In the Scorched Steppe Forest, where the trees are not green but black, and where the ground grows not grass but ash, the night was cold. The kind of cold that seeps into the bones, not the skin. The wind passed between the charred trunks, making a sound like the breath of a dying man. The sky, what could be seen of it through the tangled branches, was dark. No moon, no stars, only emptiness. An emptiness that reminded anyone who looked up that no one was watching, no one cared.
In the heart of this forest, where travelers do not come and birds do not ask about morning, there was a group of bandits. They were gathered around a fire. The fire, the only thing breaking the darkness, danced violently. Its orange tongues licked the cold air, and sparks flew from it like glowing insects that died after seconds. The smoke, white and thick, rose in a swaying column, carrying with it the smell of burnt wood and the smell of something else, something no one wanted to ask about.
There were five of them. Five men. They sat around the fire. They did not sit as travelers; they sat as kings, as masters, as those who owned this night and every night after. They shared food: roasted rabbit meat, dry bread, cheap ale. They shared stories about women, about the dead, about dubious glories. And they shared laughter.
Deep, rough laughs. The laughs of men who do not think about tomorrow because they know tomorrow will not hold them accountable. A group that shared everything, even guilt. Their guilt was shared, evenly distributed. No one bore it alone. And because guilt was shared, it ceased to be guilt. It became something else. It became the nature of life.
Their faces were similar. Not similar in features, but in ugliness. An ugliness that did not come from genes alone. It came from years of violence, of hatred, of looking at the world as prey. Broken noses, old scars, missing teeth, small bulging eyes that trusted no one. As if they were born with these faces. As if these faces had determined their fate, their fate as bandits. Not because they chose this path, but because the path chose them. Because the world, when it saw their faces, left them no other choice.
Now, on this night, they were catching their breath after a long journey. A journey that included burnt homes, dead, rapists. A journey that included human trafficking. That was their biggest source of income: trading in humans, especially women and children. They had a price in the market. A good price. A price that justified everything.
Above the fire, on a wooden crossbeam, hung a wide pot. A black iron pot, perforated at the edges. In it was rabbit stew. The stew was boiling. Bubbles rose to the surface and burst, and the smell of boiled meat and wild herbs filled the place. One of them, a huge man with a thick, untrimmed beard and hands as large as shovels, poured himself a portion into his bowl. He filled the bowl to the brim, raised it to his mouth, and drank. The stew ran down his beard. He wiped it with his dirty sleeve.
Then, suddenly, he stopped. He looked to the other side, at the tree that was a little distance from the fire, the tree that darkness wrapped like a shroud.
"Are we not going to feed the slaves?" he asked in a hoarse voice, the voice of a man used to giving orders.
One of them, a thin man with a rat-like face and eyes that never stopped moving, looked at him. "Of course. If that's what you want to do, go ahead."
The huge man filled five bowls. The bowls were dirty, bearing remnants of previous meals. He poured the stew, and steam rose from them in thin threads. Then, slowly, he began heading toward the tree.
"Stop." It was the thin man's voice. The rat-faced man. He had risen and was standing, looking at the bowls, at the stew, at the huge man.
"You won't give them the same food we ate, will you.?"
"What," said the huge man. He was confused. "Why? What's wrong with it?"
The thin man placed his hand on his shoulder. His hand, slender and bony, was light, almost intimate. "Nothing," he said. His voice was calm, very calm. "It's just food, like our food." He paused, and his eyes, which were looking at the huge man, carried something dark. "The problem here, my friend. we let them eat like us, they might think they are like us."
The thin man approached slowly. He was still smiling. He stood over the five bowls, looked at them, at the stew, at the steam. Then, slowly, he opened his mouth, collected his saliva, and spat. A big, thick spit. Into the first bowl. Then the second. Then the third. Then the fourth. Until he completed all five. He did this with concentration, with care, like a cook adding spices.
"Here. Take this," he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "It will warm the flavor of the soup. Go now."
The huge man went, carrying the bowls. His face was neutral. He did not argue, did not protest. Behind him, the thin man was returning to the fire, laughing with his friends.
"When will this novice learn?" he said, shaking his head.
"Give him time," said another.
Meanwhile, far from the fire, far from the laughter, darkness was master of the situation. Under the tree, the great tree with its wide trunk bearing old axe scars, there were five people bound. Bound in a circle with iron chains. Heavy, cold, holding them to the trunk. The chains only opened with a key, and the key hung around one of the bandits' necks like a necklace, like a souvenir.
There were five: two mature women. One was in her forties, her gray hair falling over her face. Her eyes, open, stared into the darkness without seeing. The other was younger, in her thirties. She was trembling, not from the cold, but from something else. Her arms were around her two little girls. Two girls, young, no older than ten. They were sleeping, or unconscious. Their chests rose and fell slowly, very slowly. And the fifth was submerged in darkness, not fully visible. A boy. Young. Darkness wrapped him as if he had become part of it. As if darkness, not the tree, was what bound him.
The huge man approached, carrying the bowls. He walked slowly, his heavy boots crushing dry leaves. He distributed the bowls one by one.
"Ladies first," he said. His voice was devoid of any emotion. He was not mocking, not cruel. Just performing a task.
When he reached the boy, he could barely see him. The darkness was thick here. He stepped forward, bent down, and placed the bowl on the ground.
In the moment of his bending, he saw something strange. On the boy's forehead there was a light. A faint light, red, like an ember under ash. It was in the shape of a line, a straight line, like a wound. But it was not a wound. Wounds do not glow.
"What is that on your forehead?" he asked. His voice was calm, but it carried something like unease.
The boy did not reply. He was silent. His face, what could be seen of it, was expressionless. But his eyes, the two eyes hidden under dirty hair, were open. They were looking at the man, at his hand approaching, at his fingers about to touch his forehead.
He touched. Or almost.
The moment the man's fingers touched the wound, the boy jerked. He did not jump away—he was bound. But his whole body convulsed. His head rose, and his eyes, which had been hidden, were suddenly exposed. They were ordinary eyes. But the light on his forehead, the wound, glowed.
"Wound." The word came from the boy's mouth in a faint, hoarse voice, like the voice of someone who had not spoken for days.
The man recoiled. He lost his balance and fell to the ground. Dust clung to his clothes, his hair. His mouth was open. He was looking at the boy, at his forehead, with wide eyes.
"What kind of wound glows like that?" he muttered, trying to get up, brushing dust off himself.
Then, suddenly, he heard whispers behind him. Not clear whispers. Muffled, as if coming from a great distance, or from very close by. He turned quickly. He saw nothing. Only darkness, only the trees, only the fire far away, which now looked like a small star at the end of a tunnel.
He rose quickly. In his haste, he dropped the bowl. The stew spilled on the ground, the steam rising for a moment before vanishing. The man retreated, looking around. There was something watching him. He could feel it on his neck, on his shoulders, in his breath.
He returned to the group, walking quickly, confused. When he reached the fire, he sat down. He did not say anything. He just stared into the fire.
The boy, under the tree, was looking at the spilled bowl on the ground. The stew had spilled, mixed with dirt, with gravel, with insult. It was still steaming. Slowly, very slowly, the boy leaned. His body was bound, but his neck moved. He lowered it until his mouth touched the ground. Then he began to eat, with his tongue. He licked the stew. He licked the dirt. He licked the gravel. He licked the insult. He ate everything. Everything. Because he was hungry. Hungry of the kind that knows no pride.
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The wound on his forehead was still glowing.
In Thornholl's perpetual night, where the sun never rises and the sky is black even at noon, the Council of Kings was ready. It was not a council in the traditional sense. It was an amphitheater, a huge stone amphitheater carved from the black rock from which the entire kingdom was built. It was elevated from the ground, and those who sat in it could see everything. The Neverwood, which stretched before it like a slumbering beast, was fully visible: its blackened treeline, its fog-shrouded depths, its silence that swallowed noise.
In the amphitheater, there were five thrones, five chairs, five kings. But today there were only three. In the center sat Meriel, the Heavy Hammer. He sat quietly, but his quiet was not the quiet of peace. It was the quiet of a volcano, the quiet of a man holding something in. He was looking at the Neverwood, at its colossal size, at its dead black trees that shifted slowly in the fog as if breathing. He heard voices. His son's voice. Ned's voice. He knew, in part of his mind, that this was an illusion, that the Neverwood was a place for toying with minds, a place that caught your fears and whispered them in your ear. But he heard.
To his right sat Marcus, Lord of the Six Seas. He was playing with his ring, a heavy silver ring that spun around his finger. Twirling it, turning it. His eyes swept the place: the amphitheater, the nobles, the commoners. He was searching, carrying a grain of doubt as usual. For a man like Marcus, doubt was not a sickness; doubt was a weapon. He wondered: Where is Robert? Why is he late? What is he planning?
Marcus looked at Meriel and smiled, a faint smile. "Strange, isn't it?"
Meriel did not reply.
"We participate in the same game, same rules, same opportunities," Marcus continued. His voice carried something between sarcasm and observation. "But however ordinary it may seem, there are always players. that plays their own game, in their own way. You never liked these silly games, so beware, there's no room for beginners."
"Your tongue has always been long in my presence," said Meriel. His voice was cold. "One day I will cut it."
Marcus raised his eyebrows, surprised or pretending to be. "Why take my words as an insult? Why put me in this cage?" He placed his hand on his chest. "This embarrasses me." Then, with feigned innocence, he added, "Anyway, did you find your second son? What's his name... ah, Ned. I hope you don't misunderstand me again."
Meriel did not reply, did not look at him. He only looked at the Neverwood, at its colossal size, at its silence. He heard his son's voice. He knew it was an illusion. But he heard.
To Meriel's left sat Sam, the reckless youth. He sat sideways on the throne, his leg dangling over the armrest, his chin resting on his palm. He was bored, deeply bored, the boredom that comes when one finds nothing to kill. He yawned and looked at the sky, which was not a sky but a ceiling of smoke and fog. One of his men approached, bent down, and whispered in his ear. Something that made him stop yawning. Something that made him look at Meriel and smile, as if he had found what he was looking for.
Behind them, on the upper terraces, the nobles sat. They wore their best: dark robes, jewelry, the colors of their kingdoms. They talked, laughed, wagered. The sound of bets rose—"Ten on Salter!" "Twenty on Valcryn!"—and the sound of coins changing hands rang in the air. Below, around the amphitheater, were the commoners in vast numbers, hundreds, perhaps thousands. They surrounded the place, and they were the ones who gave it its noise with their shouts, their cheers, their curses. They were betting too, with copper pieces, with chickens, with shoes, with everything they owned. Everyone was betting on this day: nobles, commoners, kings. Everyone.
In the middle of all this, there were two empty chairs. Gerald's chair. His absence for this year's round had been announced. The chair was vacant, silent, and the wind howled through it. And Robert's chair, which no one had yet sat in, which everyone was waiting for.
Below, directly before the Neverwood, a person was emerging from the amphitheater. Or rather, two. They were twins, conjoined. Two people in one body, or two bodies in one person. It was hard to tell where the first ended and the second began. They wore a single robe, wide, made specifically for them. Its color was pale blue, the color of the sky that does not exist in Thornholl. They were the presenters of the round. They completed each other, even in sentences.
They stood in the center, in the circle of light, before the kings, before the nobles, before the commoners, before the Neverwood. They breathed with difficulty, not from fear, but from the weight of the moment. One of them coughed. The other began the speech.
"Ladies and gentlemen..."
Then the first: "We are about to witness men entering the unknown."
The second: "And fighting their nightmares."
The first: "People who have their own drive."
The second: "And their survival depends on the strength of their will."
The first: "That is the one thing the Neverwood cannot thwart."
The second: "But..."
The first: "...it depends on the strength of their will."
The second head tilted toward the first. "Really?"
The first head smiled, a sardonic smile. "Yes... you fool."
Then he began to laugh, a loud, inappropriate laugh.
The twins looked at the kings. The kings were annoyed. Meriel looked at them as if they were insects. Marcus was smiling, but it was not a smile of amusement. Sam was laughing, but his laugh was directed at them, not with them. The twins felt tense. One of them swallowed his saliva and said in a faint voice, "Anyway..."
Then, loudly again, he continued: "Under the eyes of the gods, under the eyes of the kings, under the eyes of the nobles, and under the eyes of..." He paused, looked at the commoners, at their faces, at their ragged clothes, at their children running between legs. "...the rest." He said it in a slightly lower voice.
Then, finally, he announced: "I will present before your eyes the knights of the five kingdoms who will carry the wager of their kings and the emblem of their kingdom within your sight.!"
The second twin whispered to his brother, "Only four. Four. One of them is not participating."
"Ah..." said the first. "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I meant four."
Then, raising his voice: "The Kingdom of Valcryn! Light of the Rocks Lands! the Light of the East!"
The Champions
A man entered. Tall, thin. He walked with confident steps, more than necessary. He wore green leather armor. On his back, a bow, a long bow made of light-colored wood. In his hand he carried nothing. He waved to the crowd and smiled, a lot, more than necessary"Green Fox! Shepherd of Arrows!" announced the twins.
The man was showing off, walking as if at his own private party, as if he were a champion before proving it. He stood before the kings and bowed, a deep, exaggerated bow. Then he continued to his designated spot, still waving. The bets began to rise. "Ten on the Shepherd of Arrows!" "Twenty!"
Another man entered, bulkier than the first. He wore heavy iron armor that gleamed under the torchlight. On his chest was an emblem: a shield with two crossed swords. He walked with heavy, measured steps. He looked at the crowd, but not at them; through them, as if he saw something farther.
"Wall Guardian!"
The names, as everyone noticed, were mostly like last wishes. Fake names. Names the champions chose for themselves before entering the Neverwood. Names without real glory. But they, at the moment of entry, were all they had: their final identity. Wall Guardian entered. He was showing off too, but with quieter pride, more dignified. He stood, bowed, then joined Green Fox.
Then the twins announced the third champion, and their voices this time were different. More respectful. More afraid.
"The third champion... for the Kingdom of Valcryn."
A pause.
"Thomas the one—armed. The Slayer of Normens."
This was a real name.
Silence. The silence that fell over the place was heavier than any cheer. The crowd at the back was amazed. They whispered: "Is that him?" "Really?" "He's not a legend?" "He's participating?"
Then the place erupted. The cheers were deafening. People jumped and screamed. Bets rose everywhere—"Fifty on Thomas!" "A hundred!" "Everything I own!" The nobles exchanged looks. The commoners thought they were seeing their salvation.
Thomas entered. He did not wave, did not smile, did not look at the crowd. He walked. Just walked. His heavy sword was on his back. His gait was heavy, heavy as the death he carried. He stood in his place. He did not bow to the kings, did not acknowledge their existence.
And while all eyes were on him, Thomas was looking behind him, at the Neverwood. He heard screaming voices, screams of those who had entered before him, screams that never emerged. He was disturbed. His hand, the only one, trembled slightly. He stopped it, gripped his sword. He was like one about to enter hell. His hell.
Then the twins moved to the Kingdom of Salter. But this time there were no fancy names, no titles. Only one word, repeated three times.
"Slave." A man entered, looking at the ground.
"Slave." The second entered, his face devoid of any expression.
"Slave." The third entered. It was Golden Teeth, the only one who raised his head, who looked at the kings, at the crowd. He was smiling, a gleaming smile.
After them entered the champions of the Kingdom of Izzadar, Meriel's champions. Chosen men. Not the strongest, but the hungriest for life. They entered quietly, with dignity. They did not wave, did not smile. They just stood.
It was the final turn, the Kingdom of Thornholl, the host kingdom. But it, unlike the other kingdoms, did not present three champions. It presented one champion. The twins held the paper and looked at it. One looked at the other. There was confusion.
"Is this correct?" whispered the first.
"Yes," whispered the second.
Then they raised their voices: "Let enter... the champion of the Kingdom of Thornholl!"
A pause.
"Robert Thorn! The Blind King! King of the Night Kingdom!"
A horse entered. It was black, entirely black. Even its eyes, which gleamed under the light, were dark. The horse's armor was black, designed in the shape of raven wings, extended wings, as if the horse itself were about to fly. Upon the horse sat Robert. He wore no crown. He wore a helmet, a black helmet covering his face entirely. But what caught the eye was not the helmet. It was the band. The red band. It was tied around the helmet, around the eyes. Red, like blood, like fire.
His armor was complete, deep black, designed in the shape of raven wings, but not wings of flight. Finned wings, sharp, serrated. On his arms there were thorns, iron thorns emerging from the shoulders, from the elbows, from the wrists. They represented the identity of his kingdom, the identity of Thornholl, the Kingdom of Thorns.
Robert entered. His horse walked slowly, with majestic slowness. Each hoofbeat left an echo on the stone. There was silence, a silence different from any previous silence. It was not a silence of anticipation. It was a silence of awe. Robert stood in the center. His horse stopped. He was looking forward, at the Neverwood. He did not look at the kings, did not look at the crowd. He only looked at the Neverwood.
Thomas, who was standing to the side, felt something strange, a prickling on his neck. He turned and looked at Robert, at his armor, at his blindfold, at his stance. There was something familiar, something old. As if he recognized an opponent from another time, from another battle. Thomas said nothing. He just looked.
The commoners on the lower terraces were surprised. Some cheered his name: "Robert!" "The King!" Others called him by another name, a whispered name, a fearful name: "Shamed King." The king who fled from battle.
As for the kings, they were in different states. Marcus was standing, looking at Robert, at his armor, at his horse. He was thinking: How can an old blind man throw himself into hell? There was something wrong. He knew. He felt it. Sam was shocked, but it was not the shock of fear; it was the shock of admiration. His hands, which had been on the armrests, began to clap, spontaneously, slowly. "This is madness," he muttered, smiling. Meriel was looking, just looking. He felt a trap, but did not know what it was. His mind wondered: What exactly is this old man thinking?
Everyone had the same question. Everyone except Robert. Robert, under his helmet, under his red band, knew exactly what he was doing.