Just as the Tsarina's mages had predicted, the magical storm hanging above Strompool was growing at an exponential rate. What had started as a dark cloud churning above the city’s ruined spires, had expanded into a monstrous vortex that now dominated the sky for miles around. The storm’s edges crackled with raw energy, tendrils of violet, orange, purple, and green lightning snaking outward, as if the storm itself were alive, searching for something—or someone—to consume.

The once clear skies had been overtaken by swirling masses of dark clouds, blotting out the sun and casting the land in a perpetual twilight as magical energy from the entire region was slowly being absorbed by it. Even from the relative safety of the camp, miles away from the heart of the city, the storm’s influence could be felt. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, and the ground trembled intermittently as if the very earth feared what was unfolding above.

Every day, new reports arrived from the expeditions sent into the city. Each account was more dire than the last. Streets that had once been passable were now twisted labyrinths of stone and debris, warped by the storm’s chaotic energy. Buildings that had stood for centuries had been torn apart and remade into odd-looking structures made of various transfigured materials. Even the mages who were sent to assist the expeditions were forced to stay back after it was discovered that the storm was draining even their energy. Sadly one was too slow and his shriveled, drained remains were burned at first sunlight.

As the expeditions went back and forth and more soldiers arrived every day, Sir Friedrich of Canterheit took on the role of Chaplain. Although he was a templar and thus an arm of the church and his order, that did not mean he wasn't certified in conducting priestly duties. Many soldiers and refugees had come to him and other priests hoping to give their confessions and they happily obliged.

As Friedrich finished taking another confession, he offered a brief prayer for the young soldier kneeling before him—a man barely out of boyhood who had tearfully confessed to having indecent thoughts about a girl he had seen in the camp. The young man’s face was flushed with shame as he spoke, his voice trembling as he admitted to the impure desires that plagued him.

As Friedrich turned to head back to his tent, intent on preparing for the next day’s duties, a soldier ran up to him, breathing heavily as his chainmail clinked with every step.

“Sir…Sir Friedrich,” the soldier said, huffing as he snapped to attention and addressed the Templar. “General Lavrenti Ivanovich has requested that meet with him”.

Friedrich's brow furrowed slightly at the mention of the general’s name. Lavrenti Ivanovich was a man of considerable authority inside the Chetuvian Empire, having been granted the position of general shortly before the death of the previous Tsar, Petr Romanov I. Although many boyars had questioned if such an appointment was legitimate since no such degree had been made, none dared to say it aloud lest the Oprichniki whom Lavrenti employed caught wind of such rumors. If such a man was asking for him, it must mean something bad is happening.

“Did he say what this is regarding?” Friedrich asked, his tone steady but laced with the curiosity and concern that came with the sudden summons.

The soldier shook his head, still catching his breath. “No, Sir. But the General seemed…urgent. He’s waiting for you in the command tent.”

Friedrich sighed before he began to follow the soldier to the command tent. The wind whipped around them as they moved through the rows of tents, the air thick with the scent of rain and distant thunder. The camp was a hive of activity, with soldiers and mages moving around as they worked to move the camp once again before the storm reached them. The mages in particular were moving faster, hauling away whatever they could carry as wished to be as far away from the storm as possible.

Finally, they reached the command tent, its flaps snapping in the wind. Outside, two streltsy stood guard, their fur capes flapping in the wind much like the tent they guarded. The streltsy were an elite force, handpicked by the Tsarina herself, their loyalty and skill unquestionable. Each man held a bardiche—a massive, curved ax-like polearm—its broad blade gleaming in the dim light. The weapons were crossed in front of the entrance, only lifting as he approached. Friedrich gave them a side eye as he passed between them, noticing the cold stares they gave back. Inside the tent, a gush of warm air blasted Friedrich in the face as he stood face-to-face with “The Wolf”.

General Lavrenti Estse Ivanovich was a formidable presence. Standing well over six feet tall, his build was as broad and solid as a bear. His face was rugged, covered in scars from previous campaigns against the commonwealth to the east and the Hakar tribes to the west. His hair, once dark, had turned a steely gray and hung in braided clumps that stretched down his neck. Most of all, however, the reason he gained the nickname “the wolf”, was due to the massive dire wolf pelt that hung over his shoulders.

The pelt was immense, its thick fur a mix of silver and black, still bristling as if the beast it had once belonged to was ready to leap back to life. The head of the dire wolf rested on one of his shoulders, its eyes glassy and fangs bared in a permanent snarl. When he moved, the pelt shifted with him, giving the impression that the wolf itself was still alive, still hunting, still dangerous. From the stories he had heard, the general had killed the creature himself when he was a young man, snapping its jaw with his bare hands as it tried to maul him.

Stepping into the tent, Friedrich was greeted by the sight of the general currently in the middle of an argument.

“For the last time, I will not permit you to enter the city!” General Ivanovich roared, his voice echoing through the command tent like a clap of thunder. The three individuals standing before him flinched slightly under the weight of his fury but remained resolute. They were an unusual trio, clearly adventurers by the look of them with their weird armor and weapons. One of the adventurers, a man wearing finely etched silver armor that glowed softly with magical runes, maybe elven if Friedrich was correct, stepped forward, his hand resting confidently on the pommel of his sword.

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“And as I already said, the Crimson Talons can handle this! Just let us into the city and we can stop this whole thing!” he said loudly, enough that the other two also began to speak up.

The first was a tall woman with striking green eyes and long, auburn hair braided neatly down her back. She wore sleek, reinforced leather armor adorned with sigils of protection, and a longbow was slung across her shoulder, its intricate design marking it as a weapon of significant power, much like his sword.

Next to her stood a wiry man with keen eyes, dressed in dark, flexible-looking metal armor with multiple blades strapped across his body—daggers, throwing knives, and a pair of curved short swords sheathed at his hips.

“We can as well! You can count on the Veridian Shields and Raven’s Children to end this!”

General Ivanovich’s eyes flashed with barely restrained fury. “And as I said before, You. Are. Not. Allowed. In.” He spoke each word with the force of a hammer striking an anvil, his patience worn thin. “Do you realize how many men I have to deal with getting injured if not flat-out killed by whatever hell-made monsters the storm spawns? It is well over several thousand and the more that storm grows, the more I have to deal with it. Now leave. I have important business to attend to.”

“But s—” the woman with the bow began, her voice tinged with frustration.

“LEAVE!” Ivanovich roared, his voice booming through the tent with such intensity that it seemed to shake the very walls. The finality in his tone left no room for argument, his command a line drawn in the sand.

The tent fell into a tense silence, the air thick with the lingering echo of Ivanovich’s anger. The three adventurers exchanged a brief, frustrated glance, realizing that further argument would be futile.

With a stiff nod, the three began to leave but as they did so, Friedrich could hear the man in silver armor muttering under his breath.

“Stupid NPCS…”

Friedrich raised an eyebrow at him, confused. He hadn't heard the term before and wondered what it meant. Before he could think about it further, Ivanovich's voice cut through his thoughts.

“Ah, forgive my outburst, Templar,” Ivanovich said, his tone calmer now as he settled heavily into his chair. The tension from the earlier confrontation seemed to drain from him as he leaned back, grabbing a jug from the table in front of him and pouring what smelled like wine into a cup. With a gesture, he invited Friedrich to sit across from him.

Friedrich nodded and took the offered seat, his mind still lingering on the strange exchange with the adventurers but pushing it aside for now. The general had been under a great deal of strain, and Friedrich could understand the frustration that had led to the heated exchange.

“They can be a stubborn lot, those guild leaders,” Ivanovich continued, rubbing a hand over his face as if to wipe away the remnants of his anger. “So eager to wander into a warzone and act like glorified, immortal looters.”

Friedrich nodded in agreement. Inside the order and even many sections of the Solarian faith, the question of what the adventurers were had been a topic of debate for years. Some within the Order believed the adventurers were divine instruments—beings chosen by the gods themselves to enact their will upon the world. After all, how could someone die a most gruesome death only to reappear hours later to take revenge?

Others such as the various monastic orders and even a few sects held a more skeptical view, considering the adventurers as something closer to spirits or even beings from another world. This worldview came about from a proposed book in which an adventurer admits to coming from another world although it is not known if it exists.

Friedrich himself had always found it difficult to settle on one interpretation. He had seen the adventurers accomplish feats that defied explanation. For example, he was sent out to exterminate a troll that had been preying on villagers and when he found it, it was eating an adventurer. He watched it for some time, formulating a plan on killing it, and when he was about to strike it, that same adventurer jumped from a tree, stabbing his sword through its skull and killing it instantly. He later tried to ask how the adventurer did it but only got cryptic answers that didn't mean a whole lot.

“Now, as for why I called you here on such short notice”,” the general said, his voice gravelly as he downed a cup of wine in one swift motion, finishing it in barely three seconds. The sharp scent of the wine lingered in the air as he set the empty cup down with a decisive clink. “There’s been a…development,”

“Hm?”

“We’ve received reports—disturbing ones I might add—from the scouts who’ve managed to return from the outskirts of Strompool.”

Friedrich leaned in slightly, listening intently. Ivanovich wasn’t a man known to exaggerate, and if he was concerned, it meant the situation was dire.

“Two nights ago,” Ivanovich said, his voice lowering as if to keep the conversation from escaping the confines of the tent, “one of our more experienced scouting parties reported seeing something unusual near the heart of the storm—something they described as a…beast.”

Friedrich’s brow furrowed. “A beast?”

The general nodded. “A beast or a demon, the reports weren't very clear. They couldn’t get a clear view—between the chaos of the storm and the unnatural darkness engulfing some sections of the city, they were lucky to spot anything at all. But what they did see I believe concerns you greatly. From what they were able to report, the beast was dragging a skeleton through the streets alongside a woman.”

Friedrich felt a chill run down his spine. He leaned forward completely, his attention riveted on the general’s every word. Could it be…?

“A skeleton,” Friedrich echoed, his voice tense. “And a woman?”

Ivanovich nodded. “That’s what they reported. The scouts couldn’t get close enough to identify them, but the description fits the skeleton you told me you were tracking, the one that escaped you on the river Oka.”

“This changes things,” Friedrich said quietly, more to himself than to Ivanovich. “If that skeleton is involved, it might be the key to ending this storm.

Ivanovich nodded in agreement. “That’s why I’m sending you in, Friedrich. Although Her Majesty won't like that I'm granting someone from the sun faith extra privileges, such anger is worth it if we can end this disaster once and for all. You are allowed to form a team from any of my soldiers and guards whom you deem viable enough for such a mission.

“Thank you, General,” Friedrich replied, his tone respectful. “I understand the risks you’re taking, and I won’t let you down. I’ll assemble a team of those best suited for the task and make sure they’re prepared for whatever we might face in the city.”

Ivanovich gave a curt nod, his gaze sharp. “Good. We don’t have time to waste. The longer that storm rages, the more lives are at risk. I’ve already issued orders to keep the troops on high alert since mutants have begun to attack those outside of the city, but you’ll need more than just soldiers for this. Consider taking one of the mages and perhaps one of the scouts who’s been inside the city.”

“I’ll start assembling the team immediately,” Friedrich said, already standing up to prepare for his expedition. “We’ll move out as soon as we’re ready.”

“One last thing”

Friedrich turned and saw the general extending a cup to him, “Care for a drink before you start raising hell amongst my troops?”...