Upon the Crocodile Marsh Road—that winding way between the eastern and western reaches of the Rooks' continent—Meriel and William rode upon two horses. The road was clear, traced, stretching between the marshes like a grey thread piercing the deep green. Silence held dominion over the place. Even the hooves did little more than sink into the mud and rise again—sink and rise, sink and rise. The sound was soft, wet, swallowed almost before it was made.
The eyes of crocodiles watched from the water. Lidless. Motionless. Mere eyes floating upon the surface. Following. The water was still—too still—and the eyes did not blink, did not move, did not acknowledge the riders except by their relentless attention.
Meriel rode ahead. His back was slightly bowed. His left hand held the reins, his right hung loose upon his thigh. His eyes were fixed upon the road—not upon the horizon, but upon the road itself, upon the line that faded beneath his horse's hooves.
William followed behind. His whole body leaned forward. His injured foot—dangling from the stirrup—swayed with every stride. His iron cane was lashed to the side of the saddle with a leather cord. The smell of wet iron rose with the sweat. His fingers gripped the reins loosely, his knuckles pale against the leather.
William had been speaking for hours. His voice was low—not because he hid anything, but because loud speech in a marsh where creatures listen beneath the water is unwise.
"Gerald once told me... how you all grew beneath one roof," said William, not looking at Meriel but at the ground before his horse. His voice was careful, measured, the voice of a man laying stones one by one across a river. "You were brothers."
The water at the roadside stirred. Something slid beneath the surface. Neither turned.
Meriel spoke in a calm tone, seemingly absent-minded. His right hand lifted from his thigh and waved once through the air, a small dismissive gesture, as if brushing away a fly. "Yes, we were."
William paused. His horse stumbled on a stone. He waited until it steadied, his hand tightening on the reins, then releasing. His jaw shifted once, side to side, as he gathered his words.
Meriel did not turn.
William said in a slightly loud voice, leaning forward in the saddle, his free hand gripping the pommel: "Branden is still a small child. A child Gerald entrusted to me." He paused, his brow furrowing, his eyes fixed on the back of Meriel's head. "But as someone who failed to protect his father, I believe it is better for him to live with you. As his father once did. Beside me he will be alone. Marginalized. Worn down like untempered iron. He has no brothers. No mother. All he had was a father. A father I swore to protect... but I didn't."
The crocodile eyes still followed. One drew near. Great. Only eyes above the water. Then they vanished.
"He will be nothing but a lonely boy." William straightened slightly, his shoulders squaring. His voice came out harder than he intended. "What do you say?"
Meriel did not answer. His horse walked on, steady, slow, its head low.
William's fingers tightened on the reins. He leaned forward again, his voice carrying an edge of impatience now. "My lord... did you not hear me?"
"No," said Meriel. His voice was distant, as though it came from the end of a long corridor. His head turned slightly, then settled back. "Forgive me. I was thinking."
"Of what?"
Meriel's hand rose again, this time rubbing his brow with two fingers, pressing into the skin. "Of many things."
Silence fell once more. Hooves in mud. Water on either side. Eyes that never blinked.
William exhaled slowly through his nose. He glanced at the water, at the crocodiles, then back at Meriel. His voice dropped lower. "Did you hear what I spoke of?"
"Truthfully... I heard part of it." Meriel shifted in his saddle, his weight creaking against the leather. His shoulders rolled once, as if loosening a knot. "But Branden... Gerald's young boy. He would fare better in Ironfield. At your side. He would grow sharp and keen." He turned his head just enough to catch William in the corner of his eye. "If Gerald entrusted you... he placed his trust well."
William urged his horse a step closer, the animal's breath misting in the damp air. He leaned toward Meriel, his voice careful again. "In Izzadar, at the very least, he would find your sister Layla to care for him." He paused, his eyes searching Meriel's profile. "And I think your sister also needs something in her life to bring her joy. The last time I saw her... she was not the happiest."
Meriel reined in his horse. He stopped. His hands tightened on the reins—the leather creaking under his grip—then went still. The water on either side was still. The crocodiles had vanished. All of them.
"Sorry. But Branden will not be safe," said Meriel, looking ahead. His voice was flat, unbroken. His shoulders dropped another inch, as though something had settled on them. "I'm not the best option, as you can see. Everyone I know fades into the darkness of my curse."
He paused. The horse took a step. His hand fell back to his thigh, fingers drumming once, twice, then stopping.
"I am cursed. I have always been the cursed one. And I cast my curse upon those around me." His head tilted slightly, his eyes tracing the road ahead. "Even my people can see it. Even the sea... I cast my curse upon it... and it became dead. Like my children." His voice did not waver. Did not break. As if reading a ledger. "Like my wife. And now... my brother."
William drew his horse beside Meriel's. He leaned forward slightly, his voice softer now. His hand rose from the pommel and hovered in the air between them, as though he meant to touch Meriel's shoulder, then withdrew.
"In times of grief... we feel that life curses us. Or plays some game with us," said William. "But the truth... every man is responsible for his own life. And his own death. One man is too weak to bear the curses of all those around him. Even if he is a king—I mean, especially if he is a king."
He looked ahead. At the road fading into the mist. His jaw tightened.
"Gerald... was a curse unto himself. Kindness and trust were his curse. He trusted too much... to the point that I could not protect him from himself."
Meriel turned to him. For the first time in hours. His eyes, sunken and weary, found William's face and held it. His hand came up and rested on the pommel of his saddle. His back straightened—not fully, but a fraction, as though a rope had been pulled taut somewhere inside him.
"Branden is a clever child. Curious. He does not seek love or family," said Meriel, looking directly at William. His voice was quiet, but the flatness had gone. Something else had taken its place—something careful. "When he learns of his father's death... he will look to the nearest person and follow him. You are a clever man, and a forthright one. Branden will not be alone at your side."
He turned his head back to the road. His hand left the pommel and returned to his thigh.
"As for me... I must gather what remains of myself."
He urged his horse forward. Began to ride. His voice came back over his shoulder, faint but clear.
"For despite everything... life still continues, unfortunately."
Upon the waters of Thornholl's rear sea, Marcus's ships cut through the flowing river. The water—black, heavy—opened before the prow like a wound. Behind them—in their wake—the surface closed again. Slowly. Swallowing.
Marcus stood at the prow. He did not sit. He did not speak. He looked. He read the water's features. He saw the reflections of the gods' eyes upon the surface—scattered points of light, like drowned stars. They moved with the waves. Watching. Unblinking.
The river was narrow. The banks—black trees, rocks, shadows—passed slowly. The sound of the oars was rhythmic. Water striking wood. Wood groaning. Men silent.
After they emerged from the river—where the water widened and became sea—Marcus turned to the ship's captain. The captain—who stood at the helm—scratched his face. His fingers paused at the sores. Scratched. Paused. Scratched. The sound was small, wet, persistent.
Marcus looked at his face. His eyes moved over the sores without flinching. His lip curled slightly—not in disgust, but in something closer to fatigue.
"Have you still found nothing... for that thing upon your face? It becomes uglier every time I see it."
The captain looked at him. Then ahead. His hand dropped from his face and slapped against his thigh. "I have tried everything, my lord."
"I do not want my men retching every time they see your face," said Marcus, his voice without anger. He turned back to the water, his hands clasping behind his back. "I think shifting waves are enough. Go to the Sisters."
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The captain smiled. A smile that stretched the skin over the sores. "As if they could do what the sea itself could not." He paused. His fingers twitched toward his face again, then stopped. He gripped the ship's wheel instead. "With all respect, my lord... I have tried the waters of all seas. But no matter the sea... nothing changes."
"When we return... go to the Sea Sisters," said Marcus, looking at the horizon. His voice was quiet but carried weight. His fingers tightened around each other behind his back. "I do not wish to see that face again. Especially in times of war."
"Is there war, my lord?"
"Who knows what the waves bring," said Marcus. His voice was calm. He turned from the water to look at the captain, his head tilting slightly. "What I know... is that there will be a greater war. Greater. Because this time, we will not face the Normens."
He paused. Looked at the captain directly. His hands separated and fell to his sides.
"We will face men themselves. The worst kind. All for one. That which does not change in the world of men—and it will not change."
He turned his head. The sea stretched before him. Wide. Black. Endless.
"When we reach Salter... make arrangements. We'll need our ships—half here, and the other half behind the scenes, in the blinds, at the back." He spoke without looking at the captain, his voice dropping to something almost like a murmur. "Chaos may rise at any moment. Especially the chaos of a vengeful man."
Within the Dark Palace—where torches burned upon the walls with faint orange light—Robert sat in his study. He sat upon his chair. In his hand, an apple. Red. Shining. He turned it. Contemplated its color. Traced its shape.
His fingers—long—moved around the apple's surface. From stem to base. From base to stem. He watched it. As if it were something he had never seen before.
He raised his eyes. Not his head—only his eyes, beneath his brows—turned toward the guard standing at the door.
"Where are you looking?"
"Nowhere, my lord," said the guard. His voice was tight. His hands pressed flat against his sides.
"Go. And bring old Gray," said Robert. Then—slowly—he set the apple down on the desk, and his fingers curled into a loose fist. "And one more thing. The next time you say 'my lord' instead of 'my king'... I will cut out your tongue and feed it to you. So that you may taste your own words. And reconsider what you say."
The guard stood frozen. Looking at Robert. At the apple. At the fist. His throat moved as he swallowed.
"Shall I summon Gray... my king?"
"Go."
The guard went. His steps swift. Slightly stumbling. The door closed behind him with a muffled sound.
After minutes—the servant came. A small man. Bent. Walking with short, hurried steps. He stopped at the door. His hands clasped before him, knuckles white.
"You called for me, my lord?"
Robert did not look at the servant. He still turned the apple. His thumb traced the stem once, slowly.
"So... some things just won't change, just like that."
Then—he asked, his eyes still on the apple: "Did the two kings leave?"
"Yes, my lord. King Marcus departed through the rear gate."
The apple stopped. The fingers stopped.
"Who gave the order to open the back gate?"
"Forgive me, my lord," said the servant, his voice lowered. He bowed his head further, his chin nearly touching his chest. "Marcus told the guards... that you had commanded it. And that his ships were docked there."
Robert looked at his desk. He set down the apple. Slowly. Upon the wood's surface. It rolled slightly, then stilled.
"You just let him play his little game."
The servant offered his apologies again. He did not raise his head.
"What about the other one?"
"He departed, my lord, through the front gate. And we gave him some of the apples... as you commanded."
"Did he say anything?"
"The King of Valkryn bade me tell you something, my lord." The servant's voice faltered for a moment, as though he were unsure whether to deliver the message. "He said: thank you for the apples."
Robert looked at the servant. His lips moved—not quite a smile. "Good."
Then—he rose. The apple remained on the desk. He did not turn to it.
"...Have you gathered the children in the great hall as I commanded?"
"Yes, my lord. They are waiting for you."
The servant was leaving with a slight bow.
Robert said loudly and suddenly, his voice cutting through the room: "Wait, I forgot to tell you something." He caught his breath and said, "I've pulled the dead king's body from the Neverwood. I want you to send it to Ironfield. Show them we're not monsters."
The servant looked very surprised. He clasped his hands together, his fingers twisting. "It will have dissolved by now, my lord."
Robert said, "There's something not everyone knows about the Neverwood. Inside, time freezes. It's an ancient place, stretching back to when this place was once a citizen of the old Normens kingdom. Of course, they wouldn't know."
Robert entered the hall. It was vast. Cold. The eight children were there. They did not sit. They stood. Scattered. Looking at one another. When he entered—everything stopped. Even breathing seemed to cease.
Robert sat. Upon the chair at the hall's head. He was silent. He looked at them. One by one. His eyes moved from face to face. There was no emotion. He read. Merely read.
"Do you know what the world looks like outside... beyond these walls?"
No one answered. Fred looked at his nails. Little Robert looked at his brother. The other six looked at the ground.
"Beyond Thornholl's lands," Robert continued. His voice was calm. Level. His fingers drummed once on the armrest, then stopped. "Do you know what the forests look like?"
Silence.
"What daylight looks like?"
Silence.
"Do you know what the other kingdoms look like? What of The Great Pale? Do you know what lies beyond it?"
"The Lake," said one. His voice was faint.
"Have you ever seen anything like it?" said Robert. He leaned forward slightly, his shoulders hunching. "No. Of course not. These walls keep you from it. It is inappropriate for a kid to grow up in such darkness."
He leaned back. His hands upon the armrests.
"I... as a father... see that you will need this journey. Perhaps it will be long. But you will learn many things about the world. Outside. About what men face. You will become special. Most special."
"We do not want any journey, Father," said three of them at once. Their voices overlapping. Entangled.
Robert smiled. A faint smile. As if he had heard a jest. He waved one hand dismissively.
"Those who stay in one place have something to protect. Tell me—what do you have here?"
Then—he looked at them, his eyes moving from face to face once more. "Your journey will be tomorrow. Willing or not."
Silence. The children looked at him. Some opened their mouths. No sound came.
"A long journey. Full of adventures," said Robert. His voice lightened, as though he were speaking of a gift. "Something you will thank me for."
"We do not want to go anywhere, Father," said one.
Fred raised his hand. Looking at Robert. "I want to go."
Little Robert looked at Fred. He too raised his hand. "I as well, Father."
Robert looked at them both. His eyes held them for a moment. "You two will stay," he said. Then—to the other six—"As for the six of you... You will go."
He stood. Looking at the six. "Prepare yourselves. Your journey is tomorrow."
Someone knocked upon the door. The knock was firm. Rhythmic.
"Enter."
Rodric entered. With two guards accompanying him. He wore cleaner clothes than those they had seen him in at the tavern. His hair—once filthy—was now tied back. He stopped at the door. Bowed. His hand pressed flat against his chest.
"Long life... Your Grace."
"You have some court literature... warrior. I will grant you that." Robert looked at him, his head tilting slightly. "You must consider teaching courteous manners to the servants of the court here." He stepped forward, his robe brushing the floor. "Follow me, warrior."
They walked together through the passage. The guards behind them. Feet upon stone. Echoes. Shadows.
"Mind the threshold—it gets me every time," said Robert. He did not turn. He entered the study.
Robert entered. Sat at his desk. He did not offer Rodric a chair. He looked at him—his eyes moving from Rodric's face to his hands to his stance.
Robert was pouring wine into a glass while Rodric stood there. Robert placed the drink on the desk, looked at Rodric, and said, "Take a seat."
Rodric sat across from Robert, and the drink was in front of him. Rodric picked it up to drink, then asked Robert, "Aren't you going to drink too?"
Robert shook his head from side to side and said. "Tell me, how long has it been since you were a slave?"
"I opened my eyes, my king, upon fetters and chains," said Rodric. His voice was level. He stood straight, his hands loose at his sides. "So... since my birth."
"That must have been harsh. To see your fate bound."
"Not all of it," said Rodric. He shifted his weight slightly, one foot moving a fraction. "Honestly, I find that everyone's fate is bound by something, or someone. But for me—it's best if it's in the hands of a worthy master. Unfortunately, my chains kept dragging me down every time I got a new master, until... now." His chin lifted a fraction. "I think things are changing for me."
He paused. Looked at Robert—at his eyes, at the stillness of his hands. "I mean, Your Grace... who among us has no chain? Even kings have fetters and chains that bind them to their thrones all their lives. But a king is a king. And a slave is a slave."
"Yes, I got what you meant," said Robert. He looked at his hands, turning them over once, slowly. "But... the worst kind of slaves are kings. Because they believe they are masters of their own destinies."
"Not all, my lord," said Rodric. His golden teeth showed briefly as he smiled. "You are different. I can see that. And that's why I chose to follow you."
"Have you ever been responsible for many men?"
"No, my lord," said Rodric. "As a slave... I walked at the front of a chain holding several men. But I was not the one who was dragging. There was always someone who pulled us."
Robert placed his hands upon the desk. He looked at Rodric, his fingers spreading flat against the wood. "I will offer you a high station. I think it will suit you."
He paused. "I want you to be the captain of the kingdom's battalion. The Night Ravens."
"That sounds great, Your Grace."
"Indeed," said Robert. He leaned back, the chair creaking. "You will have great responsibilities. Over your men. Over the kingdom's security. And the palace. Are you prepared for that?"
"Always."
"Good," said Robert. He leaned forward again, his elbows resting on the desk. "But before that... you will prove yourself to me. You will prove your loyalty. You will journey tomorrow. And three knights shall walk with you. You will accompany my six sons... on a swift journey to The Great Pale."
He paused. Looked at Rodric—at his eyes, at the tension in his shoulders.
"And you will ask for a man at The Great Pale. They call him the One-Eyed Man. He is in the western sector of The Great Pale. Enter through the Green Wood Gate."
"Consider us already there, Your Grace."
"Do you grasp the weight of this?" said Robert. His voice had changed. Harder now. He rose slightly from his chair, his palms pressing into the desk. "You are conveying the king's sons... in a time of war and strong enmity between the five kingdoms. You must understand the weight of this."
Rodric looked at Robert. His golden teeth gleamed beneath the torchlight. His back straightened, his chin lifting. "I have never been less than serious about anything entrusted to me by a man of worth."
"Good," said Robert. He sat back, his hands returning to the armrests. "You will leave at dawn tomorrow. You will remain hidden throughout the journey. Avoid staying in towns. And beware of bandits."
"But, Your Grace... what will your children do at The Great Pale?"
"Nothing concerns you," said Robert. His voice was cold. His hand rose and cut the air once, sharply. "Do not fare well by asking questions. A man must do. Not ask."
"Forgive me. It will not happen again."
Rodric left the chamber. He wiped his sweat—his palm dragging across his brow, then flicking the moisture to the floor. He walked through the palace. Looking at it. At the walls. At the torches. At the shadows. Contemplating its beauty.
The palace corridors led him to the throne hall. Rodric stood before the throne, gazing thoughtfully at the black throne. His head tilted to one side. He approached slightly—one step, then another—and said cautiously, his voice low, meant for no one but himself and the empty seat:
"You will carry my ass one day."