Anton Weyland guided his flock across the rolling pasture, the shadow of Kirkvalor's imposing walls stretching across the field like a protective hand. Above him, the sky was a perfect canvas of blue, unmarred by clouds save for a few wispy strands that seemed painted onto the heavens. It was neither too hot nor too cold—the kind of day shepherds prayed for but rarely received.

As the sheep grazed peacefully before him, Anton found himself taking a deep breath, savoring the crisp air as it filled his lungs. A strange sensation washed over him, not unlike breaking the surface of water after being submerged too long. Clarity—that was it. For the first time in what felt like forever, his thoughts weren't clouded by the fog of routine.

Wake up before dawn. Prepare meals for the family. Lead the sheep to pasture. Return home. Drink at the tavern. Sleep. Repeat.

The cycle played through his mind like a well-worn song, each note so familiar he could hum it in his sleep. Had he ever truly chosen this life, or had it simply chosen him? Anton's weathered hands tightened around his staff as the question lingered uncomfortably in his mind.

A sharp bark jolted him from his reverie. Meeks, his faithful border collie, was already herding a stray sheep back toward the flock. The dog moved with practiced efficiency, needing little guidance from Anton. Sometimes Anton wondered if Meeks could do the job entirely without him—a thought both comforting and disquieting.

"Good boy," he called out, his voice carrying across the field.

In the distance stood Kirkvalor, its stone walls rising proudly from the earth. The fortress city marked the boundary between civilization and the untamed wilderness of Malor Forest. Most days, the forest was a benevolent neighbor, offering game for hunters and herbs for healers. Its ancient trees swayed peacefully in the breeze, seemingly content to remain within their borders.

But Anton, like every citizen of Kirkvalor, knew the forest's other face. Every few years, the Beast Tides would come—hordes of creatures pouring from the depths of Malor, led by a Beast King whose roar could be heard for miles. Kirkvalor stood as humanity's bulwark against this savage onslaught, its soldiers and mages ready to defend the realm along with a race of people called adventurers.

Most races called them Adventurers, though this benign title belied their true nature. They were, by all accounts, immortal. When an Adventurer fell in battle, death claimed them only momentarily. Their bodies would disappear, only for them to reawaken fully restored at designated shrines or within the imposing halls of the Adventurer's Guild. This unnatural cycle rendered them fearless, often reckless, and dangerously unpredictable.

The Adventurer's Guild had been established decades ago by joint effort of rulers of realm —a pragmatic attempt to harness and direct these immortal beings toward purposes that might benefit the realm. the Adventurers operated according to a logic incomprehensible to ordinary folk. They collected items not for their utility but for some purpose that only they could perceive. Gold and equipment are also their obsession.

Despite their alien nature, they provided undeniable services to the realm. In recent years, Adventurers had taken to venturing deep into Malor Forest, hunting down powerful beasts before they could grow into the dreaded Monster Kings that led the Beast Tides. The fortress city had enjoyed recent years of peace largely thanks to their interventions, a fact that even their harshest critics grudgingly acknowledged. Anton's parents had drilled caution into their children from an early age. "Never approach an Adventurer," Orla would warn, her voice dropping to a whisper though they sat in the safety of their own home. "If you cannot avoid them, keep any interaction as brief as possible."

As the afternoon sun began its descent, Anton whistled to Meeks and turned the flock toward home. Their farm lay outside Kirkvalor's walls, along with most of the agricultural holdings that fed the city. The soil here was richer than anywhere else in the region, and animals that grazed on these fields produced milk sweeter than honey.

Living outside the walls carried risks, of course. During a Beast Tide, everything could be lost in moments of savage fury. But the city's mages had prepared for this, installing teleportation circles near the major farms—magical safety nets designed to whisk livestock and families to safety at the first sign of danger.

Anton's cottage came into view, smoke rising gently from its chimney. The small stable and sheep pen stood ready to receive his flock. Behind them stretched rows of vegetables tended by his parents, and beyond that, the millet fields that would soon turn golden under the summer sun.

It was everything a man could want. A safe life. A good life.