On the edge of the abyss, where the Neverwood stands, Thomas the One-Armed was standing. He was not standing as a spectator. He was standing as a warrior. His heavy sword, with which he had killed the Normens, hung on his back—a broad, dark blade bearing deep scratches, marks of old battles. The wind blowing from the Neverwood's edge carried the smell of death: rotting corpses, clotted blood, evaporated sweat. A smell that clutched the throat and refused to let go.
Thomas was looking into the depths. His single hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the fingers wrapped tight around the worn leather. His gray eyes, cold as winter stone, traced the blackened treeline—open like the mouth of a hungry beast, calling him. Not in words, but in silence. A deep silence filled with something waiting.
He stood upright, but he was not here—not entirely. Part of him was elsewhere, in another time. His jaw tightened. His breath came slower. He saw hundreds of men running beside him, windward steps, stumbling, falling, screaming. The Battle of the Brave, which everyone had fled, was returning to him now. It was not a memory. It was alive. As if the Neverwood itself was summoning it.
Thomas had not fled in that battle. He stood frozen in his place, just as he stood now.
The one hand that held the sword then was the same hand that was trembling now. It began to tremble, an involuntary tremor, as if the body remembered what the mind had tried to bury. He looked down at it—at the fingers that had killed, that had bled, that had survived. He gripped his sword instinctively. The fingers, which had been trembling, stopped shaking the moment they touched the hilt. The sword was an anchor, the only thing that had never betrayed him.
He released the breath he had been holding—a long, slow exhale that seemed to carry years with it. Then he stepped away from the Neverwood. His boots scraped against the stone ground as he turned. He began walking back to the tent. His steps were heavy, each one pressed into the earth as if he were carrying something invisible on his shoulders.
His chest was heavy, not with fear, but with something else—something like sorrow. Sorrow for those who were no longer. For those who ran and died. For those who remained, like him, to live with the dead.
On his way, between the shadows of torches dancing on the walls, he met a man. A man he had not seen approaching, as if he had emerged from the shadow itself. He wore a dark cloak. His face was half hidden, but his eyes—the two eyes looking at Thomas—were calm. Very calm.
Thomas stopped. His hand did not leave his sword. He looked at the man, at his eyes, at his stance—the stance of someone who was not afraid.
"You should not get too close to the Neverwood," said the man. His voice was soft, but it carried something of warning. "Because it gets even closer."
Thomas said, his voice rough, his eyes narrowing: "Has anyone ever come out of this wood alive?"
The man slowly shook his head. His eyes, which had been looking at Thomas, began to look at something farther—at the Neverwood behind him. "No. To my knowledge, no one has been able to emerge." He paused. "I mean, your body may come out, if you are strong enough. But your mind—no. It stays there."
His voice grew quieter, as if sharing a secret. He leaned slightly forward, his cloak shifting with the movement. "Your vanity, your courage, you. The Neverwood strips them all away, just like you strip your clothes every day."
Thomas was silent. He was looking at the man, at his features, which seemed to shift with every word, as if the light itself refused to settle on his face.
Thomas asked, his head tilting slightly: "How do you know all this about the Neverwood? Have you ever been here before? Who are you, man?"
The man looked at the wood and said in a deep, resonant voice, "I am just a man who came too close."
The man opened his mouth to say another thing, perhaps a useful thing. But before he could speak, a voice interrupted.
"Who are you talking to there?"
It was Sam's voice—his familiar, loud, carefree voice. He was outside, roaming, holding his wine cup in his left hand. He walked with unsteady steps, not from drunkenness, but from his nature. He was looking at Thomas, who stood alone.
Thomas turned to look at Sam. "What?" Then, after absorbing Sam's words, he turned again to see the man. But there was no one.
The space where the man had stood was utterly empty. No cloak, no face, no eyes. Only a tree's shadow and the flicker of a distant torch. Thomas stepped back involuntarily, his hand tightening on his sword, his eyes sweeping the place. Shadow, stone, wind—nothing.
"What's wrong with you?" Sam asked as he approached. He looked at Thomas, then at the empty space Thomas was staring at. His brow furrowed slightly. "Who were you talking to?"
Thomas did not answer. He only moved a little farther from the Neverwood, as if wanting to put distance between himself and something unseen. Then he said in a sharper tone than intended: "Stay away from the Neverwood."
Sam laughed, his light laugh. He raised his cup as if toasting the Neverwood and said: "Don't worry." He tilted his head, his smile widening. "I know the Neverwood. It can't control my mind; sometimes I can't control it myself."
Then he smiled, his crooked smile, and gestured with his cup toward the horizon, toward the great tent rising in the distance. "You stay away. We don't want to lose you before the round begins." He looked at Thomas, his eyes carrying something unreadable. "I'm going to that big tent over there. It looks noisy and interesting. Come with me if you are interested."
Then, as he walked away, he added without turning: "Whatever, I'm going. And one more thing—enjoy it, man, whatever the moment may be. Pain, sadness, anything—enjoy it. It's just an obstacle you'll overcome when you learn to trick your mind into thinking pain is peace and sadness is happiness. You will face things with a smile; they may think you are stupid, but you gonna win."
Thomas was looking at him, evaluating him. Is this the real Sam? Or another illusion from the Neverwood? Was the man he had spoken to moments ago an illusion, or was he real? The boundaries here in Thornholl were blurred. The Neverwood does not wait in its place. The Neverwood extends, touches, whispers. Thomas knew this now. He knew why the men who entered it did not emerge. Not because they died, but because they left something inside. Something irretrievable.
Sam, meanwhile, had reached the tent. It was the nobles' tent, a massive tent lit by dozens of torches. Noise poured out: laughter, music, the clinking of cups. He entered without announcing himself, without waiting for anyone to make way. He entered as any man would—a man who does not care.
Behind the tent, in an open space under the night sky, there was a play—a play titled "The False King." Actors stood on a wooden stage. One of them, a tall man wearing a gold-paper crown, stood in the center. Around him were other actors, masks, fake swords, exaggerated dialogues.
The play told an old story, the story of a certain figure from the past, in a time no one remembered exactly, who made a pact with the Normens. He made a pact with them to erect The Great Pale. He claimed to be a king. He told the people he was their king. But he, in truth, was no king. He was an assassin, an infiltrator. He entered the Normens' palace, their great palace in Merleith, and assassinated several of them, several of their high-ranking. His story was vague, his end unknown.
Some say he died. Some say he is still alive. Some say he is at the bottom of the Lake of Miracles, Lake Elindor, waiting. Waiting for the day he would rise. The day he would lead humanity to victory. The day the False King would return to become the true king.
But it was an inherited tale, a story told in plays, in taverns, in tents. There was nothing to prove its truth. No document, no witness. Only words, only hope. Yet, despite everything, humanity believed. Believed that there was someone waiting, that someone would return, that victory one day would be theirs.
The tent was full. Nobles sat on wooden benches. Some drank, some laughed, some watched the play, and some did not care. Sam sat on a seat—not a special seat. He did not want a special seat. He was free, free from the foolish traditions that trap a king between his guards, free from the throne that carries heavy blood. He was interested in the play, in the actor wearing the paper crown, in the words he delivered.
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Beside him, on the same wooden bench, were two nobles. Two men in dark robes. They were talking, chatting, not caring about the play. Their voices were background, a faint hum beneath the dialogue on stage.
A vendor passed before them—an old man carrying a wooden box. In the box were small plants, seedlings, tiny trees with pale green leaves. The man walked slowly, his back bent, his face bearing deep wrinkles of sun and wind. He pushed his small cart between the rows of seats.
One of the nobles looked at the plants. His eyes narrowed with disdain. "Do you grow these yourself?"
"Yes, my lord," said the farmer. His voice was low, tired. He bowed his head slightly. "And I guarantee their quality and freshness. They are the best. They enliven any home they enter."
The noble laughed—a short, harsh laugh. He leaned back on the bench, his arms crossing over his chest. "Are you stupid or do I think I'm stupid? Do you know this place, you ignorant? Thornholl, yes. There is no light. I will buy them today and they'll wither tomorrow." He tilted his head, his lip curling. "Did you take me for some kind of gullible rich man, aren't you?"
Sam heard, but he did not look. He was still watching the play. The actor, the False King, was raising his sword. He was about to stab.
Then, suddenly, the noble rose. His bench scraped against the ground. He knocked over the box. Plants scattered on the ground, soil spilled onto the stone. The noble stood over them, raised his foot, and stomped—once, twice. The leaves tore, the roots were exposed, the soil mixed with dust.
"How dare you call yourself a farmer when you are ignorant of your plants' needs?"
Here, only here, Sam turned.
He did not look at the noble. He looked at the farmer. The old man was on his knees, gathering the soil, holding it with his trembling fingers, returning it to the broken box. He gathered the torn leaves gently, as if touching wounds. He was silent. He did not protest, did not scream. He just gathered. His face, under torchlight, carried something painful, something familiar.
Sam said, his voice quiet but carrying: "Your face looks familiar."
The farmer looked at Sam—not knowing he was a king. He looked at him as one looks at any man. "Forgive me, sir."
Sam leaned forward slightly, his eyes studying the old man's features. "You have sunburns on your face. You are not from here, are you?"
"No, sir. I am not from here." The farmer's voice was barely above a whisper. "I am from Valkryn."
The noble heard this and looked at the farmer with disgust. His nose wrinkled. "That explains your burnt face." Then, coldly, he added: "Come on. Gather your soil and leave this shit hole now."
But Sam, slowly, rose.
He stood. He jumped off the dais, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. He walked toward one of the guards standing at the tent's entrance. The guard was young, his face holding the tension of one who does not know what to do. Sam, without a word, grabbed his sword and pulled it from its sheath forcefully.
The guard retreated and fell to the ground. Sam did not look at him.
He returned to the noble, walking calmly, the sword in his hand. People in the tent began to turn. The play stopped. The actor, the False King, froze in place.
Sam stood before the noble. He raised the sword and pointed it at the man's face. The blade gleamed under the torchlight.
"You have a handsome face there, young, white, and beautiful like a whore," said Sam. His voice was calm—very calm. He tilted his head, studying the noble's features as though examining a painting. "But, you do not think it is too pale?"
The noble man said, his voice trembling slightly: "What do you think you are doing?"
Sam did not answer.
Instead, he struck. Not with the blade, but with the sword's pommel. He struck the noble's head. One blow—strong. Blood flowed, ran down the man's face, onto his shirt, onto the scattered plants beneath him. The noble staggered and fell to his knees.
Then, slowly, Sam picked up the man's head—the head that moments before had been uttering insults—and placed it on one of the torches. The head, with its hair and wide-open eyes, began to burn. The smell of burnt hair filled the air. Flames licked the face.
Sam said, after watching the burning head, his voice light: "This is better."
Sam threw down the sword and turned to the farmer, who was still on his knees, still gathering the soil. "Rise."
The man hesitated, his eyes filled with terror.
"Rise," Sam repeated.
The farmer rose slowly, trembling.
"You are from Valkryn, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir." The man's voice was broken. "Please, do not hurt me. I have children."
Sam reached into his robe and pulled out a handful of silver—shiny silver coins. He extended them toward the man.
"Take these and go home. Your family must be waiting for you."
The farmer looked at the silver, at Sam, at the blood on the ground.
"Don't do that again. Don't put Valkryn in a position of pity. That really hurts." Sam continued. His voice, which had been harsh moments before, softened. "We do not bow to anyone."
"Who are you, sir?"
"I am a king—your king," said Sam.
"It is not your fault, Your Grace. I'm so sorry, please forgive me, I didn't mean to embarrass you." The man's voice choked. "My crop burned, and I had to adapt by any means."
Sam patted his shoulder. His hand, which had held the sword, was now gentle.
"Go home. We will fix things later."
Then he picked up the sword, walked to the guard who was still on the ground, and extended the sword to him. "Good work," he said, then left.
He was a boy, eighteen years old, out of his time. And in his unhinged moments, he seemed the most human.
That night, while the tent buzzed, Robert sat in his study, alone. The study was small, stone, the walls bare save for one hanging sword. The single torch in the room cast long shadows. Robert was blindfolded—a black blindfold like the one he had worn when he was blind. But he was not blind now. He could see. Yet he was blindfolded, as if he were someone who entrusted his secret to no one, as if his secrets were blindfolded too. No one saw them, not even him.
A knock on the door. The Mediator of the Kingdoms entered—a tall, thin man wearing a neutral robe, colorless, without insignia. He carried in his hands five papers. Two were sealed, three still bore no seal, no price.
The Mediator approached and placed the papers on the desk—Robert's desk.
"Under the shadow of the Neverwood, what do you place into its shadows?"
This was the question. The question the Mediator asked every year. The question that determined everything.
Robert looked at him despite the blindfold—or perhaps because of it. "What did the other kings bet on?"
"As you know, my lord, you are not permitted to know," said the Mediator. His voice was diplomatic, trained. "But trust me when I say they are heavy things."
Robert picked up his quill—the long quill—dipped it in ink, black ink gleaming under the torchlight. He wrote. His handwriting was steady, precise. He did not hesitate.
When he finished, he sealed the paper with his royal seal—the emblem of thorns.
The Mediator took the paper and read it. His eyes, which had been calm throughout, widened. "My God…" he muttered. "Why risk so much? Why cast your entire kingdom?" Robert looked at him. "I don't lose, and besides, some of them will lose more than their bet, so it's worth it."
"But my lord—"
Robert said, his eyes not even blinking. "And the size of the bet lets you know what you fight for."
"You know best, my lord."
"Has everyone placed their bet?"
"Not everyone, my lord. King Meriel—I haven't gone to him yet. And King Gerald is still missing. But the latter…" The Mediator paused. "…we have not found him yet. Perhaps he will not be among the wagers."
Robert looked at the Mediator. "If he is not present, that is his bet. And he loses in it. Because what happens in the Neverwood cannot be missed. Especially for him. But who knows, perhaps kings will somehow surprise everyone; they have ways of doing that."
In another tent—the tent of Izzadar—Meriel stood. He was not sitting, not resting. He paced back and forth, his steps tracing a circle on the earthen floor. He was waiting—for something or someone. His eyes darted, now toward the tent's entrance, now toward the ground. There was tension in his shoulders, in his clenched fists.
Then he looked up and saw one of his men approaching on horseback. The horse was panting, the knight was tired.
Before the knight dismounted, Meriel asked, his voice sharp: "What?"
"I searched everywhere for him, Your Grace," said the knight. His voice carried regret. He bowed his head. "I think he reconsidered and returned to the kingdom."
Meriel shook his head. "No." His voice was calm—but calm in a dangerous way. "My brother Gerald always loved the Neverwood and waited for it every year. I think he just does not want to see me."
He paused. His eyes, which had been looking at the knight, now stared at nothing. "I think I wronged him. How could I say such a thing to him?" His voice nearly broke. "He is all I have left."
"I will search again, my lord," said the knight. "On my horse."
"Go," said Meriel. "The round is about to begin."
Meriel entered his tent and sat on the chair, alone. The fire burning at the center danced. He looked at it, at the flames, at the glowing embers. His face, under the shifting light, looked older than his years—more tired, more alone.
Someone knocked on the tent pole and entered. It was the Mediator of the Kingdoms.
"King Meriel. How are you? This is, I think, our first meeting. You are not fond of the annual games. Anyway…" He extended his hand, holding the paper. "…I am here to carry your wager. Here on this paper, cast the price you offer, and let us hope for your victorious champions."
Meriel took the paper. He looked at it, at the blank space waiting for his words. He took the quill, dipped it in ink, and wagered a portion of craft resources—resources of Izzadar. It was not a huge wager, not a risk. It was acceptable, reasonable. The wager of a man who did not want to lose anything because he had already lost so much.
The Mediator took the paper and looked at the wager. "Not bad. By any chance, my lord, have you seen your brother here? It is unusual for him to miss this occasion."
"Perhaps he changed his mind," said Meriel. His voice was neutral. "Can he not?"
"No, no. He has every right to do so. Now, after verifying his matter, my task is done."
The Mediator bowed and turned. Before he left, he turned back. "Go to the Council of Kings. The Neverwood game will begin at any moment. And make your champions ready." Then he smiled. "Good luck."
The Mediator left. Meriel remained alone. The fire still danced. He looked at it, at the embers, at the ash, at what remained. The round is about to begin.