Theron Blackwood is not what you expected.

The stories speak of Aldric the Judge as a stern, imposing figure—a man who weighed the worth of souls as easily as gold. You expected his descendant to be similar. Severe. Unapproachable.

Instead, you find a man with laughing eyes and a merchant’s easy charm, holding court at a corner table in the busiest tavern on the docks. He’s surrounded by sailors, traders, and dock workers, all of them hanging on his every word as he finishes some story that ends with the whole table roaring with laughter.

He notices you watching.

“Ah, a new face!” He waves you over. “Come, come. Any friend of the road is a friend of mine. Sit. Drink. The first round’s on the house—I own the place.”

You approach cautiously. “Theron Blackwood?”

His smile doesn’t waver, but something sharpens in his gaze. “That depends entirely on who’s asking. And why.”

“I’m from Eldermoor. I’ve come about… family history. Ancient family history.”

The laughter dies around the table. Theron’s companions suddenly find reasons to be elsewhere, drifting away with muttered excuses until only the two of you remain.

“Eldermoor.” His voice is different now. Quieter. “And ancient history.” He leans forward. “You’re either very brave or very foolish to come here speaking of such things. The Sunken Vaults have been sealed for three hundred years. The Scales are a myth. And anyone who goes looking for either tends to… disappear.”

“I have to try.”

“Why?”

“Because if I don’t, Eldermoor falls. And everything your ancestor helped build falls with it.”

Theron studies you for a long moment. Then he laughs—but there’s no humor in it now.

“You know, I’ve spent my whole life running from that legacy. The weight of Aldric’s judgment. The expectations of a bloodline I never asked for.” He drains his cup. “But I suppose the scales always balance in the end.”

He stands.

“Come. I’ll take you to the Vaults. But I warn you—what’s down there tested my ancestor. It will test you too.”