The ship groaned as it pulled into the dock, the shadow of the fortress looming over the water. The waves lapped against the sides of the vessel as the distant cries of seabirds echoed through the thick air. Aric stood at the bow, eyes fixed on the only fortress in the Forgotten Isles, the last piece of civilization before venturing into the unknown.

The fortress itself was an imposing structure, carved into the jagged cliffs that rose above the sea. Its stone walls were worn by time and the elements, a testament to the harsh environment of the Isles. Towering spires loomed overhead, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Guards patrolled the walls, their armor dull with salt and age, but their gazes were sharp as they observed the ship’s arrival.

As the ship finally came to a stop, the crew threw ropes to the dockworkers below, securing the vessel in place. Aric stepped off the ship with purpose, his black cloak billowing behind him as the salty air whipped around him. The Subdeacon had vanished into the shadows of the ship long before they docked—whatever her role was here, it wasn’t meant to be a public one.

The docks were busy with traders and adventurers, most of them hardened by the dangerous life that came with living on the Isles. Aric’s eyes scanned the crowd, already planning his next move. The journey ahead would take him to the tallest point in the Isles—Mount Morris. It was said to be a cursed place, the source of much of the dark energy that plagued the lands. He would need to be prepared.

As he made his way toward the fortress, he was approached by a tall, weathered man wearing the heavy cloak of a gatekeeper. “You’ve come to the wrong place if you’re looking for safety,” the man said, his voice rough with age. “The Isles don’t welcome visitors lightly.”

“I’m not looking for safety,” Aric replied evenly. “I’m here for something else.”

The gatekeeper gave him a long, appraising look before nodding. “If it’s trouble you’re after, you’ll find it soon enough. Just don’t expect any help from the fortress once you leave its walls.”

Aric nodded and walked past the man, entering the fortress through its heavy iron gates. Inside, the atmosphere was no less oppressive. The walls seemed to close in, the air thick with tension. Soldiers and mercenaries moved about with purpose, but there was an underlying sense of dread that lingered in every corner.

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He found a small armory tucked away near the barracks. Inside, a grizzled blacksmith worked on a set of armor, the sound of his hammer ringing through the room. Aric approached him, his boots echoing on the stone floor.

“I need supplies for the journey to Mount Morris,” Aric said, his voice cutting through the noise of the forge.

The blacksmith glanced up from his work, his eyes narrowing. “Mount Morris? You’re either brave or stupid. Few make it there, and even fewer return.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Aric replied, his tone firm. “What do you have that will help?”

The blacksmith grunted and gestured to a collection of weapons and gear hanging on the wall. “Take your pick. Just don’t expect it to save you from the cursed winds up there.”

Aric examined the selection, taking a sturdy hunting knife and a small hand axe, both designed for rough terrain. The blacksmith handed him a thick woolen cloak lined with fur, essential for the cold that gripped the higher altitudes of Mount Morris.

As he strapped the new weapons to his belt, the blacksmith spoke again. “If you’re heading to Mount Morris, you might want to stop by the chapel before you go. The priests there know more about the place than anyone else. Maybe they’ll give you a blessing, if you’re lucky.”

Aric nodded in thanks and left the armory, the weight of the new gear adding to the already heavy burden he carried. Outside, the wind had picked up, a biting chill in the air as dusk began to settle over the Isles. He made his way through the fortress, finding the small chapel near the outer wall.

Inside, the chapel was dimly lit, its stone floors worn smooth by countless footsteps. A lone priest stood at the altar, his back to Aric as he tended to a small fire burning in a brazier.

“You seek Mount Morris,” the priest said without turning around. “I can feel it in the air around you.”

Aric stepped forward, his boots barely making a sound on the stone. “I don’t need a blessing,” he said. “I need information.”

The priest finally turned to face him, his eyes deep-set and weary. “Mount Morris is not a place for the living. It is a wound on this world, where the veil between our reality and the darkness beyond grows thin.”

“I know what I’m walking into,” Aric replied, his voice hard. “I just need to know how to survive it.”

The priest studied him for a long moment before speaking. “The winds of Mount Morris will tear at your mind and soul. You will face things there that defy understanding. The Church may have sent you, but it is not prepared for what you will find. Pray that your strength is enough.”

Without another word, Aric turned and left the chapel. The priest’s words lingered in his mind as he prepared for the journey ahead. Mount Morris was known for its cursed winds and the dark forces that haunted its peak, but Aric had no choice. His path had been set the moment he accepted the mission.

As he left the fortress, the air grew colder, the sky darkening as night crept in. The shadow of Mount Morris loomed in the distance, barely visible through the thick fog that rolled in from the sea. It was a foreboding sight, but Aric felt no fear—only the weight of the task before him.

The journey would be long and dangerous, but Aric was ready. With his new weapons, supplies, and the cold, coiling energy of Khaos stirring within him, he set off toward the path that would lead him to the heart of the Forgotten Isles.

Mount Morris awaited.