My curse is my shadow. My strength is my shadow. And my end... is to be forgotten among my shadows.
Thornholl. The Kingdom of Venomous Thorns. A land where darkness seemed less like the absence of light and more like something alive. Here, night did not simply fall. It settled. Over rooftops. Over narrow streets. Over the faces of men who had long forgotten what it meant to expect a better tomorrow.
Even during the day, Thornholl often looked as though the sun had abandoned it halfway through creation. Clouds gathered above its towers. Cold winds crawled through its alleys. And beyond the kingdom's walls, black thornbushes stretched across the hills like veins beneath dead skin.
Deep within the kingdom, far from the royal palace and the streets where nobles walked beneath silk banners, stood a stable. Calling it a stable was generous. The place was rotting. Mold crawled across the wooden walls in dark patches. Water dripped steadily from holes in the roof, falling onto piles of hay that had long ago turned black and damp. The air was thick with the smell of wet wood, horse sweat, mold, and dung that had been left untouched for days. Perhaps weeks. The stench was so heavy that breathing felt like swallowing something rotten.
Near one of the horses stood an old man. His back was bent. His clothes were little more than layers of dirt and torn cloth. A thick piece of fabric covered most of his face, wrapped around his mouth and nose. Not because he feared being recognized, but because after years of living among the smell, he had learned that even a man could grow tired of his own prison. Slowly, he pushed a small wooden cart through the mud. Then he bent down. Gathered a shovel of horse dung. And threw it into the cart. Again. And again.
Nearby, leaning against a rotting wooden post, stood a knight of Thornholl. He was drunk. One hand rested against the wood while the other lazily scratched beneath his armor. Something moved between his teeth as he chewed. He watched the old man for a long moment before speaking.
"Old man."
The old man did not look at him.
The knight spat onto the ground. "They say you fought the Normens in the First Battle of the Brave."
For a moment, the only sound was the slow breathing of the horses. Then the old man pushed another pile of dung into the cart.
"People love to talk."
The knight snorted. "That's exactly what I thought." He pinched his nose with two fingers and looked around the stable in disgust. "Brave men who fought in that battle..." He shook his head. "It would be sad for one of them to end up like this." His eyes moved toward the cart. Toward the dung. Toward the bent old man. "Very sad."
Then he turned and began walking away. His boots sank into the mud with every step. He had almost reached the entrance when the old man's voice stopped him.
"I was there."
The knight froze.
The old man remained bent over the cart. "In the Battle."
The knight said sarcastically, "Nonsense."
The old man bent down, showing his neck to the knight, and said in a cold tone, "Do you see this scar? Yes, it is the scar of shame. I have carried it with me since then, and it grew heavier every day until I could no longer lift my head. I plunged it into filth and humiliation. because of what because I ran? Everyone did."
Silence.
The knight slowly turned around. The old man placed both hands on the wooden handle of his shovel. "There I was." His voice had changed. It no longer belonged to a stable worker. It belonged to someone standing somewhere else. Somewhere far away. "On that battlefield... carrying a sword." He looked down at his hands. "Not knowing how to use it."
The knight frowned.
"And even if I had known..." the old man continued, "...it would have been useless."
The horses shifted uneasily.
"The only useful thing that day was your mind." He paused. "And your legs."
The knight stared at him.
"If they were fast enough."
The drunk knight laughed. "So you ran?"
The old man said nothing.
The knight stepped closer. "You are a shame, then." His voice carried the confidence of a man who had never seen what he was speaking about. "Why didn't you fight? At least you would have earned honor. You could have died a brave knight like the others."
Slowly, the old man stopped moving. Then he reached for the cloth covering his face. And removed it.
The knight's smile disappeared.
The old man's face was not covered in great scars. There were worse things than scars. His face looked exhausted. Not tired. Exhausted. As though life itself had remained inside him for far too long. His eyes were pale. Empty. The eyes of a man who had survived something he should not have survived.
The old man said in a cold tone, "honor, how is that? Did we win? Did we fight at least? Of course not.we ran? Everyone did, So why did they choose me to bear this stigma? Was it because I was young or stupid, or what? hah, honor...kiss my ass."
The words came quietly.
The knight blinked.
The old man looked directly at him. "Honor is worthless when your body is torn apart." His voice hardened. "When your arms are somewhere beneath the mud. When your legs are being eaten by animals. When your friends are screaming for their mothers."
The knight stopped breathing.
"And when you die..." The old man slowly covered his face again. "...no one knows your name."
Silence filled the stable.
For the first time, the knight looked uncomfortable. After several moments, he spoke again.
"Didn't you have any chance against them?"
The old man's hands returned to the shovel. "Not a chance." He gathered another pile. "One of them..." He threw it into the cart. "...equals ten of the strongest men from all five kingdoms."
The knight stared at him.
"They are strong." Another shovel. "Very strong." Another. "Their muscles." Another. "Their senses." Another. "Their intelligence."
The old man stopped. Then he looked toward the knight again. "Do you think I am alive because I was the fastest?"
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The knight said nothing.
The old man shook his head. "No." His voice became quieter. "They let me run."
A cold feeling passed through the stable.
"Like the others." He lowered his head. "like your king."
The knight's eyes widened.
The old man continued before he could speak. "They never intended to fight us." The cart creaked softly. "We were nothing to them." He looked toward the stable entrance. "Mere humans." His fingers tightened around the shovel. "Dragged by desire toward a magical lake."
The knight remained silent.
"Desire for power." The old man laughed. But there was no joy in it. "Desire for greatness." His voice became colder. "And the stupidity called the Chosen..."
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Then the old man looked down at his hands. "But if the Chosen One were human like us..." His fingers slowly closed. "I would kill him with these two filthy hands."
"Richard!"
Voices came from outside the stable.
"What are you doing in there?"
Another voice shouted. "Come back to the tavern! The small in this place is unbearable!"
Richard looked toward his companions. Then back at the old man. Minutes earlier, he had entered the stable because he was bored. Now he could not stop thinking about what he had heard. About the Normens. About the lake. About the Chosen One. And about the possibility that everything he had been taught since childhood... was a lie.
Without another word, he turned and left.
The old man remained alone. He bent down. Gathered another shovel of dung. And threw it into the cart. His punishment had lasted for years.
Far from Thornholl, the southernmost part of the continent of the Rocks, stood The Great Pale. It was not merely a wall. It was a fortress built from the fear of humanity. Ancient stone stretched across the horizon, rising higher than the towers of most castles. Its foundations had survived wars, invasions, betrayals, and winters that had buried entire armies beneath snow. Beyond it lay the Forbidden Wood. And beyond the Forbidden Wood... things humanity preferred not to speak about.
The Great Pale united the Five Kingdoms beneath one purpose. Survival. The Normens had not attacked in generations. Yet their shadow remained. It existed in every law. Every soldier. Every child taught to fear the forests beyond civilization.
And once every year, the five kings gathered within the ancient fortress. Not for celebration. Not for feasts. But for a tradition older than any of their kingdoms. The Ceremony of the Guardians. Men chosen to enter the Forbidden Wood. Men chosen to protect humanity from whatever waited beyond it. They swore to make their souls into shields. Their bodies into walls. Their lives into sacrifices. Some would never return. Most would be forgotten.
But the ceremony continued. Because fathers had once stood in the same place. And before them, grandfathers. Men who had died in forgotten raids. Men whose blood had disappeared beneath soil that no longer remembered their names. And now their sons stood where they once stood. Waiting to inherit the same burden.
Creak...
The sound came from the enormous gates.
Creak...
Metal groaned against metal. Ancient mechanisms began to move. Then slowly... the Gate of War opened. It was as though the fortress itself hated opening its mouth.
Above the walls, guards raised their voices.
"LONG LIVE KING MERIEL!"
The gates widened.
"THE HEAVY HAMMER!"
And he entered. First. As always.
King Meriel of Izzadar rode through the gates on a black horse. The animal was massive. Yet even it seemed burdened by the enormous war hammer resting across Meriel's back. The hammer looked heavy enough to crush a man's skull with a single swing. Perhaps a horse's as well.
Meriel stopped in the center of the courtyard. Then dismounted. Calmly. As though he had entered his own castle. He removed one glove. Then the other. And looked toward a nearby guard.
"Why am I always the first to arrive?"
The guard immediately stiffened. "I... I don't know, Your Majesty."
Meriel smiled. "Because I am the closest to The Great Pale, you fool."
For a moment, the guard stared at him. Then laughter erupted behind the king.
The knights of Izzadar entered after him. Heavy armor. Heavy shields. Heavy footsteps. Behind them came a wooden cart. Inside sat two young men. Twins.
Edd and Ned.
Edd was taller. Thin. His brown hair looked as though he had lost an argument with a storm. His eyes were sharp, but behind them lived something restless. A tension. A constant expectation that something terrible might happen at any moment.
Ned was shorter and broader. His face was calmer. His gaze steadier. But his fingers moved constantly. Small movements. Unconscious movements. Whenever fear entered his mind.
The twins were known among the common people of Izzadar. Their names had traveled farther than they should have. But everyone knew one rule. Do not mention them too loudly. Especially when King Meriel was nearby.
For the Five Kingdoms, it was an ordinary day. For The Great Pale... it was not. The new Guardians would be chosen. And the kings arrived one after another.
King Gerald of Ironfield.
King Sam of Valkryn. Young. Reckless. And dangerously confident.
King Marcus of Salter. Lord of the Six Seas. A man who had built his power across oceans and trade routes.
Then finally... King Robert of Thornholl. The Blind King.
The rituals began. One by one, the new Guardians stepped forward. Their backs were branded with heated iron. The symbol of the shield. The symbol of the Five Kingdoms. The smell of burning flesh spread through the courtyard. Some screamed. Others remained silent.
Then came the celebration. Food. Wine. Music.
The kings celebrated in their own ways. Sam showed off before the soldiers. Marcus sat laughing among women. Meriel's brother drank heavily, two beautiful maids sitting across his knees.
But Robert the Blind... Robert looked toward the sky. Beside him stood Elia. His companion.
"Elia."
"Yes, my lord?"
"What do you think?"
She turned toward him. "About what, my lord?"
Robert raised his face. "Those eyes watching us."
Elia remained silent for a moment. "I have no opinion."
Elia continued. "The gods do as they wish."
She lowered her head. "And who am I to question them?"
Robert laughed quietly. "One should say what one wishes." His blind eyes remained pointed toward the heavens. "In my opinion..." His smile faded. "...those have nothing to do with gods."
Elia frowned. "Then what are they?"
"I don't know." Robert tilted his head. "But gods would not need this many eyes to watch us."
Across the courtyard, Meriel watched him. Silently. His expression did not change. But something old lived behind his eyes. Something that had never died.
Marcus noticed. "Slow down, my lord."
Meriel turned toward him.
Marcus raised his cup. "Don't cling to the past."
Meriel stared.
"They say whoever lives in the past is doomed to repeat it."
"What do you know about the past, sailor?"
Marcus smiled. "Is that supposed to be an insult?" He leaned back. "That is my name. And I am not ashamed of it." His voice became calmer. "I built everything I have grain by grain. Until I became what I am. A man like you cannot understand what that requires."
Meriel stepped closer. "Then stop speaking as though you understand me." His eyes hardened. "Clearly, I don't know you. And you don't know me."
Marcus laughed. "No." He raised a finger. "No, no, no. Do not rush, my king." His smile returned. "Never underestimate how much I know."
Meriel stared at him.
Marcus raised his cup. "You may be surprised."
Then he returned to his table. Meriel remained standing for several seconds before finally turning away. He left the celebration and entered the tower. The corridors were quieter. The sounds of music and celebration faded behind him.
There, Meriel met his brother. Gerald.
For a moment, neither man moved. They simply looked at each other. Then they began walking forward. Slowly. Their expressions remained cold. Their eyes unreadable.
And suddenly... they embraced. Hard.
"Brother."
Gerald's voice echoed through the corridor.
Meriel groaned. "My ribs."
Gerald tightened his grip. "Good."
"That is how you apologize?" Meriel asked.
"Yes." Gerald finally released him. "Why? Didn't you like it?."
Meriel adjusted his clothing. "How are you?"
Gerald smiled. "Where is Layla?" His expression softened. "She always loved The Great Pale. My little sister."
"She is no longer a little girl." Meriel answered. "And she refused to come."
Gerald frowned. "That doesn't sound like the Layla I know."
Meriel said nothing.
Gerald looked around. "And the children?"
"In their rooms." Meriel gestured down the corridor. "Come. They will be happy to see you."
Not far away, Edd and Ned stood near a door. Beyond it lay the road leading toward the Forbidden Wood. Ned stood closest to the entrance. His face looked calm. But his shoulders were tense.
"Are you sure about this?"
Edd smiled faintly. A poor attempt at hiding fear. "Don't worry. We'll be back soon. Are you afraid of shadows or something?."
Ned looked down. "I am not one whose legs is shaking."
Edd glanced downward. Then shrugged. "Excitement."
Ned stared at him. "Of course."
Edd forced another smile. "I am used to moments like this."
Neither of them believed him.
They opened the door. And left.
Beyond The Great Pale, the world changed. The sounds of men disappeared. The wind became quieter. The road slowly vanished beneath roots and dead leaves. Then the Forbidden Wood appeared. Dense. Ancient. Silent. Trees stood so close together that daylight struggled to enter between them. Their trunks were twisted. Their roots rose from the earth like bones. The air smelled wet. Cold. And wrong.
Edd stopped. His smile had disappeared. "Do you know what lies beyond this forest?"
Ned looked ahead. "The lake."
"Yes." Edd swallowed. "the lake of elindor."
For a moment, neither moved. The forest waited.
"Do you think we'll find it?"
Ned's fingers began moving. "Thousands of strong men have tried."
Edd looked toward him.
"And all failed."
Edd's jaw tightened. "But we are not men."
Ned turned toward him.
Edd's eyes remained fixed on the darkness. "Not yet."
"Shh."
Ned suddenly stopped. Both brothers froze.
Something stood between the trees. At first, Edd thought it was a man. Then he looked closer. The figure was too still. Too perfect. Red hair. Pale skin. A spear held loosely in one hand. And ears... long. Sharp. Wrong.
The Guardian.
Edd slowly stepped backward. A twig broke beneath his foot. Crack.
The Guardian turned. It happened too quickly. Like a serpent striking. His eyes found them. Edd felt his blood turn cold.
"Run."
They ran. Branches struck their faces. Roots grabbed at their feet. Leaves tore beneath their boots. Ned looked behind him. Nothing.
Then—the Guardian stood in front of them. Edd stopped so suddenly that he nearly fell. There had been no sound. No movement. It was as though the creature had simply... folded the distance.
Ned grabbed his brother. "Run!"
Edd hesitated.
"Go!"
This time, he ran. And the Guardian did not move. He did not even look at Edd. As though Edd did not matter. As though he was invisible. The Guardian stared only at Ned.
Ned stood frozen. The spear slowly rose.
"You..." The creature's voice was almost calm. "...must die."
The spear moved. Ned fell backward. But before the weapon could strike... everything stopped.
The forest became silent. Not naturally silent. Something else. The birds stopped. The wind disappeared. Even the leaves seemed unwilling to move.
The Guardian slowly looked around. For the first time... fear appeared on his face.
Then... something moved. A shadow. Black. Darker than the darkness beneath the trees. Two red eyes opened.
The Guardian tried to move. He could not. Something lifted him. His body rose from the ground. His hands grabbed at his throat. But there was nothing there. His veins began turning black. He screamed. No sound came out. Black tears ran from his eyes. Then his body twisted. And burst.
Blood covered the trees. The shadow disappeared.
Ned did not wait. He ran. He forgot the Guardian. He forgot the lake. He forgot Edd. He forgot everything. There was only one thing left inside his mind. Survive.
By the time he reached The Great Pale, his lungs felt as though they were burning. Meriel was waiting. The king grabbed him.
"Where is Edd?"
Ned stared at him. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Meriel's expression changed. "Where is your brother?"
Ned remained silent.
Then—SLAP. The sound echoed. Ned's head turned.
"WHERE IS YOUR BROTHER?"
Slowly... Ned raised one trembling hand. And pointed toward the forest.
Deep inside the Forbidden Wood, Edd was running. Alone. He did not know how long he had been running. Minutes. Hours. Perhaps longer. Every direction looked the same. Every tree. Every root. Every shadowThen suddenly—he stopped. Ahead of him... The Great Pale.
Edd's eyes widened. "The Great Pale..."
Relief flooded through him. He took a step forward. Then stopped.
Something was wrong. The Great Pale was gone. There was only water. Still. Perfectly still. A lake.
Edd approached slowly. His reflection appeared on the surface. He looked down. And froze.
The face staring back at him... was not his. Edd stepped backward. The reflection smiled.
Then a voice came from the water. "You are the Chosen."
The surface trembled. A single ripple appeared. Then another. Then the entire lake moved.
Edd turned. But the water rose behind him. Cold hands wrapped around his body. He screamed. The lake pulled him downward. His fingers clawed at the earth. Roots snapped beneath his hands.
For one final moment... his eyes remained above the surface. Then—the water swallowed him.
The lake became still again. As though nothing had happened.
And Edd... disappeared.