After a full day of high and low tides in the Dead Sea, upon the Dead Waters of the Sea of Izzadar, a handful of children swam and played among the cold waves, their cries and laughter echoing across the shore untouched by care or fear.
Then a madman appeared before them. A black patch covered one of his eyes, his clothes were torn and stained with dirt, and his bare feet sank into the wet sand. He stood before the children as the waves carried them back to shore and let out a strange, cracked laugh.
"You cannot swim there," he said.
One of the children looked at him in confusion. "And why not?"
The man began to tremble slightly, then a broad smile spread across his face—the sort of smile that belongs only to madmen.
"They call it the Dead Sea, you fool, because the fish die in it. But the fact is that fish are the only thing that dies, simply because they are the only ones swimming there. The sea doesn't take fish; it takes life. It took mine."
The youngest child burst into frightened tears. His older brother placed a hand upon his shoulder.
"He's an idiot, Kevin. He doesn't know what he says. Come, Mother will be looking for us."
The children departed, but the madman remained, standing alone upon the shore with his gaze fixed upon the vast sea.
Then he saw a small boat drawing near the land. His lone eye widened, and he ran toward it, shouting with delight.
"Fresh fish! Fresh fish!"
But no sooner had he reached the boat than one of the knights of the Kingdom of Salter kicked him away. The madman fell into the shallow water.
"No fish..." he said in bitter disappointment, then suddenly screamed, "The Dead Sea touched me again!"
The knights descended from the boat, and among them was Sereine. Soon she was met by one of the women who had been awaiting her arrival in Izzadar.
She passed beneath the walls of the kingdom and was astonished. All her life she had known nothing but the towering walls of the royal keep, like a fine bird raised in a gilded cage. Her eyes wandered over the kingdom's splendid buildings, its stone streets, and its lofty towers, but when she lowered her gaze to its people she saw something altogether different: a weary people, a broken people, a people burning from within.
Inside the Castle of Izzadar, within King Meriel's chambers, a knock came upon the door.
"Enter," the king said.
One of his councillors stepped inside and bowed.
"What is it?" Meriel asked.
The consul lowered his head. "A raven has arrived from Thornholl. I just wanted to put you in the know before throwing it away. Those were your words, my king. Were they not? No good comes from the dark, and into the dark it must return."
Meriel looked up at once. "You will do no such thing. Not this time."
The consul blinked in surprise. "My king? Was that not your command on every previous year?"
Meriel rose from his seat and walked toward his boots to put them on. "The thing's different now. Darkness has already touched us; we will not sit and pretend it hasn't. I will accept the invitation this time."
The consul frowned. "But... why, Your Grace? Why attend at all?"
Meriel straightened. "I won't unite the five Kingdoms by sitting in these walls. I will play their games. No matter how much darkness it embraces. I will no longer let them have all the fun."
The consul bowed once more. "As you command, Your Grace. I shall prepare the procession."
Meriel clutched the paper in his hand and asked, puzzled, "And our champions? Do we have men fit for such games?"
"We do," the consul answered confidently. "We take the strongest men in the kingdom. This is Izzadar, she is the mother of brave men. They fought against darker things."
But Meriel slowly shook his head. "No. Do not choose the strongest." He turned his gaze toward the window. "Choose the men who hunger for life more than all the rest. Our men's vanity has always been an obstacle." Then he dismissed him with a single word.
"Go."
Within the Red Council Chamber of the Castle of Valkryn, the Masters had gathered beneath one matter alone: the invitation. The Master of Relations held the letter in his trembling hands.
"What do you suggest?" he asked.
Silence reigned for several moments. Then the Master of War spoke coldly.
"Burn it."
Murmurs spread through the chamber.
"Aye... burn it."
"It is the wisest option."
Only one man disagreed. The Master of Agriculture lifted his head.
"No. We should place our trust in our king."
The Master of War slammed his fist upon the table so hard that the goblets shook. "And what have you to lose in this foolish game, sack of grain? I pay for it with my men."
The Master of Agriculture did not raise his voice. "And I pay with fields that perhaps mean nothing to you... yet they are the very foundation of this kingdom and the reason it stands." He gestured toward the window. "Look beyond these walls. Among all the kingdoms, ours stands in the finest condition. Our people are the happiest in all the realms. They worship him out there."
He leaned forward. "Do you truly believe a reckless king could accomplish this? No. Now is the time. We must trust King Sam. For all his madness and recklessness, in my eyes he is the wisest of all Five Kings. Because he knows how to conceal his wisdom behind his recklessness, and that works for the good of the people—that's all you need to know to follow him and put your trust."
But his words were swallowed by the will of the majority, and the invitation was consumed by fire.
A few days passed and the games drew near. King Sam sat upon his throne in a most unkingly manner, one leg draped over the arm of the seat while he spun his crown between his fingers. Below him stood the palace Master, awaiting his lord's command.
Sam studied the crown. "This thing bears a heavy blood."
The Master frowned. "I do not understand, Your Grace."
Sam raised his eyes to him. "It is nothing." He continued turning the crown. "I summoned you for one matter alone."
The Master bowed. "I am at your service from birth to death."
Sam looked at him. "Has anything entered this palace without my knowledge in any way?"
The Master answered without hesitation. "No, Your Grace. We didn't receive anything up to this moment."
Sam nodded slowly. "I think yes, that's good. That's all I wanted to ask. Thank you for your honest answer."
Stolen novel; please report.
Silence followed. Then he spoke again. "And one more thing. I wish every Master in this keep to have a consul of his own, as I do."
The man blinked in surprise. "Why, Your Grace? Have we failed in our duties in any way?"
A faint smile touched Sam's lips. "No, no, not at all. You're doing well, but you know, the falcon is our emblem. It's what represents us. And as you know, a falcon needs every feather to fly high. Even if some fall, he won't fall because he has even more and more feathers. And whatever the case may be... The feathers that fell and those that remained are the same; they both play the same role."
The Master pondered those words, then bowed and turned to leave. But Sam stopped him.
"And I need them to be there tomorrow, in the Red Council, they should observe how political matters are handled."
"As you command, Your Grace."
That day the Castle of Valkryn was strangely quiet, a silence made all the more peculiar by the absence of Kormel's shouting, for she was beyond the castle walls. A cloak concealed her features as she wandered through the streets of the kingdom as though she walked the halls of her own home. She carried sacks of fruit in her arms and gave them away to beggars and children alike.
The children called her by a single name: "The Angel in the Cloak!"
No one sought to stop her or learn who she truly was. They let her pass among them unseen, as though they feared that if her face were revealed she would vanish. Such was her kindness, and such was their understanding.
At first light the castle was as silent as Kormel's absence. Then Sam shattered the silence. He strode toward the council chamber with a small dagger in his hand. He entered.
The Masters had already taken their seats. Sam sat upon his throne and drove the dagger into the table with a thud. The Masters looked uneasy, their eyes shifting with suspicion and dread. Sam raised his hands, then clapped once. Two serving girls entered and placed glasses of wine before the men at the table: nine drinks, nine souls. Behind each Master stood his newly appointed consul.
Sam surveyed them. "These are your consuls?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
He smiled. "Very good. Now I think I should get straight into politics so as not to confuse our new members."
Then, without warning, he changed the subject and his tone changed. "The walls of this castle have whispered to me that one member of this council has betrayed me... and he has an attitude towards the tour at Thornholl."
He turned toward the Master of Whores. "Was it you?"
The man immediately began to stammer, but Sam cut him off. "It's a joke." A grin spread across his face. "I know you just miss your dear wife, but be grateful you already have enough whores; I think there's no problem in getting rid of one of them, right."
A few nervous smiles appeared. Then Sam's expression grew calm. "But don't worry, maybe you'll join her, who knows? If you are the one who kept the invitation from me, you will follow her for sure."
Silence swallowed the chamber. Sam leaned forward.
"Do you know who will decide which of you prevented me from attending my little game?"
A smile slowly returned to his face. "A game. You refused to let me play one. Very well. Then we shall all play." He paused, then lifted his drink. "Okay, I'll get straight to the point. It seems our new guests are tired of standing; we should honor them, and one of them should make way. It's a game of choosing, which cup contains the poison; it could be any cup. That's where the fun lies."
The room became still. He pointed around the table.
"...You have the right to change your drink to another drink at the table, but only once." His hand stopped upon his own goblet. "Even my drink. You can claim it; there's no double standard. It's a game where everyone has a fair chance."
The tension began to devour the chamber. One man swallowed hard. Another could not keep his foot from trembling beneath the table. As for Sam, he sat comfortably upon his throne, his chin resting upon his hand, watching the scene unfold like a child attending a mummer's show.
The first to move was the Master of Whores. His hand shook as he reached for the goblet of the Master of War and pulled it toward himself. He drew a deep breath, as though he had already escaped death.
But the Master of War did not hesitate. He seized his new goblet and placed it before the Master of Agriculture. The Master of Agriculture exchanged his with the Master of Relations, and so it continued. Hand after hand, man after man.
The cruel jest of it all was that the drink first taken by the Master of Whores passed from one person to another, only to return to him in the end. Slowly he raised his eyes, looked at the drink, then at Sam, as though fate itself were mocking him.
At last, only one man had not exchanged his cup: the king.
Sam smiled and looked toward the Master of Whores. "Would you care to exchange with me?"
The man's body stiffened. "My king... I no longer possess the right to choose."
Sam waved a hand. "I grant it to you. Go on. Choose. I shall abide by the rules of the game."
The Master froze. His thoughts raced. If there existed one safe cup, surely it would be the king's. But what if this were a trap? What if the king merely wished to discover who possessed the audacity to drink from his cup?
Sam interrupted his thoughts. "Come now." He struck the table with the hilt of his dagger. "Make your choice."
The man closed his eyes, rose from his seat, and approached with slow and trembling steps. He took the king's drink and placed his own before Sam, then bowed.
"Forgive me, Your Grace."
Sam regarded him for several moments, then smiled. "No. Not at all. It is the game." He lifted his cup. "Let's drink to the truth."
No one moved.
Sam's expression darkened. "Raise your bloody cups."
The chamber obeyed, and they drank.
Sam's eyes never left them. He watched each face one by one. Hands trembled. Then the table itself began to shake, this time not from the men's hands. The eyes of the Master of Whores widened. Suddenly he clutched at his throat and began to choke. His chest rose and fell violently, then he fell from his chair.
"Help...!"
Foam spilled from his mouth. He writhed upon the floor like a dying beast.
The other ministers felt tremendous relief wash over them. One released a long breath. Another closed his eyes. They had survived, or so they believed.
As for Sam, he merely smiled. Only smiled. Then he lifted his gaze to them, and there was something else in his eyes, something that made every smile vanish. Suddenly one of the Masters collapsed across the table. Then another. Then another. And another, one after the next, until the table was crowded with corpses.
Silence.
Sam looked at the dead, then at his empty cup. "Wonderful..." He shook his head. "I win." He raised his cup slightly. "This cup is the Master of Whore's Cup; luckily it became my cup. No one dared to drink from his cup, not even him. Have you seen what politics looks like? It's just words that convince fools to believe what they want to believe." Then he smiled. "This is how you play games." And he burst into laughter.
When the laughter subsided, he raised his eyes. The new consuls still stood where they had been, pale, terrified, utterly unfit for what had just transpired. The truth was simple: the ministers themselves had chosen these replacements, selecting the worst candidates imaginable, people who could never replace them.
Sam gestured toward the empty seats. "Sit."
They looked at one another, then slowly obeyed. They sat beside the corpses.
One of them stared downward at the dead Master lying at his feet. Sam noticed.
"What are you looking at?"
The man lifted his head so quickly it seemed his neck might break. "He... he's staring at me, Your Grace."
Sam looked at the corpse, then smiled. "He must be angry." He pointed at the man. "You took his place."
Silence.
Then Sam spoke again. "In any case... it would seem the traitors chose you because you were the worst options available. It was their final move, and it failed. Because I'm not someone who judges by appearances but by actions. A fool is better than a traitor, unless the fool starts using his brain."
One of them timidly raised his hand.
"Yes?"
"Your Grace... we are not fit to sit at this table."
Sam looked at him, then nodded. "Yes. You are quite right. And yet... here you are." He leaned forward. "I need names to call you."
Another man raised his hand. "My name is Greg, Your Grace."
Sam stared at him. "Very good, Greg... that is not what I meant." He pointed at him, then at the corpse beside him. "You do not sit here as Greg. You sit here as the Master of Agriculture, which you are not qualified for. That title seems large for your shoulders." He tilted his head. "What did you do before entering this hall, Greg?"
The man swallowed. "I... cleaned the stables of the Master of Agriculture, Your Grace."
Sam slowly looked at the dead minister, then back at Greg. "They truly did choose the worst man they could find."
Sam turned his gaze to a woman seated at the far end of the table.
"And you?" One brow lifted. "Do not tell me you are a whore."
The woman raised her hand eagerly. "I am, Your Grace!" Then added with pride, "But not any whore. I was the whore of the crippled and my name is Sozon."
Silence fell across the chamber. Then she continued, undisturbed. "Because of my experience... I helped them finish it. This means, my lord, that I can complete any task, no matter how difficult it may seem."
Sam slowly turned toward one of the guards, then back to her. "Is this true? Can you truly make them finish it?"
She smiled with confidence. "Yes, Your Grace. I told you—I have experience."
Sam nodded gravely. "Good." He pointed toward one of the corpses. "And that one?"
The woman blinked. "My lord?"
"Can you finish it with him?"
She looked at the dead man, then back at Sam. "But... he is dead, Your Grace."
Sam gestured lightly. "Then bring him back with your experience. They say love can raise the dead."
The woman actually began to rise from her seat, her eyes moving between the corpse and the others at the table as if genuinely considering the possibility.
Suddenly Sam burst into laughter. "I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" He wiped a tear from his eye. "She really was into it." He waved a hand. "Sit."
She sat slowly.
Sam leaned back. "Very well. You shall all be given new names."
The king looked around until his eyes fell on one of them wearing a mask.
"What's the story with the mask, and how did they let you in wearing it?"
The man turned his head. "They wouldn't have let me in without it."
"And why is that?"
"Because I'm ugly, and they say looking at my face brings bad luck."
Sam said, "Show it to me. I've had enough bad luck already; your face won't add anything."
The man removed his mask as the Masters watched. When it was completely off, the entire council was even more disgusted than by the corpses around them.
Sam said, "It's truly awful. Is it fire?"
The man put the mask back on. "Yes, it's fire, my king."
Sam said, "I know someone who was also consumed by flames, but luckily for him, his life was consumed as well, unlike you."
One of them raised a hand again. Sam sighed.
"What now?"
The man looked embarrassed. "I... need to use the privy, Your Grace."
For a moment Sam simply stared at him. Then he pointed toward the door. "Go." He pointed to the right corridor. "Down there. Servants' privy."
The man nodded quickly. "Thank you, Your Grace."
And he left. The door closed behind him.
Sam remained still, unmoving, blinking, as though reality itself had briefly left him.
Then Greg spoke. "What is my name, Lord Sam?"
Sam turned slowly. "What do you mean?"
"You said you would give us names."
Sam looked at him for a long moment, then exhaled. "Yes... yes, I did."
Silence.
Then he rose from his seat. "I will think of them."
And for the first time in a long while, King Sam looked genuinely unsettled.
Two days after the invitation had been sent, at dawn, within the Forest of Tanmer, the first light of day struggled to pierce through the towering trees while a pale mist clung to the earth like a silent sea. At the heart of the woods, the encampment of the Kingdom of Izzadar still lay in half-sleep after a long march toward Thornholl.
Then came the sound of hooves, many hooves, heavy, measured, controlled.
King Meriel opened his eyes at once, rose swiftly, and stepped out of his tent. His face was sharp, his eyes fully awake as though sleep had never dared to touch him.
He turned to his knights. "Wake the men. Something approaches."
In moments the camp stirred: men rising, steel drawn from leather, ranks forming in hurried silence.
Meriel fixed his gaze upon the forest and called, "Who are you? Show yourselves."
Then yellow banners emerged between the trees, bearing a burning iron helm, the sigil of Ironfield. The procession revealed itself, and at its head rode King Gerald.
He raised his voice from horseback. "You've lost your eyes, brother. This is me?"
Meriel studied him for a moment, then calmly replied, "Lower your weapons."
There was hesitation, then obedience, and blades descended.
Meriel stepped forward and stopped. He said sadly, "Yes, my brother, I have lost them both."
Gerald smiled, then dismounted. He walked directly toward him and embraced him, a brief embrace but honest.
"I am sorry I left last time without saying farewell," Gerald said.
Meriel did not answer immediately. Then he replied quietly, "It is I who should apologize." He stepped back slightly. "You have stood beside me all this time... despite your own burdens. And yet I have not thanked you."
Gerald's expression shifted in surprise, then softened into a faint smile. "What brings you here?" He gestured toward the forest. "You are miles from Izzadar."
Meriel answered, "I am going to that foul swamp they call Thornholl."
Gerald raised a brow. "Strange. I have never seen you take part in the Games of Thornholl. Why go now?"
Meriel placed a hand on Gerald's shoulder. "I hear they have good games."
Gerald studied him for a moment, then let out a short laugh. But Meriel cut it off. He looked around and frowned slightly.
"By the way... where is your respected cane?"
Gerald blinked, then looked down briefly, as if remembering. "I lost it on the road." He shrugged. "But I can walk without it." Then he added, "Besides... he knows the way to Thornholl. It is a companion worth trusting. If I enter the darkness, he will enter with me. That's what a cane is all about, isn't it?"
Meriel looked at him for a long moment, then exhaled. "Sometimes... You must trust no one, brother."
Gerald smiled with quiet confidence. "When there is no one left to trust, that's a scary world, my brother. But I trust that man... How could you not trust a cane that was broken, which you fixed yourself, and which accompanied you for years and never let you down throughout those years? I trust him with my life, even more I trust him with my son's life. He is one of us."
Meriel shook his head slowly. "Who else will know what's best for you but yourself?"
He gestured toward the camp. "Come. Break your fast with me." He looked up at the pale sky. "We still have a long road ahead."
Gerald smiled. "Now you are speaking."
And so, within minutes, the two kings sat at a simple breakfast laid in the heart of the forest: pieces of bread, dried meat, a small pot of hot tea. No thrones, no banners, no titles. Only two men and old friends, taking a brief respite before continuing their long journey toward Thornholl.