Lord Bertholdt's manor sat at the highest point of Menethil Harbor, commanding the finest view in the entire city.
In front of the three-story main building stretched a garden, where the fountain cast prismatic mist under the sunlight.
The banquet hall was on the second floor. Its massive floor-to-ceiling windows faced the harbor, taking in the entire bay at a glance.
A long table was draped in a snow-white cloth, adorned with fresh flowers.
Guests stood in small groups, chatting about recent court gossip and matters concerning their fiefs.
Jaina sat at the seat of honor, yet she wasn't listening at all to the polite chatter of the lady beside her.
Her gaze wandered restlessly, not at all like a proper lady.
From the entrance to the windows, from the windows to the corridor, then back from the corridor to the entrance.
Nothing.
That figure was nowhere to be seen.
She nudged Paval's arm, who was standing behind her, and asked in a lowered voice, "Where is Mr. Allen?"
Paval froze for a moment, an awkward expression appearing on his face.
"My lady… it seems Mr. Prestor was not invited."
Jaina's brows furrowed.
At that moment, Lord Bertholdt, who happened to be nearby, overheard the exchange.
He was holding a wine glass, chatting and laughing with another noble. When he heard the words "Mr. Allen," his ears twitched slightly. He turned his head, a polite smile still on his face—but then the surname "Prestor" reached him.
His expression froze.
Prestor?
That Prestor family from Alterac?
Countless images flashed through his mind in an instant—Lord Daval Prestor, the noble who had recently risen to prominence in the Lordaeron court.
Elegant, wise, refined—rumor had it that even King Terenas held him in high regard.
All the nobles of Lordaeron were eager to curry favor with him, taking pride in being invited to his banquets.
And that young man…
That young man he had taken for some Stormwind country bumpkin—casually dressed, informal in manner, standing on the docks like an insignificant attendant—
He was a young master of House Prestor?
Bertholdt's face changed instantly.
His mind replayed the young man's appearance at lightning speed—the relaxed stance, those seemingly lazy yet unfathomably deep eyes, that effortless composure… That was no country bumpkin. That was true nobility—bearing the same aura as Lord Daval himself!
And he had left a young lord of House Prestor waiting at the docks?
A thin sheen of sweat formed on Bertholdt's forehead.
He hurriedly forced a smile, his voice tinged with barely concealed panic: "Oh dear, oh dear—this… this must be a mistake by the staff! To have overlooked a son of House Prestor is truly unforgivable! I'll send someone to invite the young lord here immediately!"
...
Meanwhile, on the streets of Menethil Harbor.
Allen stood in front of a house, his gaze fixed on the bleeding eye.
[Side Quest Triggered: The Bleeding Eye]
[You've found this bleeding eye once again. If I were you, I'd figure out where it comes from.]
[Objective: Uncover the truth behind the blood-eye markings in Menethil Harbor]
[Reward: Random low-level spell ×1, +2 free attribute points, +1 class level]
Allen stared at the system prompt, his brows tightly knit.
How was this possible?
It was the mark of Teron again.
But he was dead.
The system had already confirmed it.
So who left this mark?
Were there remnants of Teron still lurking in Menethil Harbor?
The dream surfaced in Allen's mind once more—the orc shaman, muttering anxiously. He had said there wasn't enough time, that they had to…
Had to do what?
If that was Ner'zhul… if what he had glimpsed was a fragment of true illusion…
Could it be that with Teron's death, the Horde, in their desperation to obtain the three artifacts, had begun taking reckless measures and seeking alternative paths?
He arrived at an inn in Menethil Harbor.
Morgan was at the counter, pulling a few silver coins from his pocket and handing them to the owner. Allen glanced at his own coin pouch—his hand had just reached inside when a pang of reluctance hit him.
At that moment, Stella unexpectedly took out money as well.
She stood on tiptoe, slapping a few silver coins onto the counter. Seeing Allen's surprised look, her face flushed red.
"I'm not some beggar! I can support myself now—of course I'll pay for my own room!"
The three of them returned to their rooms separately. After briefly organizing his belongings, Allen told Morgan and Stella he wouldn't be having dinner, then went downstairs alone.
He returned to that street.
That corner.
That bleeding eye looked even more eerie.
Allen gave it a casual glance, then naturally walked toward the tavern across the street.
It was an unremarkable little tavern. The sign at the entrance was rusted from the sea breeze.
He pushed the door open and sat down at the bar.
"A mug of mead."
The owner responded lazily and handed him a drink.
Allen took the mug and moved to a seat near the door. From there, he could see the corner across the street without drawing attention.
He took a sip, his eyes resting on the mark.
Waiting.
If this mark was a signal, then it was meant for someone.
All he had to do was wait.
Time passed, second by second.
No one came.
Instead, a stray dog wandered over. It reached the corner, lifted its leg—
Allen raised his hand.
He was worried the faint mark would be washed away.
Polymorph!
Command required speaking, which would be suspicious. Better to shrink it into a smaller animal first—then it wouldn't reach the mark.
The instant he cast Polymorph, his left wrist suddenly burned.
The stray dog seemed to sense danger. It lowered its leg and bolted without looking back.
[Wild Magic Surge Triggered!]
[Dice Roll Result: 33]
[Effect: The target of your spell becomes yourself]
The tavern owner looked up from behind the bar and glanced toward the entrance.
No one.
Where did that young man go?
He shot to his feet, rushing to the doorway and looking around.
"Damn it!" the owner's face turned livid. "Kids these days have no manners! Running off without paying?!"
...
At the inn, one of Lord Bertholdt's attendants rushed in, panting.
"Excuse me! Is the young lord of House Prestor staying here?"
They asked around and eventually knocked on Morgan's door. Morgan, completely baffled, told them Allen had gone out and he had no idea where.
The attendants, sweating profusely, searched frantically through every street and alley of Menethil Harbor.
They asked every shop until they finally got a lead at a small tavern—yes, a young man had come by, ordered a drink, and then vanished.
"He still owes me for that drink!" the tavern owner complained angrily.
The attendants hurriedly paid the bill, then returned to report, looking utterly defeated.
After hearing the report, Lord Bertholdt's face turned pale.
It was over.
He had offended the young lord of House Prestor.
With Lord Daval Prestor's influence in Lordaeron at its peak, what could a mere lord like him possibly offer as compensation?
He was a noble, yes—but compared to Lord Daval Prestor, he was nothing.
...
By the time the luncheon ended, Jaina still hadn't seen Allen.
She felt a little disappointed.
After the meal, she declined Bertholdt's offer to send escorts and instead took Paval and a few personal guards to walk around Menethil Harbor.
This port city was completely different from Kul Tiras.
She wandered aimlessly, but her mind kept returning to that person's face.
Why had he given her that coin pouch?
Her fingers unconsciously brushed against the small pouch at her waist.
At that moment, she stopped.
At the corner of the street, a black cat was sitting there.
Its fur was pitch black, gleaming like satin under the sunlight.
It sat upright and proper, its tail elegantly curled around its front paws, a pair of amber eyes quietly watching her.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---