There was no fouler port at the edges of the dark continent than this,
no city that breathed all these races at once—without spitting one of them out.
Arsakat, a city with no name on official maps. Some call it "The Well of Depravity," others, "The Smile of Hell,"
But everyone who set foot on its land knew it was nothing but...
the postponed price of every sin.
It was built atop the ruins of a civilization with no memory,
and it festered like a carcass—every time a wall collapsed, a market rose in its place;
every time a district burned, a shrine for liquor or black magic was built anew.
The air here isn't breathed—it's swallowed by force, filled with ship smoke, the stench of sea rot, and the shouts of merchants who sell nothing but poison.
Boats jostle in it like tongues in taverns,
and there's no difference between a captain and a slave trader, or a jinn and a sorcerer—
everyone here is a slave... and everyone a master.
In the lower port, where looted crates from the Eastern isles pile up and secrets hide within storage caves, thousands of beings live—not bound by religion or blood, but by one thing alone: survival.
The dwarves here do not craft gold, they steal it.
And the dark elves do not dwell in forests, but in taverns, distilling wine as they carve envy into their eyes.
The sorcerers of darkness sell fake charms to children and etch runes into doorways, so spirits may sleep and never awaken.
Dark knights—those exiled from ancient kingdoms—walk slowly, carrying their broken swords like their only memories.
Some guard the alleys. Others sell themselves to the highest bidder.
But no one looks into their eyes...
for the eye that sees too much in this city… is extinguished.
Mercenaries of every hue and tongue gather at the docks, brawl, make deals—and betray each other the same night.
And amid it all, in a narrow alley reeking of old blood never washed, stands a crooked-walled tavern.
Its name is never spoken, but everyone knows the way to it.
There... in that dim corner where no sun reaches, nor the sound of the sea, faint lanterns dangle from a moldy ceiling,
like bones hung to terrify those who forgot fear.
The scent of sweat, blood, and cheap tobacco blend here like a unique perfume—
understood by drunkards and killers, though none could explain it.
The tavern is not a place—it is a mood. Its floor is sticky, stained with blotches no one dares clean, its tables carved from sunken ship remains,
and every chair has witnessed a death.
No music—only the clink of mugs, heavy murmurs, and the fire crackling in the back hearth devouring silence whenever it dares return.
Near the largest barrel, sits a dark elf with charcoal hair dangling like lazy serpents across his face,
speaking in a low voice, laughing whenever he says the word "blood."
Beside him, a bald dwarf with a broad nose holds an axe—half rust, half curse.
At the next table, a masked sorcerer writes not with ink—but with his blood.
The talk isn't about gold or bounties—but about the sign.
The one that appeared in the sky two weeks ago, when the full moon turned red and hung still for two nights,
as if it were staring… at somewhere.
"The eastern mountains trembled…" said the grizzled sailor as he blew blue smoke from his nostrils.
"I heard the earth cracked near the Ninar Pass, as if something beneath rose… then retreated."
"It emerged," whispered another from the edge of the room—his face unseen.
"Fool. If it had emerged, the curse would've swallowed us on the first night."
One mercenary laughed, tapping his dagger on the table:
"Who cares? If there's something—it's either gold, a weapon, or something rare worth a king's bones on the black market!"
But the sorcerers did not laugh.
They had read the omens… and listened to those older than them.
One of them, an elder with fingers thin like ink stains, said:
"It's no coincidence that cracks appear, and the red moon is seen, and ships arrive—one after another—from continents that once dared not approach this coast."
"A week ago, I saw a ship from the Lands of Mist,"
said a fisherman, sipping from his bottle.
"And two days back, a group from the Eastern Guild came ashore… with maps… and women who do not smile."
"Everyone comes… but no one returns," said the old man nicknamed "The Voice of the Drowned," his tone dry as snake skin.
Something happened atop those mountains, something the city does not see—but feels.
Sailors leave early, cats no longer roam at night,
and children stop playing near open doors.
And the tavern… grows fuller with strange faces every evening, all whispering
of a path...
a treasure...
a great ruin...
an ancient death… stirring again.
But none dared ask the real question: who waits there… behind the mist? And who awakened him?
It was the question left unspoken—not for lack of courage,
but because everyone in the tavern… believed the other had the answer.
But truth was—no one did. All they had were: broken prophecies, torn maps, and tales from madmen who vanished after speaking them.
As the smoke twisted along the ceiling like a mute serpent, and by the fire's corner where heat blurred faces,
they sat.
The unnamed group.
Seven... from seven places, and seven desires.
First: the dark sorcerer Ostiar, clothed in forgotten ash,
his voice borrowed from a grave. He spoke little, but he held the map… and the map did not show paths—it screamed if one neared those mountains.
Second: Gremlen, the reeking dwarf with the angry axe and loud laugh. He hated sorcerers—but gold made him swallow all hatred. He came from the mines of the Sarakon dwarves, where walls are said to listen and avenge.
Third: Nira, the shadow-elf, her hair like it was cut from the night.
No one had seen her eyes flicker. She could track footsteps in unseen darkness, and some say not even spirits can hear her walk.
Fourth: Rakar, the knight of shadows. His armor did not shine, but devoured light.
His sword long as a tale that never ends—and some swore he never slept… only watched.
Fifth: Kaith, the double-edged mercenary, loyal to no creed or god. But his heart was sharp as his blade. He belonged only to himself… yet none who betrayed him survived.
Sixth: Mara, the lost witch—banished from the magic council. She bore a whispering amulet, and smiled when all others feared.
The seventh… none spoke of him.
He sat in shadow, face masked, drank nothing, moved not—yet no one denied that the tavern… chilled when he entered.
Ostiar, drawing with a finger on the scorched map, said:
"The sign appeared here… above the Agra Talon Mountains."
The dwarf grumbled: "Never heard that name in any atlas."
The elf replied: "Because the mountains were never named… they were avoided."
Silence.
Then Mara, voice soft like soot-thread, said:
"Those who entered those mountains… never returned. But their voices are still heard… at night."
They exchanged glances.
The wind outside the tavern fell silent… as if awaiting the decision.
Rakar, hand on his sword, said:
"If this is madness, let it be glorious."
The mercenary laughed, "It won't be glorious… but it'll pay well."
Then they all stood.
And thus… fate was sealed.
From amidst ruin, death, and rot—seven emerged. Not bound by faith or dream—but by greed, or a shadowed past, or a forgotten promise…
pulling them toward something they did not understand.
They didn't know… that what they had awakened did not wish to be found,
nor approached.
But the first step had been taken.
---
Outside the city walls, where inhabited land ends and the realm of doubt and fear begins, the seven stood.
The morning was ashen—no sun, no rain… only a dim light, as though the sky had forgotten how to be blue.
Before the eroded gate, many other groups stood. Some clad in shining armor, others dressed as if molded from clay. Familiar faces and warped ones, horses and wagons, mages holding staffs that bled smoke, mercenaries laughing too loudly, and half-humans of unknown race.
All headed for the same place… the Agra Talon Mountains.
Gremlen, watching a band of mercenaries depart ahead, said:
"They'll die first. I bet two cups of shadow-wine on it."
Nira, folding her arms, replied:
"Or they survive—and take all we were meant to claim."
Ostiar glanced at the map, then at the mountains in the misty horizon—distant, gleaming like buried dragon horns. Their details unclear… but their presence undeniable.
He murmured, "Time isn't on our side. We must move. But before that… let's agree on what won't get us killed on the first night."
Kaith smirked, raising an eyebrow:
"You mean pick a leader? Or begin with a little betrayal?"
Rakar responded coldly, tightening the belt over his sword:
"We're seven. Not a tribe. No leader needed… only someone to speak when a choice is needed."
Mara played with a black thread between her fingers, saying:
"Call him the Tongue. Each of you loves to object… let him speak for us. And let him be cursed if he fails."
The dwarf laughed:
"I pick Mara. She'll burn us all if she doesn't get her way."
Nira said:
"Ostiar has the map. If we walk—we walk where his finger points."
Rakar nodded in silence. Kaith agreed.
Ostiar, voice reluctant but accepting, said:
"Three plans. First—we move through the dry passes and enter the mountain from the east. More dangerous… but less crowded."
"Second," he traced a line on the burnt hide, "we sneak through Thorn Valley, wait for the next full moon. There's an old gate… it might open."
"And the third?" asked the dwarf.
Ostiar paused, then lifted his head:
"We hide. Let the other teams exhaust the rage and awaken the traps… then we move. The last to enter… and the last to leave."
Nira said:
"We'll need eyes to watch them from above."
Mara replied, stroking her amulet:
"And voices to warn us from ahead."
Rakar:
"And fire behind us… so we don't think of turning back."
A moment of silence.
The air had already changed.
Some teams had begun moving… their footsteps left prints in the mud, as if the earth itself preserved names.
Ostiar raised his voice slightly—not as a leader, but a truth:
"From this moment, everything—living or dead—may be enemy or guide. Trust nothing. Not even me."
Kaith, counting his arrows, said:
"But we'll kill together… that's enough for now."
Then the group moved.
Through gray sands, twisted paths among rocks and black plants, under the eyes of other teams, and behind the whispers of prophecy…
their journey toward merciless mountains began.