."
Chayne watched him, the patience in his blue eyes fading into grim determination. He slammed his fist softly on the coiled rope. "So the survival of the world rests on a brat who can't even light a campfire," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. If Doren has the answers, Doren is the key."
He looked at Tylus and Westleh. "We have a madwoman's prophecy, a forgotten history, a target known as The Sunless, and a kid who's sitting on a bomb that could end the world." He then fixed his gaze on Damurah. "We need to sail to Erenia, and we are finding your brother before the Sunless do." The rising sun painted the dock in gold, signaling that it was time to leave Repudi.