The sun was rising across all the lands of the Rooks. In Izzadar, it touched the stone walls and turned them to gold, tracing warm fingers along the ancient masonry. In Valkryn, it reflected on the golden fields, making them burn with light, each stalk of wheat a small flame. In Ironfield, it danced on the iron until it gleamed like mirrors, catching the sparks of the forges below. In Salter, it traced silver lines on the sea's surface, turning the waves into moving blades.
But in Thornholl, the sun never rose.
There were only flashes. Small, thin flashes of light. They crept through the thick black clouds like thieves, illuminating for a moment then vanishing, as if trying to remind the world that light existed—but not here. Not in the Kingdom of Thorns. Not in the kingdom of perpetual night.
The Neverwood's Edge
Robert was still on his horse, looking at Meriel. His look was not a look of anger or hatred. It was worse. It was a look of contempt—the look of a man staring at something beneath him, at an insect, at dust. The blood on his black armor was drying slowly, turning a dark brown. He still held his sword, the Black Thorn, in his hand. The blade gleamed under the faint flashes. He said nothing. He did not need to say anything. The head—Gerald's head—said everything.
Meriel stood.
He did not move. He did not speak. He was looking down at where the head had settled. His brother's face looked back at him. The eyes were open. The mouth was slightly open, as if he were about to say something, as if he were about to smile. The hair, always unkempt, was stained with blood and dirt. There was a calm in his features—the calm of death.
Meriel looked. Only looked.
He did not scream. Did not weep. Did not move. His hands hung at his sides, fingers slightly curled. His chest rose and fell, slowly, evenly. There was something in his eyes—not sorrow, not anger. It was emptiness. The emptiness of a man who had lost everything. The emptiness of a man who had nothing left to lose.
Marcus stood as well. He had risen from his chair, his hands gripping the armrests until his knuckles paled. He was looking at the head—at Gerald, the man he had thought a fool, the man he had thought beneath him. There was something on his face—not sorrow, but surprise. The surprise of a man who realized the world was crueler than he had imagined. His mouth was slightly open. His eyes were narrow. He was thinking. Calculating. Wondering who is next.
The Third Champion
Then everything changed.
Someone else was emerging from the Neverwood. It was not Robert. Not Thomas. It was a third person—someone everyone had forgotten. He walked slowly, his steps heavy and tired, pushing through the thick fog that clung to the blackened, dead trees. His body swayed with each stride, as though the effort of standing was almost more than he could bear. He carried something in his hand—an emblem, the emblem of the Kingdom of Salter.
It was Golden Teeth. Rodric. The slave. Emerging from the Neverwood alive.
He stood beside the other champions, breathing with difficulty. His face was pale. Blood seeped from small wounds on his arms, tracing thin red lines down to his fingers. But he stood. He was alive.
He raised the emblem high. His arm trembled with the effort. He looked at the crowd, at the kings, at the world. Then he screamed—a scream that was not of victory but of identity, a scream of birth.
"My name... is Rodric! Not a slave—Rodric!"
Then he smiled. A faint smile. The smile of a man who had waited long to say those words. The smile of a man reborn.
Marcus turned his head toward Sam—a look of mockery, the look of a man saying: See? Even the slave. Sam did not look at him. He was still looking at Rodric. Smiling. A different smile. The smile of a man seeing something interesting.
Everyone forgot Meriel. Forgot the head. Forgot Gerald. Everyone was looking at Rodric—at the slave who had become a champion, at the man who emerged from the Neverwood carrying a new name.
Robert was looking at him too. There was something in his eyes—curiosity, interest. His head tilted slightly, like a predator studying unfamiliar prey.
Then everyone looked back to where Meriel had been.
But Meriel was not there.
He had vanished completely. As smoke vanishes in the wind. The head—Gerald's head—still lay on the ground, still looking at the sky, still silent. But Meriel was gone.
Robert turned his head toward his knights, his voice cold and flat. "Find him." But he was not truly interested. He knew Meriel would not go far. He knew he would return. He knew that hatred, like love, does not let anyone leave.
To the side, Rodric still stood. He coughed—a light, deliberate cough, an attempt to draw attention. Robert turned to him.
"What?" Robert's voice was sharp, impatient.
Rodric bowed. A deep bow. On his knees, on the ground, on the blood-stained earth. He was looking down at Robert's boot, at his horse's hooves. He breathed with difficulty. But his voice, when he spoke, was steady.
"As someone who just won his freedom... I want to lose it in your service."
Robert looked at him. There was silence—a long silence. "You want to serve me?" he said. His voice carried surprise. "Why? Didn't you say you are no longer a slave?"
Rodric raised his head and looked at Robert—at his eyes, at the face that had worn a red blindfold hours before. "There is a difference between becoming a slave against your will and choosing to be one. I realized that freedom is my enemy, Your Grace." His voice carried something learned through years of servitude. "It always makes you lost. Irresponsible. Weak. Freedom is a crown for my desires. And my desires will lead me to my end."
He paused, looking at Robert, waiting.
Robert's expression shifted. Something like respect crossed his features. "How good to put it that way," he said quietly. "Alright, champion. I think you deserved it. You are a winner, and the winners take what they want."
Rodric stepped back, bowing his head. "I am grateful to you, Your Highness. I promise I will do anything you ask of me. My years of slavery have shaped the person I am: a follower without a soul."
Marcus was looking at Rodric—at the slave he had owned, at the man he had given a chance. There was something on his face—not anger, not sorrow. It was something else. A feeling of betrayal. Betrayal from a man who had never truly owed loyalty in the first place.
Rodric turned and bowed to Marcus. "Thank you for the chance, my lord. But I hate the sea. And anything that comes from it."
Marcus's voice was cold, but it carried something like admiration. "How easily you change your allegiance."
Rodric met his gaze without flinching. "With all due respect, my lord... but I was a slave. A slave has no loyalty. He only goes where the chains drag him."
Marcus stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, "Go. Live as you wish. I told you before to fight for your freedom. And indeed you did. Congratulations. Now people will remember your name."
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Rodric bowed. Then Marcus disappeared.
The knights were dispersing. The crowd was emptying. The Neverwood square was clearing. Robert removed his armor and went down below, into the amphitheater, into the palace.
No one remained there except two.
Sam and Thomas.
Sam sat on his chair, still holding his cup, looking at Thomas—who stood confused, looking at the ground. Blood ran down his chest. The wound on his shoulder still bled. But he stood. He was alive. He was out.
Sam broke the silence, his voice light. "You kept your promise. You won. And you were the first out. It would be shameful for me to acknowledge your part of the agreement and not fulfill mine as well. Go ahead. Say what do you want—even if your request is for me to return your arm, I will find a way."
Thomas looked at Sam for a long time. There was something in his eyes—something that had changed. His jaw tightened.
"Before I entered the Neverwood... I would have asked you for your sister's hand. And a respectable home to live in happily."
He paused, looking at his hand—the only hand—at the blood on it.
"But I realized something. Someone like me doesn't deserve any of that. I was foolish to think otherwise."
Sam leaned back, a grin spreading across his face. "Don't be hard on yourself. It's not that great. My sister is more of a nightmare than a dream. Believe me. You can have her. You'll propose to me. And I'll be eager to see your children."
Thomas stepped forward. One step. Toward Sam. He was looking at him—at his eyes, at the smile that never left his face.
"I will disappear now," he said. His voice was calm but dangerous. "And if you look for me, or I see your men anywhere nearby, I will come to you—but this time it will not be the head of the guard beside the throne, but yours, and a crown upon it."
Sam looked at Thomas—at his eyes, at the hand on the sword. He said nothing. He just watched him leave. Thomas's steps were heavy, leaving trails of blood on the stone, but they were the steps of a free man. Finally.
One of Sam's men came from behind, his voice low. "Marcus is preparing to leave, my lord. And his men too. I think you should do the same, after what happened to King Gerald."
Sam rose, his expression shifting. "You're right. The old man has lost his mind. Besides, the atmosphere here has become stifling and boring. I think that's a sign. We should leave this damned place."
Marcus and his men were leaving quietly through the main gate of the fortress. They walked quickly, without noise, without drawing attention. They just wanted to leave this place—this kingdom, this darkness.
But they did not get far.
Thornholl's knights stopped them at the gate of the Black Mud Town. They carried spears. They blocked the road.
"The king wants to speak with you," said one of them. It was not a request. It was an order.
Meanwhile, in one of the crowded corridors after the event's end, two strangers moved stealthily. One was lame, carrying a cane. The other hid his face under a scarf. They walked among the commoners, among the townsfolk leaving the fortress walls. They tried not to be seen, not to be recognized.
They were William and Meriel.
They had reached the exit road—the city gate, freedom. But one of the guards looked at them—at the scarf, at the cane, at the way they walked.
"You there!" shouted the guard, stepping forward, his spear lowering. "Remove that scarf. Let me see your face!"
Meriel held a dagger in his hand—under the scarf, ready, about to kill, to avenge, to end everything here. His fingers tightened around the hilt.
But before he could move, the other guard shouted, pointing at someone else—at a man running, at a man trying to escape.
"King Sam!"
The guard turned, following the pointing finger—at Sam, who was himself trying to escape. Sam ran, laughing. "Damn you all!" he shouted. Then he vanished into an alley. The guards chased him. They forgot Meriel. Forgot William.
They managed to get out through the fortress gate, onto the open road, to freedom.
The road was vast, long, stretching across barren lands. They walked in silence—Meriel at the front, William with his cane following him. They walked for hours until Meriel suddenly stopped and sat on a rock, on a broken stone. He was looking at the ground, at his hands, at the blood still under his nails.
William stood, leaning on his cane, looking at Meriel—at the man who had been a king, at the man who was shattered.
"It was planned from the start," said William. His voice was calm. "There were traitors among Gerald's men. And he was just blind to see it. I had to separate from you to find out who the traitors were. But the traitors had greater loyalty compared with their betrayal."
Meriel raised his head and looked at William. "He was all I had left in this world," he said. His voice was broken. "Seeing the head of an honorable and good man thrown like that made me hate myself. Hate what I am. Hate what I claim to be."
He paused, looking at William, at his eyes. "Why didn't you let me take revenge right there? Now I have to live with the pain of doing nothing."
"There is no revenge that will erase the loss of a brother," said William. His voice was harsh but honest. "And if I had left you there to leap at Robert, even if you killed him, you would have died. Leaving behind your sister. Leaving a treacherous kingdom. Because you are the hope that was placed on meeting your children someday."
Meriel looked at William. "Don't you feel anything?"
William's voice trembled, but he held firm. "I feel many things. But I am too weak to show them. Gerald was like a father to me. He carried me from the rubble. Took care of me. And knew who I was. And what I wanted to be. I owe that man my life. But he told me not to waste it on emotional things. And to look from his perspective."
He paused and placed his hand on Meriel's shoulder. "Come. Rise. Let us leave this place. And when we return to it, we will restore King Gerald's honor. You and I. King of Izzadar, with the temporary King of Ironfield."
Meriel rose slowly, looking at the horizon, at the long road, at the future he no longer saw. Then he continued walking.
In the dining hall of Thornholl, where candles burned with faint light and stone walls carried moving shadows, the kings had gathered. Not all of them. Only three.
Sam sat on one of the chairs with his foot on the large table, eating an apple. He seemed comfortable—more than he should.
Marcus paced back and forth in the same spot. His steps were quick, tense. He looked at Sam, at his calmness, at his indifference.
"How can you be so comfortable?" said Marcus, his voice carrying inquiry. "It seems the children of today have no good sense of perception."
Sam looked at Marcus. Said nothing. Just bit the apple. "Hmmm."
Robert entered the hall, walking slowly, still wearing part of his armor. There was blood on his hands. He wiped them with a cloth. "I think I made you wait too long. Forgive me. Too much sweat. Too much blood."
Marcus looked at Robert, at his eyes now open, at the way he walked. "Old. Blind. Shamed. How did all this change overnight?"
Robert laughed—a mocking laugh. "Nothing changed. It just happens that I am not unfamiliar with a Neverwood existing in my kingdom. I can enter and exit. It is not that complicated for someone like you, Marcus."
"Hmm. Perhaps not," said Marcus, his eyes narrowing. "Right—the old man can fight, the weak can be brave. But the blind—has your sight just happened as well?"
"No," said Robert. "It took years of hope. Something you couldn't know."
Sam looked at Robert, smiling. "Old but sharp. Tell me... who wounded you this much? I don't think my man did it, because I don't think you'd survive if you met him in the first place."
Robert's voice was mysterious. "I cannot say. There was darkness for me to see it. Is that all? Because I want to take my turn to speak."
Marcus stepped forward, his voice serious. "There is something else. Did you kill Gerald? How did he get in there in the first place?"
Robert paused, then spoke slowly. "I don't know. The Neverwood is full of surprises. But on the other hand... did I kill him? Perhaps. But I only wanted to help."
"And how is that?" Marcus's eyes narrowed further.
"He was lost. I just wanted to help him get out. And reunite him with his brother. But his body refused to come out. So I had to leave the body there. I thought the head would be enough to satisfy our king."
Sam laughed, finishing his apple. "It satisfied me."
Robert looked at Marcus. "You see? At least one of us is satisfied."
Marcus ignored the remark, his voice hard. "You know what? This game is supposed to bring us together, not the other way around. It's always been that way. Now that you've done what you've done, what do you intend to do? Why did you gather us here? Are you going to kill us too?"
Robert shook his head. "I shouldn't have to explain that again. I won't kill anyone. Regarding interests, I think that's what the game did exactly. It brought us together—but it only brought the winners. And since we won, I think we deserve a great prize. Don't you find my words logical? I mean, I myself entered and put my entire kingdom at stake for nothing. No—I have a vision. A dream. For all of humanity. A dream that can be realized starting from here, among us three."
Sam leaned forward, curious. "What do you mean?"
Robert's voice dropped, becoming almost reverent. "I dreamed of the One Fortress for All. A fortress that unites the five kingdoms toward one goal: prosperity, power, the Lake. Humans will be masters of their own fate. And there will be no pale, no shame, no running."
He paused, looking at them, at their eyes.
Marcus's voice carried doubt. "You want to build a kingdom?"
"Yes. A greater fortress. Mightier. All kingdoms declare their allegiance to the fortress."
Sam smiled, tilting his head. "Do you want to be king of the fortress? Is that humanity's dream or yours?"
Robert met his gaze. "Who said I want to be king? No. By that time I will be dead, I think. Don't you think so, clever one?"
Sam laughed. "Sorry. You're right. You're far too old."
Robert turned toward the door. "Anyway, you are free to think about it. One Fortress for All. Humans united by one goal. Overcoming fear."
Then he left—leaving the door open, leaving Sam and Marcus in the hall with the thoughts, with the words hanging in the air, with a future that had not yet begun.