The city road inside Valkryn was lined with people, pressed shoulder to shoulder, their voices rising in a wave of sound. King Sam rode at the head of the royal procession, his horse caparisoned in crimson and gold. He smiled and raised a hand, and the crowd roared. Men and women shouted his name, children waved, and Sam greeted them all with a nod and a smile.
Then the people noticed something strange.
At the very front of the procession, ahead of even the king, rode a man in battered armor. His helmet was dented, his breastplate scarred, and his left arm was gone—completely severed, leaving only a stump bound in leather. He stared only ahead, his eyes fixed on the road, never once looking at the king, never once looking at the people.
The crowd whispered among themselves, pointing.
"That is him."
"The man who killed the Normen."
"He fights for us."
"He stands on our side."
The one-armed man did not acknowledge them. His face was a mask, but beneath it, something churned. Every time he heard those words, his disgust only deepened. Because when a man truly learns the limits of humanity, he begins to hate humanity itself.
Outside the walls of the palace of Izzadar, the shadows were long and the air was cool. Sereine stood beside an old woman whose face was a map of wrinkles, her eyes sharp as flint. The old woman studied Sereine's face for a few moments, then said in a low, firm voice:
"We shall enter now. Do not look up directly into the eyes of the guards, and do not speak no matter what happens... and remember, you are a mute poor little one. Is this understood?"
Sereine merely nodded, her lips pressed tightly together.
The old woman stepped forward with confident strides, her back straight despite her years. Sereine walked behind her, lowering her head as instructed, her eyes on the ground. They passed through the great gate, and the guards—bored, distracted—barely glanced at them. No one stopped them.
No sooner had they crossed into the courtyard than the old woman said, "I shall show you the palace. Follow me."
The first place she led her to was the kitchen. The smell of smoke and roasting meat filled the air. The old woman stopped before the entrance and pointed. "This is your place within the palace... and do not forget it."
Then she moved on, gesturing toward corridors and chambers one after another, explaining their locations and purposes. Sereine followed silently, her eyes taking in everything—the high ceilings, the carved stone, the flickering torches.
But when the old woman turned to make certain she was still behind her, she found no one. Her eyes widened with anger.
"That wretched girl..."
She began running through the corridors, her breath coming in short gasps, calling out in a furious whisper. But Sereine had already vanished.
She walked alone through the palace, exploring every corner with eyes full of wonder. Everything delighted her: the ornamented stone walls, the high windows that let in shafts of pale light, the statues of ancient kings, the long corridors that seemed to stretch forever. She gazed upon the place as though she were visiting a world she had never known existed.
As she passed beside one of the chambers, her attention was caught by a door left slightly ajar. Her curiosity halted at that door. She approached slowly, then peered through the narrow gap.
She was not prepared for what she saw.
Inside the chamber, a woman stood upon a wooden chair. A rope was knotted around her neck, tied to a high window bar. Her face was wet with tears, her chest rising and falling rapidly. In the next moment, she kicked the chair away with her feet and hung in the air.
Sereine froze for an instant. Her mind went blank. Then a single thought pierced the shock: This woman seems to be someone of high standing within the palace, and there is no better way to secure my place here than to save her.
She rushed inside without hesitation. The door banged against the wall. She seized the woman by the legs with all her strength, lifting her up, trying to ease the pressure upon her throat. The woman's body twisted and kicked violently. Her hands clawed at the rope, then at Sereine's hair, and she screamed—a raw, choking sound:
"Leave me alone! You have no right!"
But Sereine did not release her. She clung to her legs even tighter, her muscles straining. Then, without thinking, she broke the first rule she had been ordered to obey—and she spoke.
"I will not let you die."
The moment the words left her mouth, she realized she had revealed her secret. But she did not care. She kept holding on. The woman was still struggling, screaming, her face turning purple.
"Let go of me... or I shall command the guards to cut off your hands!"
Sereine lifted her head toward her, and her voice was calm. "Perhaps they will be cut off... but the day will come when you will understand that these hands did the right thing."
She paused, then gave a hard smile and added, "As my father used to say... we will not die as long as tomorrow still exists. Silly wisdom, but it keeps your life."
Silence fell for a few moments. The woman's thrashing slowed. She began to cease her resistance, little by little. Her voice, when it came, was weary and broken. "Okay... okay... let me down."
Sereine answered, "I shall return the chair first."
She set the chair back in its place, then helped the woman to stand on it before releasing her. The moment her feet touched the chair, she collapsed onto it, then slid to the floor, sitting in a heap. She began to weep bitterly, her shoulders shaking, her hands covering her face.
Sereine stood bewildered, not knowing what to do. After moments of hesitation, she knelt and placed her hand gently upon the woman's back. "You have a beautiful room," she said, trying to ease her sorrow.
The woman laughed through her tears. "Yes... it is all I have. But no matter how beautiful it is, it won't change the fact that it's just a cage. The whole palace is just a big, fancy cage."
She lifted her head and looked around the chamber, at the velvet curtains, the gilded mirror, the soft bed. "A cage," she repeated. "I have lived the worst days of my life within it." She turned toward Sereine. "I do not know who you are... are you new here?"
Sereine nodded. "Yes... a new servant, my lady."
The woman smiled a faint smile. "That explains everything." She wiped her eyes. "You served well. Thank you. I was foolish to think ending my life would be the solution."
Then she looked at the ground and said, "I shouldn't say this, but everyone here knows the truth—the truth about my honorable brother, who lost his mind after his wife's death." She tightened her fist. "Then he poured all his rage upon his sons." Her voice trembled. "I tried to stop him... but I became a target as well. And here I am." She smiled bitterly. "I cannot leave these walls. In the beginning, I convinced myself that I stayed for the sake of the twins. But even after they vanished, every time I tried to flee, I could not. Why?"
Silence fell. Then the woman sighed and said, "I have said too many things... you should not have heard them."
Sereine smiled and said simply, "I heard nothing... I am deaf."
The woman paused for a moment, then burst out laughing for the first time. "You are a strange girl." She wiped her tears. "What is your name?"
"Klara."
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The woman smiled. "And I... am Layla." She studied Sereine's face for a moment. "You are beautiful, Klara." She rose slowly, using the chair for support. "And now... can you leave me alone?"
A moment of silence fell. Then she added reassuringly, "Do not worry... I shall not kill myself. I have moved past that stage with your help."
Sereine turned again and looked at Layla. "Besides being deaf, I'm also mute. It's a choice. I hope you'll keep up with my disturbing claims."
Layla smiled. "You saved my life, so whatever your choice is, I will respect it. The debt must be paid."
Sereine retreated slowly toward the door. Despite her hesitation, she finally stepped out and closed the door gently behind her. But no sooner had she turned around than she was startled to find the old woman standing before her, hands upon her hips.
"What are you doing here?!" the old woman hissed. "Did I not tell you to follow me?"
Sereine answered calmly, "You walk too fast... for an old woman."
The old woman stared at her for a moment, then struck her own forehead with her palm. "Hold your tongue! Have you forgotten you are mute?"
Sereine realized her mistake and merely smiled sheepishly. Then they continued walking through the corridors of the palace, the old woman muttering under her breath.
Behind the palace of Thornholl, beneath a thick darkness dispelled only by the glow of torches hung upon stone pillars, dozens of servants laboured in silence. They carried heavy wooden benches, arranged them in meticulous rows, and prepared every detail for the spectacle the world would witness in a matter of days: the annual game—the Neverwood.
Everything had its place: the kings' dais at the highest tier of the stands, the nobles' assembly beside it, the place where the master of the games would stand, and the passages from which the champions of the Five Kingdoms would emerge. There was no room for error. Everything had to be perfect.
On the far side, at a stone entrance leading into the depths of the dead forest, three guards emerged escorting a man whose hands were bound. His clothes were tattered, and the marks of the chains left bleeding lines upon his wrists. In his hands, he carried five gemstones, each one carved in the likeness of one of the kingdoms' sigils: a hammer, thorns, a falcon, a helm, and a white, rounded stone resembling a mound of salt.
The guards halted before the edge of the forest. Then one of them unshackled his bonds without a trace of concern and said coldly, "Go on... Hunt your freedom." He glanced at the stones in the man's hands. "Place them in the heart." He pointed toward the depths of the forest. "...And make the way back. And don't forget to pray. They say that even there inside, god's eyes still see you. But hearing on the other hand—ah, that's something you must try."
The guard smiled mockingly. "And consider yourself born again."
The prisoner did not answer. He did not even look at their faces. He stepped forward with steady strides and entered the forest. The blackened, dead trees that rose above his height like charred walls swallowed him, and the thick fog rolled between their trunks like the breath of the dead. He vanished, and nothing remained of him but the sound of his footsteps on the ash-covered ground.
At first, he walked calmly, turning with the winding paths between the trunks and trying to memorize the directions. But after only a few minutes, he began to feel his breath grow heavy. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow despite the cold of the place. Then he began to hear sounds—whispers, distant and unintelligible. He looked around him, but there was no one. He kept walking, yet the sounds grew louder, closer, clearer, as though someone were whispering his name. He raised his hands to his head and tried to ignore them, but his vision began to blur. The black trees around him started to move, and the fog began to twist before his eyes, as though the charred trunks were swaying toward him. The longer he remained inside the forest, the worse the hallucinations became.
Suddenly, he burst into a run.
"Where is the heart?!"
He no longer cared about the direction, nor about the pain. He only wanted to get out. But the running made it worse. He tripped and fell into a tangle of black roots. They tore his clothes and his skin. He rose screaming, then ran again. Every time he turned, he sensed someone chasing him—footsteps, breathing, a voice drawing near. He turned around... but there was nothing. Then he ran again in madness.
Outside, the three guards could hear his screams echoing between the trunks of the forest. But one of them showed not the slightest concern. He sat upon a boulder and said, yawning, "How long do you think he would last?"
The other laughed. "Longer than the last one, perhaps."
As for the third, he was preoccupied with sharpening his sword and said without lifting his head, "It does not matter."
The screams continued, then began to weaken, little by little, until they vanished entirely. Silence fell. One of the guards glanced toward the entrance of the forest and said indifferently, "It's over."
They all rose and turned their backs to the forest. No one tried to make certain. They did not wait for him to emerge, for after only a single hour, they had lost hope that any human being who entered it would ever return. They left the place, abandoning the forest to swallow its newest victim into its eternal silence.
High within the Palace of Thorns, a long dining table stretched inside a vast hall adorned with stone columns and high windows. King Robert sat at its head, eating his meal in utter calm. Around him, his eight children filled the hall with noise: one laughing, another arguing with his brother, and a third playing with his food. But Robert did not turn toward them even once. He ate in silence, as though their voices did not reach him, or as though he dwelt in a world that no one shared with him.
As soon as he finished his meal, he set his utensils before him with a soft clink and rose from his seat. In that very same instant, silence fell. The laughter ceased, and the hands froze still. Every pair of eyes lifted toward him. He wiped his mouth calmly with a linen napkin, then said in a steady voice:
"Prepare yourselves."
The children exchanged glances, their faces shifting from mirth to unease.
Then he continued, "Soon you shall depart on a long journey—and perhaps it will change everything. Perhaps."
One of the children raised his hand eagerly and asked with innocence, "To where, Father?"
Robert answered without his expression shifting, "It is still too soon for you to know." Then he looked at them one after another. "But I am certain of one thing: it will be a journey of no return... unless you prove yourselves worthy of returning."
Another child spoke, anger rising in his voice, "But Father, we have never left the palace before. This is our home."
Robert looked at him for a long moment, then said, "Good. Then it will be your first time." He fell silent a moment, then smiled a small smile that barely appeared. "But do not worry. The outside is wonderful, beautiful, and bright; you might not want to come back. The six of you shall thank me one day."
Silence fell once more. Suddenly, one of the two children who were never known to speak much spoke. He had been staring at his plate the whole time and said in a low voice, "You are not my father."
Breaths caught. Robert lifted his eyes toward the child. The boy continued without looking at him, "My father... would never have done this."
Robert remained silent for several moments, then said quietly, "On the contrary. This... is what a father must do. A father who can finally see." Then he looked at them all. "Finish your food. And afterward, go to your chambers. I do not want to see a single one of you outside his chamber until the round of the Neverwood is over."
One of the children raised his voice in protest, "But why? It happens once a year. Please, Father, do not forbid us from attending."
Robert answered without hesitation, "You are still too young to witness it." Then he headed toward the door of the hall. Before he left, he stopped and said without turning toward them, "If I see one of you outside his chamber... he will have no one to blame but himself."
Silence fell. And before he departed entirely, one of the children murmured in a voice barely heard, "If Elia were here, none of this would be happening."
Robert paused for a heartbeat, but he did not say a single word. Then he continued on his way and closed the door behind him. The eight children remained, exchanging glances in which fear mingled with bewilderment, while the food lay before them untouched—cold, like the silence their father had left in his wake.
High upon the plateaus surrounding Izzadar, the wind blew cold and steady, bending the tall grass in waves. A lone wagon stood by the side of the road, its wheel half-buried in mud. Its owner lay stretched beside it, soaked in his own blood, having departed this life not long ago. His eyes were still open, staring at the sky.
Atop the wagon, a young woman clutched a small rabbit in her arms, her knuckles white. Four brigands encircled her, their shadows long in the fading light. They were dirty men, with rotten teeth and hands that knew only cruelty.
One of them stepped forward with slow strides, wearing a filthy grin. He raised his knife and pointed it toward her lovely face, then tore the edge of her dress at her chest. She gasped, trying to cover herself with both hands, but she was too weak to resist them. The rabbit fell from her arms and scampered away into the tall grass.
The brigands exchanged looks full of baseness, then laughed. One of them advanced and shoved her violently until she fell to the ground. But as he bent down, seizing her legs, his grin vanished in an instant.
A long spear pierced his skull from behind.
The spearhead emerged from the front of his face, and yellow bells dangled from its butt, ringing softly as they hung inside his skull.
Ring... Ring...
The brigands froze where they stood. Then they all turned around. A man stood not far from them, his arms folded across his chest, wearing a cloak that covered his hair, and upon his face a strange calm.
One of the brigands said, his voice trembling, "You fool...! Do you know what you've done?"
The man answered with perfect calm, "I asked you gently. But you didn't hear me." He lifted his eyes toward them. "So I let my spear speak in my stead." He gave a faint smile. "Its bells are rather difficult to ignore."
One of the brigands drew his sword and readied himself to charge, but his companion seized his arm at once and said tensely, "Stop." Then he looked at the man. "He is too strong." He raised his voice, asking, "What was your question?"
The man asked calmly, "Have you seen a human child this tall?" He gestured with his hand to a certain height, then pointed to his neck. "With a black birthmark upon his throat?"
The brigands answered together, "No. We have not seen him."
The man shook his head. "Very well. That is all I wanted." Then he said with a simple smile, "Thank you for your honesty."
He stepped toward the corpse, grasped his spear, and pulled it free with calm. As for the brigands, none of them moved; their hands were trembling. The man began to walk away, but the woman caught hold of the hem of his trousers. He stopped and looked at her coldly.
"Let go, woman."
She said in a trembling voice, "Help me."
The man sighed. "Sorry. But why would I? Don't you see I already have something to do?"
Then he continued on his way. But she cried out behind him, "I saw him!"
He stopped.
"I saw the child."
He turned around slowly, then said, "How can I help you, beautiful lady?"
The woman was annoyed as she glanced at him with that look. "Perhaps you should make your spear speak more loudly."
He cast a glance at the brigands, then swung his spear toward the sky. The brigands stood in confusion. One of them said, "What is he doing?"
The man raised one finger. "Wait a moment."
In the next instant, the spear plunged from the sky with tremendous speed. He caught it in his hand at the perfect moment. Then, with a single kick, he drove it into the chest of the second brigand. The bells rang.
Ring...
He pulled the spear free at once and spun. In one swift motion, he severed the head of the third.
Ring...
As for the fourth, he could not even scream. The spear flew once more, and his body fell headless.
Ring...
Silence fell. The man extended his hand toward the woman. "Come. You are safe."
The woman was still staring at him in shock, but she soon recovered herself and said, "What is your name, warrior?"
The man sighed. "Is that truly necessary?"
She did not answer him, so at last he said, "Fine. My name is Broby."
The woman smiled. "Pleased to meet you, Broby." Then she said with confidence, "And I am Martha." She paused a moment and pointed to the rabbit, which stood some distance away. "But I shall not tell you a thing... until you catch that rabbit."
Broby looked at the rabbit, then at her, and said, exasperated, "Why must you make things difficult here?"
She smiled. "You killed four men in a matter of moments. It can hardly be more difficult to catch a rabbit." Then she added, "It is my supper, after all."
Broby exhaled. "Fine. I shall try." Then he muttered, "Even though animals bear a grudge against me."
Martha said, "But on one condition—help me and go inside the wagon first."
He raised a brow. "And why is that?"
She said, "Just do it."
He helped her climb in and shut the door carefully so that she would not see him. Then he set his spear upon the ground and approached the rabbit, whispering, "Easy now, little one. I shall not hurt you. Would you be so kind as to do the same? I beg you, don't hurt me, rabbit. Please don't flatter my pride in front of a human."
But the rabbit did not seem convinced. It bounded away. Then a long chase began—right, left, leaping and rolling, with Broby pursuing in every direction. From time to time, he would glance toward the wagon to make certain Martha was not watching him being defeated by a rabbit.
Long minutes passed. Then Martha heard him say from outside, "Come. Come out."
She climbed down from the wagon and saw him brushing dust from his clothes, holding the rabbit by its ears with weary triumph. She smiled. "It seems it was easy."
Broby looked at her with exhaustion. "I hate animals." Then he handed her the rabbit. "Here. Your supper." Then he said, "And now... tell me what you know."
She took the rabbit and said, "I was coming from The Great Pale. I sold some goods to the green guards, and I bought this rabbit in exchange. On my way back, I saw an old man herding sheep, and beside him was a child playing with one of the lambs. He had the very birthmark on his neck that you described."
Broby's expression shifted. "The old man... what did he look like?"
She said, "He was irritable."
Broby shut his eyes, then cursed under his breath. "Damn... I knew he was lying." Then he muttered, "I hate humans."
Martha asked him with surprise, "Are you not human yourself? You do not fight like them."
He smiled bitterly. "Unfortunately... I am human." Then he turned around. "I shall go. Take care of yourself."
He did not mount a horse, nor did he wait for a wagon. Instead, he broke into a run at a speed that surpassed that of horses, as though the earth itself propelled him forward. After only two hours, he stood before the farm. But he was too late.
The sheep were dead—black water trickled from their mouths—and the house had been reduced to a charred shell. Broby entered through the smoke and searched every corner until he found the body of the old man. He carried it out in silence, dug a grave before the farm, and buried him with his own hands.
He stood before the grave for a long while, then said with sorrow, "You should not have... lied to me."