The city of Neverwinter was a symphony of civilization. The air in the grand market square tasted of exotic spices from the port, fresh bread from the bakeries, and the clean, salty tang of the nearby Sea of Swords. The sounds were a constant, chaotic chorus: the clang of a master smith’s hammer, the cries of a dozen street vendors, the murmur of a hundred different dialects, all mingling under the shadow of intricately carved towers and the fluttering banners of noble houses.

Amidst this vibrant chaos, four travelers waited.

In the deep shadow of a stone archway, Kyria watched the river of people flow by. Her golden, pupil-less eyes missed nothing—the heavy purse on a merchant’s belt, the subtle hand signals of a pair of city guards, the way a child’s laughter could be swallowed by the crowd’s roar. A ghost is safest in a crowd, she thought, her slender tail twitching with nervous energy, but a devil always stands out.

Not far away, Tordin of Clan Ironhand stood with his arms crossed, his back to a stonemason’s workshop. He scowled at the ornate, filigreed balcony of a nearby inn, a look of profound dwarven contempt on his weathered face. "Flimsy decoration," he muttered to himself, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "A good stiff wind would take it down. Give me honest stone, not this... frilly nonsense."

Near the square’s central fountain, Jerry, the Paladin of Tyr, was a pillar of calm. His polished plate armor gleamed, a beacon of order in the bustle. He watched a patrol of the city guard march past, his expression analytical, respectful. They carry the law on their shoulders, he mused, the memory of his own past as a soldier stirring. A heavy burden. May they carry it with honor.

His companion, Nysse, stood beside the fountain itself, her eyes closed and a hand outstretched towards the cascading water. She was oblivious to the people and the noise, her senses focused on something deeper. The city chokes the ley lines, she thought, a familiar disappointment touching her, but even here, the magic flows. Faint. But pure. They converged at the fountain as the sun reached its zenith. "Right, we're all here," Tordin grumbled, his patience worn thin. "Where's this so-called patron? A dwarf should know the value of punctuality."

"An agreement was made," Jerry said, his voice a calm anchor. "He will be here."

"An agreement to meet," Kyria corrected, materializing from the shadows at the edge of the group. "The agreement to pay comes later."

A booming, cheerful voice sliced through the air. "And the agreement to pay is as solid as dwarven iron!" A stout dwarf with an explosive, friendly energy pushed through the crowd, grinning from ear to ear. "There you are! Knew I picked the right lot!" It was Gundren Rockseeker. He clapped Tordin on the pauldron with dwarven familiarity. "A son of the Ironhands, by the look of that armor! Good, strong folk!" He then leaned in, his eyes blazing with a barely contained excitement.

"Now, the job is simple, but the timing is important!" he said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "My brothers and I, we've found 'something big' out near Phandalin! Something we've been looking for our whole lives!" He practically vibrated with glee but offered no further details. Nysse tilted her head. "Your definition of 'big' could be quite broad, Master Rockseeker." Gundren just winked. "That it could! For now, all you need to do is escort a wagon of supplies down to Phandalin for me. Can you do that?"

A tall, serious warrior, Sildar Hallwinter, joined them then. He and Jerry shared a brief, silent nod of mutual respect—two soldiers who understood the weight of duty. "My associate, Sildar Hallwinter," Gundren announced. "He's riding ahead with me. We've got business to attend to that can't wait." He turned back to the group. "The wagon is waiting at the south gate. Ten gold pieces each upon delivery to Barthen's Provisions. A fine reward for a few days' travel, eh?"

"The task is clear and the pay is fair," Jerry replied formally. "We accept. Your word is your bond, Master Rockseeker. We will see the goods to Phandalin." With that, Gundren and Sildar were gone, swallowed by the crowd. Tordin watched them go, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Something big," he said quietly, stroking his braided beard. "Near Phandalin... He's either found a new vein of gold, or he's chasing old stories." "Or," Kyria added, "he's about to get himself into a world of trouble over it. And us with him."

At the south gate, the wagon stood ready, laden with supplies and hitched to two powerful oxen. Tordin inspected the iron-banded wheels with a critical eye before giving a satisfied grunt. Jerry calmed the beasts with a soft word and a gentle hand. Kyria was already atop the cargo, a silent sentinel, while Nysse stood apart, her gaze fixed on the open road.

The wagon began to trundle forward, its heavy wheels leaving the smooth cobblestones of Neverwinter for the dirt of the High Road. The contract was made. A simple job, for a secretive dwarf with a very big secret. But as the city’s grand spires shrank behind them, each of them knew, in their own way, that in the North, simple jobs rarely stayed that way for long.

The first two days on the High Road passed in a steady, lulling rhythm of creaking wagon wheels and the plodding of oxen. The great road was an artery of civilization, and though they saw few other travelers, the path was wide and clear. On the third day, they turned east onto the Triboar Trail, and the world changed. The road became a rutted track, and the wilderness seemed to lean in, its shadows deeper, its silence more profound. This was a land known for bandits and outlaws, a fact that kept them all vigilant.

That evening, they made camp in a defensible hollow. The fire crackled, a small, defiant island of light in a vast, dark wilderness. For a long while, the only sounds were the hiss of the flames and Tordin sharpening his great axe with a whetstone, the rhythmic shiiiing, shiiiing grating on the quiet.

"Just hope this 'something big' is worth the rust on my mail," the dwarf grumbled without looking up from his work. "Ten gold is barely enough to cover the whetstone." From the shadows where she sat cleaning her daggers, Kyria gave a soft, cynical laugh. "If you're here for the coin, dwarf, you're the biggest fool in the party. I wouldn't be." Tordin stopped, his eyes narrowing at her. "Then why are you? Don't tell me you're doing it out of the goodness of your heart."

Kyria's movements stilled for a fraction of a second. She glanced away, towards the fire. "Let's just say I owe our patron. He once vouched for me when no one else would." She shrugged, trying to make the admission seem insignificant. "This is just… balancing the books." A debt. Tordin grunted, a sound of grudging respect. That was a concept he understood. He resumed sharpening his axe, his mood shifting from irritation to speculation. "A Rockseeker's 'something big' usually means a rock," he said, a greedy glint in his eye. "A very valuable one. We're in the foothills of the Sword Mountains. Old dwarf country. My grandfather told stories of lost mines in this area, filled with rivers of mithral."

"You dwarves always see the treasure but miss the value," Nysse countered from her spot by a large log, where she'd been studying the constellations. Her voice was quiet but cut through Tordin's enthusiasm like glass. "A place of such power, if that's what he's found, would hold more than just shiny metal. It could hold knowledge. Lost techniques. Magic." "Magic doesn't reforge a crown or buy a company of warriors," Tordin shot back.

Jerry, who had been listening silently while tending the fire, finally spoke, his calm voice cutting through the brewing argument. "It seems we all have our reasons for being here, beyond the contract. That is good. It will make us stronger." He looked from the debt-bound rogue to the honor-seeking dwarf and the lore-hungry elf. "Whatever Gundren has found, it is clearly important. Important enough to attract trouble."

He placed another log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the night sky. "My oath is to see this wagon to Phandalin. That was the promise. But it is also to shield the innocent from the wicked. I suspect our simple job may involve both before it's done." The conversation died down after that, leaving only the crackle of the fire. The point had been made, not in a round of speeches, but in the friction between them. Later that night, Kyria took the first watch, perched in the high branches of a skeletal tree. The silence of the Triboar Trail pressed in, a living thing. Below, her strange companions slept. A paladin bound by honor, a dwarf chasing ghosts of glory, and an elf seeking forgotten whispers. And her, a rogue paying a debt. She drew a dagger, its edge a sliver of moonlight. Whatever Gundren’s secret was, it had brought the four of them together. Kyria had a grim certainty that it would also bring far worse things out of the darkness ahead.

The gentle rhythm of the journey shattered as the wagon rounded a sharp bend in the trail. Jerry pulled the oxen to a sudden halt, his body tense. Fifty feet ahead, sprawled across the rutted track like broken toys, were two dead horses. They were arrow-strafed, their hides bristling with black-feathered shafts. The woods pressed close here, the trail shrinking between a steep embankment on one side and dense, thorny thickets on the other. The normal chirping of birds and buzzing of insects was gone, replaced by an unnerving, expectant silence. "By my ancestors' forge," Tordin swore, his hand instinctively gripping the haft of his axe. "Those are Gundren's horses."

Kyria was already off the wagon, melting into a crouch at the side of the road. Her eyes, sharp and analytical, scanned the treeline. "This is a kill box," she whispered, her voice tight with warning. "They're waiting."

Nysse’s hands began to move, tracing faint, glowing patterns in the air as she prepared her arcane energies. Jerry drew his longsword, its polished steel a stark contrast to the grim scene. The metallic shing was unnaturally loud in the dead quiet. He stepped down from the wagon, planting his feet firmly and raising his shield. "Stay sharp. Protect the wagon."

The attack came with a guttural shriek from the woods. An arrow sliced through the air, embedding itself with a solid thwump into the wooden side of the cart, inches from Jerry's head. From the thickets on both sides of the road, four goblins erupted. They were wiry, savage creatures with cruel, jagged teeth and hate-filled eyes, clad in grimy leather. Two of them, brandishing rusty scimitars, charged forward with high-pitched cackles. The other two raised their shortbows, nocking new arrows from the cover of the woods.

"Cragmaws!" Tordin roared, a battle-hungry grin splitting his face. He met the goblin charge head-on, not as a defender, but as a whirlwind of dwarven fury. His great axe sang as it swung, a blur of deadly steel. The first goblin didn't even have time to scream as the axe cleaved through its shield and bit deep into its shoulder, sending it tumbling to the ground in a spray of black blood.

Jerry moved to intercept the second charger, his shield taking the goblin’s wild swing with a deafening clang. He was a rock, an immovable bastion of honor against the chaotic tide. With a precise, powerful thrust, his longsword found its mark, and the goblin crumpled at his feet. As he pulled his blade free, another arrow skipped off his steel pauldron.

While the warriors held the front, Kyria had already vanished. She moved through the undergrowth like a whisper, her crimson skin blending with the dappled shadows. She circled behind the goblin archer on the right, who was too focused on Tordin’s bloody work to notice the predator stalking him. With the grace of a striking viper, she lunged from the bushes. Her daggers flashed twice—a swift strike to the back of the knee to buckle the creature’s leg, and a final, mercifully quick slash across its throat. The goblin fell without a sound. From the center of the road, Nysse finished her incantation. "Fulmen!" she commanded, her voice ringing with power. Three crackling bolts of pure magical force erupted from her outstretched fingertips. They shot through the air with unerring accuracy, bypassing all cover and slamming into the last goblin archer. The creature was thrown back into a tree with three audible cracks, its bow clattering to the ground.

The tide had turned in mere seconds. The goblin Tordin had first struck was now trying to crawl away, whimpering. With a final, decisive swing, the dwarf ended its misery. The battlefield fell silent once more, the quiet now punctuated by the heroes' ragged breaths and the faint dripping of blood onto the dusty trail.

Tordin spat on the ground, resting the head of his blood-soaked axe on the dirt. "Filthy vermin," he growled, his knuckles white on the axe haft. Jerry stood over the dead, his expression grim. "They were waiting for us. Or for anyone." Kyria emerged from the woods, wiping her daggers clean on a handful of leaves. "They got Gundren," she said, her voice flat. "This was just the welcoming party." The first fight was over.