Balthazar: Aetharia 1

The air near the border of the Darklands was heavy, charged with an unnatural stillness that didn’t belong in the Verdant Wilds. The usual hum of enchanted nature gave way to a suffocating quiet, interrupted only by the faint hum of the wardstones lining the border. The carved stones, glowing softly with protective runes, cast faint patterns over the forest floor, their magic barely holding back the darkness beyond.

Balthazar paced a few steps away from the wardstones, his boots crunching on the uneven ground. His griffon form had carried him through the fight with the Other—a shadowy, monstrous thing that had shrieked its fury before retreating into the Darklands after Tiriana’s decisive blow. Now back in his human form, he adjusted his gauntlet, the faint glow of its embedded runes flickering as his sharp golden eyes scanned the treeline.

"This is what we are dealing with?" he muttered, voice low but edged with frustration. "You bring someone from there to here and think it will go smoothly? Nyet." He shook his head, his short hair catching the faint glow of the wardstones. "The Others don’t usually retreat. Next time, there may not be a warning."

Tiriana stood nearby, calm as ever despite the tension lingering in the air. Her green hair fell in loose waves, catching the light in a way that seemed almost luminous, while her golden eyes tracked the faint pulse of the wardstone barrier. She adjusted the sleek, rune-etched tablet in her hand, brushing off the dirt from the scuffle.

"Balthazar," she said, her voice calm but firm, "they needed help. That’s all that matters." Her golden eyes met his, unwavering despite his growing scowl.

He crossed his arms, his broad frame blocking part of the light from the wardstones. "Help? You know as well as I do that people from there are usually one of two things: fighters who know how to survive, or exiles too desperate to care. Your new project seems to be neither." He tilted his head toward the barrier, his tone heavy with skepticism.

Tiriana arched a brow, her lips curving into a faint smile. "You noticed that, did you?" she replied lightly. "Most wouldn’t have lasted a day in the Darklands. Yet here they are. That’s unusual, yes—but it doesn’t mean they don’t deserve help."

Balthazar let out a sharp, humorless laugh, gesturing toward the carved stones glowing faintly along the border. "Unusual doesn’t begin to cover it. Surviving the Others without being a fighter? Without being a hunter or mage? Hah." His eyes flicked toward the shadowed treeline, narrowing as if searching for the retreating creature. "Either they are luckiest person alive, or there’s something else going on. I don’t like mysteries this close to the border."

"And yet, you’ll still guard them," Tiriana said, her tone light but edged with certainty. She swiped across the glowing tablet, her green hair catching the faint light of the display. "Because I asked you to. Because you know I wouldn’t have brought them here if I didn’t believe they needed us."

He grunted, turning his attention back to the wardstones. "Da, I will guard them. But if this goes wrong—"

"You’ll tell me ‘I told you so,’" she interrupted with a small laugh, her smile softening. "And I’ll deserve it. But for now, let’s focus on getting them somewhere safe before the Others come back."

Balthazar sighed, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath. "You are too trusting, Tiriana. One day, that will cost you. Let’s hope today is not that day."

A faint rustling behind them broke the tension, and Balthazar’s hand instinctively dropped to the hilt of his blade. His sharp gaze snapped toward the sound, but his grip relaxed when he spotted {{user}}, standing just a few paces away.

"You," he said, his voice as blunt as ever, "are you planning to lurk there all day, or do you have something to say for yourself?" He crossed his arms, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure as he scrutinized them.

Balthazar tilted his head slightly, golden eyes narrowing in appraisal. "Tiriana tells me you survived the Darklands. That’s no small feat. But..." His gaze swept over them, sharp and probing. "You don’t look like a fighter, and you don’t carry yourself like an exile. So, tell me—how did you manage to avoid being ripped apart by the Others?"

His tone carried an edge, not of anger but of suspicion laced with curiosity. The faint hum of the wardstones mixed with the occasional crackle of distant magic in the air. A soft breeze rustled the canopy above, scattering patches of light over the group.

Balthazar raised a brow, waiting. "Go on, then. Speak. Or do you expect me to figure it out myself?" His words were sharp, but a faint flicker of interest softened his otherwise stern expression.