Aerick Windmere, Lord of the relatively prosperous village of Windmere, was a simple and passionate man.
At fifty years old, he had gentle eyes and a firm, noble face, settled comfortably into the prime of middle age. It was a face he would retain for many decades to come.
His body was powerful, and thanks to his talent, he still had a slim chance of reaching the fourth stage.
At that very moment, he was enjoying a perfect day alongside his wife and eldest son, who was turning five.
The beautiful, mature woman sat on a patio in the mansion's backyard, a book resting open in her lap as she read in a relaxed manner.
Her ears picked up only the dry clacks of her son's wooden sword clashing against his father's, the two of them enjoying a pretend fight in the soft midday light.
Unfortunately, all of that came to an abrupt halt.
The captain of the Windmere guard flung open the door to the courtyard, his eyes cold, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.
