Merleith
Inside the spiral shelves of the Library of Earth and Sky—one of the wonders of Merleith High Castle—the very air was different. It was not ordinary air. It carried the scent of ancient parchments, tanned leather, and ink that had dried centuries ago. The shelves were not straight like the rest of the shelves in the world. They were spiral, winding upon themselves in helical staircases that ascended to an unseen ceiling, where books disappeared into upper darkness.
Every book was in its designated place, and every manuscript bore its age in the color of its paper—yellow for the old, brown for the older, and almost black for that which no one had touched in thousands of years.
Zohra was emerging from between the shelves. She did not walk like a woman. She walked like one carrying an invisible burden. Her shoulders were drawn forward, her steps slow and measured, as though each one required deliberation. In her hands was a book—a massive book, heavy. Its cover was made of the skin of something that no longer existed. It bore a title engraved in faded gold: Wonders of History. The author, as written on the first page, was "Summervil," an unknown Normen. He lived and died before humans existed on this earth. The book told of a world no one remembered anymore, of a time when great creatures roamed the earth.
Zohra walked slowly. Her steps, which had always been confident, were hesitant today. She did not know how to do this—how to be a "mother." The word itself was foreign on her tongue. Her fingers adjusted their grip on the book's spine—loosening, tightening, loosening again—as though the weight of it changed with each thought.
The Normens were not fathers and mothers in the way humans understood. They were guardians, guides, protectors. But motherhood? That was a sacrifice of another kind—a sacrifice she had not trained for, a sacrifice forced upon her by the Nine Eyes of Truth.
In the Green Corridor, where the indoor trees stretched to the glass ceiling, Zohra stopped before a door. Edd's door. There were four guards. They were not there to protect him. They were there to protect others from him. They stood like statues—expressionless faces, spears held upright, knuckles white around the shafts. But Zohra felt, for some reason, that they were looking at her—at the book, at the hesitation in her hands.
She knocked on the door. The sound was faint, muffled. No one answered.
She waited. The minutes passed slowly. She felt each minute was longer than the one before. The book grew heavy in her hands—not the weight of paper, but the weight of the knowledge within it. She shifted it to one hip, then back to both arms. She knocked again, a little louder.
"Come in!"
It was Edd's voice—a child's voice, but it carried something that was not childish, the tone of someone who saw more than they should.
Zohra entered and closed the door quietly behind her. Her free hand pressed the door until it clicked shut, lingering there a moment longer than necessary. Edd was sitting on his bed, his knees folded to his chest, his thin arms wrapped around them. He was staring at the wall—not at anything specific, but at something farther, at something no one else could see. His face, which had always glowed with a strange yellow light, was dim today. His eyes, the white ones, gleamed—not with the light of power, but with the light of tears. A thin trail of moisture ran down one cheek, and he did not wipe it away.
"Don't you want me to be here?" Zohra asked. Her voice was calm, calmer than she intended. She remained standing by the door, the book clutched against her chest like a shield.
"No," said Edd. His voice was faint. He did not look at her. His chin rested on his knees, his words muffled against the fabric of his trousers. "I'm just... busy. This thing is new to me."
"What?"
Edd raised his head and looked at her—looked directly at her. And for the first time, Zohra felt that he truly saw her. Not her body, not her face, but something deeper. His eyes, white and pupilless, seemed to strip away layers.
"I see things...horrible things," he said. His hands tightened around his knees, the small knuckles going pale. "I see people killing each other. I don't know why I see the worst part every time I see the same thing over and over."
His voice trembled. He was not boasting. He was terrified.
"Why are you crying?" Zohra asked. She stepped closer—one step, then another—the book still in her arms. "Did that scare you?"
"Yes," said Edd. Tears streamed down his cheeks now, freely, and his shoulders began to shake. "I am afraid. Everything I see... are people in trouble. People being killed. Has the world become so cruel?"
Zohra sat on the edge of the bed, slowly. The mattress dipped beneath her weight. The book was still in her hands. She looked at him—at the child who carried unimaginable power, at the child who wept because he saw the world's pain. Her hand, the one not holding the book, hovered over his shoulder for a moment, then withdrew.
"No, Edd," she said. Her voice was warmer than it had ever been. "There are beautiful things in the world. And you will see them too. Come. Make some room. I want to show you something."
She opened the book on her lap. Its pages were yellow, fragile, like the wings of a dead butterfly. They crackled softly as she turned them.
"This is Book called the Wonders of History. It is the most prominent history book. And this one... dates back thousands of years—before humans existed."
Edd looked at the pages. His eyes swept over words he did not understand, tracing the strange script. "Before humans?"
"Yes," said Zohra. "It was only us... and the Mallarian race. And the third race was a mix between beasts and strange creatures."
"Who are the Mallarians?" Edd asked. His curiosity, for a moment, made him forget his terror. He leaned forward slightly, his arms loosening around his knees. "What do they look like?"
"I did not live in that time," said Zohra. "And there are no books about them—about who they were or what they looked like. What we know is that they are the basis for you, the basis for the human lineage." She paused, her fingers resting on the edge of a page. The next words were heavier. "You are a mix. Between us... and the Mallarians."
Edd looked at his hands—at the yellow light emanating from them, faint but constant. He turned them over, studying his own palms as though seeing them for the first time. "So... I am Mallarian?"
"Half of you. Yes," said Zohra. Then, quickly, she turned the page. "But let us focus now on what we do know—the Wonders of History. I think you might like these."
"What are they?"
"Ancient beings. Old. None of them exist anymore."
She began flipping pages. Her fingers moved quickly, the fragile paper whispering beneath her touch. Images passed—strange creatures, dragons, sea beings, ice giants—until she stopped.
"Where to start... where to start..."
She stopped on a page bearing an image drawn in black ink. But despite its primitiveness, it pulsed with life. It was a dragon—a colossal dragon, silver in color, lightning emanating from its scales. It had four wings—membrane wings, stretching like ship sails—and four eyes, pupilless eyes, white, empty. And four legs, longer than its wings.
" Silver–Cross Dragon," said Zohra. Her voice carried respect. "It is a beautiful and majestic creature. Its color is shining silver, and lightning flashes on its scales. Its weapon was the piercing sound. It has four wings, four eyes, and four legs longer than its wings."
Edd was looking at the image, silent. His finger hovered over the page, tracing the outline of a wing without touching. Then he said something Zohra did not expect.
"Does it have a missing ear?"
"What?" Zohra looked at the image, at the dragon's head, at its ears, which were clearly drawn. "No. It has two ears. Intact. Strong."
"No," said Edd. His voice was confident. His eyes were not on the page anymore—they were somewhere else. "It has a missing ear. And it is asleep."
"But it went extinct thousands of years ago."
"No, it didn't. I... I can see it. Sleeping inside a burrow, underground."
Zohra stared at him. There was something in her eyes—not doubt, but terror. Quiet terror. Her hand, which had been resting on the book, pulled back slowly. "Can you truly see it?"
"Yes. But not alone. There are other creatures. But I cannot see them fully, as I see the dragon."
Zohra closed her eyes, breathed, then opened them. "I think you need to see its shape on the page first." She began flipping pages—faster now, her fingers trembling slightly. Images passed—creatures, maps, texts—until Edd stopped her, his small hand placed flat on a page.
"This. What is it called? I cannot read your language."
Zohra looked. It was another creature—not a dragon, but something else, something long, slender, icy in color. "This," she said, " the Icefang Glacier Giant. Known for its intelligence and its towering height, and that everything it touches turns to ice."
"Can you see it?" she asked. Her voice was tight now. She leaned forward, watching his face.
"The vision is a bit blurry," said Edd. He was staring at the page, but his gaze was distant. "But I see its eyes—the blue ones—inside the ice, in a cold place."
Zohra froze. Her spine straightened. "A cold place... there is one place in the Rocks' Lands with such a description. It is Granite Mountain, beyond Merleith."
She was about to rise, about to run to the Eyes of Truth, to tell them. Her legs had already begun to unfold beneath her. But Edd stopped her.
"Wait," he said. His small hand shot out and grabbed her sleeve. "I need to see more."
Zohra sat down slowly, lowering herself back onto the mattress. "Alright. I will show you more."
She turned the pages—more, more—until Edd stopped again, this time at a different page, a page that did not hold a dragon, nor an ice giant, but something else, something drawn at the bottom of the sea.
"Stone," said Zohra. "Is this one still alive too?"
"I can see it," said Edd. "But I cannot tell if it is alive or not."
"Where does it lie?" Zohra asked. Her voice was tense. She had stopped breathing. "underground?"
"No," said Edd. "He's on a rocky mountain. He's asleep too. Why are they all asleep?."
"I don't know? Is that possible? But why have others not seen it? Are they not seers too?"
Edd looked at her for a long time. There was something in his eyes—something that made Zohra feel, for the first time, that she was the one being tested, not him. He released her sleeve, his hand falling back to his lap.
"Do you think I am lying?" he said. His voice was calm but sharp. "Because I do not lie. I can see many things."
He paused, looking at her directly—at her eyes, at what lay behind them.
"I saw you. Inside that cave."
Zohra's breath caught. Her lips parted, then closed. "You saw that too?"
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"They sent you here... to play the mother. Didn't they?"
Zohra was silent. She could not lie. Her eyes dropped to the book on her lap. "Yes. That is true."
"I cannot tell if you are doing well, or the opposite," he paused. His voice was not accusing. It was simply tired. "Because I never saw my mother."
"Is that all you saw?"
"No," said Edd. "I saw everything. They said my brother is dead."
"Aren't you sad for your brother?"
Edd looked at her. His face, for a moment, carried something beyond his years. His jaw tightened. His small hands curled into fists on his knees. "Why should I be sad? They are wrong. He is alive. I can see him."
He paused. He was looking at something far away—something she could not see. His eyes moved as though following a figure across a room she could not perceive.
"But... unlike all the people I have seen... he was surrounded by darkness. Total darkness."
He raised his eyes to her, pleading. His small hand reached out again, this time resting on her arm, his fingers barely wrapping around her sleeve. "Please. I want to see my brother soon. You promised me that."
"Indeed," said Zohra. Her voice carried something she had not known before—something soft, something almost human. She placed her hand over his. "And I will bring your brother... soon."
Then she left—quickly. She rose from the bed, the book clutched against her chest, and walked to the door. Her hand found the handle, but she paused, glancing back at him once. Then she stepped out and closed the door behind her. The book was still in her hands, but she did not see it. All she saw was Edd's face—the child who wept, the child who carried unimaginable power, the child who loved his brother.
In the catacombs of Thornholl Palace, where darkness was eternal and the stone walls swallowed every sound, two children were sneaking. They were not thieves. They were princes.
Fred Thorns—the eldest, the bully, the fierce one. And little Robert, his younger brother, who followed his brother wherever he went, not because he loved adventure, but because he loved his brother.
"Hurry," Fred whispered. He carried a small torch, the flame dancing with each of his quick steps. The light cast flickering shadows on his face. He was smiling—a smile of excitement. His eyes were bright, his breathing quick with anticipation. "Before it all ends."
"But... what if someone sees us?" asked little Robert. He was trembling—not from cold, but from fear. His small hand clutched the back of Fred's shirt, his fingers buried in the fabric.
"No one will see us. Everyone is busy with the Neverwood," said Fred. Then, with confidence, he added, "And I know the way."
They left the palace easily, just as Fred had expected. The guards were absent. The servants were outside. The entire kingdom was gathered around the Neverwood. They ran down the long garden stairs. The stones were slippery with dew. Little Robert stumbled, but he kept up with his brother—always kept up.
They slipped through the small door in the palace wall—the door no one used, the rusty door. Fred pushed it open with his shoulder, wincing at the screech of old hinges. Then they went around the wall, to the back, to where the sound was.
The crowd's screaming.
The sound was deafening, coming from afar, but powerful—very powerful. It was a call that could not be resisted.
When they arrived, the scene was bigger than they had imagined. The crowd was massive—a sea of bodies surrounding the Neverwood from every side. Fred and Robert could not see anything; they were too short to watch. But Fred, as he said, had anticipated this. He pulled out a handful of coins—shiny silver—and looked at two nearby men.
"Lift us onto your shoulders," he said, his voice commanding, his chin lifted. "In exchange for this."
The men looked at the coins, at the boys. Then they lifted them. Fred climbed onto one man's shoulder, little Robert onto the other. And suddenly the view was clear.
Little Robert was laughing, looking into the Neverwood, at the fog, at the movement. His small hands clapped together. "Look! Look!" he screamed. But Fred was not laughing. He was watching intently, his body still, his hands gripping the man's hair for balance. He saw things that were not funny.
The atmosphere was different—suffocating, filled with the smell of blood. An old smell, a new smell, mixed. It was in the air, in the breaths. The screams of ancient souls echoed—screams of those who had died in this Neverwood centuries ago. While the new souls, who had just entered, were still fighting, still running, still dying.
And inside, there were two.
The Neverwood
Thomas stood firm. His feet, spread apart, were planted in the ground like two trees, like two roots. He was looking at his opponent—at the blind old man, at Robert. There was something in his eyes, something that had not been there before. Not fear, not anger, but something else: readiness. His one hand gripped the Long Nightmare, the knuckles white, the muscles of his forearm taut as rope.
"I will not run," said Thomas. Then, with a smile full of enthusiasm—the smile of a man who had finally found what he was looking for—he added, "My feet only know forward."
Robert looked at Thomas's hand—at the severed hand, at the shoulder where the hand once was. His head tilted slowly, like a bird studying something curious. "And you intend to fight me... with one arm, How is this possible?"
Thomas raised his sword—the Long Nightmare. The blade gleamed under the light of a moon that did not exist. He held it steady, level with his eyes. "Don't worry about me, I'm used to the sword being my second arm."
"Alright," said Robert. His voice was calm—very calm. He rolled his shoulders once, loosening them. "If you insist on your death, I will make it quick."
Then he paused. There was something in his eyes, something like respect. He reached up and tore a piece of cloth from his clothes—ripped it with a sharp jerk. It was black, dark. "But I am not unjust." He tied the blindfold around his eyes, knotting it firmly at the back of his head. "I will put the blindfold back on. And make it a fair fight."
He raised his sword—the Black Thorn. His stance shifted, his feet finding their place on the dead earth. "Let's see... how serious you are about what you claim to be."
Thomas was in a defensive stance—his feet firm, his hand moving slowly, shoulder on one side, arm on the other. His entire body was a weapon, entirely a question. His breath came slow and controlled through his nose.
Robert waited, but Thomas did not move.
"Really?" said Robert. His voice was mocking. He tilted his head, as though listening to something amusing. "Will you make the blind old man come to you? You have no respect for old people, do you?"
The moment his last word left his mouth, Robert launched forward—leaping high, directing his sword straight at Thomas's eye. He was fast—faster than any man his age would be expected, faster than any man, period.
Thomas retreated with difficulty, his boots sliding on the dead leaves. The tip of the sword was an inch from his eye—nearly gouged it out. He threw his head back, feeling the wind of the blade pass his skin. He retreated, then he thought quickly. Robert cannot see. That is a weakness. He began to move—right, left—trying to confuse him, to mislead him. His feet shifted in quick, irregular patterns.
But Robert smiled—a wide smile. "Something you might not know about the Normens," he said. His voice carried confidence. He turned his head slightly, following the sound of Thomas's footsteps. "We are a different race, or more precisely, a stronger one, and you already know that. But do you know that the strongest characteristic of the Normens is their senses."
He paused, turned his head, as if following a sound. "I can hear you. I can hear you moving like a coward—afraid to attack directly."
Thomas did not care about his words. He was preparing, calculating. His jaw tightened. Then he ran directly toward Robert and jumped—pretending he would strike from above, his sword raised high. But Robert, despite the blindfold, caught him by the neck, his fingers closing around Thomas's throat. He dropped his sword, then stabbed. A stab in the shoulder—not deep, as if he was just listening.
But Thomas, in turn, exploited Robert's blindness. He held his sword between his knees, clamping it tight. And as soon as Robert grabbed him, he grabbed Robert's neck with his only armand and drove the sword into his chest. The blade sank into the armor with a grinding screech.
Robert threw Thomas away. Thomas flew through the air and fell to the ground hard—dust, blood, dirt. He rolled, coughing. Robert pulled the sword from his chest. Blood flowed, dripped. He was angry. His teeth were bared. "You filthy humans! Even your strong ones use tricks!"
Thomas rose with difficulty, covered in blood. His entire body screamed, but he smiled. He spat blood onto the ground. "I think you cannot stand being mocked."
Robert removed the blindfold and threw it on the ground. He was looking at Thomas—at the blood on his chest, at the sword in his hand. His eyes were wide, wild. "I will make this Neverwood... your grave."
"Come on then," said Thomas. He held his sword carefully, in the same stance. His breathing was ragged, but his grip was steady. "Go ahead."
Robert raised his sword, ready to end it. But suddenly he stopped. Something—to his side, in the corner of his eye. Something familiar. Something important. An opportunity that would not come again. His head snapped toward it.
He looked at Thomas—at the man about to die—then at that thing to the side. Robert vanished. He ran, leaving Thomas standing alone in the Neverwood.
Thomas looked at the empty space where Robert had been. He breathed with difficulty. Blood bled. "Look who ran now," he whispered. "Shame."
Then he turned, and all he could think of was one thing: to get Valkryn's emblem and leave—to leave this place forever.
On his way, through one of the Neverwood's paths, between the blackened, dead trees, he saw someone hiding—covering his mouth, afraid. It was Golden Teeth—trembling, crying. His back was pressed against a tree trunk, his eyes wide It seems like it's already out of this world.
"Don't kill me!" he screamed. His voice cracked. "Please!"
Thomas did not care, did not look at him. He walked on, searching for the emblem.
Golden Teeth rose, looking at Thomas's retreating back. "I will work, I will work, just please don't burn my mouth again," he whispered. His voice choked. "I should never have..."
Outside, dawn was near—but not near Thornholl, not near its eternal darkness. In the Black Mud Town, south of the Kingdom of Thornholl—the closest town to the palace and the only one surrounded by walls in the kingdom—a man walked alone. Night still lingered. People were either asleep or gathered watching the annual event. The man was lame. He carried a cane—an iron cane. He wore a ring on his hand—the Lion Ring, the ring of Ironfield. It was William.
He was searching for something—a clue. He knew it was here, somewhere. He walked through the narrow, muddy alleys, his cane sinking into the wet earth with each step, his lame foot dragging behind him. He reached the northern wall. And there he found them.
A group of men digging graves—shallow graves, burying men, knighted men. They carried banners of the burning helmet—banners of Ironfield.
William froze. His hand tightened on his cane. He was watching the corpses, the blood, the banners.
"Who are you?" said one of them, holding a shovel, looking at him. The man straightened, his eyes narrowing. "There! Show yourself!"
William retreated—one step, two steps—then ran. Ran away. The men chased him, their feet pounding the mud. But William, the lame one, knew the alleys, knew the darkness. He vanished completely—like a ghost, a lame ghost.
The kings had grown tired—tired of the children's screaming. The commoners tired of standing. The nobles tired of sitting. Everyone was waiting for it to end, for it to be decided, for the winner to emerge.
The conjoined twins sat on a chair beside the amphitheater. One was asleep, leaning his head on the other's shoulder, deep in slumber. The other was awake, watching the Neverwood's edge—the darkness, the fog—waiting. His fingers tapped restlessly on the armrest.
Then he saw something.
Someone emerging—wounded, covered in blood, carrying a sword, a large heavy sword, walking with difficulty, breathing with difficulty, but emerging.
It was Thomas the One-Handed.
He emerged changed—choked. He wore his clothes, but he was naked of something else, something unseen. He had left part of himself inside.
He raised his hand. In his hand was an emblem—the emblem of the Kingdom of Valkryn. He screamed—a scream that was not of victory but of anger, of deliverance. His voice tore through the silence, raw and broken. "I have ended it... you bastards! I am done with you!" He meant everyone—the commoners, the nobles, the kings. He meant all of humanity.
Sam stood, looking at Thomas, smiling—a wide smile, a smile of victory. He slapped the armrest of his throne. He shouted to him in a relatively loud voice, "Well done!"
Then he looked at the other kings, laughing, his head thrown back. "I bet on a One- armed man... and I won! Sometimes I think I am better than others... because I just am."
"Hold your excitement a little," said Marcus. His voice was cold. He did not look at Sam. His eyes were fixed on the Neverwood's edge. "There is still time."
"It doesn't matter who comes out after!" said Sam, still laughing, spreading his arms wide. "Because my champion came out first!"
"Shut up... and watch."
Marcus pointed at the edge of the Neverwood—at someone else emerging from the fog. His hand was steady, his face unreadable.
He was wounded, covered in blood, but walking with confidence. It was the blind Robert. But when he emerged, he was not wearing the blindfold. He was looking directly at the crowd, at the kings, at the world. His eyes, those pale eyes, moved across the faces like a searchlight.
The crowd was amazed, but most were angry—angry that they had not bet on the blind old man. The kings were confused. Is this the Robert they knew? Weak? Blind? Wise?
Meriel stood, watching, trying to process. His hands gripped the edge of his throne. What is happening in this dead place?
One of the guards brought Robert his horse—his black horse. Robert mounted, swinging into the saddle with a grace that belied his age. He was carrying something in his hand—a head, a severed head. It was not clear who it was. Only the hair, hanging from between Robert's fingers, was visible.
Robert sat on the horse. He threw down his kingdom's emblem—Thornholl's emblem. It landed in the dust. Then he raised the head high for everyone and screamed—a scream that filled the place, that pierced the silence, that carried years of silence.
"Five kingdoms. Five kings. Five paths." He paused, his eyes moving from one king to the next, then across the nobles and the common folk.
"And where have those paths led you?"
He let the silence answer: "To ruin."
His voice hardened. His hand tightened on the head. "How much more fear will you endure? How many more times will you run? How long will you wear shame around your neck like a chain?"
He looked upon them all, his gaze sweeping the crowd. "Have men grown so fond of weakness that they mistake it for peace?"
He shook his head slowly. "No. I have seen what you are capable of. You are greater than this. Stronger than this."
His gaze turned toward the kings, one by one. "But look who leads you."
A bitter smile touched his lips. "Cowards."
He raised his voice, his chest expanding. "Kings who kneel when they should stand. Men who bow when they should fight. Rulers who have forgotten that a crown is not a shield from shame."
He looked over the gathered crowd. "And you still call them your kings?"
"Perhaps you're thinking it yourselves—this man is the last among us who has any right to speak of such things." He paused. "But who has more right to stand before the truth than a man who has carried shame around his neck for years?"
His eyes hardened. "I know the weight of it. I have worn it longer than any of you."
Then he turned slowly toward Meriel. His horse shifted beneath him. There was something in his eyes—something personal.
"King Meriel... are you looking for something?" He raised the head higher. "Here, take it. I found your lost brother!"
And he threw the head. The head flew through the air—hair flying, blood spraying in an arc. It fell at Meriel's feet, rolled, settled.
His face was now visible.
It was his brother's face.
It was Gerald's face.
Meriel did not scream, did not move. He simply stood—looking at the head, at his brother's face, at the open eyes, at the open mouth, at the blood still flowing. His hands hung at his sides. His face was blank.
The entire world was silent—a silence Thornholl had never heard before, a silence no place had ever heard before.
Robert was on his horse, watching Meriel, watching the silence, watching the head. Then he smiled—a terrifying smile, the smile of a man who had accomplished what he came for.
And everything ended. And nothing had yet begun.