Upon the stagnant waters of Thornholl, the ships of Marcus's fleet docked before the kingdom's back gate. The water was black and still, reflecting the torches that lined the decks like scattered embers. The air was thick with the smell of salt and rot, and the great walls of Thornholl rose before them like the spine of some ancient beast, dark and impenetrable.
On the flagship, the nobles of the Salt Kingdom gathered to the tune of songs and the dance of the bell-ladies, who never stopped spinning despite exhaustion and sweat, as if their very lives depended on the movements of their waists and the ringing of the bells hung upon them. The bells chimed with every turn, a hypnotic rhythm that filled the night air. The nobles clapped and laughed, their cups raised, their faces flushed with wine.
Behind the crowd, one of the king's men stood smiling, wiping his ulcerated face with a rag that came away stained. He watched the dancers for a long moment, his eyes following their movements with something between hunger and calculation. Then he stepped away and tossed a grape at one of the ladies, the fruit bouncing off her shoulder. He said, "You can stop now, my lady. Later I will need your energy."
He then entered one of the ship's cabins, pushing aside the heavy curtain. Inside, King Marcus was writing a letter with his long quill, the nib scratching across the parchment in careful strokes. Candles flickered around him, casting dancing shadows on the wooden walls.
The man stood there, continuing to scratch his cheek, the sound of his nails on skin oddly loud in the quiet cabin. Then he looked at Marcus and said in a harsh voice, "They won't open it, my lord Marcus."
Marcus raised his head, his pale eyes finding the man's face. His hand continued writing, the quill never pausing. "Do you think I don't know that?"
The man stopped scratching. His hand fell to his side. "Then, why are we waiting?"
Marcus dropped his quill. It clattered against the desk. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking. "We await our friend's notice. We are the only kingdom with living ships. Let us show him our options." He paused, his fingers drumming once on the desk. "Besides, I am mindful of the old man's condition; he is blind and in darkness like this. Let us give him all the time he needs."
The man asked curiously, his head tilting, "So, when he takes his time and decides not to open the back gate? Do we head to the front gate?"
Marcus said, "Yes, Captain. But before that, I need to see them."
The man said, "Come, my lord, I will guide you to them."
Marcus rose suddenly, his chair scraping back. His voice came sharp, edged with irritation. "I will go alone; this is my ship. Do you think I do not know who is on board it and where?"
Marcus left his room and walked through the ship, his boots heavy on the wooden deck. The music had stopped, but the air still hummed with the memory of it. He stopped before the bell-ladies, who stood in a row, their chests heaving, their bells now silent. Sweat glistened on their skin.
He looked at them, then at the nobles behind them, and said, "Go, get some rest."
The nobles felt disappointed, their faces falling. One of them opened his mouth to protest, but Marcus cut him off before a word could escape.
"Don't you all have anything else to do besides sitting on your backsides and having fun?" His voice was cold, measured. "Take a breath, think deeply. Not everything is about fun, but everything passes beneath it. When the Neverwood begins, you'll have plenty of that, and you will realize that the real fun has passed you by."
He turned and walked away, leaving the nobles in uneasy silence.
He went below deck, descending the narrow stairs into the belly of the ship. The air grew colder, damper. The sound of water lapping against the hull echoed through the corridors.
He reached the cells where the champions stayed. Iron bars divided the space, and three men sat within—each in his own cell, each with his own darkness.
Marcus looked at them, his eyes moving from one face to the next. They all looked back at him except for one, who sat in the corner, his face turned away, his posture closed. But Marcus didn't care. He said, "It seems you feel this is unfair…" He paused, letting the word hang in the damp air, "…to be thrown into the depths of hell from which almost no one emerges."
A cold smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head slightly. "Well, you are right."
His expression hardened. "But that won't help you."
He began to pace, his boots echoing on the wooden floor. When he spoke again, his voice was sharper, filled with conviction. "There is only one who fights—no matter the circumstances, no matter the place—who deserves to survive, and who truly lives."
He stopped abruptly. His eyes blazed as he spat the next words. "The others are merely creatures that breathe, eat, defecate, and wait for death."
A bitter laugh escaped him. He gestured dismissively. "That is more discouraging than anything else."
He turned his back for a moment, then whirled around, arms spread wide, a fierce grin on his face. "So get ready for the chance of your lives!"
He pointed at them, one by one. "Either you actually live…" He lowered his hand, his tone dropping to a deadly whisper, "…or you stop doing that. Meaning you die."
A shrug, almost casual. "And perhaps you try again in another life."
His voice rose to a commanding roar, his fist clenched. "Stand up! And tell me your names."
He straightened, chest heaving slightly, eyes glistening with a strange, fervent light. His voice softened, filled with a terrible promise. "So even if you die… your names will live on."
One of them looked at Marcus and said, "Will he truly live as the names before us lived, which drowned in the seas or were eaten by sharks?"
Marcus turned toward him slowly. "What is your name, boy?"
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The boy said, "Lucas."
Marcus looked at him and said, "Alright, Lucas. Not all names are worth remembering, and the sea is the one who decided that. But in your situation, the sea will decide nothing; what decides whether your name will be remembered is you. So trust yourselves and tell me your names. You, Lucas, what about you?"
The other stood up, his chains rattling, and said, "My name is Brian."
As for the third, he rose and brushed his hair from his face with a slow, deliberate movement. He said, "I have no name, not yet. But those who know me call me Golden Teeth." He smiled, and the torchlight caught the gleam of gold in his mouth.
Marcus said, "So you are the one who killed that crew?"
Golden Teeth bowed slightly, a mocking gesture. "Yes, that's one of the things I did. But it's not the only thing. I did good things too, but it doesn't matter anyway." He looked up, his eyes meeting Marcus's. "Pleased to meet you, my lord Marcus. I am a big fan of how you deal with things."
Marcus stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, "Good luck, then."
He left, signaling with his hand to the ship's captain as he passed, ordering him to move.
On the opposite side, King Sam was entering the kingdom while laughing and covering his nose from the foul smell of the alleys and the common folk. The streets were narrow and dark, the buildings leaning toward each other like old men sharing secrets. The people pressed close, their hands outstretched, their eyes hungry.
The crowds kept gathering around him as he tossed coins at them. Silver flashed through the air, and the people scrambled—fighting, pushing, grabbing. Sam laughed louder, delighted by the chaos.
His entry into the kingdom of Thornholl was noisy—trumpets, horses, banners. But beside him, Thomas the One-armed was quiet. He rode in silence, his single hand resting on his saddle, his eyes watching the people as they scrambled for the coins, hitting each other, trampling each other.
His gaze was drawn to a thin girl stuck among the adults. She was small, fragile, struggling only to breathe while they kicked her to get the coins. Her hands reached up, grasping at nothing. Her face disappeared and reappeared among the bodies.
Thomas was watching her as she disappeared between their feet. He paused for a moment, his horse slowing. But she vanished—swallowed by the crowd.
Sam stopped and looked at him, saying, "What's wrong with you? Come on, they're multiplying."
Thomas continued riding, his mind wondering what had happened to her.
Behind the castle of Thornholl, where the atmosphere was noisy and full of people celebrating, commoners and nobles from all the kingdoms, an important annual event was taking place. The air was filled with music, laughter, and the smell of roasting meat. Vendors shouted their wares, children ran between the legs of adults, and somewhere a fight broke out and was quickly quelled.
Torches lit the place when the eyes of the gods were absent. The sky above was black, starless, as though even the heavens had turned away. The nobles were celebrating in their own way inside a large tent, raising toasts to the maze as if it was all they were waiting for.
One of the nobles of Thornholl approached another noble and said, "It's a sin for a man to drink alone." Then he smiled, raising his cup, and said, "I am Bingen."
The other noble smiled and said, "Every man here considers sin his favorite drink. That's why they're here and not outside with the rest."
Bingen replied, "Indeed, we are the sinners." They both laughed, the sound loud and empty.
Then the other noble extended his hand and said, "My name is Luther."
Bingen said with a slight bow, "It is good to meet you, Lord Luther. By the way, you have splendid skin; do you happen to be from Valcryn?"
Luther said, "A good guess. I do indeed reside there. It seems the bet is in your favor."
Bingen said, "Not at all. I'm just interested in Valcryn. I want to move there. I'm tired of this dark place and its foul smell. I must carry perfume with me wherever I go."
Luther said, "Yes, I've noticed it. Not many nobles come from this place. What they say is true: where rats abound, leave and depart."
Bingen said, "That's the crux of it. There, in Valcryn, there is light, and most importantly, opportunities. I can see them through your face."
The two laughed, but something from below interrupted them, tugging at their trousers. Luther looked down. It was a girl holding an empty cup, speaking in a faint voice.
Luther pushed her with his foot until she fell to the ground. She landed hard, the cup clattering away. Then he noticed what was behind her neck. He saw a triangle—fresh, still raw—and said, "She's a bastard of someone."
Bingen laughed and said, "Not mine." He took a sip of his wine. "Speaking of them, this question has always bothered me: who is worse, a Bastard Shame or the Slave?"
Luther replied with a smile, "Good question. Actually, I see them as the same. Shamed running from their battles. Bastards running from their names. And slaves run from their masters. And this one has the whole triangle, poor thing."
They both laughed and turned away, leaving the girl on the ground.
Inside the palace, Robert stood upright in his room, looking at a hanging sword. The blade was old but well-kept, its edge catching the candlelight. His newly opened eyes traced the length of it, studying every nick, every scratch.
His consul stood behind him, watching in silence, his hands clasped before him.
Robert drew the sword from the wall and held it. The weight settled into his hand. He began to look at its edges, turning it slowly, and said without thinking, "A worthless hand has held it."
The consul looked at him strangely, wanting to say something, but preferred to remain silent. His mouth opened, then closed.
In turn, Robert said, "Why did you summon me, my lord?"
The consul said, "Nothing, sire. It's just a duty, and you are indeed my lord."
Robert said, "Will you stop that? I am a king, meaning you should say 'my king.'"
The consul said, "Alright, my king. I was only following tradition."
Robert said, "We will make new traditions starting from this day." He turned, the sword still in his hand. "Now, do I have armor?"
The consul said, "Of course you do, my king. Have you forgotten? You fought with it in the Battle of the Brave, with that sword as well."
Robert said, "Yes, certainly. I've forgotten it anyway. Bring it; I want to measure it and see if it still fits me."
The consul said, "What will you use it for... my king?"
Robert said, "You will know soon enough. Now stop the questions and bring the armor."
The consul ran, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. He returned shortly with two maids carrying the armor—breastplate, pauldrons, gauntlets—the metal dull with age but still solid. They entered the chamber, and while they were putting it on him, the pieces clinking as they strapped them into place, one of the guards came and whispered in the consul's ear.
Robert, standing with his arms extended while the maids worked the buckles, said, "What is it?"
The consul said, "One of the kings has arrived, sire. It's the King of Salter, but he came from the back side of the kingdom. Shall we open the back gate?"
Robert's hands dropped to his sides. He turned his head slowly. "Are you mad? You open the back gate like you've opened your ass to someone? Let him go around. He is trying to test us. The easiest way for him was to take the land route, but he chose provocation."
The consul said, "Don't worry, my king. There is no weak point in our walls, and we know that best. Unless we open that door, no one will enter."
Robert said, "That's exactly the weakness."
High upon the walls of the pure kingdom of Merleith, Zohra was walking with Edd inside the vast Garden of Eden. The garden stretched in every direction, impossibly green, impossibly alive. Trees bore fruit of every color, flowers bloomed in shapes that had no names, and the air was sweet with the scent of things that existed nowhere else in the world.
Zohra held his hand, her fingers gentle around his. Edd looked at one of the fruits—a round, golden thing that seemed to glow from within. Zohra said, smiling, "Don't you know what kind of fruit that is?"
Edd said, "No, I don't know."
Zohra said with her smile, "Yes, it doesn't exist in your lands. Here they call it 'Life.'"
Edd looked at her strangely and said, "Life means life."
Zohra said, "Yes, you're right. That's what it means."
Edd let go of Zohra's hand and approached one of the trees. He reached up and plucked one of the fruits from its branch. But the moment his fingers closed around it, the fruit began to darken, to wither. He dropped it suddenly, looking disgusted, and said, "It spoils quickly."
Then he looked at Zohra's face.
She was not sad or angry, but felt a strange sensation, as if she were experiencing it for the first time. She could not prevent Edd from picking the fruit, nor rebuke him, because she was afraid. And that was something strange for her and her kind—so strange that she didn't even find the right expression for it.
Edd felt that it wasn't a serious matter, so he continued walking without hesitation, holding her hand and pulling her along. Then he looked at her and said, "Have you found my brother?"
Zohra looked at him and said, "Don't worry. We'll find him soon."
Then she left the garden with him, her face completely frozen, and escorted him to his room. She said, "Come, you need to sleep a little. You need it, unlike us."
He looked at her and said, "Why don't you need it?"
Zohra told him, "Because we have so much on our shoulders, and sleep is betrayal."
Edd lay down on the bed, the soft covers embracing him. He said, "Whatever. I hope I wake up to find my brother and my aunt beside me."
Zohra smiled, then covered him and left.
After she left, she hurried back to the garden. Her steps were quick, uncharacteristically urgent. She looked at that fruit—the one Edd had plucked—but it wasn't there. It had vanished completely, as if it had lost its life right after being plucked.
From behind, one of the aides from the observation wing came and suddenly said without preamble, "The rotted fruit has searched for the child everywhere among the five kingdoms, and it seems that even Edd's father does not know where his other son disappeared to."
Zohra looked at the official and said, "I think Edd killed his brother just as he killed the guardian in the forest, but he dissolved his body somehow. In any case, we must take action. The child will not remain a child forever and may pose a threat to the entire community. Tell her to send the children. It's the only solution to create new brothers for Edd from his own kind."
The aide said, "There's something additional: we have received word that one of the workers of the great palace has died suddenly recently."
Zohra looked with a twinge of conscience and said, "Sorry for our loss. I will arrange his funeral; it will make the Garden of Eden bloom with even more life."
The aide approached Zohra and said softly, "They say you let that child into the garden. Is that true?"
Zohra said in a cold tone, "Unfortunately, it is true."
The aide looked at her with suspicion and said, "Why?"
Zohra said, "I believe in what moments mean. I wanted to see what that child represents to us, and now I'm sure. And if we can kill him, I wanted not to feel guilty."
The aide approached again and said, "Do you feel guilty about the worker who died? For hundreds of years, we've prevented humans from approaching; they think it's because of the lake, but it was all because of the fragility of our lives, easily taken. Even some of our own kind we prevented from entering, and those who broke the rules we exiled without mercy. So, what's the difference now? And did it benefit you?"
Zohra said hesitantly, "Yes."
The aide said, "What then?"
Zohra said, "We have to kill that child as soon as possible."