The High Palace of Salter
The royal chambers of Salter were draped in the deep blues and silvers of the sea, yet the air within them hung still and cold as a tomb. King Marcus stood before a tall mirror framed in driftwood and pearl, his back to the room, his hands working the leather of his belt with slow, practiced movements. The buckles clicked into place one by one, each sound sharp in the silence.
Beside the door, his new consul waited. The man's eyes wandered—over the tapestries, the carved chests, the stands of black iron holding candles yet unlit. He did not look at the king directly, but his gaze never rested long in one place, as though the chamber itself made him uneasy.
Marcus turned. His eyes, pale as sea foam, found the consul's face and held it. "Anything about the king's child?"
The consul swallowed. "No, Your Grace. But we are doing our best."
The king regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Then do more." He took a step forward, the hem of his tunic brushing the stone floor. "In a world like ours, gifts are not given. They are taken."
He walked past the man without waiting for a response. The consul spun and hurried after him, his boots scuffing against the flagstones.
"Where are you going, Your Grace?"
Marcus did not slow. "Nothing that concerns you."
The man lowered his head, but he kept pace. "But, Your Grace, we must go to the Kingdom of Thornholl. Now, there is no time."
Marcus stopped. The sudden stillness was more threatening than any movement. He turned slowly, one brow raised with something like amusement. "There is always time." He tilted his head. "Did you choose the three champions first?"
"Yes, Your Grace. They have been chosen just like you ordered, and the ships are ready for sailing."
Marcus closed the distance between them in two strides. He raised a single finger, as though trying to recall something from the depths of memory. "Do you remember that slave who slaughtered the entire crew of the Garbra ship?" His brow furrowed. "What was his name? Remind me, please."
The consul blinked, caught off guard. "I do not know, Your Grace. He is like any slave. I do not think he has a name."
Marcus looked away, toward the window that faced the sea. "Whatever his name may be... I want him in the games." He turned back. "He shall fight for his freedom." A faint smile touched his lips, cold as winter water. "We will give him a fair trial. Justice has always been our way."
The consul hesitated, his fingers twisting together. "But my lord," he began, and the words came slowly, as if each one cost him something. "He did not merely kill—he emptied the blood of an entire crew of our own men into the belly of the sea." He glanced toward the window, where the grey light of the harbor fell upon the stone. "The Sea Sisters alone hold the right to judge him." His voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "No blood is spilled upon the waves and then forgotten."
A breath. Then he turned back to Marcus, his eyes pleading now. "The sea bore witness. The blood it drank became part of it." He stepped forward, just half a step, as though afraid to close the distance entirely. "Leave him to the waters, my lord. The sea knows no mercy and forgets nothing. It is the judge that cannot be bought, cannot be fooled, cannot be swayed."
A long silence settled between them. Then he added, with the weight of old faith: "As it has been since the dawn of days."
Marcus smiled again, but this time there was a question lurking in his eyes. "It is true—we take everything from the sea. But do not mistake that for love. The sea does not give, my friend. It does not open its depths out of kindness. It simply... surrenders what we are strong enough to take."
He stepped closer, and his voice dropped to something low and cold, like a tide pulling back before the storm. "The sea does not give. It does not see. And it most certainly does not judge. It is nature—wild, indifferent, and without wisdom. It does not weigh guilt or innocence. It simply swallows. We are the ones who weigh. We are the ones who choose what is just."
He paused, letting the silence stretch, then spoke again, softer now but no less certain.
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"I do."
The consul bowed his head. "As you command, Your Grace." He hesitated again. "But... when do we go?"
Marcus resumed walking, his boots echoing in the corridor. "Soon." He spoke over his shoulder, not bothering to turn. "I have something important to do first. Go and prepare the ship; the sea won't do it for you."
The streets of Salter wound like the veins of a dead fish, narrow and dark, smelling of brine and old wood. Marcus walked them flanked by four guards in scaled armor, their spears catching the weak light that filtered between the buildings. The people they passed pressed themselves against the walls, bowing low, not daring to meet the king's eyes.
Deep within the alleys stood a three-story building of white stone. It was unlike the surrounding structures—no moss grew on its walls, no shutters hung askew, no filth collected in its corners. It had been cared for with extraordinary affection, as though someone had poured love into every brick.
Marcus entered without knocking. The stairs creaked beneath his boots as he climbed to the second floor. The moment he stepped inside, a wave of sound washed over him—the high, joyful shrieks of children. Dozens of them, of all sizes and ages, ran toward him, their bare feet slapping the wooden floor. They threw themselves at his legs, his waist, clutching at his clothes with small, eager hands.
Marcus smiled—a real smile, warm and unguarded—and it transformed his face entirely. He produced from a leather pouch a bundle of candied apples, glistening with sugar, and distributed them among the little ones. Yet the children seemed happier at his arrival than at the sweets themselves. They clung to him, looked up at him with shining eyes, and he reached down to ruffle hair and pat heads.
It was an orphanage. A place where the apples that fell from the tree and disappeared among the grass were gathered and cherished. For these children, this building was home—a home Marcus himself had never possessed in his own childhood.
He looked toward the caretaker, a woman of middle years with gentle hands and a face lined by many seasons. "Take care of them?"
The woman smiled warmly. "Of course, Your Highness. They are everything to me, just as you are to them."
Marcus nodded. "Good. Anything children need should be provided for them." He paused, his eyes scanning the room, then asked in a low voice, "Is she here?"
The woman's smile faded. "No, Your Highness."
Something flickered across Marcus's face—disappointment, perhaps, or a shadow of old pain. He said nothing more. He turned and left the orphanage he himself had built, descending the stairs with heavier steps than before.
The harbor of Salter was a forest of masts and rigging, the air thick with the cries of gulls and the snap of canvas. Marcus's ship—a sleek vessel with black sails and a hull painted to match the night sea—waited at the longest pier. Its crew stood ready, experienced men with hands like rope and faces weathered by salt and wind. Beside them waited the three champions who would challenge death for their kingdom or for their freedom.
The sails were raised. The ropes groaned. The ship pulled away from the dock and slid into the open water, leaving Salter behind in a shrinking silhouette of white stone and dark towers.
Among the Five Kingdoms, Salter lay closest to Thornholl, and the fastest route led across the sea. The hours passed, the sun crawled across the sky, and the shore faded into a thin line. Then, gradually, the water around them began to change. The blue deepened to black, and the surface grew still and heavy as oil.
They had entered the Dark Sea.
No light existed there except the Eyes of the Gods reflected upon the water—countless points of pale fire that seemed to watch from the depths. The crew fell silent. Even the wind seemed to die, leaving the sails slack.
Then they passed beside the valley of the first Normen Kingdom. The cliffs rose on one side, jagged and black, and from their heights came sounds that made the men grip their weapons—voices, thin and distant, the cries of human souls tortured by the Normens. A kingdom that had not fallen to men but to monsters.
After crossing the valley, they finally saw it.
Far away, upon the opposite shore, stood the towering walls of Thornholl. Black as obsidian, they rose against the grey sky, crowned with thorns of iron.
On the brighter side of the world, the road was long and dusty, and the two riders moved in silence. Their horses walked side by side but the men did not look at each other. The only sounds were the creak of leather and the soft thud of hooves on earth.
At last, Gerald spoke. "So you're going to Thornholl?" He shook his head slowly. "I couldn't believe I lived long enough to see something like this. You always hated Robert so much, brother. So what has changed?"
Meriel looked ahead, his jaw set. "Everything changed."
Gerald kept his eyes on the road, the reins loose in his hands. "Yes. Things are changing fast these days. But why did you hate him that much in the first place? Remind me."
Meriel was silent for a moment. His horse stepped over a stone, and he steadied it with a gentle hand. "He is a man of shame. And does not act accordingly." Another pause. "Father fought there, in the Battle of the Brave, the first of all. And according to him, Robert was also involved in that battle. Everyone already knows that."
A long pause followed. The wind moved through the grass beside the road. Then Meriel continued, his voice darker. "In that battle, it was known to be a crushing defeat. My father told me that... and everything happened." His eyes hardened. "He said Robert withdrew his men and fled, leaving my father and his soldiers to be slaughtered."
Meriel lowered his gaze to the road. "But my father tried to save as many of his men as he could." He looked ahead again. "Retreat was his only choice."
Silence stretched between them.
"At that time, if you remember, everyone used to call him a shame." Meriel's voice was bitter. "But throughout my life, I've seen Robert so many times—the man who made my father wear the cloak of shame—claiming the opposite: strength and pride. That made me hate that fake king."
He turned to Gerald. "My father told me that." He paused. "Do you know what else my father said?"
Gerald waited, his face unreadable.
Meriel's voice grew quiet. "Thousands of us died..." He paused again, and when he spoke, his words were barely above a whisper. "He said that the idea of the battle was the stupidest thing he ever did, and he paid the price for his stupidity and for misplaced trust in a man he thought was more than he was." He looked at Gerald. "My father, despite surviving, he died in that battle. And Robert had taken all the glory before time revealed to the public that he was a shame king."
Gerald looked at him for a long moment. "He never told me this." He sighed. "But if what you say is true..." He turned his eyes forward. "I think your father should have fled as well."
Meriel turned sharply toward him.
Gerald continued, his voice calm. "I think he bears responsibility for the deaths of his men just as much as Robert does. Why do we lie to ourselves? No matter how brave or strong men are, we all know that those things cannot be defeated."
Silence.
Then Meriel said coldly, "Be careful there." He looked directly into Gerald's eyes. "You are speaking about my father."
Sadness crossed Gerald's face. "Your father?" He smiled sadly. "He was my father too."
Meriel said nothing for a while. Then finally replied, "Yours couldn't even bear the responsibility of his only son." He looked away. "What about that?"
Gerald laughed softly, a sound without humor. "See?" He urged his horse slightly ahead. "There you are again." He glanced back. "Behaving like children. I'm really fed up with that."
And they continued toward their destination, isolated from each other, the distance between them wider than the width of the road.