Atan Ingole-Tur heard the creaking in the corridor as if someone was walking. He turned around towards the dark doorway. He saw a dark silhouette. The silhouette steeped forward only to be identified as his wife, Altariel Laurien. He said: “shh, careful, the child is sleeping.” And he turned away to again face the cradle with a baby in it. Altariel came up to him and put her hand on his shoulder. The times were rough and she knew her husband won’t be around for long. Neither would she. The child would again have to stay with the Masters of the Spire and their alchemical constructs. They did teach the child well, but Altariel shuddered to think of how early the children are taught the matters most adults cannot even remotely comprehend. But then she calmed herself by thinking of how well the child has been doing.

Still the jet-black cloud of guilt hung over her. She couldn’t help thinking that the time was very bad and they were letting a child into a world of death and despair. War was raging across Mirendil and the whole Agon. To the north the Mahirim tribes long had their eyes set on rich lands of Mirendil, to the south there were Alfar who were created for the sole purpose of murder, especially that of Mirdain. But still Altariel saw these threats unchanged for four consecutive centuries and it would be same as before and not so problematic if not for the new threat. That threat arose to the east and its name was Pall, Pall of Synochus. He was a shadow mage, who hated Mirdain and The Serene Spire specifically. Not only was he a problem, but other Mirdain stopped trusting any mages, especially the Spire, because of this bastard offspring Pall. Pall was to blame for the deaths of brightest minds of the generation as well as loss of countless other lives.

But her mind soon turned back to reality. The child woke up. While she and Atan were playing with the child, a venerable elven wizard entered the room, followed by a huge stone golem. “Hail, friend Atan! Good evening, dear Altariel!” – He said. Both parents bowed and greeted the wizard. “I am sorry to interrupt family time, and I realize how hard it is to carve some out these terrible days, but urgent information came to me from Colindo-Certa, he says there is a lot of undead insurgency in the area west of Beladin’s Rest. Now we know where Pall has retreated. We are all going. I am very sorry.” And off the wizard went.

Three hundred fifty years later, Isse-Istar, son of two of the most promising mages, finished his studies at the Serene Spire. He was a powerful mage, as good as any in the Spire, if not better. He knew of the story of his parents, Atan and Altariel. They both perished at Beladin’s Rest, fighting Pall trying to prevent him from taking over Mirendil. And they succeeded, but partially. Pall, seeing his armies defeated, retreated to his secret lair. He was not heard much of since then. Isse-Istar was busy with his clan. He saw mercenaries as the path to power and to, eventually revenge. He didn’t remember those days, but neither did he forgive.

Isse-Istar opened his eyes. He looked around the room. It was a cozy room of an average inn with a wooden bed and a chest. He was meditating on the floor and it always took him some time to remember the events in periods between meditations. He thought a little bit without getting off the floor and the visions of the day before started returning.
The day before he was out in the Flaming Skull on a mission to assassinate an Ork rogue, a leader of a small thief guild, which was bothering Flaming Skull mayor a lot. The Ork put up quite a resistance and Isse-Istar remembered Ork’s eyes when the he grabbed the Ork’s face and cast a fireball point blank. Isse-Istar reached for his robe belt and felt a pouch thick with gold. “Was worth it,” – he thought and left the inn.
He was outside in the middle of a small settlement in Mirendil. He breathed in the air of the mighty Mirendil forest and felt satisfied with himself and the rest of the world. “Home,” – he said, but he knew he had to leave soon, since there was an announcement board on the other treetop platform and he could already see a fresh unmarred green leaf clipped to it, which was placed there for this settlement, for it was a settlement of mercenaries. This leaf could mean only leaving on to the next mission and more blood. He hated killing just for the money’s sake. There was something low about it. He preferred thinking about it from a different perspective: helping dissatisfied with a small but pleasurable return for himself. Surely it was tricking oneself but it was all for a good cause.
Having finished reflecting, he moved on to the announcement board. The green leaf stated that Isse-Istar was to go to Mercia and there he was to meet up with a wealthy plutocratic merchant named Aduntir the Sly for further instructions. So Isse-Istar picked up his bag and mounted his Shulgan Drake, which he took from a “recently deceased” Alfar insurgent. The drakes name was Oma Sulinen, or “the voice in the wind”. And off to Mercia mage left.
In Mercia he found the merchant and the rendezvous point, which was in a gulf south of Aincourt. Merchant was very brief about the mission. Aduntir said that there was some competition to be eliminated. The name was Loico. Loico lived in a defended manor in the forest of Longstowe.
Isse-Istar arrived at the Loico estate. That was one impressive manor, if there ever was one. It was a huge castle. Isse-Istar looked out for guards on the wall. He saw quite a number of them on the western guard post (there were four, since the castle was square). The other posts were also occupied but weaker, due to Alfar threat from Nagast to the west. Southern one looked the weakest. Isse-Istar left Oma in the dark of the forest and swiftly made his way to the southern edge of the forest directly in front of the post. He pulled out a small vial from his bag and in one swig emptied it. He looked at his hands and saw the grass beneath him through them. He ran up to the guard post tower. While running he picked a rock from the ground. At the foot of the tower he pulled out a little bag and spread some blue and white powder beneath his feet, muttered an incantation “vilya halpusule val” and jerked his hands down. The air spell sent him like a bolt through the air to the top of the wall, nearby a guard outpost. Guards heard the thump of Isse-Istar’s feet hitting the ground. Quickly the Mirdain threw a rock onto the other side of the wall and diverted the guard’s attention. When they headed there he quickly made his way down the stairs and into the courtyard.
He looked back up onto the tower. Suddenly he saw a shadow on the wall, but it was gone in seconds. “Competition’s back,” – he thought. But he had more pressing problems at the moment. There was the door into Loico’s halls and it was guarded by four spearmen. There was seemingly no way of dispatching them without noise. Invisibility potions were out and the windows were closed so air push spells would be of little use. There was always an option of flame gust spell but that would be messy and a bright flash of fire was sure to attract attention. He looked over the doorway. It was a wooden gate fixed into a stone wall. There was an archway of white stone lining the entrance.
And then an idea struck him. Isse-Istar pulled his staff from a holster on his back. He pulled off the red crystal at the top and placed a white one in its place. Then he waved it a little and muttered “vilya ramba undlant”. A white stone in the archway has quivered and collapsed. It smashed at the head of one of the guards and his blood dripped from beneath his helmet. The other three guards immediately rushed to help him. Isse-Istar was already preparing to drop more stones when suddenly there was a quick sound and two guards fell both with their heads pierced by arrows. Isse-Istar didn’t lose a single moment and finished the spell dispatching the last guard with a falling rock. He quickly g...