Alar fiddles with the small box in his palm. He sips at his mead absent mindedly, but his brown eyes are fixed on the package that he’s toying with on the countertop. The barkeep glances at him briefly, but goes on to tend to the other customers. The bustle of the tavern goes about without Alar’s notice, too occupied with the package in his hold.

It’s a small, plain box, dark teal in colour, rectangular in shape and is held together with a leather string. Upon closer inspection, intricate runes are carved on all faces of the box, but it’s clearly meant not to be noticeable. It’s magically sealed, but it’s appearance is insignificant enough for anyone to not take a second glance.

But Alar knows it’s a package that’s more important than one would think. He knows Brynjar’s gotten him in something deeper than he’s led it to be. Acting as a courier is a side job Alar does sometimes. He’s retired from the Eldian Imperial army thanks to his knee injury, so this job was rather similar and therefore suitable. A mercenary courier usually entails some protection of a package while delivery, and most of the work allows him to go at his own pace. Occasionally he’s had to work in bigger groups to protect a transport wagon or caravan, but most of the time he prefers smaller packages that has lower danger. He can handle a bit of bandits or thieves trying to swipe a package, but this particular job, however, sets him on edge.

Everything about it feels off. From Brynjar’s subtly insistent coaxing to accept the job, the overly casual premise of the delivery, the runes on the package and the location of the drop point - they were highly suspicious.

Brynjar has an official post as the legate of the Baronet. They may have been brothers-in-arms from the same Templar Company years before, but this job was just too sudden and odd. Alar isn’t an expert, but he knows these runes aren’t any simple lock. They’re far more complicated and advanced. Even hammering the small box with a sword or throwing it from the edge of a cliff would not leave a scratch on its surface. This sort of magic would involve the use of a powerful magus, and most of them are have been conscripted into the Imperial army or are registered scholars. The package lacked any of the Empire’s emblem, so it was most likely the work of a foreign hand, or done illegally by an unregistered expert.

It sounded like an easy job though, and to be honest, the money for it was just a little too good. Unfortunately, low danger jobs means lower pay, so Alar had been baited by the promise of more pay for a seemingly easier job. Just bring the package to a drop point in the Grand District, Brynjar had said. You’d mostly be traversing through the Grand District, no one would dare to attack you there.

The issue that stood out to Alar is that the drop point is at a blind spot not far from the Imperial Palace. His Watchguard buddies had admittedly told him they don’t patrol that area so much. Why would Brynjar, a legate under the Empire, have a hold on such an item? Why would he be delivering such packages discreetly like some shady criminal? It isn’t his place to question his clients, and Brynjar had already deposited a decent amount of money to him as pay, but Alar would hate to be involved in anything big.

This package must contain something far more important than one would like to lead it to be.

He doesn’t really have that much loyalty with the Eldian Empire, nor does he think this package might actually have to do with the Imperial family, but…

A sudden slap to his back startles Alar. He instinctively reaches for the gauntlet on his left arm but relaxes immediately when he remembers where he is. He looks up at the culprit who’s smiling sheepishly at him. Alar stuffs the box in one of his belt pouches discreetly while giving an exasperated glare at his friend.

“Looking nervous there, old friend. Did’ja do something bad?” Indri laughs and takes a seat beside Alar who huffs and runs a hand through his cropped brown hair. He straightens up and orders another glass of mead for him. Indri’s grin widens and slaps his back again, his particular bad habit.

“Done with your shift?” Alar responds, completely ignoring his friend’s previous question. Indri is a Watchguard of the Eldian Empire’s Capital City Arinn. The job scope is more of a peacekeeper and mediator of sorts, rather than a formal guard. Arinn, while a bustling city of commerce, boasts a rather low violence rate. Petty crimes such as thievery and scams are still rather high, but violence is rather low compared to other large cities in Eldia. The constant civil wars that had plagued the land for a while had exhausted the people, and no one had the energy or desire to act out more violence. Most disagreements involve simple brawls and shouting matches, so the Watchguards are dispatched to mediate and keep the peace in a pacifist manner. It had been the order of the Iron Empress anyway, so all had to obey.

Alar had considered joining them after his injury, but it was still a rather rigorous occupation for his knee. In addition to that, Alar would also have to follow orders. He makes a face at the thought, reminded of the captain Alar and Brynjar were serving under back during their days in the Imperial Army. And that bastard had the misguided luck and went on to become a Baronet and Brynjar’s boss. Alar had teased Brynjar about his misfortune whenever they met up.

Indri takes a long swig of his mead and slams the glass down with a satisfied sigh. He nods and licks his lips, wiping at his beard. “Yep, been a long day. Some official got murdered but it caused a bit of a stir.”

“What about it?” Alar rests his chin on his palm, vaguely interested. Aside from Brynjar’s suspicious job offer, there hasn’t been any other news. Murders are not exactly common nowadays, but for an Imperial official to be murdered was another thing.

“No traces of anything. Just blood and a dead man in his bedroom. No struggle, no broken locks, or windows. Everything was locked from the inside,” Indri recounts thoughtfully. “It’s like whoever killed him appeared and disappeared within the room.” He sips at the mead again, drinking slower this time. “You don’t think it could be a Speglun, could it?” Indri shuddered at the possibility, but Alar dismisses it immediately.

“Impossible. There hasn’t been a Speglun within the city for years. We’ve got the Templars and Divines, and even the Goddess’ Chapel to keep those things out,” Alar huffs. Indri raises his hands defensively, though similarly, the possibility of that has him shuddering too.

In this world, there are many realms. One of them is Firarheim, where mortals such as Menn, flora and fauna exist. Another is Spegillheim, where creatures called Speglun dwell. They are supernatural beings of malice without their own individual shape or identity, their appearance a mere crystallized skeletons with horns upon their skulls. It is said that the Speglun were created out of the darkness of Menn’s hearts, and so they bore all negative feelings and directed them to Menn themselves. They are greedy, contemptuous, and envious of Menn and the mortals of Firarheim. Compared to Speglun, Menn are naturally inferior and for the Speglun, therefore Menn are the perfect prey. These creatures may feed on one’s willpower, negative thoughts, identity, memories, or they would simply consume everything by devouring their souls and physical bodies.

Alar has had some experience fighting these creatures back when he was a Hallowed Templar. They were a terrifying race and their entire company had lost nearly half of their ranks fighting just one of them, and it was a mere Pawn class. Hallowed Templars and Divine Blades and Divine Magi are specialized classes in countering the invasion of these creatures which may appear anywhere where the barriers between realms are weak. Some of these creatures may wander about and may find their way into villages. But they’ve always been taught and assured that the Speglun will never step into the Capital City with the blessings of goddess Jord and her Chapel.

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“You’re right, I shouldn’t be saying such ominous things,” Indri replies apologetically. “It’s just, the feeling in the air has been rather down lately, did’ja notice? Ever since the Heiress fell ill, we haven’t seen her lovely face that can calm our hearts. Ahh, our beloved Lady!” Indri wails as he downs another gulp of his mead, throwing a dirty look at Alar’s exasperated head shake.

“Anyway, it just feels bad lately. Not to mention that strange light coming from the Palace that other night!”

Alar frowns in question, perking up slightly. “What light?”

“You didn’t see it? Ah right, it was in the middle of the night so not many people know about it. There was a pillar of light that cloaked the Palace a few nights ago. It was only for a short time, but the light was so bright I swear on Jord’s bosoms I went blind at the time!” the bearded Watchguard rubbed at his eyes as if to prove his point. Alar doesn’t recall seeing or hearing anything about such an event. But then again, he was most likely had been asleep and he doesn’t keep up with gossips or news as of late.

“The Watchguards were talking about it for a while, but the higher ups just hushed us up. The older guards were muttering about the incident a century ago, but when asked they shut their mouths for some reason. Whatever stories they had, it would have made our guard duties a bit more entertaining,” Indri complains.

“You mean the Deafening Dark?” Alar inquires. He’s heard of that event as well. It was the moment that the entire realm was affected, and a majority of wars throughout the land were ended. He remembers learning that it was actually a calamity, causing an entire kingdom in Solveig continent to be wiped out, giving way to the current empire.

But Alar isn’t too interested in the past. It was possible that the Court Magus may have just let off some magical accident that caused the light. He asks about the strange murder instead, “So about that murder, any clues?”

Indri appears to agree with Alar, responding to the return of the earlier topic. He gulps down the last of his mead, ”Someone suggested it’s a hit job targeting the Baronet’s subordinates. There’s been rumors the Baronet’s been involved in some bribery scandal. The poor sod’s the second one dead in the past month.”

“The Baronet?” Alar tenses and looks to Indri. There are a lot of baronets in the city, so he shouldn’t be worrying. But he has heard of those rumours. Brynjar had lamented to him about their scummy former captain a couple of times. Bribery scandals would not be a farfetched lie. “You happen to know the name of the person who got offed?”

Indri orders some stew and more mead from the passing barkeep before turning back to Alar. “Hm? I’m not really sure, but he’s one of the Baronet’s envoys. Bjorn or something.” The barkeep serves Indri a plate of bread with a bowl of stew and tops up his beverage after some time. She wordlessly asks Alar if he needs another glass. He declines.

Bjorn. He doesn’t know anyone by that name, right? Alar nervously gulps while Indri chows down his dinner.

“Oh yeah,” Indri suddenly adds, busily chewing while talking with his mouth full. “That Baronet was your former captain I think. The one ya said hated your guts? And the one your friend had to work under?” Indri continues to chew on the bread, then abruptly stops. He swallows down his food and quickly mutters an apology, suddenly looking sheepish and awkward as if he just realized something. He shifts his gaze, not daring to look Alar in the eye. “Dagar’s beard, Alar. I think… I think the poor sod’s your friend.”

Alar stares at Indri blankly, as if processing the information. He doesn’t respond but nods. Indri tries to comfort him, having realized his insensitive remarks earlier but Alar waves him off with a strained smile and gets up to leave the tavern. He doesn’t say a word as Indri watches him leave with a guilty frown.

Alar quickly walks down the cobbled street, passing by brick buildings and stone houses. Compared to the stuffy air of the tavern, the outdoors is cool and comfortable, but it has done little to calm Alar’s nerves. He taps on the communication crystal on his wrist. A simple flat and thin crystal block embedded within a thin leather band, but it holds magic that allows the user to communicate, display, or store information within it. A screen of light appears over the crystal. Alar taps a couple of buttons on it, attempting to reach out to Brynjar to check. After numerous attempts and no responses, Alar gives up. He tries to contact their mutual friends as well, but for some reason, no one answers his calls either, which bothers him.

Instead, a message comes through, the text displayed on the flat crystal screen: “Watch the crows.”

It’s an anonymous message. Alar reflexively looks up to darkening skies but sees no signs of any life. Perhaps it’s just a prank by one of his friends, Alar attempts to convince himself. Yet the dreadful feeling within him rapidly rises and Alar speeds up his pace, trying to shake it off.

It’s dusk, and the markets and stalls are closing. The Urban District begins to quiet down once the sun sets since everyone is eager to rest after a day’s work. Where the Grand District is wealthy, the Urban District is not. It’s the part of the Capital City where the commoners reside. Slums are hidden in the corners, but the majority of the District is stable, with proper housing and roads. Crime is higher here compared to the other two Districts, and encounters with muggers and cutpurses who prowl the streets are commonplace after dark. Alar can easily look after himself, but it’s not them that he’s worried about.

Could Brynjar’s murder have something to do with the package?

Alar books a room in one of the cheaper inns. When he’s on the job, he doesn’t stay in one place so that it’s easy to avoid being targeted. Now he’s barely returned to his own home in the Burgesse District, which is possibly accumulating cobwebs. After his only living relative had passed, Alar hadn’t stayed still for a long time, feeling rather restless in an empty home, so this sort of work and wandering lifestyle suits him well.

He enters his rented room and takes off his jacket. The left sleeve had been cut short at the elbow to accommodate space for his gauntlet. It’s a sleek, custom-made gear, created to store his weapons whenever he needs to use them. He strips that off too and changes to his undergarments, leaving his upper body bare. His lack of vigorous training and constant drinking had left him rather flabby and a little pot-bellied, but there are still traces of muscle from his time in the army. His pecs are still hard, his biceps still bulging with power but his belly has softened from the alcohol and indulgence in sweeter foods. His body is littered with faded scars and scrapes while, his complexion is dusky and freckled from training in the sun. He’s maintained his hairstyle from back then as it’s easier, slightly shaggy but short brown hair with natural ginger roots. Alar also has an unusually tall stature compared to the locals due to his lineage, making him stand out. To be honest, Alar can present a rather intimidating figure, if not for his droopy eyes and slightly rounded face.

Alar is confident in his combat skills. He was a Hallowed Templar in the Imperial Army, served in the Red Wall Company and has experience fighting against the fearsome Speglun before. He was involved in the last civil war as well, but it hadn’t escalated into a full blown war yet, so it wasn’t as bad and he hadn’t been deployed for skirmishes. Similarly, Brynjar had been in the same company, and that man was admittedly more skilled than him. Yet he’d died. His gut leaves him with a queasy feeling, and the walk to the inn had already left him sweaty from his nerves. Alar looks at the belt pouch that has the magically sealed package. He stares at the runes and wistfully hopes it has nothing to do with Brynjar’s death. He takes it and chucks it under his pillow as he laid his head on it. A simple and almost childish tactic, but it’ll be much easier to detect anything.

Alar is usually not this paranoid, but he is unable to help himself this time. His trusted gut instinct is telling him that something bad is going to happen. He resists his urge to pace about the room and settles himself on the bed instead, the soft and cheap pillow a little bulky due to the package underneath it.

He sighs and tries not think about the delivery job which he has to complete tomorrow. At the least, he should drop this thing off and wash his hands clean of it. Hopefully, whatever misfortune will go away along with it.

Alar doesn’t realize he’s exhausted, falling into a deep sleep within seconds. His slumber leaves him unaware that the package under his pillow had begun to glow. The runes around it glitters and the leather string around it unfurls like a snake. The box opens, and a tendril of black fog creeps out from within.