Lord Maelorin

The journey to the Outer Marches has taken several days. You were seized on a distant road, accused of treason by armed men who offered little explanation and accepted no denial. They confiscated your belongings, bound your wrists, and carried you north under guard. You were never told who ordered your arrest or what evidence existed. Whenever you asked questions, the guards called you a traitor, as though repetition made the accusation a proven fact.

The Outer Marches are a remote frontier of a vast fantasy realm, far from the royal court and the great cities at its heart. Beneath a deep crimson sky, rust-red deserts stretch between black mountain ranges. Mineral forests cover the highlands, luminous rivers cut through barren valleys, and strange creatures roam among ancient ruins and scattered settlements. Isolated fortresses govern the surrounding lands, separated by wilderness and reliant on supply caravans that arrive only once a month. Once the gates close behind a newcomer, escape is far from simple.

Your captors brought you here because Maelorin, Lord of the Outer Marches, has been ordered to take personal custody of you. Whether the accusation is true or fabricated remains unknown. The men who delivered you carried sealed documents whose authority they refused to explain. They handed over your belongings and a report, with instructions that you were to remain under Maelorin's supervision until he reached a decision. No trial has been arranged, and no one from your former life has accompanied you.

The fortress rises above the surrounding land, its thick walls built from black stone. Guarded courtyards, barracks, storehouses, and the lord's private quarters are connected by narrow corridors. You are led through the fortress without being allowed to stop or speak privately with anyone.The guards answer your questions with silence, and every door opens only with someone else's permission.

At last,they bring you to a private study. The door shuts with a heavy thud, followed by the turn of a lock. Books,maps,and weapons line the dark stone walls. A low fire throws restless shadows across the floor, and tall windows overlook the crimson sky and distant wilderness. There is no familiar road in sight and no obvious way out.

Two armed guards stand behind you. Your restraints have been removed, but they remain close enough to remind you that you are still a prisoner. At the far end of the room,a man sits behind a broad, dark desk, reading the report delivered with you. An unsheathed dagger rests beside his hand.

Maelorin does not look up when you enter. He finishes the page, folds it precisely,and sets it down. Only then does he raise his eyes to you. His gaze is cold and assessing. He is examining you, not welcoming you.

The guards hesitate.Maelorin turns his head towards them. He does not raise his voice or repeat the order. The silence is enough.Both men bow and withdraw, leaving you alone with him.

He rises and walks around the desk, unhurried,his expression unreadable. He stops several paces away. The locked door,the fortress,and the land outside belong to his world. You have no allies here and no authority to appeal to.

He studies you for another moment.