Nefaria, 20th of Kaelos, 542 ER
The Kingdom of Demonga, Dortmurk Region
A young brown horse darted across the barren wasteland, its hooves kicking up dry earth as it raced through the desolation. Astride it rode Janeth, an experienced explorer from the human kingdoms—her pale skin and lithe frame a stark contrast to the sun-scorched terrain. Her long hair, tied into a ponytail, trailed behind her like a banner. Dust clung to her weatherworn explorer's gear—proof of the countless leagues she'd already conquered across the uncharted island of GOA.
Demonga—one of the island's most mysterious realms—was a land once teeming with demonic life. But now, as Janeth rode through the famine-blighted fields of Dortmurk, all that remained were the ghosts of a people long eradicated. Gnarled roots jutted from the cracked earth. Thorn-choked shrubs stretched like skeletal fingers toward the sky. The once-flourishing land bore the scars of human conquest.
The demons had been hunted, enslaved, and slaughtered—extinguished by the very race that now claimed the island's soil. Janeth had heard the stories. The cruelty. The war. The genocide. But even among ruins, her heart still raced at the thrill of discovery.
After hours in the saddle, she finally spotted it—a towering, ancient temple jutting from the earth like a tooth from a dead god's jaw. Not far from it stood a small, weathered house, nearly swallowed by time. Pulling gently on the reins, Janeth brought her horse, Barlotti, to a stop and gracefully dismounted with a swing of her leg.
"Oh, men... what a ride," she muttered with a wry grin. She yawned deeply, arms stretched wide, joints cracking from fatigue. "Finally—Dortmurk. What a damn journey."
The wind stirred dust around her boots as she took in the sight of the massive stone structure. "Bordock said there were no demons left here," she murmured. "Let's see if I can prove the bastard wrong."
She snapped her fingers and rifled through her satchel, pulling out a length of rope. With a low whistle, she approached Barlotti, rubbing the steed's face affectionately. The horse neighed in protest, ears flattening in irritation.
"Shh, it's just a quick stop," she assured, tying him gently to a twisted, withered tree nearby. "We'll be off soon enough. What I find here might impress even the Goa Count Derstrikes."
Shouldering her satchel once more, Janeth strode toward the temple. Her boots clinked softly on the cracked stone as she approached the grand doors—tall and imposing, reinforced with dark silver trims and adorned with an engraved metal plate. A large, ancient keyhole sat in the center like a silent sentinel.
She paused, studying the craftsmanship. Her fingers touched the central plate. "You're not opening easily, are you?"
She crouched down, inspecting the lock, then stood again, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
With practiced ease, she set her satchel down, popped the lock, and reached inside. Her hand emerged gripping the long, familiar shaft of a white metal hammer—massive, squared at the head, bearing the insignia of Goa Count Derstrikes. It was a weapon of power, not just strength. A relic. And today, it was her key.
Summoning all her might, Janeth hoisted the hammer high and brought it down with a thunderous crash. The temple's central plate groaned beneath the blow, warping. Another strike. And another. With a deafening crack, the metal shattered, and the impact knocked the hammer from her grasp.
A sickening pain lanced through her arm—her shoulder dislocated by the sheer recoil. The hammer clattered to the ground, its head split. Janeth stood frozen for a moment, face twisted in agony. Then the scream tore from her throat, raw and loud, echoing across the ruined field.
Panting, she dragged herself toward the now-parted doors, her legs trembling beneath her. She kicked her satchel forward, nudging the gap wider, and slipped through.
Inside the temple, she collapsed onto the cold floor. But rest would have to wait.
Her instincts kicked in. She reached for her satchel using her legs, then her mouth, opening the clasp with grit and determination. From within, she tugged out a small coffer and let it spill—bandages, salves, and a pouch of pain potion clinking out.
She bit into the pouch and drank deeply. Then, after uncapping a water flask and taking a long gulp, she wrapped her injured hand and shoulder. Her skin burned with bruises and cuts, but the potion's effects had begun to numb the pain.
Her breathing slowed. Her eyes drifted closed. For a few minutes, she surrendered to her body's cry for rest.
When she woke, she tested her limbs. The pain had dulled. She sat up slowly, her left hand working again.
She wasn't done. This was just the beginning.
To Be Continued...