In one of Thornholl's taverns—where no sun rises and no day comes—morning was just a word. Nothing more. In Thornholl, taverns do not open in the morning because morning does not exist. Here, taverns thrive at night, breathe in the darkness, live when everything else sleeps. And in the Kingdom of Thorns, where night is eternal, taverns know that night never ends. They know the customer will not leave because they saw the light of dawn. They know that darkness is the only guaranteed time. And so their doors were always open. Always.
"They called me slave as though the word made them kings." Rodric swirled the wine in his cup. "A farmer could command my hands. A fisherman could command my feet. A noble could command me to kneel." He smiled, showing his golden teeth. "Funny thing about a collar..." He leaned closer. "It only sits around the neck. It never reaches the heart."
Inside the "Black Wine" tavern, hidden in the alleys of the Black Mud Town like a rat in a burrow, the atmosphere was loud. Not loud like a party, not loud like a celebration. It was loud like a room full of men who did not want to remember where they were. Men laughing loudly because silence would remind them of their loneliness. Men drinking heavily because if they stopped drinking, they would think. And thinking in Thornholl is dangerous.
Smoke filled the place—smoke from torches, smoke from pipes, smoke from whatever was burning in the corner that no one asked about. The smell was a mixture of wine spilled on the floor, sweat dripping from the walls, and rotten wood underfoot. The light was dim, orange, flickering. It came from torches hanging on the walls—torches that had been burning for days, their wicks nearly spent. Shadow danced on every face and made every man look like a ghost, like a memory, like something about to vanish.
But the eyes—all eyes—were fixed on one man. A man standing on a table. He swayed, not from drunkenness, or not only from drunkenness. He swayed from victory, from pride, from having emerged from a place no one had emerged from. He stood there on the dirty wood, holding a cup of wine in his hand. The wine was red, dark, like blood. It dripped from the cup onto the table, forming a small puddle. No one noticed.
It was Rodric. Golden Teeth. Who was no longer a slave.
"They called me slave as though the word made them kings." Rodric swirled the wine in his cup. "A farmer could command my hands. A fisherman could command my feet. A noble could command me to kneel." He smiled, showing his golden teeth. "Funny thing about a collar..." He leaned closer. "It only sits around the neck. It never reaches the heart."
The crowd cheered. Bearded men threw their heads back. Women with tired faces clapped. People who did not know Rodric but knew his story. Or knew they wanted to hear it. In Thornholl, where there are no heroes, any man who emerges from the Neverwood becomes a legend. Any man who survives becomes a god.
"There, deep inside the wood, among the fucking trees!" Rodric continued. His voice trembled—not from fear but from excitement. He took a step along the table, nearly slipping, catching himself on a man's shoulder. "I saw my fate! And it was bound to one man! He was not a farmer, not a fish man, and not a fat nobleman. He was a king! King Robert! I said—this is it! This is my fate! To serve a greater cause!"
One of the men jumped up from the crowd—a drunkard with a red face and hazy eyes. He held a half-empty cup, liquid sloshing over the rim. "What did you see in there?!" he shouted, his voice challenging, as if testing him. "What did you see in the Neverwood?!"
Rodric paused. He looked at the man, at the crowd, at the cup in his hand. His grin widened slowly, spreading across his face like a crack in stone. He swayed once, then steadied.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said. His voice dropped—low, secretive. He leaned forward slightly, his free hand resting on his knee. "I saw beasts. I saw nightmares. But I fought them. I fought the beasts. And I fought my nightmares. And I came out alive!"
He straightened and raised his cup high. The wine shook, about to spill. "A life I will make the most of! Starting with this fine glass of wine! Come—let's drink a toast from slave to slaves!"
The crowd raised their cups, shouting, laughing, clapping. Rodric was among them—a king for a moment, a king of the tavern, a king of the night.
Then he descended. He jumped off the table, his boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He nearly fell, his body tilting, but he caught the edge of a chair and laughed—a loud, careless laugh. He walked toward the barmaid, toward the old woman standing behind the bar. She looked at him with expressionless eyes, her rag moving slowly over a wet cup.
"More of that wine!" he said, pushing his cup toward her. His words came fast, slurred at the edges. "More!"
The cup reached his lips. The wine was about to touch his mouth. He was about to drink.
But someone stopped the flow of wine.
A hand. A man's hand. Long fingers. They gripped the cup and prevented it from reaching Rodric's mouth.
"Enjoying your victory?"
It was Marcus.
Rodric froze. His cup hung in the air, held by two hands now. His eyes, which had been gleaming moments before, grew cautious. He turned his head slowly and looked at Marcus—at his face, at the faint smile on his lips.
"Not anymore," said Rodric. His voice was quieter now. He lowered the cup slightly, testing whether Marcus would release it.
Marcus ordered a cup of his own. He was calm. He wore a simple robe, not a king's robe. He was trying not to draw attention. His eyes moved once across the room, then settled back on Rodric.
"I won't stay here long," he said. His voice carried something between farewell and inquiry. He took the cup the barmaid offered and held it without drinking. "I just want to satisfy some of my curiosity."
Rodric pulled his cup free and set it on the bar. He turned to face Marcus fully, his back against the wood. "You know I'm not your slave anymore, right?"
Marcus placed his hand on Rodric's shoulder. His hand, always cold, was warm now. "No, you're not. But you still owe me." He paused, his fingers pressing once before releasing. He looked at him directly. "I gave you a chance at heroism while you were a slave. I raised you from someone about to die unknown in the depths of the sea to one of the kingdom's champions. At least you should have some kind of gratitude."
Rodric looked at the ground. His jaw worked once. "Sorry, my lord," he said. His voice was flat. "I'm too drunk to understand everything you said. Next time, get straight to the point."
Marcus did not smile. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Tell me what you saw there. Tell me how you survived. Tell me how a blind old man could just go in and out of the Neverwood like that."
He paused. His eyes narrowed. "Survivors have stories. It's shameful not to share your story with the person who gave you the tip in the first place."
Rodric put his drink down on the bar. Slowly. His fingers released the cup one by one. He was looking at Marcus—at his eyes, at the honesty, or what seemed like honesty, in them.
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"Did you relieve yourself today?" said Rodric.
"What?"
Rodric jerked his thumb toward the back of the tavern. "The latrine is over there. Go. You should relieve yourself at least once a day, or your ass will explode."
Marcus looked at him for a long moment. Something passed between them—a signal, an invitation. Marcus understood. Without a word, he set his cup down and walked toward the back of the tavern, toward the latrine, toward the darkness where no eyes could see.
Rodric followed him.
They disappeared together behind the door—into the small room, into the place where torchlight did not reach.
And no one knew what passed between them. Did Rodric tell him what he saw in the Neverwood? About the beasts, the nightmares, about Robert and how he survived him? Did he tell him secrets that could not be spoken in public? Or did they just stand there in the dark, two men, a former master and a former slave, in a tavern latrine in Thornholl?
No one knows. Not even the eyes of the gods. The place was too dark. Too dark to see.
Far beyond Thornholl's walls, where the Kingdom of Thorns ends and the world begins, there was a town. A small town. Different. Its name was "Touch of Light." It was the only town in the kingdom where daylight could break through—not abundantly, not clearly, but it existed. There was a ray, a single ray, that crept through the clouds at this time of year. This morning it fell on the damp earth, on the stones, on the mud.
This morning Thomas was on his horse, walking slowly. The horse, tired, walked with heavy steps. Its hooves sank into the mud then came out, sank then came out. It was the only sound on the road.
Thomas was empty of everything.
He no longer carried his sword. The Long Nightmare—which had accompanied him through most of his battles, with which he had killed the Normens, with which he had entered the Neverwood—he had abandoned it. Left it somewhere. He no longer needed it. He no longer needed anything.
His wound on his shoulder was bandaged, but it still bled. Blood seeped from under the bandage, ran down his arm, down his only hand, down his horse. He did not notice. Did not care.
He looked ahead—at the road, at the horizon. His mind wandered, not on anything specific. He wanted to disappear. To find a place where no one could see him. An empty place. Empty of humans. Empty of Normens. Empty of everything.
Then he stopped.
There was a girl. Small. Thin. Lying on the damp ground on the side of the road, under one of the abandoned market stalls. She was asleep—or unconscious. Her small body was curled up on itself like an animal trying to keep warm, her arms wrapped around her knees, her dirty hair covering her face.
Thomas looked at her. There was something in his eyes—something other than coldness, something other than indifference. He remembered her. The same girl he had seen in the crowd on the first day—stuck between the feet, who had disappeared, who he had wondered about. She was still thin. Still dirty. Still alive.
"Hey... girl."
His voice was low, rough. Not the voice of a man speaking to a child, but the voice of a man speaking to a ghost.
She did not hear. Her sleep was deep. Or it was not sleep but unconsciousness—unconsciousness from hunger, from cold, from a world that had abandoned her.
"Hey, kid," said Thomas, a little louder.
This time she heard.
She opened her eyes suddenly—violently—like an animal startled by a hunter's sound. She looked around, terrified. Her hand shot beneath her body and clutched something—coins, dirty copper pieces. She gripped them tightly, ready to run, to flee, to disappear.
Thomas looked at her coldly. "Do you want to go away?"
Sara—it was Sara—looked at him. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to see, trying to understand. "Who are you?"
Thomas did not answer. He just urged his horse forward and began to move away slowly, hooves sinking into the mud.
"Wait!"
Thomas stopped. He did not turn.
"Away... how far do you mean?"
"Far enough."
"Do you have food?"
"Don't worry about food." His voice was flat. "Do you want to go or not?"
"Yes," said Sara. Her voice was faint, tired, but it carried something like hope. She pushed herself up on one elbow. "Please. But... the horse is high."
Thomas dismounted with difficulty. His wound screamed. Blood flowed. But he reached down with his one hand, lifted her, raised her from the ground. She was light—very light, like a bird, like bones, like something about to break. He placed her on the horse.
Sara looked at his severed hand—at the shoulder, at the emptiness where the hand had been. But she said nothing. Did not ask. Did not pity. She just looked, as if she understood, as if she knew what it meant to lose something.
Thomas mounted behind her. He held the reins with his one hand. And they went together. The horse walked slowly. They were silent, heading somewhere—to "far enough," to where no one knew, to where something new could begin, or everything could end.
Hours passed. In Thornholl, hours do not pass; they crawl like a snail on a blade. But they passed, somehow.
Sam and Marcus were summoned again to the castle hall. They walked through the stone corridors. The torches on the walls were the same torches—unchanged, not extinguished. They had been burning for days, for years, for eternity.
Sam felt something strange. There was tension in his shoulders, in his hands that moved incessantly. He looked around at the walls, at the shadows, at the things that did not move.
"I need to leave soon," he said. His voice was low. He was talking to himself.
"And what do I have to do with that?" said Marcus. He walked ahead and did not turn.
"I wasn't talking to you," said Sam. His voice sharpened. "Just talking to myself. And you just interrupted us. man without manners."
Marcus overtook Sam without a word and left him behind, walking fast. He wanted this to end—to leave, to return to his ships, to his sea, to his kingdom.
He entered the hall. It was large, cold, stone. There were more torches here, but they were not enough. Never enough to drive out the darkness of Thornholl.
Robert sat on a chair at the head of the table. It was not a throne, but it looked like one. His hands rested flat on the wood. He was waiting.
Marcus sat without a word. He looked at Robert—at his hands placed on the table, at the knife beside him, at the calm in his eyes.
Sam entered. "Greetings!" he said. His voice was cheerful—too cheerful. He pulled out a chair, its legs scraping against the stone, and sat. "Where are the apples?"
"I'll give you a basket on your way back," said Robert. His voice was serious, but it carried something like humor.
"That would be great."
Robert placed his hand on the table slowly. The sound was faint, but it echoed. "Have you thought about it?" he said. He looked at them—at Marcus first, then at Sam. "Tell me your decision, and I will respect it, whatever it may be."
"Uniting humanity... is difficult, like trying to unify the mind and heart in one decision." said Marcus. His voice was measured. He turned his cup on the table, watching the liquid swirl. "But at least... someone must try. I see your idea is not bad. But it is somewhat costly and Somewhat more impossible."
"Yes, you're right," said Robert. He nodded once, slowly. "It will cost us a lot. But it won't be an immediate drain. It will extend over many years of sacrifice, In the dictionary of a man who emerged from obscurity and regained his sight, there is no such thing as impossible."
Robert turned his head toward Sam. "What about you? Do you agree... or not?"
"I am fully in," said Sam. He leaned back, his chair creaking. He was smiling. "But don't you see... That's last thing you should consider. you are on the brink of war?"
"Yes, you're right," said Robert. His fingers tapped once on the table. "Yes, Meriel will declare war on me. But not just on me. First it will be me, then it will be your turn. It's a choice. He is the loser and we are the winners—whether today or tomorrow. The time will come when he declares war on you too. So take a stand now."
"We've said we are with you on this One Fortress for All," said Marcus. His voice was more serious now. He stopped turning his cup. "But war... that is something else. Something you bear full responsibility for."
"If a great goal unites us... why would we be divided by that?" said Robert. He looked at them, one after the other, trying to read them. "Three armies against one—it will also be an opportunity for us. There is no possibility of defeat. It will only be a new beginning."
He paused. His voice rose, enthusiasm—real or feigned—in it. "We will be The beginning of something great."
"If the threat is to one kingdom... the threat is to all," said Sam. His voice, for the first time, was serious. Real. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I will not stand watching while war happens. I want to be in its front ranks. And it will be... my first war."
"War is a war in which there are no winners," said Marcus. He looked at his hands. "But Meriel is also my enemy. He is a man of principles—and there are no principles without a price. He must realize that. War was never my way." He paused, his jaw tightening. "But also I want to see your dream come true. So... I will take a side this time. The winners' side."
Robert looked at them for a long time. There was something on his face that had not appeared much before—respect, or something like it.
"I'm grateful to talk to men who know what it takes."
He stood. His chair scraped back. He looked at the table, at the map that did not exist, at the future he saw.
"Gerald was not a threat to me. He was brother to the threat. Now Gerald is dead. And Meriel, alone, cannot do anything. Even if he brings his entire army."
He paused. He looked at them—at their eyes.
"One Fortress for All... is no longer my dream."
He smiled—a faint, genuine smile.
"It is the dream of the three of us...One for all."