The storm broke just as they crested the final hill.

  Karl pulled his hood low against the wind and stepped onto the rocky outcrop. The world ahead stretched like a painter’s canvas, soaked in rain and torchlight. Trees gave way to stone. Roads began to appear—packed mud and cobbled stretches long worn by soldiers’ boots.

  And beyond them, rising like a fortress carved from the earth itself, stood Ravenhall.

  Not a city. A bulwark.

  Grey walls, at least twenty meters high, ringed the entire outer perimeter. Watchtowers flickered with firelight at every angle. At the center, rising above the buildings, loomed a wide bastion—the old fortress that had given the city its name.

  It was beautiful.

  It was terrifying.

  ---

  “We made it,” one of the new players whispered.

  Another pumped a fist. “Fast-travel unlocked, baby!”

  But Karl didn’t smile.

  He turned to face his army—or what passed for one. Thirty individuals, some barely old enough to shave, others grizzled and scarred from system-defined hardship. Most were armored in mismatched pieces of scavenged gear.

  At least twelve wore imperial breastplates.

  Seven carried cavalry sabers with the imperial sun still etched into the hilt.

  All of them were filthy. Blood, mud, ash. They looked more like bandits than refugees.

  “There’s no way they’ll let us in,” Karl said quietly.

  The soldier beside him nodded. “Not like this. They’ll think we’re deserters. Or worse.”

  “Or an enemy detachment in disguise.”

  ---

  They set camp among the trees, well out of arrow range.

  The rain soaked through the underbrush, but they’d long since given up on staying dry. Fires were out of the question—too visible. So they sat cold, chewing salted meat, sipping water from flasks, and staring down at the fortress that could be salvation or a deathtrap.

  Karl gathered the original five players.

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  “You’ve been in the city before,” he said. “With Tanir. Right?”

  “Yeah,” said the student. “He paid for our drinks once.”

  “Close enough,” muttered the ex-soldier.

  “I need you to go back in. Clean up. Pretend to be travelers. Find him. Tell him I’ll pay.”

  He dug into his pouch and handed over two of the gold coins he’d stashed from the last loot round.

  The group went silent.

  “You sure?” asked the researcher. “This isn’t a test?”

  Karl gave a half-smile. “You mess it up, we all die out here.”

  The pervert grinned. “That’s more like it.”

  ---

  They left just before dawn.

  Dressed in washed tunics and neutral cloaks scavenged from the supply pack, the five made their way toward the city on foot. Their weapons were hidden beneath bundles of fabric. Faces freshly scrubbed. Hair tied back. Posture relaxed.

  They looked like poor wanderers. Maybe ex-hunters. Maybe farmers fleeing conscription.

  Nothing suspicious.

  ---

  As they approached the city gates, they passed the first set of stone markers: ancient statues carved in the likeness of war saints and forgotten kings. Between them ran the last paved road, worn smooth by centuries of imperial traffic.

  And at the gate itself—

  Guards.

  Six men in blackened chainmail stood beneath the stone arch. Crossbows slung across their backs. One held a pike taller than himself.

  “State your business,” he called as they neared.

  “We’re travelers,” said the student. “From Aros Valley.”

  “What’s your trade?”

  “Woodcraft. Hunting. We got caught in the rains.”

  One of the guards narrowed his eyes. “A lot of travelers lately.”

  “We don’t want trouble,” the ex-soldier said calmly. “We just want a meal. And maybe a roof.”

  The guard looked them over. Saw the dirt, the patched clothes, the tired eyes.

  Then he waved them through.

  “Don’t loiter near the keep.”

  ---

  Inside the city, the contrast was jarring.

  Ravenhall was cleaner than Aurelia. Less golden, less extravagant—but solid. Its streets were narrower, its buildings squat and fortified. The people moved quickly, heads down, eyes watchful.

  Militia patrolled every block.

  No one lingered at the tavern doors.

  No one smiled at strangers.

  “Place feels tense,” whispered the student.

  “Place feels real,” replied the old soldier.

  They split up—three to search for rumors, two to visit the tavern they remembered from before.

  And there, in a corner seat near the firepit, surrounded by three half-empty cups and a familiar cloak—

  Sat Tanir.

  ---

  He hadn’t seen them yet.

  He looked older. Tired. A scar ran down his left jawline. His boots were cleaner than they remembered. His crossbow rested beneath the table.

  The researcher stepped forward.

  “Sir Tanir?”

  The man’s head snapped up.

  He reached for the crossbow.

  Then paused.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “You,” he said. “You’re the crazy ones.”

  The student nodded. “Still crazy. But still alive.”

  Tanir didn’t move.

  “We need your help.”

  “You’re speaking the common tongue?” he asked. “Fluently?”

  The pervert gave a thumbs-up. “We grind dialogue trees.”

  Tanir blinked. “In one week?”

  No answer. Just grins.

  Tanir slowly leaned back, eyes flicking from one face to the next.

  Then he drained his drink.

  “This better be worth it.”

  But his mind was racing.

  *The prince. Why is a prince—no, a fugitive prince—sending players to contact a smuggler?*

  *This smells like a trap. Or a suicide mission. Maybe both.*

  And yet...

  He looked at their eyes. Eager. Trusting.

  He knew what he had to do.

  “I’ll think about it,” he muttered.

  ---

  And out in the woods, far beyond the city walls, Karl stared at the fortress.

  His hands were clenched.

  His thoughts louder than ever.

  “If they don’t come back... we’re dead.”

  And yet, somehow, part of him didn’t feel afraid.

  Not anymore.