In those days, when the sea ran quiet and the border winds carried only the hum of traders and wandering singers, the masked one called McGeough walked the lesser roads of Solunus with no more ceremony than a passing cloud. Children trailed behind him, pulling at his sleeves and begging for the next tale, for he knew a great many stories and told them as though each were a lost friend returned to memory. Adults kept their distance, not out of fear, but of unease, for the wanderer’s gaze was steady and deep, and his quiet voice seemed to answer questions one had not yet spoken.

He was a thin figure then, slight against the dawn, carrying neither banner nor blade. Those who passed him rarely remembered his face, only the way the morning seemed gentler for a time after he had gone. In this peace, when kingdoms rested and the Explorers Guild spoke often of unity and soft dreams, McGeough was content to drift between inn-lights and village hearths, stepping where the road curled into shadow and mist.

Yet even in peaceful ages, old currents stir.

It began near the coast of Glumea, where the sea rolled heavy with the memory of storms. A small waystation had burned in the night, though no one could say whether it was lightning, lantern, or crueler intent. McGeough came upon the ruins at dawn, his boots leaving no sound upon the blackened earth. He found children there, coughing in the char, pulling at scorched beams as though they sought some treasure lost to flames. He guided them away with a soft word, then stepped alone into the ashes.

Among the wreckage lay a ledger half-burned through, its spine cracked, its pages clinging to one another like frightened birds. As McGeough lifted it, a thin strip of sealing cloth fell from between its leaves. It was a meaningless scrap to any other eye, but not to his. Something within him stirred - old knowledge buried so deep he had forgotten he carried it.

The air tightened around him, and he closed his hand upon the cloth, though he did not yet understand why.

He left the ruin in silence, offering only a brief touch upon the shoulder of the crying child who watched him go.

Word of the fire spread faster than truth often does, and by the time McGeough reached the next town, Wolves from Friar had already begun their questions. They asked of driftwood relics found at sea. They asked of odd documents gone missing. They asked whether any masked wanderer had passed that way.

The townsfolk said little. McGeough said less.

Next Episode, Next Monday!