Part 1
The city square of Castlemere was alive with excitement that morning, for today the Vermilion Guard would execute the Necromancer. She had plagued the city for months with her curses and dark experiments. It was said that the Crimson Empress herself had hunted her down, though few believed that part of the story Narri Castlereagh rarely left her citadel on the hill.
Castlemere, walled and perched at the edge of the Dominion Forest, sat where the Mirage River met the Whispering Sea. The city was ruled and protected by the Crimson Empress, a powerful Archmage who governed from her hilltop citadel. Alongside her reigned the Vermilion Guard, her personal legion charged with policing and defending the city.
Vorn, with little else to do that morning, decided to attend the hanging. A large, lively crowd had gathered in the square, cheering as the Vermilion Guard brought out Dramira the Deathlock, also known as the Necromancer. She was a short woman with long purple hair, a hallmark of one who practiced the dark arts, clad in black robes without a hint of dirt, mud, or wrinkle. As she raised her head to face the masses, the crowd fell silent. Even Vorn seemed at a loss for words; one look into her eyes sent a shiver down his spine.
Dramira walked to the gallows unrestrained, the guards seemingly there only for show. For a moment, it appeared that the Hangman himself was the one on trial.
The process of a hanging was usually drawn out, meant to entertain the townsfolk, many of whom had traveled from the outskirts of the Mirage Desert. But not today. The Hangman quickly placed the noose around her neck, pulled the lever, and released the trap without even asking for the customary forgiveness.
The Necromancer spoke no words. No lengthy monologue, no cryptic declaration of “Death is eternal” or “I shall rise again.” She merely closed her eyes and dropped quick, silent, final.
For a long moment, the square was quiet, until a hesitant cheer arose, spreading until the crowd erupted in applause. Vorn clapped along, but then noticed a tall, thin Elf in front of him, who did not cheer but scanned the crowd as if searching for someone. Vorn might have ignored the Elf, but then a black-hooded figure slipped between them.
The Elf dropped to the ground instantly. Vorn lunged to catch him, but as he held the Elf’s lifeless body, he saw the black onyx dagger protruding from his neck.
The hooded figure vanished into the crowd. Screams rang out—one, two, three. Fingers pointed at Vorn. Before he could speak, red-tabarded Vermilion Guards closed in.
Vorn dropped the body and ran. He knew better than to trust the judgment of a mob gathered for death, and given the city’s feelings toward Malbrins, fleeing seemed the only option.
Malbrins, like all other races, were allowed to live, work, and own land in the Empress’s domain. But cursed from birth by a demon of the Other Side, they were unpopular. Their light red skin and horns only reinforced the misconception that Malbrins were demons in plain sight rather than humans cursed.
Vorn pushed through the trading bazaar, aiming for the port, hoping to lie low until nightfall and sail away.
This, however, was not to be.
Renwick and Fig had decided attending the morning hanging was a poor idea. It would not take long for the guards or street gangs to learn that the Human and Elf duo were selling “Magical Elf’s Potions,” claiming to grant the long life of Elves though the mixture was only saltwater and honey. So, instead, they opted for a quiet morning tea before traveling through the Mirage Desert to the next city.
“Just one more cup before we head out,” said Renwick, already refilling his cup.
Fig rolled her eyes. “I’d say we could have tea in the cart, but I’m not looking forward to hiking through that cursed forest.”
“Who says the Dominion is cursed?” Renwick said, tea dripping from his lips.
“A forest in the middle of the desert—no one needs to say it. But if you—” Fig began, only to be cut off by a sudden crash.
A red-skinned Malbrin had smashed into their small table, knocking all three to the ground.
Before Renwick, Fig, or Vorn could regain their bearings, the shouts of the Vermilion Guards surrounded them. Pushing, shoving, and the cold iron of shackles met their wrists.