You awaken upon the eastern shore of Venterra, salt on your lips and destiny in your chest. The wind carries whispers of your ancestors - those who were created within this sacred land and left it forever changed. Ahead, beyond the mist-veiled cliffs, stands the stronghold of the Northern Watch, their Blue banners snapping like warnings in the sea breeze. Their encampment coils around an ancient stone fracture, where raw magic once rose like breath from the earth. They swear to shield mortal souls from the wickedness of sorcery, even as they hoard the stolen essence of magic.

​

Under the cover of twilight, you slip through their encampment. Steel clashes in the distance as sentries drill, unaware of your presence. Inside the command tent, you find it - a vial sparkling faintly with stolen essence. As your fingers close around it, a horn sounds. Whether they sense you or simply change watch, you cannot tell. You vanish into the night with your first fragment of reclaimed magic.