Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

The Revelation of the Eclipseborne

Ron stood steady before the broker, presenting the details of his investigation like pieces of a puzzle. Maps, survivor accounts, strategic notes from Havenford—all meticulously compiled and delivered with precision. Yet, despite the thoroughness of the facts, his next move completely broke the pattern of logic.

He didn't ask a question; instead, he uttered a single, cryptic word: "Eclipseborne."

The broker's amused smile faltered for a fraction of a second—just enough for Ron to notice. Then, the man chuckled, a low, ancient sound that barely escaped his lips as he leaned back. "Ha," he drawled, shaking his head with genuine amusement. "Out of all the questions you could've asked... I didn't expect that. Well, Sir Ron, I'm looking forward to the information or payment you'll share with us."

And with that, the broker began to fade, his figure dissolving like mist under moonlight. The magic was subtle, elegant, and strange, leaving Ron to marvel at the theatricality of it all. Before the man disappeared entirely, something small glinted on the desk—a token, cool and smooth to the touch, round and etched with the logo of a crescent moon.

Ron reached for it cautiously, turning it over in his palm. It wasn't clear what the token represented—membership, communication, or something else entirely. But he understood one thing: It was meant for him. And more importantly, the broker's cryptic disappearance had confirmed his suspicions. The connection to the Eclipseborne was undeniable.

Flashback: The Eclipseborne

Ron's mind flashed back to fragments of his earlier research. In dusty libraries and forgotten archives, he had uncovered traces of the Eclipseborne, an enigmatic group tied to the Shadow God—the Lord of Mystery. Unlike the Luminaries or elemental factions, the Eclipseborne were never known for their military might. Instead, they wielded the power of shadow magic and specialized in information, serving as spies, assassins, and gatherers of secrets.

Though not directly involved in the Malice Bloom War, their contributions to the old leaders of the era were invaluable. The divinants among them were feared for their precision and secrecy, operating in the darkest corners of the world. And when the Shadow God disappeared, the group fractured, their members scattering into anonymity. Some pledged loyalty to the Luminaries; others served powerful figures within the Warrior Faction and Elementalists. But their secrecy grew stronger with time, and in the present era, almost no one knew their affiliations—or their purpose.

Returning to Reality

As the flashback faded, Ron tucked the token safely into his pocket, its weight strangely comforting. This is business, he thought to himself. Not membership—but a partnership. He couldn't afford to ask the deeper questions yet—questions about the sorrowfiends or the malice bloom's origins—but he was glad nonetheless. Today's encounter had answered something else entirely: the Eclipseborne weren't just a myth.

Feeling both motivated and strangely fulfilled, Ron quickly left the coffee shop and headed toward the elder's residence. He needed to thank Elder Vahn for his efforts and acknowledge the importance of the mission ahead. The newfound connection to the Eclipseborne was thrilling, but it was just another piece of the larger puzzle—the ultimate goal of stopping the malice bloom.

Hurrying to Markus

Ron's sense of urgency was palpable as he arrived at their room, finding Markus already tending to their packed supplies. "We're leaving," Ron announced without hesitation, his tone sharp and excited.

Markus didn't even complain, as if he had anticipated this exact moment. With a tired but amused look, he gestured toward their gear. "Everything's ready. You just had to do your mysterious thing first, didn't you?"

Ron smirked, tapping his pocket where the token rested. "Let's just say it was worth it."

Together, the duo prepared to depart Havenford, the road ahead leading straight to Windmere. Whatever awaited them there, Ron was ready to face it—armed not just with facts, but with the beginnings of something much larger than he had ever expected.

On the Road: Theories in Motion

The carriage rattled steadily along the uneven northern paths, pulled by Baron and Grandee, their armored forms unwavering despite the journey's demands. Inside the carriage, Ron sat hunched over a rough sketch of a flowchart, meticulously connecting threads of information gathered from Havenford and previous stops along the way. His notebook pages fluttered slightly in the breeze as he worked, his pen darting across the paper in sharp, decisive movements. Yet his pen tapped a frantic rhythm against the page, a clear sign of his frustration. Pieces were missing, and Ron detested an incomplete puzzle.

"This is controlled," Ron said aloud, his voice breaking the rhythmic creaks of the carriage wheels. He tapped his pen against the page as if trying to will the answers to appear. "Think about it, Markus—the locations, the targets. It's too deliberate. You don't see malice spreading randomly like this."

Markus, sitting confidently in the driver's seat and commandeering the carriage, tilted his head slightly, glancing at Ron from the corner of his eye. "Controlled? That's a bold claim, Ron. How do you figure?"

Ron pushed himself to sit beside Markus, his flowchart held firmly in his hands. "Look here," he said, pointing to Windmere on the map he'd sketched out. "It started here. Windmere—this was the testing ground. That's clear. You can say they must've left it after gathering enough data—results from whatever operation or experiments they were running. And then..." He dragged his finger across the page, highlighting three other locations, "it spread to three places simultaneously."

Markus frowned slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Spread? What do you mean, spread?"

Ron gestured emphatically, his voice growing more animated. "Yes. Think about the timing—the three locations struck at the same time. That means there must've been three individuals, acting in different places at once, spreading malice."

Markus raised an eyebrow, giving Ron a skeptical look. "And how would they even spread malice? Through whispers? Touch? It defies logic."

Ron leaned forward, his tone dropping slightly as he continued his explanation. "Let's go back to Kane, remember? He said he met a man—the last man he saw before things went wrong. And then there's the survivor testimony from Havenford—their host mentioned a stranger offering them pleasure, urging them to give in to pain, to revenge, to anger... All signs point to malice."

Markus nodded slowly, attempting to follow Ron's train of thought. Though the details were dense, he caught enough of the main points to understand the gravity of the situation. "So, whoever—or whatever—these people are... they're spreading malice intentionally. Testing it, measuring it, expanding it."

"Exactly," Ron said, his frustration bubbling again. He couldn't quite pin down the final conclusion, the ultimate link that tied it all together. His voice softened slightly as he muttered, half to himself, "It's deliberate. It's designed. But... why? And who?"

Markus kept one hand steady on the reins, glancing briefly at Ron as he murmured. "You'll figure it out, Ron. You always do."

Ron sighed, flipping through his notes once more, his mind racing as he tried to connect the final dots. Despite his frustration, the pieces he'd uncovered so far pointed to something far greater than simple chaos. This wasn't just malice—it was control, precision, purpose. And Ron wasn't about to stop until he uncovered the truth.

The duo pressed onward, the northern winds growing sharper with each passing mile. Though Markus couldn't fully grasp the weight of Ron's deductions, he knew one thing for sure: Windmere wasn't just another stop. It was the next step in unraveling the dark design behind the sorrowfiends' spread—and Ron's determination to solve it was stronger than ever.

Windmere: A Ghost Town of Ruin

The northern winds howled through the desolate streets of Windmere, carrying with them the echoes of a once-thriving community. What had once been a peaceful haven for agricultural workers and fishermen was now a shadow of its former self—a ghost town, scarred by chaos and tragedy. The idyllic countryside retreat, where neighbors helped one another and life was simple, had been reduced to ruins.

The remnants of Windmere's past were still visible, though they only served as haunting reminders of what had been lost. Broken fishing nets lay tangled on the shores, their owners long gone or unwilling to return. Fields that once bore crops now stood barren, the soil stained with blood and ash. Homes were shattered, their walls splintered and roofs caved in, as if the town itself had been torn apart by unseen hands.

The survivors who remained clung to the ruins, refusing to leave despite the horrors that had unfolded. They wandered the streets like ghosts themselves, their faces etched with grief and exhaustion. Many stayed out of loyalty to their dead loved ones, unwilling to abandon the memories of those they had lost. Some tended to graves hastily dug in the town square, while others sat silently in the ruins of their homes, staring into the distance as if waiting for answers that would never come.

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Evidence of the sorrowfiends' rampage was everywhere. Bloodstains marked the walls of homes, and the ground bore signs of struggle—deep gouges, shattered weapons, and scorch marks. The air was heavy with the scent of decay, and the silence was broken only by the occasional, ragged cry of a survivor mourning their loss, a sound swallowed quickly by the vast emptiness. The town's once-vibrant community had been replaced by an eerie stillness, punctuated by the whispers of the wind.

For Ron and Markus, the sight of Windmere was sobering. The idyllic countryside they had imagined was gone, replaced by a chilling reality. This was no longer a place of simple living—it was a graveyard of dreams, a testament to the devastation wrought by malice. And yet, the survivors' refusal to leave hinted at something deeper—a resilience, a determination to hold on to what little remained.

As the duo stepped into the heart of Windmere, the weight of their mission pressed heavily upon them. The sorrowfiends had left their mark here, and it was up to Ron and Markus to uncover the truth behind the chaos. Whatever answers lay hidden in this ruined town, they knew they would have to face them head-on.

The Encounter with the Boy

As the carriage rolled into the ruined heart of Windmere, the eerie silence was broken by the sudden sound of rocks pelting against the side of the vehicle. A small figure emerged from behind the rubble—a boy, no older than seven, his face streaked with dirt and his eyes wide with fear and defiance.

"Go away!" the boy shouted, his voice trembling but determined. "I'm not coming with you! Leave me alone!" He hurled another rock with all the strength his small arms could muster.

Markus, quick on his feet, expertly evaded the incoming projectiles, catching the ones that were about to hit Ron. The rocks clattered harmlessly to the ground, but Ron barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the boy, a sharp pain lancing through his chest as he took in the child's ragged appearance and the desperation in his voice. The remnants of destruction around them—the shattered homes, the bloodstained earth—only deepened the weight in Ron's chest.

"Poor child," Ron breathed, his voice heavy with sorrow. He stepped forward slowly, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. "Hey, wait," he called out gently, his tone soft and reassuring. "We're just travelers. We're not here to hurt you."

The boy's grip on another rock tightened, his small frame trembling as he prepared to throw it. "You're lying! You're here to take me away, like the others!"

Ron's heart clenched at the boy's words. The others? Ron's mind raced, a cold dread settling over him. What horrors had this child witnessed? It was clear the boy believed he was in danger. Ron's divinant instincts surged, urging him not just to gather information, but to console the boy, to ease the profound fear in his eyes.

He crouched slightly, lowering himself to the boy's level. "I promise, we're not here to take you anywhere," Ron said, his voice steady and kind. "We're just passing through. I... I just want to talk. That's all."

Markus, standing nearby, kept a watchful eye on the boy, ready to intervene if necessary. But he could see the genuine concern in Ron's expression, the way he was trying to reach the child's heart. Markus stayed silent, letting Ron take the lead.

The boy hesitated, his grip on the rock loosening slightly. His wide eyes darted between Ron and Markus, searching for any sign of deception. Ron took a small step closer, his movements slow and deliberate. "What's your name?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to cut through the boy's fear. "I'm Ron. And this is Markus. We're just travelers, I swear."

The boy didn't answer immediately, but the tension in his small frame began to ease. Ron could see the cracks in the boy's defenses, the way his fear was slowly giving way to curiosity—or perhaps hope. This child had seen too much, lost too much. Ron wasn't just trying to win his trust for answers; he genuinely wanted to help.

"Please," Ron added, his voice almost a whisper. "We're not your enemies. We just want to understand what happened here."

The boy's hand finally dropped to his side, the rock slipping from his fingers. He didn't speak, but the defiance in his eyes softened, replaced by something fragile and uncertain. Ron took a deep breath, knowing this was just the beginning of earning the boy's trust. Whatever the child had to say, it could hold the key to understanding the horrors that had befallen Windmere. But for now, Ron's priority was clear: comfort the boy, and let him know he wasn't alone.

Ron's Investigation Deepens

As the story unfolded, Windmere's chilling silence was interrupted by moments of humanity, resilience, and reflection. Ron and Markus, now immersed in the aftermath of sorrowfiend destruction, began to uncover details about the broken yet enduring community.

Talia's Story

When the young boy fled toward the ruins of his home, Ron's pursuit was interrupted by the firm voice of a woman. "Hey you!" she called, her voice sharp as splintered bone, but with a tremor of anxiety beneath it. Standing in the midst of the rubble, Talia, a woman in her late twenties, demanded answers. "What do you want from the boy? I saw you chasing him. Are you one of those Luminaries? Or from Havenford?"

Ron, understanding her apprehension, raised his hands slightly in a gesture of peace. "Neither," he said calmly. "I'm Ron. We're here investigating what happened." Without hesitation, he showed her the crest from the Warrior Faction, knowing transparency would win her trust better than evasiveness.

Talia studied him for a moment before her guarded expression softened. "Come with me," she said, her voice more subdued now. She led Ron toward a small clearing in the ruins, where graves had been dug—graves belonging to her parents and countless others. From afar, Markus saw Ron gesture for him to follow, and he nodded, staying with the carriage to prepare for potential dangers while keeping Baron and Grandee secure.

As they reached the graves, Talia introduced herself, sharing that she regularly visited Windmere to honor her parents and reflect on the horrors that had unfolded. She began to recount the events with a trembling voice, her anguish and grief spilling over as Ron listened with unwavering attention.

Flashbacks of Despair

Talia described the night when the sorrowfiends struck Windmere, her words vivid and haunting. "I saw them chasing my parents," she said, her voice breaking. Tears streamed down her face as she recalled the chaos—screams everywhere, the terror in the eyes of children and elders alike. "Nooo," she whispered, as if reliving the moment. "The screeching sound of those monsters, the way they tore through everything... it was unbearable."

She described the streets filled with running figures, the cries of "Run!" echoing through the town. The fiends had brought with them an aura of destruction that felt almost unnatural, as though it was driven by something far deeper than mere malice.

But then her voice lowered, and her expression turned even darker. "They didn't come from the forest or outside the town," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "They came from inside Windmere. It started here, in the heart of the city. I don't know how or why, but the monsters—they were among us before we even knew what was happening. It was like they... emerged from nowhere, spreading chaos before anyone could react."

Ron's eyes narrowed as he absorbed her words. The fiends starting within the city? That single detail shifted his understanding of the sorrowfiends' behavior. This wasn't an external attack—it was an infiltration, a carefully orchestrated spread from the inside out.

"I saw my mom and dad die," Talia continued, her voice trembling. "They tried to fight back, but... those monsters were too strong. Everywhere I turned, people were dying."

Ron didn't interrupt; he sat quietly, his calm presence allowing Talia to share her pain. Markus, nearby, kept a cautious watch while attending to the horses, making sure their surroundings were secure.

When Talia's voice finally faded, replaced by soft sobs, Ron gently handed her a cup of tea prepared by Markus. The tea, made from Emberblossom—a mystical plant known for its calming properties—had been carried by Ron since leaving his hometown, a testament to its effectiveness among warriors. "This should help," Ron said, his tone warm yet composed.

Talia took the tea hesitantly, her tears slowing as she sipped. The warmth seemed to ease her trembling, and after a few moments, Ron carefully timed his next words.

A Seasoned Interrogator

Ron leaned forward slightly, his tone gentle but focused. "Talia, I'm sorry to trouble you further, but I need to ask—about the sorrowfiends. You said they started inside the city. Did you notice anything unusual before the attacks? Were there signs, anything that seemed out of place?"

Talia wiped her tears, her gaze lowering as she thought. "It wasn't obvious at first," she said softly. "But... some of the townsfolk started acting strange. They were angry, restless—like they weren't themselves. And then... the attacks started. It all happened so fast."

Ron nodded slowly, the gears in his mind turning as he processed the information. Ron seamlessly wove questions into shared anecdotes about himself, his mission, and even Markus. It was a calculated dance of transparency, subtly building trust and easing Talia's anxiety.

Markus, watching from afar, couldn't help but marvel at Ron's ability to balance empathy with precision. This was a side of Ron he rarely saw—calculated, patient, and genuinely concerned.

Finally, Ron asked his last question. "I don't want to trouble you further, but... could you tell me about the boy we met earlier? Evren, I believe his name is?"

Evren and Lady Doriel

"Ah," Talia said, her voice steadier now. "That's Evren. He and the other kids stayed here because they don't want to leave their loved ones. They're being cared for by Lady Doriel, an herbalist whose husband... died during the attacks. He was a baker. Doriel still bakes for the kids, and they help her with errands. It's the only thing holding them together."

Ron frowned slightly. "Evren mentioned the Luminaries and Havenford. What did he mean?"

Talia nodded. "After the aftermath, nomad healers and Luminaries came to help—healing the wounded, giving food. They took some of the children to their churches, helping them find new families or placing them in orphanages. The people of Havenford came too, offering to care for the kids and bring them to their town. But... the ones left here didn't want to go. They chose to stay."

Ron exhaled deeply, understanding the boy's earlier reaction. Of course Evren was afraid. He had witnessed strangers arriving in Windmere after the tragedy, taking children away—even if it was for good intentions. It made sense now.

Moving Forward: The Heart of Windmere

With Talia's testimony weighing heavily on him, Ron knew his next step was clear. The information about the sorrowfiends' origin within the city, combined with the presence of Evren and the other children under Lady Doriel's care, painted a complex picture of devastation and defiant hope. It was time to approach Lady Doriel, not just for more answers about the attacks, but to understand the resilience of this shattered community. He glanced at Markus, a silent understanding passing between them. The true heart of Windmere's tragedy, and perhaps its survival, lay within the ruins of its homes, under the care of those who refused to abandon it. Ron knew his mission here had just truly begun.