As a storm rages outside the inn called Fantasy, ten strangers gather, trading drinks, secrets, and banter — until a hooded figure arrives with a mysterious scroll sealed with the mark of the ancient Vaults of Aetharion. The figure vanishes without a trace, and the scroll begins to pulse with eerie energy. As tension gives way to uneasy camaraderie, the storm halts abruptly the moment the scroll is opened — signaling that their true journey is about to begin.
CHAPTER ONE
The hearth crackled defiantly against the wind outside, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls of Fantasy. Thunder rolled above like the laughter of gods, and rain slammed against the windows in a wild rhythm. Inside, the ten strangers began settling in, the silence between them heavy, but brittle — ready to break at any moment.
Gleg the Brewmaster barked out a laugh as he slid foaming mugs across the counter. “First round’s on the house. Next one’s on the dice — win, and drink free. Lose, and tell a secret.”
Nikiforos grinned wide, already reaching for the dice. “My kind of game,” he said, flicking them with flair. “A six and a one. Damn. Alright, a secret: I once cheated a dragon in a drinking contest. Got away with it. Probably.”
From a corner, Sir Kostanto sipped quietly, one eyebrow raised. “Only a fool would gamble with a dragon.”
Gogos, now wearing the face of a tired old man, cackled. “Only a braver fool would win.”
“Or lie about it,” muttered Doc Pitoros, his voice low, but not unkind.
Koump’aros had taken up a stool and was balancing his mug on his nose. “Is it just me,” he said, catching it with a gulp, “or does it feel like this storm’s been… waiting for us?”
General Pando’ Spiros grunted from his seat by the fire, polishing a worn blade. “Storms don’t wait. People do. And someone — somewhere — wants something from this lot.”
Gaslord Nikoko laughed bitterly into his drink. “If fate brought us here, she’s got a twisted sense of humor. Or maybe she’s just drunk.”
The door banged open again — but no wind followed. No rain. Just cold. A bone-deep chill that silenced the inn in an instant.
In the doorway stood a hooded figure. They said nothing. Only stepped in, dripping wet, a scroll clutched tight in one skeletal hand. Behind them, the door slammed shut, on its own.
St. Amou stood quickly, something buzzing under his robes. “That’s no ordinary parchment,” he whispered, his voice tinged with awe. “That… is sealed with the sigil of the Lost Vaults of Aetharion.”
Sir Patsir’ I.0. smirked, resting a hand on his sword. “Finally. This night was getting boring.”
The hooded figure approached the center of the room, placed the scroll on Gleg’s bar, and whispered just loud enough for all to hear:
“The Vault awakens. You were all summoned. Some knowingly… some not.”
With that, they turned and vanished — not out the door, but into thin air. As if the storm had swallowed them whole.
The room was silent. Except for Gleg, who poured himself another beer and looked at the scroll like it was a moldy sausage.
“…Alright then,” he said slowly. “Who’s got experience with cursed maps, forgotten vaults, and impossible quests?”
Nikiforos raised his hand. “Do near-death experiences count?”
Gogos grinned. “I’ve sold cursed maps.”
Pando cracked his neck. “I’ve fought for them.”
Kostanto sighed. “I guess I’m going on another damned adventure.”
The parchment sat there. Waiting.
And outside, the storm began to quiet — like the world itself was holding its breath.
Gleg leaned against the bar, arms crossed, watching his mismatched guests like a chef surveying strange ingredients before throwing them in the stew. “So… anyone want to open that scroll, or do we keep pretending we’re just here for the beer?”
Sir Patsir’ I.0. chuckled. “What’s the rush? Might be the last calm night we get. Let’s at least learn each other’s names before we all die gloriously.”
Doc Pitoros coughed and waved a hand. “He means before we’re stabbed in our sleep by one of these charming strangers.”
Nikiforos raised his mug. “To being stabbed by friends instead of enemies. Cheers.”
The group lifted mugs half-heartedly — except Kostanto, who merely nodded, and St. Amou, who took a dramatic sip of something suspiciously thick and glowing. “May your wounds be shallow and your regrets brief.”
Gaslord Nikoko stared into his drink, then said flatly, “I once built an army out of flaming scarecrows. Regret was… plentiful.”
Gogos, now wearing the face of a dashing nobleman, leaned back with a smirk. “I once married a scarecrow. Long story. Short marriage.”
Koump’aros burst out laughing, almost snorting beer through his nose. “That explains your taste in hats.”
“Better a hat than a helmet full of rice,” muttered Nikoko, side-eyeing Koump’aros’ utterly impractical, overly-decorated helmet — complete with a rooster feather and a coin slot.
General Pando’ Spiros stood up with the air of a man used to being obeyed. “We’re wasting time. That scroll is here for a reason.”
“Time’s not wasted,” Gleg said calmly, setting down a new round. “It’s brewing. Let it sit a little longer — you’ll get a stronger taste of everyone’s flavor.”
He winked at St. Amou, who was busy trying to exorcise his drink. “Yours might be cursed.”
“I bless it before every sip,” Amou replied solemnly. “Then I unbless it. Then I bless it again. Just to be safe.”
Kostanto stirred from his corner at last. “I’ve seen men charge into battle faster than this conversation.”
“That’s because they were running away from you,” Nikiforos said, flashing a grin.
A long beat of silence.
Then Kostanto cracked half a smile. “Maybe.”
Everyone laughed. Even Pando allowed a brief grunt of amusement.
Just as the laughter settled, the fire cracked loud — too loud — and the scroll on the counter glowed faintly, its wax seal bubbling for a second.
All eyes turned toward it.
“…Right,” said Gleg. “Enough foreplay.”
Doc Pitoros stood and approached the scroll slowly. “No enchantments I can see… but that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous.”
Gogos slid up beside him, eyebrow raised. “So you’ll open it?”
“No,” said Doc. “I’m saying you should.”
“I like this guy,” Nikiforos whispered.
With a theatrical sigh, Gogos unsealed the scroll, and as he did — the storm outside stopped.
Not faded.
Stopped.
Like the sky itself paused to listen.
The scroll unfurled, revealing…
