One of the groups that received the letter stood in a basement, in a chamber where a torch burned. The stone walls were damp, the air heavy and thick. The torch flame flickered, casting living, quivering shadows across the walls.
The man staring thoughtfully at the letter on the table was Garrik Volren, leader of the group that controlled the trade routes. His broad shoulders, hard jaw, and quiet eyes declared plainly: he preferred calculations to combat. Yet when necessary, he would raise a sword without hesitation.
Behind him stood two men.
One was Darsen—quick-tempered, shoulders tense with restrained fury.
The other was Mirel—cold, watchful, always observing.
Darsen finally broke the silence:
"What does this mean, boss?"
Garrik answered without lifting his eyes from the letter:
"New groups are multiplying in the city. For the city, this is a new stage. It seems the higher powers have declared a culling."
Mirel frowned.
"A culling? What kind of thing is that?"
