The Magikor

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. The first to notice were the priests, rising early to pray by the water's edge. Next were the fishermen, preparing their vessels and nets for the day’s work. The rest of the village learned of the river’s reversal from children sent to fetch pails of water, who returned empty-handed, eager to share the strange news. By midmorning, all of West Karlif was gathered at the riverbank—some in stunned silence, others chattering excitedly, and the rest on bent knees, begging for God’s forgiveness for sins they could not name.

Then came the quaking of the earth, tremors from below felt all the day long. At the sun’s zenith, it turned the gray of death, casting the land in shadow. That night, the moon would appear a bleeding crimson, and the once-vibrant stars would be blotted out, swallowed in darkness. These wonders, interpreted by many as omens, portents of impending doom, came as the earth mourned what was done.

The palace at the foot of Mount Vehkir stirred uneasily. The King summoned his army within the hour of his waking, sending squadrons from house to house in frantic search of their Queen. Guards who had served the previous night were swiftly imprisoned—or worse, executed—for their negligence. Rumors whispered that it was the King himself who had done away with her, either to avoid the church’s ire by divorcing her or in a fit of rage, having found her with another. Those caught spreading such rumors were met with swift, merciless retribution.

Beyond the great forest and across the slopes of Mount Vehkir, neighboring lands remained unaware of these miracles, their sun rising and setting as usual. Yet their rulers sensed a shift—a foreboding that Thaloria had lost the favor of the land. The Night King, in the land to the east, commanded his people to prepare for war—spies hurried back to Thaloria, warning that the kingdom would be marched upon within the month.

Bereft of the land’s favor, the King knew that their defenses would crumble. Days passed with no word of the Queen’s fate, and panic gnawed at the King’s heart. Desperation seized him, and he summoned his closest confidants.

They spoke of a man in the depths of the forest who, as a boy, had been touched by a woman of the woods. She had transformed him into a Magikor—one who, unburdened of his own soul, could hunt those of others.

A party was dispatched to find this Magikor, led by Captain Rhovan, the hero who had secured their victory in the last war. They traveled with haste, plunging deep into the forest’s heart, where the shadows stretched longest and even the bravest hunters dared not tread. When the stench of rot grew thick in the air, so foul it choked their breaths and urged them to retch, they came upon a small, decrepit cottage.

The Magikor was taken in his sleep, bound with ropes and head shrouded in a sack. During the grueling two-day return, he was passed from horse to horse, riding each just long enough before his mutterings drove the riders to the brink. When he was finally thrust before the King, Captain Rhovan spoke caution, suggesting that this Magikor might be the one responsible for the disappearance of the Queen. But the King would not hear him, rebuking Rhovan for questioning his judgment.

It was decreed that the Magikor would be granted favors in exchange for his aid. And so, the King enlisted the soul-seeker—once the baker’s son, now known only as John Kaelor, the Magikor.