Waves crashed relentlessly against the ancient stones of Thalara's port. Above, heavy clouds smothered the moon, plunging the night into an oppressive darkness. A light, persistent shower had turned the streets into a slick morass of mud, barely masking the ever-present decay and salt tang that clung to the town.
Deep within the warren of dilapidated buildings near the old docks, a lone figure moved. Their cloak, unnervingly clean and free of patches, seemed utterly alien against the grime of Thalara. Yet, despite the late hour and the rough company such streets promised, none dared challenge the stranger. An unspoken warning radiated from their silent passage.
The figure halted before a tavern more ruin than refuge. Its sign was long gone, its wooden door hanging precariously on rusted hinges. A push sent it groaning open.
Inside, The Leaky Hull was a cave of shadows, barely illuminated by a few rusted lanterns swinging from rough-hewn pillars. Every step elicited a groan from the uneven floorboards. Though warmer than the rain-lashed street, the boarded-up windows couldn't keep out the chill ocean breeze. The air hung thick with the sour reek of cheap ale and the unmistakable fish-stink of sailors seeking oblivion after battling the sea.
The cloaked figure moved with purpose towards the bar. Behind it, a weary barmaid scrubbed at a mountain of filthy tankards. Chestnut hair clung to her glistening, olive-skinned face. She glanced up, her eyes widening slightly at the imposing silhouette before her.
"Are you lost?" Her voice was soft, almost lost in the tavern's gloom.
Slowly, deliberately, the stranger lowered her hood. Raven-black hair gleamed in the flickering lantern light, framing sharp features and icy blue eyes that pinned the barmaid in place.
"I'm looking for Corvus Fuller," she stated, her voice low and resonant.
Melissa, the barmaid, flinched. "He ain't here," she blurted, too quickly. A blatant lie.
Cesara sighed, the sound carrying an edge of impatience. "I know he resides here. I seek no trouble. Just tell me where he is. I need a word."
Melissa opened her mouth to protest, but before a sound escaped, a chair scraped violently against the floorboards. Thomas, a burly regular who spent his days manning a small vessel in Thalara's treacherous waters, lumbered to his feet. He towered over Cesara.
"Listen, Missy," he grumbled, his voice thick with drink and menace. A rough, calloused hand landed heavily on her cloaked shoulder. "She said he ain't here. So why don't you take your snoopin' elsewhere?"
Thomas tried to yank her back. Instead, the world lurched violently—no, he lurched. One moment he was standing, the next he was airborne. His head cracked against the wooden floor with a sickening thud. He lay stunned, gasping like a landed fish.
A collective intake of breath filled the tavern. Patrons surged to their feet, hands reaching for hidden blades or makeshift clubs. But as their eyes met, Cesara's, their aggression died. They froze, then slowly sank back, cowed like chastised pups.
Her icy blue irises now blazed with a ring of incandescent light.
Kindling.
Those who knew—those who'd lived long enough in Kaaraore to understand the whispers of power—recognized it instantly. The first step on the Path of Ascension: igniting soulfire to temper the world's essence and forge a core within.
In the kingdom of Kaaraore, four kinds walked:
The Talentless: ordinary humans.
The Ignited: those who burned soulfire for superhuman strength and speed
The mages: who sensed and wielded ambient essence.
The Ascendants: the rarest, blessed with both talents, walking the path towards divinity itself. Demigods among mortals.
And this woman, Cesara, was undeniably one of them.
She turned back to Melissa. The barmaid trembled, the sudden, bone-deep cold radiating from Cesara making her hands shake. Before either could speak, a new voice cut through the suffocating tension.
"What's with all the ruckus?"
A young man leaned against the stairway railing. Messy brown hair fell over his ears, framing sharp, intelligent yellow eyes. He scratched the back of his head, feigning nonchalance despite the scene before him.
Cesara's gaze narrowed, piercing. "Are you Corvus Fuller?"
"In the flesh," he drawled, a lazy smirk touching his lips. He descended the last few steps. "Though why is a woman of your... ilk... slumming in this dump looking for me? Did my parents finally send a retrieval squad? Or," his smirk widened, "is this a marriage proposal? I'm flattered, if so."
Cesara didn't react to the jest. The fiery ring around her pupils vanished instantly, and the crushing pressure in the room lifted like a curtain rising. Melissa gasped, gulping air.
"No," Cesara stated flatly. "Your parents did not send me. I come on my own accord." She gestured towards the stairs. "We need to talk. Privately."
Corvus glanced around—at Thomas groaning on the floor, at the terrified patrons, at Melissa's pale face. The smirk faded. Now wasn't the time for jokes. "Sure," he conceded, his voice losing its playful edge. He jerked his chin towards the stairs. "My room's up here."
Leaving the stunned silence of the tavern behind, they climbed to a cramped room nestled near the rafters. It was barely wider than Corvus's outstretched arms and just long enough for a thin, lumpy mattress. He sank onto it, the rhythmic drip... drip... drip of water from the leaking roof punctuating the quiet.
Cesara didn't sit. She stood framed in the small doorway, her presence filling the tiny space. "I don't have time for pleasantries, Corvus." Her icy eyes held his. "I'm here to offer you a place on the first-ever expedition beyond the Ocean's Wall."