The woods of Brynshale were dense, a twisting labyrinth of ancient trees whose roots gnawed at the earth like claws. Mist hung heavy between the trunks, dulling the morning light to a faint glow that barely pierced the canopy. The air was thick, carrying the damp scent of moss and earth, along with something else—something faint but wrong. The stillness of the forest felt unnatural, like it was holding its breath.
A lone figure moved along the overgrown path, his steps steady but purposeful. He walked as one accustomed to solitude, unbothered by the oppressive silence that pressed in from all sides. The Scalesworn of Morbitral had arrived.
The Scalesworn were knights in service to the great dragons of Zyrranthea. Each one bore the mark of their patron, a gift bestowed through trials that tested body, mind, and spirit. They were not bound to any one land or kingdom but roamed the world, seeking threats to balance and lending their strength where it was needed most. Wherever they went, they were seen as both a blessing and a warning: their presence signaled that something was amiss.
These knights were more than mere warriors; they were emissaries, protectors, and sometimes, executioners. The trials they endured to earn their place among the Scalesworn left them forever changed, bound by the essence of their chosen dragon. Their presence carried with it the weight of that bond, an aura that demanded respect and attention, whether welcome or not.
Kalenor Thalarrin was no exception. Chosen by Morbitral, the Great Plague Dragon, his path was one of decay and renewal, a delicate balance that he had sworn to protect. Kalenor stood tall, his gaunt frame cloaked in ash-gray fabric that trailed lightly over the forest floor. At a glance, he appeared frail, his thin limbs and sharp features a stark contrast to the quiet strength in his stride. His raven-black hair was tied back loosely, strands escaping to frame his angular face. A patchy beard clung stubbornly to his chin, completing the look of a man who had little time or care for vanity.
The pallor of his ashen skin, streaked with faint, pulsing marks of decay, marked him as something otherworldly. The streaks shimmered faintly under his cloak, their glow barely visible in the dim light of the woods. His eyes, sharp and amber, gleamed with a quiet intensity, the kind that made people look away, uneasy under his piercing gaze. Despite his sickly appearance, there was no mistaking the authority he carried, an air that demanded attention and respect.
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He had not come to Hallowglen by design. His arrival felt more like chance, or perhaps fate. The whispers of Morbitral’s influence often guided his steps without explanation, pulling him toward places where he was needed. The village ahead, nestled in the mist-shrouded forest, was such a place. He could sense it even before he saw it: the faint hum of something unsettled, the subtle wrongness in the air that prickled at the edges of his senses.
As he broke through the treeline, the sight of Hallowglen greeted him. The village was small, its wooden buildings clustered tightly together as if for protection against the encroaching forest. Smoke rose lazily from a handful of chimneys, dissipating into the mist. At first glance, it seemed peaceful, untouched by anything out of the ordinary. But Kalenor knew better.
The signs were faint but unmistakable. The grass along the outskirts was discolored, patches of yellowed blades mingling with the green. The trees nearest to the village bore curling leaves, their edges tinged with brown as if they had begun to wither. A faint sourness lingered in the air, too subtle for most to notice but clear to Kalenor. Whatever was happening here, it had already begun.
He adjusted his cloak and stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the dirt path leading into the village. A man tending a crooked fence looked up as he approached, his expression shifting from indifference to alarm. The makeshift tool he had been working with fell to his side, forgotten, as he stared at the approaching Scalesworn.
Kalenor stopped a few paces away, his gaze calm but unyielding. “Do you need assistance?” His voice was low, steady, but carried an undeniable weight.
The man blinked, caught off guard by the question. His empty hands twitched before he cleared his throat. “Assistance?” he repeated, his voice hesitant. “Well, nothin’ dire… though, we’ve had a few folk fall ill these past days. Nothing horrible, mind you. Just the usual fevers and coughs, I reckon. Why?”
Kalenor’s amber eyes drifted toward the village behind the man, scanning the narrow dirt streets and the handful of villagers moving about their business. He could see the hesitation in their movements, the way their eyes darted toward him before quickly looking away. “I passed through and sensed this place might need aid,” he said after a pause, his tone even. “Take me to your elders.”
The man hesitated, his shoulders stiffening slightly, but after a moment he nodded. “If you’re offering help, then it’s not my place to turn you away. Follow me.” He glanced down at the tool he had dropped but left it forgotten in the dirt as he turned and began walking toward the center of the village.
As Kalenor followed the man into the village, the weight of his task settled on his shoulders. The faint hum of wrongness in the air grew stronger with each step, mingling with the sounds of distant coughs and the whispers of villagers who ducked out of sight at his approach. He didn’t know what awaited him in Hallowglen, but whatever it was, it had already begun. And it was only a matter of time before it worsened.