The tense silence in the Rosefield home was broken by the sudden sound of hurried footsteps. A moment later, a guard burst into the dining room, his expression grim and urgent.


    "Chief Gerald!" the guard panted. "Chief Aron is here to see you!"


    Gerald’s expression shifted from frustration to surprise. He exchanged a glance with his wife before pushing back his chair.


    "Aron?" he muttered. "What’s he doing here all of a sudden?"


    Clive watched as his father stood up, his usual stern demeanor returning. He had heard the name before Chief Aron of Ravenshire, a long-time friend of his father’s. But something about this visit felt strange.


    "Let him in," Gerald said to the guard.


    Minutes later, the doors to the house opened, and in stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man with a red beard. His sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on Gerald, and his lips curled into a grin.


    "Gerald, you old wolf!" Aron laughed, striding forward with open arms.


    Gerald let out a rare chuckle. "Aron, you bastard. You should’ve sent word ahead."


    "And ruin the surprise?" Aron smirked. "Not a chance."


    They clasped hands firmly before pulling each other into a brief hug. The air between them was easy, but Clive noticed the men who accompanied Aron five soldiers, each armed and standing in disciplined formation near the entrance.


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    "Come," Gerald gestured. "We’ll talk in my meeting room."


    Aron nodded, and as they walked past Clive, the older chief gave him a glance, eyes lingering for a second before moving on.


    Inside the meeting room, Gerald poured Aron a drink and sat across from him.


    "So," Gerald began. "What brings you to Lunadell?"


    Aron took a sip before grinning. "Can’t an old friend visit without a reason?"


    Gerald narrowed his eyes. "Not you. You always have a reason."


    Aron let out a hearty laugh. "Alright, alright. You got me." He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small, ornate box. "I got you a gift."


    "A gift?" Gerald raised an eyebrow.


    Aron opened the box, revealing a beautiful relic with golden and blue stripes. The craftsmanship was exquisite, glowing faintly under the candlelight.


    Gerald frowned. "Where did you get this?"


    "A runesmith," Aron said proudly. "Paid a fortune for it."


    Gerald hesitated before carefully picking it up. "You know magic relics are forbidden in these lands."


    Aron waved a hand dismissively. "It’s just a good luck item, old friend. Nothing dangerous."


    Gerald studied the relic for a moment before sighing. "You and your nonsense…" He placed it back in the box. "But I appreciate the gift."


    They talked for a while, reminiscing about their youth, laughing about old stories, and drinking like they had in the past. But when it was time to part, Aron’s expression turned serious.


    "Before I go, there’s something you should know," he said quietly. "There have been strange attacks lately. Whole villages wiped out. No survivors."


    Gerald’s face hardened. "Who’s responsible?"


    "No one knows," Aron admitted. "But it’s not bandits or raiders. The way these villages were destroyed… it’s unnatural."


    Gerald clenched his jaw. "Are you sure about this?"


    "I wouldn’t have come all this way if I wasn’t," Aron said. "Keep your guard up, Gerald. Something’s coming."


    Gerald watched as Aron and his men left through the village gates, his mind heavy with concern.