Pag adjusted the straps of his pack as he stepped out of the heavy wooden doors of the Adventurer’s Guild, the scent of damp stone mingling with the acrid tang of dying embers from the city’s morning hearth fires. The contract had been clear—escort a noble envoy across the perilous roads to the Pale Dominion’s capital. A simple directive in theory, but the weight of its implications pressed against his shoulders.
The noble in question, Lord Adrien Valcrest, stood with an air of quiet authority near the guild’s stables. He was tall and lean, his every movement calculated with the grace of someone accustomed to command but untouched by the brutal reality of battle. His attire spoke volumes—practical yet undeniably luxurious. Subtle silver embroidery wove intricate patterns along his dark cuffs, and the polished clasp securing his cloak bore the crest of his noble house. His boots, though sturdy, had clearly never suffered the wear of true hardship. As Pag approached, the noble’s piercing gray eyes swept over him with measured scrutiny.
“You must be Pag,” Lord Adrien stated, his voice smooth, almost indifferent. “I trust you are familiar with the route?”
Pag met the noble’s gaze with a steady nod. “Familiar enough.” In truth, he had never set foot in the Pale Dominion, but he had pored over maps and gathered stories from those who had. He knew what to expect—at least, he hoped he did. Fortunately, he had Eryk at his side. The seasoned warrior had journeyed this path before and understood the land’s nuances in ways that no map could capture.
Lord Adrien exhaled a breath that barely stirred the cold morning air. “Then let us not delay.”
The company departed as the first rays of sunlight bathed the city in gold, cobbled streets soon giving way to a winding dirt road flanked by whispering trees. Hooves drummed a steady rhythm against the packed earth, a sound both soothing and ominous in its predictability. The lands between the Free Cities and the Pale Dominion were rife with opportunists—bandits, desperate fugitives, and those who thrived in the lawless shadows between borders.
The journey remained uneventful for the first two days, the road unfurling in rolling hills and scattered woodlands. Pag took point, scanning the landscape with a hunter’s eye for any sign of movement. The noble’s retainers were competent, but they bore the stiffness of men more accustomed to standing guard at noble estates than facing the unpredictability of open roads. In contrast, Eryk moved with effortless confidence, his ease betraying a deep familiarity with the route and the unspoken rules of the land they approached.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
On the third night, they made camp by a sluggish river, its waters reflecting the fractured light of the moon. Eryk motioned for Pag to follow him toward the treeline, his voice low but firm. “Stay sharp tonight. We’re entering their domain.”
Pag frowned. “You’ve been here before. What should I expect?”
Eryk’s expression darkened slightly. “Respect, above all else. The dead are not echoes in the Pale Dominion. They are citizens. If we offend the wrong spirits—or worse, the wrong people—we may not get the chance to make amends.”
A flicker of movement in the dense foliage caught Pag’s eye. A shadow wove between the branches, vanishing so swiftly it could have been a trick of the firelight. His fingers twitched toward his weapon, instincts honed by countless battles kicking in.
“What is it?” asked Jorlan, the burliest of the retainers, his voice hushed yet edged with tension.
“Not sure yet,” Pag murmured. He rose to his feet, stepping beyond the glow of the campfire, the night air carrying a distinct chill. The usual nocturnal chorus had stilled, the rustling of leaves and insect hum replaced by something heavier—an unnatural silence laced with anticipation.
Then—a whisper, more felt than heard. Not a voice, but an impression, like a presence brushing against the edge of his senses. The air carried a damp, metallic tang, an all-too-familiar scent. The scent of old blood.
Pag spun just as a figure emerged from the trees. It was draped in tattered gray robes, its face concealed within the shadows of its hood. A skeletal hand extended in a motion both greeting and warning. Twin pinpricks of ghostly green light flickered where its eyes should have been.
“Travelers,” the figure intoned, its voice hollow yet reverberating with an eerie clarity. “You tread upon the threshold of the Eternal Commonwealth.”
Lord Adrien stepped forward, composed but cautious. “We come in peace, bearing official missives for the Eterna Conclave.”
The figure inclined its hooded head in acknowledgment, its movements disturbingly smooth. “Then peace shall be granted, so long as the proper rites are observed.”
Eryk moved with purpose, retrieving a small wooden box from his pack. The box, marked with symbols of the Pale Gods, held sacred offerings—a bundle of sage, a vial of sanctified water, and a strip of cloth embroidered with funerary blessings. He extended it toward the robed figure, his actions deliberate and reverent.
The skeletal hand accepted the tribute with slow precision. “The spirits shall know your passage,” the entity murmured, stepping aside. “May your journey be undisturbed.”
As the figure melted back into the darkness, Pag exhaled sharply, only then realizing he had been holding his breath. A sense of unease settled deep in his bones. The Pale Dominion lay just ahead, a place where death was neither an end nor a fearsome thing. Here, the dead did not rest.
The road forward was not just foreign terrain—it was a journey into the unknown.