Ale's journey: The rise of an adventurer

The Barony of Devalin is crossed by the Lyris River, a vital artery that originates from the Sea of Luminis. Over the centuries, this river has been an invaluable source of wealth for the region, allowing Devalin to flourish across generations. Its bountiful and fertile waters shaped the lives of the inhabitants, most of whom have been fishermen for generations, preserving ancestral traditions tied to fishing.

The development of maritime transport multiplied the commercial exchanges, propelling Devalin to the rank of an essential trade hub. The main street of the barony is lined with bustling shops and stalls, rivaling those of the great city of Eldoria. Devalin's market is a true showcase of the region's wealth, offering a multitude of goods, though it is primarily the products of the river and the sea that attract visitors. Among these is the Loryn fish, renowned for its soft, melt-in-your-mouth flesh, making it a highly sought-after delicacy by gourmets.

The Devalin family, established in the region for two generations, once enjoyed an exemplary reputation. Their just and benevolent rule transformed the barony and its surrounding villages into a haven of prosperity and harmony, where the inhabitants lived peacefully under the protection of their lords. However, in recent months, a drastic change shattered this tranquility.

It all began about five months ago, on what had promised to be a bright, sunny day. The sky was a dazzling blue, and the air was filled with the aromas of the bustling market. Then, without warning, the sky darkened, as if an invisible force had suddenly drawn a black veil over the barony. Dark clouds rapidly gathered over Devalin, and torrential rains began to pour down, turning the bright day into a grim and chaotic scene. It was as if the sky had become a massive cracked aquarium, releasing an endless deluge of water.

The downpour continued, relentless, for three days... then a week... then two weeks, with no sign of respite. Baron Alfred Devalin, aware of the abnormality of this phenomenon, convened his group of advisors and desperately sought a solution. Unable to ignore the situation, he issued an urgent mission to the adventurer guilds, hoping their skills could unravel the mystery of this meteorological curse.

Adventurers flocked to the barony, intrigued by the strange phenomenon that seemed to affect only Devalin, while the neighboring regions remained untouched. Yet, despite their efforts and meticulous research, they found nothing unusual, attributing the endless deluge to the inexplicable whims of the weather. Determined to lift this plague, the baron then called upon mages specializing in wind manipulation, pleading with them to dispel the dark clouds looming over his domain. But even their powerful and precise magic failed against this invisible force. The clouds remained unmoved, as if a curse had descended upon the barony of Devalin, plunging it into a state of growing despair.

One day, an elderly mage with a long white beard, clad in a worn robe, made his entrance into the great hall of Devalin's castle. The eyes of the court, weary from months of relentless rain, turned toward this mysterious stranger, a potential bearer of hope or disappointment. Baron Alfred, overwhelmed by the disastrous state of his barony, had called out to any force capable of helping them. The atmosphere was thick with tension, a mix of desperate hope and deep skepticism, as the stranger stood proudly at the center of the room.

In a grave and solemn voice, the mage broke the heavy silence that reigned. "This is no ordinary storm," he declared, his piercing gaze sliding over each face in the hall. "It is a punishment. A curse laid by the divine spirit of the Lyris River itself." His words echoed like a thunderclap, sending a shiver through the assembly. "The spirit has awakened from a long slumber to find its river drained, its servants vanished—all due to your overfishing and reckless exploitation of the waters that nourish these lands."

A heavy silence fell upon the hall. Faces froze in fear and shock, unable to grasp the full weight of this revelation. The anxious murmurs of the advisors and courtiers timidly rose, each desperately seeking a way out of this inevitable curse.

The mage, unfazed, raised his hand, imposing silence once more. His eyes settled on Baron Alfred, and in a dark, calculating tone, he continued, "There is, however, a solution." The murmurs ceased immediately, all eyes filled with fear and hope turned toward him. "The spirit of the Lyris River demands a ceremony in its honor. Ten cows, twenty pigs, and thirty goats must be offered in recompense for the resources you have stripped away." He paused, letting the words sink in, then resumed, his voice growing graver. "But that is not all... The spirit also demands ten human souls to serve in its retinue. These children must be pure, innocent, and wholly devoted. Only by offering one hundred servants in total will the curse be lifted."

At these words, a chilling wave swept through the room. The courtiers stood frozen, stunned by the horror unfolding before them. Baron Alfred, his face pale with fury, leapt to his feet, his voice thundering like a storm: "Never! This is barbarism! You dare demand such a sacrifice? You are nothing but a charlatan!" His hands trembled with rage as he cast the mage out of the castle.

But the storm, relentless, did not abate. Day after day, the rain continued to fall on Devalin. The crops were drowned, famine began to take hold, and the once-prosperous lands turned into vast stretches of sterile mud. Under the constant pressure from his advisors and the murmurs of a desperate people, the baron, broken by anguish, finally relented.

He recalled the mage, his eyes filled with pain and resignation. With cold assurance, the stranger was welcomed back into the castle, this time as the master of ceremonies. He organized the monthly ritual with chilling precision. At the end of each month, ten children were randomly chosen from Devalin's families to be sent into the service of the river spirit.

Despite the horror of the ceremony, its effects seemed undeniable. Each month, at the end of the ritual, the dark clouds slowly retreated, the rain ceased, and the sun finally returned to bathe the barony in warm light. For an entire month, the barony enjoyed a reprieve: the fields, kissed by daylight, regained their colors, and the crops flourished once more. The inhabitants, worn down by months of uncertainty, breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps, they thought, the spirit was finally accepting their offerings, and would soon soothe its anger.

But this respite was fleeting. On the last day of every month, the black clouds returned, overtaking the sky with their heavy, menacing shadow. The rain began again, first gently, then with increasing intensity, reminding everyone that the curse had not yet been lifted. It was as though the river itself, merciless, demanded new tributes. Another innocent soul to quench its thirst for vengeance, a chilling reminder that the divine sentence was not yet complete.

Five months have passed since the beginning of the curse, and fifty children have already been sent to serve the spirit of the Lyris River, ten per ceremony during these monthly rituals. These months of turmoil have gradually transformed the fear of Devalin's inhabitants into a strange resignation. Some have even begun to view this sacrifice as an honor. They firmly believe that offering their children to the divine spirit will finally soothe its wrath, and once its mood is restored, it will bless the barony with eternal prosperity.

It is now the first day of February, and the atmosphere in Devalin is tense and solemn. From dawn, the people have been at work, feverishly preparing the ceremony that must take place at sunset. In the marketplace, a massive wooden platform is being erected, its planks securely nailed to support the weight of the ritual. The streets are cleared, leaving a wide path for the procession, and a new boat, specially built to carry the sacrificial children, already rests on the riverbank, waiting for its grim cargo.

Around 2 p.m., as on every ceremony day, dark clouds begin to gather above Devalin, spreading like a menacing veil that chokes the sky. The first raindrops fall heavily, followed by a torrential downpour that turns the streets into muddy streams. Despite the deluge, the people of Devalin gather in the square, their solemn faces and drenched clothes adding to the somber atmosphere of the moment.

Under the pouring rain, the villagers wear thick, dark cloaks, their hoods pulled low over their heads to shield them from the damp cold. Their heavy boots sink into the mud, and the waterlogged cloaks drip around them. The women wear woolen shawls, now soaked, and the men adjust their worn coats, clinging to their shoulders under the weight of the moisture. A few children, too young to fully grasp the gravity of the event, cling nervously to their parents' hands, their wide eyes taking in the ceremony whose significance they do not yet understand.

On this day, no outsiders dare venture into Devalin. Merchants and travelers, having heard the rumors of dark rituals and human sacrifices, know better than to come near this place on the first day of the month. Devalin, now marked by its reputation as a cursed land, is a place to be avoided.

Yet, against this tide of caution, a lone figure can be seen in the distance, running at full speed toward the barony, braving the storm and the pounding rain. While everyone else seeks to flee this cursed place, this person seems drawn to Devalin, as if compelled by an irresistible force, a duty calling them despite the danger. Their clothes whip in the wind and rain, but nothing seems to slow their pace. It’s as if a sacred mission drives them straight into the heart of this tragedy, while the rest of the world prefers to look away and avoid this doomed land.

It was Ale, he finally arrived in Devalin, the heavy, solemn atmosphere weighing on his shoulders as he passed the first houses of the village. The ceremony was in full swing, and the main street, which led to the distant castle, was packed with people. The villagers, dressed in dark, rain-soaked cloaks, stood silently on either side of the street, forming a human wall. Their closed, almost resigned faces watched the slow procession. Ale’s heart tightened at the sight.

At the center of the cleared street, a sacred procession advanced with mechanical precision, led by the barony's knights, their dull armor faintly reflecting the sparse light that broke through the clouds. Behind them, the children destined to serve the river spirit sat stiffly atop ten massive cows. These children, dressed in special attire, wore long white tunics edged with silver threads that glimmered in the torchlight. Their tunics were adorned with complex symbols representing the Lyris River and its currents, embroidered in blue and silver. Grey linen belts cinched their waists, and heavy woolen capes fell over their shoulders, emphasizing their sacred role. Around their wrists and ankles, silver and copper bracelets, resembling symbolic chains, dangled, their faint clinking barely audible over the murmurs of the crowd.

The cows moved at a slow, measured pace, followed closely by twenty pigs and thirty goats, each led by a silent shepherd, eyes downcast. Ale watched this grim procession, and his instincts flared. Something was wrong. He knew it—he could feel it.

His gaze settled on the massive wooden platform erected in the square, the final destination of this macabre parade. On this imposing structure, an old mage with a white beard stood tall, overseeing the crowd with an impassive gaze. His hands rose and fell in a slow rhythm, accompanying each word of an ancient chant, a chant of incantation. His voice echoed, deep and hypnotic, filling the air with mystical words that the villagers repeated in unison, word by word, like a mesmerizing prayer.

“Fluvium sacrum, aquam reparatam, animae sacrificatae…”

Each repetition amplified the energy that seemed to condense above the crowd. A luminous aura floated in the air, shifting colors intermittently, from pure white to a dark, ominous hue. The aura danced above their heads, like a veil in constant motion, covering the square with a vibrating energy.

But Ale sensed that something was amiss. Beneath this white aura, he could feel something else—something insidious, darker, almost invisible. It smelled of dark magic. Magic that reminded him of Nyxion, the Spirit of Darkness who had once trained him. But this energy was different, more concealed, more treacherous, almost undetectable. It intertwined with the incantation, like a serpent slipping through the shadows of a clear river.

The words of the chant seemed innocent, but the magic emanating from the platform betrayed a far more sinister influence. Ale could almost hear Nyxion’s voice echoing in his mind, reminding him of the lessons about the forces of darkness and how they could be subtly hidden beneath seemingly benevolent rituals.