Merleith
In the inner pool of Merleith High Castle, where the water does not flow but breathes, the Anhar water cascading from the great Mount Izzadar filled the vast basin. It was no ordinary pool—it was like a small lake, roofed by a dome of transparent rock crystal that allowed light to filter through in a pale blue hue, as if the sky itself was melting and descending into the water.
The light reflected on the surface traced silver ripples that danced upon the stone walls, and the entire place was thick with the scent of ancient metals and something like ozone—the very smell of life itself.
It was said of this water that it was like the tide.
It did not grant immortality, but it prolonged life. Every drop carried something of time, something that slowed aging, repaired cells, and kept the body in a state of perpetual renewal. This water—the river water that sprang from the heart of Mount Izzadar—was what nourished the Garden of Eden, what sustained the lives of the Normens, what strengthened and empowered them. It had always been a symbol of life and power. And it was the reason—the justifiable reason—that the Normens had isolated themselves from humans and their greed.
But Zohra was not seeking a longer life. Not immortality. Not power. She was seeking cleansing. Floating on her back upon the water's surface, her arms stretched out like the wings of a dead bird, her eyes open to the crystal ceiling without seeing it. Her long silver hair spread around her like soft algae, and her simple white dress clung to her body like a second skin.
She would dive. Sink to the bottom where everything fell silent, where there was no sound but the slow beat of her heart, and where silence approached the absolute. She would remain there—in that deep blue silence—until her breath neared its breaking point, until her chest began to burn, until she felt her body about to betray her and force her mouth open against her will.
Only then would she rise. Surge to the surface in an explosion of bubbles, gasping for air as if newly born.
The water would expel her as she trembled.
She did this repeatedly. Dive after dive. As if she were trying to strangle something inside her. Something that could only be killed if she died first.
Her guilt. She wanted to wash herself of her guilt. To rid herself of it. To leave it at the bottom of the pool as one leaves a soiled garment. But guilt—as she discovered with every dive—does not dissolve in water. Not even in the river water. Not even in the water that extends life.
Guilt is something else. Guilt floats.
Bubbles rose to the surface in silver chains, danced, then burst. And below—where Zohra was submerged in her blue silence—a muffled voice reached her from above. A woman's voice.
Indistinct words. Zohra began to ascend slowly, her body piercing the layers of water one by one, the voice growing clearer as she neared the surface. When her head finally emerged, her ear caught the sentence she had dreaded:
"—I am here on a summons from the Nine Eyes of Truth."
Zohra froze. Her hands gripped the pool's edge, her knuckles whitening against the wet stone. Water dripped from her hair onto her shoulders in slow, heavy drops. Her eyes—which moments before had been submerged in silence—widened with something akin to surrender. She was thinking of the mistake she had made. That there was no turning back now.
That the "Nine"—the Eyes of Truth, the ancient rulers of the Normens—summoned no one except for a trial. Or punishment. Or sacrifice.
She climbed the steps slowly. Her legs felt heavier with each rise. Water still streamed from her body, leaving wet traces on the stone. She walked barefoot toward the Wanderer—her friend—who stood at the pool's entrance.
The Wanderer's face bore deep concern, and even greater sorrow. Her lips trembled slightly, and her eyes avoided Zohra's. She knew. She knew her friend was about to be put on trial.
Zohra placed her hand on the Wanderer's shoulder. The hand was still cold from the water. She said in a calm voice, yet heavy with surrender:
"I will answer the summons. After I dress in attire befitting their presence."
Zohra withdrew to her chamber. Closed the door behind her. Stood before the silent mirror for minutes—she did not see her reflection, but something else. Something farther.
Then she moved. She donned the red suit—the color of blood, the color of sacrifice—over which a black hood draped down over her shoulders. The suit was tight at the wrists and waist, and wide at the sleeves, as if designed to make the wearer appear like an inverted flame.
When she emerged, two guards awaited her with their sharp eyes and fiery red and noble white hair. They exchanged no words with her. They simply walked beside her.
Zohra walked the length of the Green Alley. This passage—stretching through the heart of the high castle—was lined with trees unlike any seen elsewhere. Trees with white trunks like bones, and dark green leaves tinged with blue. The leaves fell slowly, hovering in the air like feathers of unseen birds, then settled upon the stone floor without a sound. Walking through this alley was like walking inside a dream—everything quiet, everything slow, everything seeming on the verge of waking.
At the end of the alley, where the castle ended and the mountain began, there was a cave entrance. It was no ordinary cave—but a vast gaping maw in the heart of great Mount Izzadar, extending upward until it nearly touched the sky. Zohra entered. The guards remained outside.
The Cave of the Nine
Inside the cave, light came from above—from a natural opening in the mountain's ceiling, through which sunlight streamed in one broad column, illuminating the center and leaving the sides in deep shadow. At the center—where the light concentrated—there was a tree. A red tree.
Not red-leaved like autumn trees—but entirely red: the trunk a dark wine red, the leaves a crimson red like fresh blood, and even the roots that coiled around the rocks were red. Upon it hung nine apples. Each apple gleamed under the light like a gemstone. Nine apples. Nine lives.
Zohra walked to one side, where a small bucket sat in its place—a specific spot, as if awaiting her.
She took the bucket. Filled it from the rivulets of water that ran through the mountain rocks—the very same water, the river water, the water of life. Then she approached the tree and watered it. The water seeped into the red roots in silence. The nine apples swayed slightly, as if breathing.
Above—on the rocky walls of the cave—there were nine thrones. They were not ordinary thrones. They were carved from the rock itself, projecting from the wall like giant shelves, encircling the cave in a semicircle. Nine thrones. Nine steps leading up to each throne. Light from the upper opening struck the central throne directly, leaving the rest in graduated shadows.
One of the cave's servants—an old man in an ashen robe, his voice rough as breaking stone—began to shout. His voice echoed through the cave walls as if coming from several mouths at once. He threw his arms wide, his sleeves billowing like grey wings:
"You stand before the Nine Thrones! Before the Ancient Eyes of Truth! The Forgers of the Future! The Founders of the Present! The Builders of the Past! You are in the presence of the Nine!"
Zohra knelt. One knee first, then the other, the cold rock biting into her skin through the thin fabric. Her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her hands trembled slightly as she placed them on the cold rock. Then she raised her voice—a voice attempting to be steady:
"Long live the Nine. Long live Merleith. Long live the Normens."
The silence that followed these words was heavier than any shout. It was a silence filled with something yet unspoken. Then—from above—the silence broke.
"Do you mean what you say?"
It was an old woman's voice. A voice not loud, but clear as a bell in a quiet night. Its tone carried ancient doubts, questions not posed for centuries. The voice came from one of the thrones—the fourth from the left. Shadows concealed its owner, but the voice was enough.
"After what you have done... do you mean your slogans?"
Zohra could not look at them. Her eyes were fixed on the rock upon which she knelt. Her throat was dry. Her fingers curled against the stone floor. Finally—hesitantly—she spoke:
"I only did what I thought was right. And it turned out I was wrong. I will not deny that. And I am here to face the consequences."
The word "consequences" echoed in the cave. Then—from another throne—came another woman's voice. Sharper. Younger. Harsher. A hand emerged from the shadows, waving dismissively:
"Consequences? You have done what humans have been unable to do for centuries. You have caused the death of one of us."
Then—from a third throne—came the voice Zohra feared more than anything. A third woman's voice. A very quiet voice. So quiet it seemed like death itself:
"You will give your life for that."
Zohra did not hesitate. Did not ask for explanation. Did not beg.
"If my life is the right price I will pay, I will take it. I will accept your judgment."
The word left her mouth as if she had been waiting for this from the start. Then—without being asked—she raised her right hand. Opened her mouth. And thrust her entire hand—fingers first, then palm, then wrist—down her throat.
The sight was horrifying. Her face began to turn blue. The veins in her neck bulged like ropes beneath the skin. Her body trembled violently—the survival instinct screaming in every cell—but her hand remained inside. Her breath ceased. Her eyes began to close.
"Stop!"
It was the voice of the Eye who had spoken first. The old woman. Her voice was not angry—but commanding. Commanding beyond refusal.
Zohra pulled her hand out quickly. Fell onto her hands and knees, gasping, coughing, tears streaming from her eyes. Her hand was slick with saliva. Her chest heaved violently. It took several moments before she could raise her head. When she did—she saw who had spoken.
She wore like the others: a red robe. A tall headpiece extending meters above her head, making her appear taller than she was, as if she were part of the rock itself. The robe concealed her features, but her eyes—the only two visible eyes—pierced the darkness. They were very old eyes. Eyes that had seen more than they should.
"You will pay for your mistake with your life. But not in a way that benefits no one. No. You will atone for your mistakes by first having all your authorities stripped from you. You will become nothing. Utterly bare."
She paused. The silence hummed in Zohra's ears.
"And you will be a mother. That is the appropriate punishment for you and him."
Zohra slowly raised her head. Confusion was clear on her face. Her brow furrowed, her lips parted slightly.
"Forgive me... but a mother?"
One of the Eyes of Truth continued—another woman, her voice softer but not without a subtle edge. She leaned forward on her throne, her chin resting on her folded fingers:
"Your mistake is not merely bringing the human boy into the Garden of Life. Your mistake is whom you brought in. That is the problem. And you will face that by becoming his mother."
Then—as if reading from a written text—she continued:
"Just as we have sent a request to bring friends of his age and kind. One of the Rotted Fruits has heeded the matter and will send a group of them. They will be his friends. And you—you will be his mother. If he is invincible, we will use his humanity against him, as they call it, emotion."
Zohra was still kneeling. She was trying to process the words. Mother. To be a mother to that child. To the child who had withered the fruit of life by merely touching it. To the child of whom the prophecy said he was the Chosen One. To the child—whom, in her heart, she had wanted to kill.
She said hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper:
"But... I believe we should kill him. He is a danger to us."
The reply came—from the Eye with the tall headpiece—quickly. She raised one hand, silencing the cave:
"Good. We see that as well. But we cannot kill him. He hears everything. Sees everything. And can do anything. He is invincibly powerful."
She paused. Then—in a lighter tone, as if sharing a secret with Zohra—she added:
"And if we cannot kill him... at least we must tame him. And who better to do that than a mother?"
Silence. Silence was the only response Zohra could offer.
"You will do it. That is your duty. That is your sacrifice."
Zohra closed her eyes. "And I will sacrifice it." She said in a faint voice. "All of it."
"You may leave."
Zohra bowed. Stood. Turned. Began walking toward the cave's exit. Her steps were slow. Each step crushed something beneath her foot—her pride, her freedom, her old identity. She was halfway to the exit when she suddenly stopped. She remembered something.
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"The brother..."
She turned. Faced the thrones again.
"One more thing... the child had a brother with him in the forest. I think if we could bring him... it would be the better solution."
One of the Nine Eyes of Truth—who had been silent all along—raised her finger. One finger. Long. Slender. Placed it on her forehead. Then she began to chant strange sounds: not words, not a song, but something between them. Sonic waves rising and falling. Her body began to move erratically—as if something else controlled it. This continued for several minutes. Zohra stood, holding her breath.
Then—a scream.
A powerful scream tore through the cave's silence. Everything stopped. The woman who had been trembling froze in place. Then—in a completely different voice, as if speaking from another place, another time—she said:
"The other child is dead."
Silence. Zohra felt something sink in her chest.
"The shadows swallowed him."
Then—after a moment of silence—the woman's body trembled again. Her eyes—which had been closed—opened suddenly. And in them was terror. Pure terror.
"He was there."
One of the other Eyes—the old voice—asked quickly:
"Who?"
"He was watching me... the Chosen One. He was searching for his brother as well. He is a danger to all Normens, Mallariens, and Humans as well."
Then—in an exhausted voice, as if she had spent all her energy—she turned to Zohra:
"Leave now."
Zohra left. Walked out of the cave. Walked through the Green Alley. Walked without seeing the trees. All she could think of—she who hours earlier had wanted to wash herself of her guilt—was one word.
Motherhood.
What is that thing?
The Black Cloud Forest near the walls of Thornholl stretched like a sleeping beast. It was no ordinary forest—its trees were so tall that their upper branches vanished into the perpetual mist that shrouded the area. The trunks were black. Not dark brown—but black as coal. And the leaves—the few that remained on the branches—were gray, withered, as if the forest itself were in a state of slow death. The air was heavy. Cold. Carrying the smell of moss, mold, and something else—something metallic, like the scent of old blood.
In this forest—on a cold night, where darkness was so dense that one could not see their hand before their face—two people were moving. Two who had broken away from King Gerald's procession. They were heading toward Thornholl, but had stopped in the heart of the forest.
One was William the Lame—King Gerald's right hand, and his iron cane.
The other was Sir Gerard—one of the kingdom's trusted knights. A knight of sturdy build, broad-shouldered, with a square face and a heavy jaw. He carried a torch in his left hand, the fire dancing in his eyes.
William was leading his horse through the pitch-black dark. He did not see the path—he felt it. The horse's hooves trod upon uneven ground, full of protruding roots and small stones. The sound of the hooves was muffled, as if the earth itself were swallowing the noise. Beside him—on his horse—Sir Gerard raised the torch high. The firelight traced orange circles on the black tree trunks, making the shadows dance around them like restless spirits. Gerard's face—under the flickering torchlight—appeared half alive, half dead.
William stopped suddenly. His horse snorted and stopped with him.
"Stop." He said quietly. "We will camp here and continue the march tomorrow."
Sir Gerard—still on his horse—looked ahead, trying to pierce the darkness with his eyes. He could barely see the tips of Thornholl's walls on the horizon, as a faint point of light.
"But we are close, my lord, to Thornholl."
William sighed. His voice was tired—not just from his body, but from his soul.
"I want to catch my breath a little. I am not like you, Sir Gerard. I am a cripple. And though my horse carries me... my foot still hurts. Let us stop and continue at dawn."
His eyes—the one healthy eye and the other with an old scar around it—were fixed on Gerard. There was something in his gaze. Something the knight did not notice.
"Very well, my lord." Gerard dismounted first. Then—in a helpful tone—he said:
"Let me help you down from your horse."
William smiled. A faint, quick smile.
"That is kind of you, Sir Gerard. Please... take this cane."
William extended his iron cane toward the knight. Gerard took it. It was cold. Heavier than he expected. Then—despite the offered help—William dismounted alone. He dismounted with difficulty. His injured foot—which had been crushed by a pillar years before—did not obey him easily. When it touched the ground, it nearly buckled beneath him, but he steadied himself. He took a deep breath. Extended his hand toward Gerard.
"Give me the torch. I will hold it while you gather some firewood."
William sat leaning against a tree. The tree—black like the rest of the forest—had a trunk as rough as crocodile skin. William felt its roughness through the fabric of his robe. He stretched his injured leg before him. With his left hand—holding the torch—he lit the area around him. With his right hand—free—he massaged his foot. His fingers pressed into the cramped muscles.
Pain escaped between his lips in a slow exhale. The fire—which he held aloft—cast his face's shadows from below, making his wrinkles deeper, his scar around his eye more pronounced.
Meanwhile, Sir Gerard gathered firewood. He moved little by little away from the torchlight, feeling the ground with his hands, picking up dry branches. And suddenly—he heard sounds. Strange sounds. Not animal sounds—they were like whispers. Unclear whispers, as if several people were speaking at once from a distance. He turned around. Saw nothing. Only darkness. And the black trees. And the whispers.
After seeing that what he had gathered was sufficient—he did not want to remain alone in that darkness any longer than necessary—he hurried back toward the torchlight. The light was a small orange point dancing among the trees. The closer he came to it, the fainter the whispers grew. When he arrived—he found William sitting by the tree, exactly as he had left him. The torch was planted in the ground beside him. There was something in his posture—a strange calm.
The calm of a man who had made a decision.
Gerard placed the wood on the ground. William rose. Lit the fire. Flames began to lick the dry branches, and the light spread to drive away the darkness in a circle around them. Smoke rose in a thin white column, vanishing into the darkness above their heads. William sat again—this time closer to the fire, so that its glow shone on his pale skin.
He took from his satchel two chicken thighs. They were wrapped in cloth. He extended one to Sir Gerard.
"Thank you." Said Gerard. His voice carried relief. The relief of a hungry man.
William smiled. "You're welcome."
Then he took his thigh. Plunged his knife into it. Cut a piece. Began to eat slowly—not with pleasure, but like a man performing a duty. His face was directed toward the fire, and his eyes watched the flames as if reading something in them. Gerard did the same. Cut a piece from his thigh. Began to eat.
Between bites, Gerard spoke, wiping grease from his chin with the back of his hand: "I think this place... at this bloody dark night woods... is dangerous. It is full of monsters. I can hear them, the voice of evil."
William smiled. A smile that was not warm. He looked at the fire—not at Gerard—and said:
"Why? Did you hear them whisper? What did they say? I'm interested to know. Did they speak about you? Or lie about you? Or betray you?"
He paused. Raised his eyes from the fire to Gerard's face.
"If not... then those are not the real monsters. Those are merely creatures following their instincts."
He turned the knife slowly between his fingers. The fire reflected on the blade.
"Monsters... are not usually terrifying. They may be simple. They may look like us. But they may be just."
He paused. His eyes—the healthy one and the scarred one—were now fixed on Gerard. There was something in his gaze. Something cold.
"But they always carry another face. The real face of the monster."
Gerard was looking at William with difficulty. The fire between them danced, and William's face—behind the flames—appeared distorted, changing, as if not one face but several superimposed.
"Monsters are humans, Sir Gerard. And humans... are monsters."
William paused. The fire crackled. A spark flew and vanished into the dark.
"Tell me, Sir Gerard... what kind of monster are you? Tell me."
Gerard had opened his mouth to answer—or perhaps to deny—when everything changed.
In one moment—faster than the eye could perceive—William rose. His knife—which had been cutting chicken seconds before—was suddenly in his right hand, and he lunged toward Gerard.
There was no warning cry. No word. Only one continuous motion: the knife plunged into Gerard's thigh. Once. Then again. Then a third time. William stabbed in silence, his mouth tight, his eyes wide open—not the eyes of a killer, but the eyes of a man doing what must be done.
Blood began to flow. Hot. Abundant. It stained William's hand, his clothes, the leaves beneath him. Gerard screamed—not just a scream of pain, but a scream of betrayal. He tried to push the knife away with his hands, but the pain blinded him. The blood soaked his clothes and spilled onto the dry earth, which drank it thirstily.
William stood with difficulty. Took two steps back. He was breathing hard—not from exhaustion, but from something else. His hand holding the knife trembled. He looked at the blood on the knife. Looked at the blood on his hand. Looked at Gerard—who was collapsed on the ground, pressing his thigh with both hands, blood seeping between his fingers.
William said: "I... Sir... I am a just monster."
Gerard's voice—full of pain and anger—came out muffled: "You... You deceived me."
"No." William shook his head slowly. "I only made things just. Cripple against cripple. That is the kind of monster I am."
He paused. Looked at Gerard—at the blood, at the helplessness in his eyes.
"As for you... you are a traitor. Tell me, Sir... who owns you? Tell me... and perhaps I will spare you. As I told you... I am a just."
Gerard was looking at him. His face was pale from blood loss. But his eyes—despite the pain—held defiance. He spat blood. Then said: "Kiss my ass... you cripple."
William did not get angry. He only sighed. "Very well. No need to know from you. I will find out in my own way now."
Then he raised his knife—still dripping blood—and pointed it at Gerard.
"Get up. Fight me. I think that is the most honorable thing I can offer you in your current state."
Sir Gerard rose. With difficulty. Slowly. He limped—just as William limped. Blood still flowed from his thigh, leaving traces on the leaves. He drew his own knife from his belt. Pointed it at William. He was breathing hard. In pain. But his eyes carried pure hatred.
"You will regret this... you cripple."
Then—with all the strength left in him—he hurled himself at William. His knife aimed at his chest. But William was ready. In the last moment—instead of retreating or dodging—he directed a powerful kick at Gerard's injured foot. The foot that could barely hold him. Gerard screamed. Fell. William also fell—losing his balance from the force of the kick.
But William was quicker to rise.
He stood. Looked at Gerard—who was trying to get up, who was crawling, who was groaning. William advanced. Grabbed the knife. Grabbed Gerard's head. And in one motion—swift, clean—he ended it. Blood—Gerard's blood—spattered across William's face. His hands. His chest.
William stood for a moment. He was looking at the corpse. The corpse that minutes before had been a man. A knight. A traveling companion. The corpse that had been breathing and eating and threatening. Blood still flowed slowly from it—blood that began to clot and turn darker. William was looking at it. He was trembling. It was not a shiver of cold. It was a shiver of something else.
Something like...
He suddenly bent over. Vomited. His body convulsed. His hands trembled. The knife fell to the ground. After minutes—minutes that seemed longer than they were—William grabbed his right hand with his left. Steadied it. Stopped the trembling. He was breathing with difficulty. Sweat dripped from his forehead.
Then—slowly—he began to move. He dragged the corpse to the fire. The fire—which had begun to die down—blazed anew when it touched the corpse. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
William did not look. He released Gerard's horse—the horse that had been standing in the darkness, trembling, as if it knew. The horse snorted. Looked at William for a moment. Then ran. Vanished into the dark.
William mounted his horse. Sat in the saddle slowly—like a man older than his years. He looked at the fire—still burning—for one last moment. Then turned his horse. And rode off. He was alone now. In the black forest. In the dark. He was a just beast. And he knew—somewhere in his heart—that this night was not over yet.
Thornholl
Inside—within Thornholl's walls—the kings had arrived. Each by their own path.
Marcus came from the sea. Sam came by land. And Meriel was the last to arrive. He entered through the main gate. Alone. Without his brother. His face bore the fatigue of the road, but his eyes—despite that—were sharp. They swept the place. The walls. The towers. The people. As if he were searching for something. Or someone.
On the other side of the kingdom—in a lavish tent erected specifically for him—Sam was amusing himself. Not alone. Beside him were the women of Thornholl—"dark whores" as he called them. Women with long black hair, pale skin, and lips dark as wine. They laughed. Sang. Swayed. One of them sat on Sam's lap, playing with his hair. Another poured him drink. A third danced—slowly—before him. Torches inside the tent filled the place with warm golden light, and smoke rose in thin threads.
In the corner of the tent—away from the light—Thomas sat. On the ground. His sword on his knees. A whetstone in his hand. He was sharpening the sword. The stone made a steady sound: sharpen... sharpen... sharpen. His eyes—fixed on the blade—were in another world. A world where Sam did not exist. Nor his whores. Nor their laughter. He was in his own world. A world that could never intersect with Sam's.
Sam looked at him. A look of surprise—genuine surprise—and then said, his fingers still tangled in the whore's hair:
"That is not your only weapon. You know?"
Thomas looked at him slowly—with the slowness of a man who rushes nothing. The whores were laughing. Soft, stifled laughs. But Thomas did not look at them. He was looking at Sam. And his gaze carried one thing: disgust. Pure disgust. And indifference.
Sam continued—while his fingers still played with the hair of the whore on his lap. He tilted his head, his smile widening:
"The second weapon... needs sharpening too."
He looked at the woman—the closest to him—and winked.
"Doesn't it?"
"Indeed, my brave king." She said with a practiced smile. A smile that did not reach her eyes.
Thomas was about to say something—perhaps. His mouth had opened slightly. But the guard entered before he could speak.
"There is a visitor, my lord."
"Let him in." Said Sam without looking at the guard. He was still playing with the whore's hair.
---
The visitor entered.
It was Marcus.
He stood at the tent's entrance. Looked at the scene: Sam on his chair. The women around him. The whore on his lap. Drink in his hand. Thomas in the corner. Marcus smiled. A sardonic smile.
"I thought you had grown up."
Sam did not get angry. Did not move. Only replied calmly—the calm of a man who had heard this insult many times:
"I have a condition for that."
Marcus laughed. A short laugh. Then said:
"Good, at least there's hope. Anyway... I just wanted to see how you're faring. Like a child playing in the world of adults."
"You mean the elderly." Sam smiled.
But Marcus did not reply. He had looked left. To the tent's corner. To Thomas. Who was still sharpening his sword. Who had never looked at him.
"This is your champion?" Said Marcus. His voice carried genuine wonder. "I have heard stories about him. Is it true?"
"Yes." Said Sam. "He is flesh and blood."
Marcus took a step toward Thomas. His curiosity—the curiosity of a man who wants to know how things work—overcame him.
"How did you do it? How did you defeat them? And is it true what they say... you did it with one arm?"
He paused. He was waiting for an answer. Thomas looked at him. Raised his head—slowly. His face—lit by torchlight—appeared carved from stone. An old scar ran from his forehead to his cheek. His gray eyes looked at Marcus as a man looks at an insect.
"You kings ask many questions?"
His voice was rough. Deep. Like rolling stone.
"But... sorry, there are no stories for you tonight."
Marcus smiled. Did not get angry.
"It doesn't really matter if it's true, I'll find out, and if it's just pathetic stories, you're the one who'll find out, out there in the woods. There is no room for deception."
Thomas didn't respond, didn't look, but simply kept his gaze fixed on his sword; that was the only thing that truly mattered.
Marcus left. The cold air outside struck his face. He took a deep breath—Thornholl's heavy air, thick with the scent of thorns and damp earth. Night had now fully fallen. Torches were lit everywhere. And in the orange light—he saw a procession entering through the main gate.
Meriel.
Marcus stopped. Hid—not out of fear, but caution. He watched the procession. Meriel was at the front. On his horse. Alone. Marcus saw his face—tired. Pale. His eyes sunken. Gerald was not with him. Nor was Sereine. She was not in the procession.
Where is she?
A question crossed Marcus's mind—quickly. But he found no answer. He left before Meriel saw him—not because they were enemies, but because they were not best friends. And some meetings—in the world of kings—are better postponed.
In the city—outside the palace walls—the knights of Ironfield roamed the alleys. They were searching. Their faces bore deep concern. Their king—Gerald—had vanished. He had entered Thornholl. Then... nothing. They ran through every alley, asking, but no one knew, no one had seen. As if the darkness of Thornholl had swallowed him up.
While they searched—Gerald was running.
He was not running through the alleys. He was running elsewhere. In the Neverwood. In a nightmare. In something between. He was running after a child. A small child. A small back. Dark hair. The child ran fast, and the faster Gerald ran, the farther the child receded.
"Come back, boy! Your father is looking for you! Come back with me!"
But the child did not stop. He continued running until they reached the edge of the Neverwood—where the dead, blackened trees rose like charred bones against the sky, and thick fog coiled between their trunks like waiting arms. The child stopped and turned around.
His face was Ned's face.
Gerald stopped too, panting. His heart pounded violently, and not only from running.
"Stop running, boy. Don't enter the Neverwood. Come to me."
And Ned began walking toward him.
"Yes... good. Keep coming."
Gerald extended his hand, about to touch him, about to grab him.
But from the Neverwood, from beyond the blackened trees, shadows extended. They were not ordinary shadows. They were black, dense, as if alive. They extended quickly and seized Ned's feet.
Ned screamed. A scream that was not heard. A silent scream. His mouth was open, his eyes wide with terror, but there was no sound.
"No!"
Gerald screamed and ran toward Ned, toward the shadows that were pulling him into the Neverwood.
"No! No!"
But he was slow. Too slow.
The shadows swallowed Ned. The child whose face was Ned's face vanished into the fog and the dead trees.
Gerald, without hesitation, without fear, without thinking, followed them.
He ran into the Neverwood after Ned and after the shadows that took him.
And took his father with to.