Inside Valkryn Palace, where golden light seeped through high windows to touch the marble floors, a man was wandering. He was not wandering as a king, nor as a noble, nor even as a prisoner. He was wandering as a man seeing the palace for the first time, despite having become one of its masters. He was the Master of Relations, one of the new council members chosen by the dead.
In his hand was a red, shiny apple from which he had taken a bite, juice still lingering on his lips. He walked slowly, contemplating the ornate walls, the marble statues, the velvet curtains. His eyes moved in every direction—not out of fear, but curiosity. The curiosity of a man who knows that all this beauty could vanish at any moment. The curiosity of a man who knows he might not see this place tomorrow.
He was heading to the Red Council. That was his only destination—not because he wanted to go there, but because he did not know where else to go. The entire palace was a prison, and the council at least was a familiar cage.
He entered the hall, and the heavy door closed behind him with a muffled thud. He was still playing with his apple, tossing it between his fingers, throwing it in the air and catching it. He looked at the council, and everyone was there, sitting in their seats. But they were not sitting as ministers. They were sitting as refugees—as people who did not know where to go other than this place. Their faces bore a mixture of boredom, fear, and resignation. They were waiting. Waiting for what? They themselves did not know.
The Master of Relations stopped in the center, chewed a piece of apple slowly, and looked at them one by one. Then, in a voice that was not loud but clear as a bell, he said, "Does the king see us here as his Council, or as his prisoner toys?"
Silence fell. No one answered. The question was too heavy to respond to, too heavy to pretend everything was fine.
"Wherever I go inside this palace, the guards keep following me," he continued. His voice carried something between anger and exhaustion. He turned slowly, gesturing with the half-eaten apple. "I don't think they're doing it because they like me. It's a sign of a lack of trust."
The rest of the council remained silent. His eyes swept the hall until they fell upon a man in the corner—a man who was not sitting on a chair. He was sweeping. It was Greg, the new Master of Agriculture, who had been a stable cleaner before Sam placed him on this chair. He was still holding his broom, still sweeping. The council floor, which was already clean, he was sweeping—because he did not know what else to do. Because the broom was the only thing he understood.
The Master of Relations approached him and stood before him. He looked at him, at the broom in his hand, at the non-existent dust, at the sweat on his brow.
"Greg... that's your name, isn't it?"
Greg raised his head. His face was simple, straightforward—the face of a man who had never lied. "Yes."
"What were you doing, before all of this?"
Greg looked at the broom, then at the Master of Relations, then at the broom again. He said simply, "Doing what I'm good at."
The Master of Relations gripped Greg's shoulder. His hand was firm and warm. "You truly are a real stableman," he said. He was not mocking; he was sincere. "All my respect to you and your honorable work, my friend. But you should know... The dung of kings is unlike the dung of horses. It does not wash away so easily."
Then he slowly sat in his place. The apple was still in his hand. He looked at the Lady of Whores sitting beside him, smiled a faint, manufactured smile—a mask he wore so no one would see what lay behind it—and said in a low voice, "It seems the stableman has not yet come to terms with what he has become."
The Lady of Whores looked at him. Her look was not warm; it was sharp, piercing, like a needle. "Perhaps. But what about you, a man with your concern? You must have already fled."
He replied without hesitation, but his voice, despite his confidence, carried something like admission—the admission of a man who knows the truth and is not afraid of it. "Honestly... you're right." He bit the apple and chewed. "I should have fled by now. But a man like me who's never seen a palace before is trying to make the most of it. It seems the guards here have a big disagreement with that."
Then, suddenly, his voice became more serious. He looked at the apple as if it held the answer. "So... I must take my stand here and now." He raised his eyes and looked at the council, at the faces, at the silence. "Am I going to wait to be poisoned like the others who were clearly more qualified for this task than me?" He paused. "Or will I disappear... while the chance is still here?"
The question was directed at everyone—at all of them, silent. There was fear in the hall, fear that someone might speak, fear that someone might hear. But the Master of Relations no longer cared.
"Did you hear me, stable boy?" he said, addressing Greg. Then, in a louder voice, to everyone, "All of you must decide."
He rose from his chair and stepped to the center of the table. He stood there among the corpses that did not yet exist, but which everyone could feel. He looked at the door, at the guard standing there, silent as a statue. Then, in a low voice, but loud enough for everyone at the table to hear, he said, "We have here a mad king."
He paused. The word hung in the air. "Mad in his childishness." He looked at them one by one. His eyes were serious. No more apple. No more smile. "If we keep playing the foolish clown for him... we will end up like those before us." He paused. "What do you think? I'm interested in hearing your decision... before I find my way out."
He looked at the Lady of Whores. There was something in her eyes, something like respect. "Let's start with you, my lady. What do you intend to do?"
The question hung in the air. Everyone was looking at her—the former cripple's whore, now the Lady of Whores. She was silent for a moment, thinking. Then, slowly, she said, "I mean... you have a good point."
She looked at her hands, placed calmly on the table. "But for me... outside, I am just a whore."
The Master of Trade looked at her. He was an old man, wise. "Do you think now you are not?" he said. His voice was calm. "Lady of Whores."
She smiled, a sad smile. "I am still a whore," she said. "But at least... a council whore." Then her eyes became sharper, more determined. "At least I don't have to hear those voices anymore. And even if I die, I'll die from using my mind, not my body. I will prove my worth to him in the future. And perhaps... I will change my reality."
The Master of Relations looked at her, curious. "And how will you do that? Will you play the whore for him?" He shook his head. "I don't think that will change your reality."
"No," she said. Her voice carried a secret. "I will bring him the very whore he is burning to find. And then he will know my worth." She paused and looked at him directly. "I have a card that he needs."
There was silence—a heavy silence. The Master of Trade, who had been listening all along, finally spoke. His voice was calm but decisive. "I do not see myself as a wise master," he said. "And this game is bigger than me. I think I will return to my humble trade." He paused and looked at the guard at the door. "I am only hesitant about the guards' stance here. I don't think they will let us."
"You may go." It was the guard's voice—the same guard who had been standing there silent all day. He said it simply, calmly, as if it were not a problem, as if they had been free all along.
The Master of Relations looked at the guard with anger in his eyes. "Were you eavesdropping on us?"
"I stand here all day, doing nothing," said the guard. "Anything that eases the spinning in my head, I'll take. Especially now—with the council just a few steps from where I stand."
At that moment, the masked man sighed. Holland. He had been silent all along, watching. Now he said one word that came from beneath the mask as if it were the summary of everything he had heard: "Fools."
The Master of Relations rose—the first to rise. He wasted no time and walked toward the door. The Master of Trade followed him, and the others followed one by one. Even Greg followed them, still holding his broom.
Only two remained: the Lady of Whores and the masked man.
The masked man rose in turn, but instead of heading to the door, he took another direction—a direction inward, toward the palace's depths.
"Why do you want to stay?" the Lady of Whores asked him. Her voice carried something of concern. "Aren't you afraid of dying here?"
The masked man stopped but did not turn around. He said in a low voice, as if speaking to himself, "I died a long time ago." Then he slowly raised his hand to his face, to the mask. "You can see that on my face."
He removed the mask.
She recoiled and covered her mouth. The face she saw was not a face. It was a map of scars, melted skin, deformed flesh. It was a face that had died and been buried and then exhumed. It was a testament to something terrible.
Then he put the mask back on and walked.
The burnt man made his way through the palace corridors, walking with confident steps as if he knew the way, as if he had walked it a thousand times. He was heading to the forbidden wing—the wing guarded by two strong guards who allowed no one to pass.
He stood at a distance, knowing he could not approach, but he waited. He knew that someone would come out.
Then a door opened, and a maid came out carrying a glass cup filled with a dark-colored drink. She knocked on another door, a chamber door.
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The door opened, and a girl came out. It was Kormel.
She stood in the doorway wearing a simple dress, her hair falling over her shoulders. She was pale, tired. Her eyes, which had always burned, were dull today, like a candle about to go out.
The burnt man looked at her from afar, from where he stood. He could not approach because the guards were there. But he raised his rough voice—his voice that carried years of silence.
"You look tired... princess."
Kormel turned slowly, as if she had not heard a human voice in a long time. She looked at the man standing at the end of the corridor, at his mask, at his stance.
"Who are you?" she said. Her voice was sharp but tired. "How did you get in here?"
The burnt man bowed—a deep, respectful bow. "I am just a curious person," he said. His voice was quieter now. "I love reading. I love butterflies. And I hate fire."
Kormel stared at him. There was something in her eyes, something between suspicion and curiosity. "Are you crazy or something?"
"If I were crazy... would I be able to realize it, my lady?" He paused. "But I am not crazy. As I said... I am just curious. You are the princess... aren't you?"
The maid, still standing, said, "Please, my lady. Drink your medicine."
Kormel raised the cup and looked at it, at the dark liquid, then at the man. "Whoever you are," she said, "just... stay quiet. And go mind your own business."
She was about to drink, about to put the cup to her lips, but the man spoke quickly—hastily, as if afraid he would not make it in time.
"Did Allen ever take you to the library?"
Kormel froze—the cup in her hand, her eyes wide.
"He loved reading," the man continued, his voice trembling.
"Who are you really?" said Kormel. Her voice carried something new, something that had not been there moments before. A plea—a hidden plea.
"Let me take you to the library," said the burnt man. "Though you can no longer gain knowledge there... but at least you can still smell it."
Kormel agreed. She did not know why, but she agreed. She left the cup, left the maid, and followed the man through the passages she knew—the passages she had run through as a child. Until they arrived where the library had been, where nothing remained but black walls, empty shelves, and a smell. The smell of burnt paper, the smell of the past.
Kormel stood looking at the nothingness, at the memory.
"Why do you wear a mask?" she asked. "Is your face burned?"
"Yes."
"Is that why you hate fire?"
The man laughed—a light, bitter laugh. "No. Not at all. I hate it... because it did not finish the job."
"There is no library anymore," said Kormel, looking at the walls. "It burned down." She paused, her mind working to connect. "The library burned down," she said slowly. "You burned too."
"Yes. You are right. I burned there."
"There was a man inside the library," said Kormel, her voice carrying an old memory. "He had some illness. He could not leave the library. I always wondered..." She paused. "...did he die?"
The burnt man looked at her for a long time. Then he said slowly, "Allen always brought you. Do you remember?"
Kormel stopped. Her eyes widened. Something was piercing the fog, piercing the medicine, piercing the years.
"I used to read you the stories you love."
"Are you..." Kormel was choking. "Are you Holland? The librarian?"
Then, without waiting for an answer, she rushed toward him and hugged him tightly, with everything she had. His body was firm under the robe, but it was real. He was alive.
"I thought you were dead," she whispered, her voice choked with tears. "Like my father. That day."
Holland placed his hand on her head—slowly, gently. "No," he said. "I did not die, apparently."
He paused. There was something else, something that needed to be said.
"And I don't think you remember everything. Or that's something your father didn't tell you. But I..." He paused. "...am Allen's brother. I am your uncle."
Kormel raised her head and looked at him, at the mask, at the eyes behind the mask. "He never told me that," she said. "Or he did... I don't really remember. Sorry."
"No problem," said Holland. His voice was kind. "You are confused. That thing messed with your mind. That's the only thing that made me reappear. You."
"What?"
He looked at her seriously. "That damned drink." He paused. "...slowly drives you to madness."
Kormel was silent, looking at him. The world around her was collapsing. Everything she had thought was real—the medicine, the maid, the palace—was a lie.
"And I do not want to see you lose your mind."
Cormel Holland stood before the burning library, its walls and floor drowned in blackness like...
In the embrace of Thornholl's eternal darkness, where the sun never rises, where the sky is black even at noon, and where the air is cold as the breath of the dead, the kings had returned to their seats. The stone amphitheater was crowded—nobles above, commoners below. But the silence that hung over the place was not the silence of anticipation. It was the silence of doubt.
The doubt of kings. The doubt of nobles. The doubt of everyone.
All doubt revolved around one man—a man who had wagered his entire kingdom, a man who had placed himself, his body, his bones, his blood, as the stake. The blind old man, King Robert.
They wondered why. Why would he do this? What does he know? What is he planning?
But there was no time for questions.
The twins, the presenters of the round, stood in the center. One of them was turning a page, trembling. They were nervous.
"I think that's all of it," said the first. "Alright."
Then he raised his voice: "Let the round begin!"
The instructions were clear. Each champion would take a separate entrance into the Neverwood. The goal was one: to carry their kingdom's emblem and to come out. There were no other conditions. "When you enter... make your own rules."
Each champion took their entrance. Multiple entrances, spaced apart. Each entrance was a dark mouth—a mouth between the blackened, dead trees of the Neverwood. The fog coiled around the entrances, thick and slow, as if breathing.
The blind Robert dismounted from his horse. His black steed, with its raven armor, stood silent. Robert moved slowly, confidently, advancing toward one of the entrances. He walked as if he were someone who could see his way, as if darkness to him was not darkness. He stood before the entrance, turned around, and looked at the crowd—though the blindfold was still over his eyes. He smiled, a terrifying smile, the smile of a man who knew something no one else knew.
Then he entered.
Inside, where there was no light, where no eyes watched, Robert stood alone. Finally. He breathed a deep, long breath—like someone emerging from a prison, like someone who had been holding this breath for years. He removed the blindfold and threw it away. It fell on the ashen ground. He no longer needed it. He no longer needed to pretend.
He drew his sword—the Black Thorn. The blade was black, dark, like a piece of night. He looked at it, and there was something in his eyes, something personal.
"Many hands have carried you," he said. His voice was calm. "But you will love this one. I will make sure you are well fed."
Then he bent slightly, in a ready stance, like a predator about to pounce.
And he took off.
He moved fast—fast enough that he seemed to simply vanish. He ran through the fog-choked paths between the dead black trees like a ghost, like something that did not acknowledge walls. He knew his way. He knew the Neverwood, as if he had built it, as if he had been here before hundreds of times.
Five entrances away, there was another man. It was Golden Teeth. He was entering hesitantly, his steps slow and halting. He was afraid, but his fear was not of death. It was of something else—of the sounds he could hear. He could no longer hear the people outside, no longer hear the crowd. Only sounds—screams, whispers everywhere, seeping into his ears like worms.
Then he saw it before him: a field. A potato field. A whole field with its green plants, its brown soil, its extended rows.
Golden Teeth froze. His eyes widened. Then he screamed—the scream of a man who had seen a ghost. He recoiled and fell. His mouth was suddenly burning. He could feel the hot potatoes, the potatoes they used to put in his mouth in the past when he was a slave, when they punished him. It burned. His mouth burned.
He rose and ran away. "What is this place?!" he screamed. But no one heard.
At another entrance, Thomas entered. His fist gripped his sword—his heavy sword, the Long Nightmare as he called it. He was tense, very tense, but he was not afraid. Not yet.
Before him, there was no field, no memories. Only a pile of bones and skeletons—old bones of people swallowed long ago. Skulls, ribs, skeletal hands still gripping rusty swords. The black trees loomed above them, their charred branches reaching down like claws.
He could walk. He could pass them by. But his eyes saw something else. They saw hundreds of warriors screaming, running, dying. He saw the Battle of the Brave—the third battle. He saw the blood, blood everywhere, blood on his hands, blood on his sword, the blood that was never washed away.
He felt himself being pulled into that battle forever. He saw dozens of warriors, his comrades, turning into blood. Blood that clung to him, covered him, drowned him. Thomas was sweating, breathing hard, retreating—stepping backward one step, two steps—just as many had done in the Battle of the Brave, just as the deserters had done. Shame.
He retreated until he reached a dead end. He turned around. There was no exit. The Neverwood had closed in on him, even though he had not moved from his entrance, even though he had not advanced. The fog had sealed the path, as if the Neverwood were saying: no more escape.
Elsewhere, Thomas was not the only champion of Valkryn. There were two others. They had met deep in the Neverwood.
"We are not supposed to kill each other," said one, trembling. "We are on the same team. Right?"
"Yes," said the other, afraid too. "Let's cooperate. That will make us stronger."
They agreed and protected each other, walking together back to back, guarding each other from the blackened trees, from the sounds, from the shadows.
Then they heard something: the sound of footsteps—fast footsteps, faster than they had ever witnessed. They turned. Something was moving at immense speed, approaching.
Then suddenly he appeared before them. An old man with a blood-stained sword and an ordinary smile, as if all this horror meant nothing to him.
It was Robert.
"King Robert!" said one of the champions, shocked.
The champion looked at his companion. An idea formed—an evil idea. "We can kill him here," he whispered. "Think about it. He is an old blind man."
Robert looked at him and smiled. "Are you sure about that, brave soldier?" He paused and looked at the champion's neck, at the simple necklace he wore. It gleamed.
"You have a beautiful necklace right there," said Robert. His voice was calm. "I want it for myself. Will you give it to me?"
"You can see?" said the champion, confused.
"No," said Robert. "I don't think you will just hand over your necklace, aren't you." Then, slowly, he raised his sword. "No problem. There are many ways to get things."
What happened next was faster than the eye could perceive. Robert moved. The sword, the Black Thorn, cut through the air and through the neck. The champion's head flew, his body fell, and blood burst forth. Robert stood there, still smiling. He caught the body—the body that was still standing—then let go of the sword. The sword, as if it had a life of its own, took the necklace itself, retrieved it from the severed neck, and placed it in Robert's hand.
Robert put on the necklace and looked at the other champion, who stood frozen, mouth open, eyes filled with terror. He stammered, "M-M..."
"What do you think?" said Robert, looking at him. "Does it suit me?"
The champion could not speak. He was trembling, wetting himself. He knew he was going to die.
Robert sheathed his sword slowly, calmly. Then he advanced toward the champion.
"Come here," he said, his voice soft. "Come on."
The champion approached—one step, two steps—walking like a condemned man, knowing he would not return.
Robert raised his hand and inserted it into the champion's mouth. The champion thrashed, choking, but Robert was strong—very strong. He grabbed something in the man's throat and pulled, pulled out his vocal cords as one pulls a thread from a spool.
"This is how kings should play," said Robert, looking at the vocal cords in his hand. "Ah... how I hate that palace. And sitting in it all the time."
Then he heard a sound behind him—the sound of heavy footsteps, the footsteps of a man carrying his own burden.
"Turn around, Your Grace! Turn around!"
Robert turned.
And there stood Thomas.
He held his sword—the Long Nightmare. He was sweating, trembling, but his eyes were steady, fixed on Robert's eyes. There was something in them that had not been there moments before: certainty.
"I knew you were anything but human. I can see your pathetic attempt from miles away," said Thomas. His voice was deep, rough, like rolling stone. "You rotted Normen. You must be so rotten... to be exiled to this shit hole."
Robert gripped his sword slowly and looked at Thomas—at his one hand, at the sword, at the resolve in his eyes. Then he smiled, the smile of battle. He said, "You have decent eyes for a human. But unfortunately for you, you're about to lose them."
"So... now that you know who I am, won't you honor the old ways? The traditions of your fathers—and of their fathers before them?" said Robert, his voice calm but carrying fire.
Robert raised his bloody sword and pointed it at Thomas, saying with a cold smile, "...aren't you going to run?"