Inside the high walls, the great hall blazed with torchlight and noise. Long tables sagged beneath the weight of roasted meats and spilled wine. Men shouted and laughed, cups clashed, and somewhere in the shadows a lute played a tune half-drowned by the din.
Marcus was amusing himself with his wine, swaying slightly on his feet from intoxication. His fingers moved around the cup as if they knew the way by themselves—lifting, tilting, swirling—while his laughter mingled with the noise of the feast. He leaned against a stone pillar, his head tilted back, his eyes half-closed.
Then one of the guards approached him. The man bent slightly, his lips nearly touching Marcus's ear, and whispered short words in his terrible hoarse voice. His breath smelled of iron and salt.
In an instant, Marcus straightened up.
Half his smile disappeared. The cup in his hand tilted slowly, deliberately, and the remaining wine spilled onto the stone floor in a dark red pool. He turned toward the guard, his face calm—but behind that calm lay something far colder, like still water over a deep trench.
"Good job." His voice was flat. "Well served."
He set the cup down on the nearest table and left the party quickly, his boots echoing on the flagstones.
Outside, the wind was cold, carrying the smell of pine and old stone. King Meriel stood with angry eyes, his brother Gerald beside him, clearly worried. Fear and anger wrestled upon Gerald's heavy features. His trembling hands could barely steady themselves—they opened and closed at his sides, seeking something to grip. His eyes were fixed on the forest... that forest which had swallowed thousands of lives within mere minutes, returning nothing but silence.
Meriel remained silent for a moment. Then he said in a loud voice, the words escaping before thought could hold them back: "Gather all the guards. We're going in."
The captain of the guards hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed. Words stuck in his throat like bone. But before he could speak, King Robert intervened. He stood with his usual calm, his head tilted slightly downward, as if listening to something no one else could hear. "What do you think you're doing, Meriel?"
Meriel turned toward him quickly. His voice trembled, the words laced with both anger and fear: "What do you think? I'm going to find my son, and no one can stand in my way. No one."
Robert replied, his blind eyes directed toward the ground: "Who said I would stop you? You are free to go. But not a single guard will leave The Great Pale. They are The Great Pale's guard, not your precious son's guard."
Marcus, who had just arrived, interrupted him. He placed his hands behind his back and tilted his head, his voice carrying the calm certainty of a man who had already done the arithmetic. "Even if the entire kingdom went after your son, they wouldn't find him, because he will be dead while we are talking here. But perhaps if you go alone, you can at least find his corpse."
In an instant, Meriel grabbed his hammer.
The movement was not quick—it was inevitable, like a boulder beginning its roll down a mountainside. He raised it until it stopped directly in front of Marcus's face. His breaths came heavy. His veins bulged at his temples. His knuckles whitened around the haft. "Say one more word," he said, his voice low but terrifying, "and I will crush your skull until it becomes grains of salt. I think that would make you even prouder of what you've become."
Gerald intervened quickly. He placed his hand firmly on his brother's shoulder—not grabbing, but grounding, the way one steadies a horse about to bolt. "He is rude, brother, but he is right. The Normens would never leave him alive."
Meriel removed his brother's hand violently, shaking it off with a jerk of his shoulder. He turned toward him, anger consuming his voice: "What exactly do you want me to do? Go back inside The Great Pale and weep like a widow?"
Then he moved.
Without hesitation, he headed directly toward the forest. His strides were long, purposeful, the strides of a man who had stopped calculating and surrendered to momentum.
But something pulled him from below.
He looked down. It was Ned, clinging to his father's foot with both hands. His hair was disheveled, his features terrified, his breath broken. His small fingers dug into the leather of Meriel's boot as though he could anchor his father with his own body.
Meriel looked at him and said: "What are you doing?"
Ned raised his head slowly. His eyes were full of guilt. His lips trembled. "It's my fault."
In a moment of anger, Meriel kicked him.
Ned fell to the ground, his hands sliding from his father's boot. He did not cry out. He simply lay there, staring at the dirt, his chest rising and falling too fast.
Meriel did not look back. He continued on his way.
Until—a strong blow landed on the back of his head. He fell directly to the ground, unconscious, his hammer slipping from his fingers and thudding into the earth. The guards exchanged glances in heavy silence, their eyes wide, their hands frozen on their weapons.
Gerald stood over his brother, his fist still clenched. He looked down at Meriel for a long moment, then turned to the guards. "Carry him inside."
But one person remained outside The Great Pale.
King Sam stood near the forest, his guards behind him. His eyes gleamed with dangerous curiosity as he looked at the trees—not with fear, but with hunger, as if they were calling to him. Then he said to one of the guards, his voice light, almost playful: "I've always wondered about their forms. Are they truly strong, or is it just a lie that isolates us from something great?"
The guard answered quickly and innocently, trying to match his tone: "You are right, my lord. I ask myself the same questions."
Sam turned to him with a serious face. Then he smiled—a smile that made the guard step back one small step without realizing it. "Really? You do that too? That's good." He paused, the smile widening. "Enter, then."
The guard froze. "What?"
Sam turned slowly, his movements lazy, catlike. "You have questions, don't you? The only way to answer them is to enter."
The guard hesitated. His eyes darted to the forest, then back to his king. "But... but..."
Sam approached. He placed his hand on the man's shoulder. His voice became softer... and more terrifying: "By doing so, you could find the king's son. This would change a lot in our relationship with the kingdom of Izzadar, and you would become my right hand and change the fate of the kingdom."
The guard stepped toward the forest.
Against his will. His feet moved as if they were not his own, dragging him forward one step at a time. He entered the treeline, his shape disappearing into the shadows.
Sam remained watching. His smile had not faded. Only minutes passed.
Then—a scream.
A scream that made even the wind seem to stop.
Sam stepped closer. Then another step. And he glimpsed something running. The guard. He was fleeing, his legs pumping, his arms flailing. Terror wore him down like a garment too heavy to carry. Sam began to retreat slowly, his boots sliding backward over the earth.
The guard drew near. Very near—Then a spear pierced his body with force.
It shot out of the forest with such speed that the air itself seemed to split. It carried the man backward, through the air, until it stopped directly at Sam's feet. The impact drove the spear into the earth, pinning the guard to the ground like an insect to a board.
The king froze.
Then he began to clap.
He laughed as if he were enjoying himself—a short, disturbed, uncertain laugh that echoed off the stone. The guards behind him exchanged glances but said nothing. Sam clapped until his palms stung, then he and his guards retreated quickly toward The Great Pale.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
As for the guard... he was still alive.
Resisting. The spear embedded in his body. His breath broke into wet, rattling pieces. His hands trembled, clawing at the shaft, trying to pull it free. His legs kicked weakly. He was trying to cling to life.
Then—the spear was pulled from his body.
He let out a faint scream.
The Normen guard stood there in his spotless white uniform. Not a drop of the man's blood on it—as they claim, human blood is on our own hands. He held the spear in one hand, its tip still wet. He looked at the body, then turned it over with his foot, his movements slow and deliberate. He gazed at the man's face for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned and walked back into the forest, returning with the same silence.
And with that... the man breathed his last.
On the night that was the loudest night The Great Pale had seen in a long time, sounds rose from the camps. Laughter. Faint singing. Clashing cups. A distant fire. The wind carried it all, then scattered it.
One of the guards was not interested in anything.
He was on top of The Great Pale, walking to his post. Drunk. Swaying. Sweat on his brow despite the cold. In his hand, a nearly empty flask. His steps were unsteady—left, then right, then left again. He nearly fell more than once, catching himself against the parapet. He laughed to himself. Muttered.
And as he made his way to his usual spot, he caught sight of something.
A figure standing on The Great Pale, looking over the parapet with focus. Strangely, she was not a guard. She was a woman. Beautiful.
The guard approached, swaying. He stopped two steps away, his breath sour with wine. "What is a beautiful woman doing here? Do you want to keep me company on my watch?"
He laughed, the sound loose and ugly. "I advise you not to. Because nothing happens in this cursed place. Unless one of us moves. Nothing happens. Nothing. Do you understand?"
It was Elia.
She stood there, her hands resting lightly on the stone. She did not turn to him. She kept looking down, beyond The Great Pale, into the darkness. The wind stirred her hair but did not disturb her stillness.
"Do you intend to protect humanity?" she asked. "You?"
"What? Are you insulting me?" the guard shouted. He tried to straighten up, his chest puffing out, but the drink made him wobble. "I will throw you off The Great Pale. Do you think I cannot?"
Elia said calmly, "Down there. Look. The kings are making a ruckus. They think this will change something in their positions. Nothing will change. Humans will remain afraid. Hiding. Like rats."
She passed by the guard and placed her hand on his shoulder. Lightly. Like a warning.
"Tell me," she said. "How will you defeat humanity's greatest enemy when you cannot even handle yourself?"
The guard shouted. He grabbed Elia's hand and tried to twist it. His grip trembled from the drink. His face twisted with effort and fury. "I will show you what I can do, you whore!"
Elia did not feel pain.
She looked at him for a moment—looked at his hand wrapped around hers, at the veins standing out on his neck, at the sweat on his brow. Then she gripped the guard's hand.
She pressed down.
His face began to change. The pain rose, slowly at first, then all at once. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He felt something in his wrist—something moving, something breaking. His voice came out mangled, half scream and half whimper, rising in pitch until it cracked.
The bone tore through the skin with a wet, grinding sound. It protruded, its whiteness gleaming under the torchlight.
He remained standing, looking at his hand, at the bone, at the woman walking away down the passage. The flask slipped from his fingers and clattered to the stones. Wine pooled at his feet, dark as blood.
And Elia returned inside The Great Pale.
In the eastern castle of The Great Pale, where Meriel resided... he woke up on his bed. His hand went to his neck, pressing against the place where the blow had landed. His head throbbed. The room was dim, lit only by a single candle on the nightstand. And in front of him stood Gerald, with a frowning face.
"Sorry." Gerald's voice was low, rough. "I had to do that, or I would be looking at your corpse by now."
Meriel rose slowly. He sat up, placing his hands on his knees, his head bowed. Then he said in a tired voice, as if speaking to an old memory: "Why are your ways always so violent? Even when we were children, you used to make me suffer, but you never abandoned me for a moment. You always stood behind me, even when I was wrong."
Gerald looked at his brother. But he said nothing. He only listened.
Meriel stared at the ground, his voice cracking like glass thrown onto stone: "They said... They said my sons were cursed. From the very moment of their birth. And that their mother died... giving them life."
He stopped, swallowed hard. "You know? Maria... She was in perfect health. Truly. When she gave birth to Edd, my firstborn, she was like the full moon."
He breathed with difficulty, his chest rising and falling as though the air itself had grown heavy. "But... When she began to deliver Ned. I felt it. No... I felt her. I felt something dark, cold—like a hand over her mouth. It was pulling her away from me, beat by beat. And by the time Ned cried out his first breath... by taking her last. She was gone. My soul peeled away with hers."
A long silence. He looked at his hands, turning them over as though seeing them for the first time. "Yet even then... Even after all of that, I never once blamed my son. I held him in my arms. He was dripping with blood... blood that was all I had left. And I told myself: perhaps her time had simply come. Perhaps she was weary, perhaps she longed for eternal rest."
He pressed his hand to his chest, over his heart. "But ten years later... Ten full years. Ned comes back to me now... covered in blood again. While his brother Edd—not a single drop on him. No trace of blood at all."
He slowly lifted his eyes, his voice dropping to a whisper: "Do you know what I thought in that moment? In that very moment?"
He paused, as if the words were choking him. "I said to myself, deep down... Perhaps... they were right. Perhaps this child... is cursed. Yes. Perhaps fate made a mistake when it gave him life. Perhaps... He should never have been born at all."
Gerald said quickly, his features hardening: "What are you saying, brother? The child had no hand in any of this. It is our reality. We are the ones who allowed ourselves to hide, even though we knew danger was watching us."
Behind the Door
Behind the door... Ned was standing.
His hand on the handle. His ear pressed to the crack. He heard everything. Every word. Every doubt. Every pain. His small body was rigid, his breath caught in his chest, his eyes wide and unblinking.
He froze in place.
Until a servant bumped into him.
He flinched—a full-body jolt, like a deer startled from cover. Then he ran.
Ran without knowing where, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone, his heart hammering in his ears. Just like he did in the Forbidden Forest. Just fleeing. As he had done before.
Until he spotted one of the carts preparing to leave The Great Pale, heading toward the kingdom of Thornholl. Ned did not think twice. He ran lightly, his breath coming in short gasps, then snuck into the cart without anyone noticing. A merchant was driving it, his back to the boy, whistling softly.
The cart left The Great Pale safely. The wind was cold, and the sound of the wheels on the stone road was steady... until it suddenly stopped miles later.
Ned froze in place. He heard a man's voice from outside. The merchant's voice, claiming that the road had been cut off for him. After that—silence fell. A heavy silence. Brief.
Then the cart moved again. But something felt wrong. The rhythm of the wheels. The creak of the wood. The silence of the driver.
Curiosity stirred Ned. He approached a little, moving slowly, carefully. He tried to sneak a look from between the covers.
And then—he saw the merchant's body lying in the back. His neck drenched in blood. His eyes open, as if they hadn't understood what had happened.
Ned trembled. He held his breath, pressing both hands over his mouth.
While the new driver sang in a low voice, as if nothing had happened. It was an old song. One of the historical invasion songs. They called it: The Marching Song. The song that was said to grant a man immunity from fear. The song the invaders used to chant as they entered battles.
Ned tried to use the noise to his advantage. He moved slowly, inches at a time, his muscles screaming with tension. Then—he jumped from the cart.
He tumbled hard over the ground. Pain shot through his shoulder, his hip, his ribs. But he rose quickly, biting down on a cry, and darted into the tall grass. For a moment, he thought the man hadn't noticed anything.
But suddenly—the cart stopped.
And the singing ceased.
The driver turned around. His eyes swept the road, the cart, the grass. He didn't find anyone.
On the other side, Ned was hiding in the thick grass, curled up around himself, pressing his hand over his mouth to make no sound. His heart was so loud he was certain it would betray him.
The man got down from the cart. His boots crunched on the gravel. And as he walked, he continued singing in his hoarse, terrifying voice:
"Steel met steel, and none would bow in shame,
They marched through blood and fire, calling out their name.
The brave stood fast while kingdoms burned in flame,
And those who fled the field would carry only shame."
Then—a faint sound came from the grass.
The man stopped. He turned his head slowly, listening. Then he approached, step by careful step. He began searching the place, parting the grass with his hands.
Until he found him.
Ned. Curled up like a small animal trying to hide from the world.
The man looked down at him. His face was partially hidden by a hood, but his eyes were visible—cold, curious, unreadable. "Child," he said, his voice strangely calm, "what are you doing here? Don't you know there are wild animals in this place?"
But Ned did not answer. He only looked at the ground. His breath disturbed.
The man shrugged and turned away. "Whatever."
Then he stopped suddenly. He looked again. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Wait." He tilted his head. "I think I see something familiar. Where did you get that belt, child? Is it a fake?" He stepped closer. "Let me see your face."
Ned did not answer. And in a moment—he ran.
With everything he had left.
The man's expression changed instantly. His calm dissolved into something sharp and predatory. And he sprinted after him.
But... he was not the only one chasing.
From afar, the sound of horse hooves echoed. Five riders. They surrounded him quickly, their mounts snorting and stamping. The man stopped, his eyes darting from one rider to the next.
While Ned continued running without stopping.
The man began to study them. His gaze moved over their armor, their weapons, their bags. Until his eyes fell on the symbol on their bags. A white seed inside a blue circle. He smiled a short smile. "You are men of Marcus Salter." He nodded slowly. "I should have known he wouldn't leave me alive after what he told me to do. But it's not me you like to follow. Look over there in that direction—King Meriel's child. He is running. You must catch him now. I think Salter will honor whoever gets him first."
One of the riders dismounted. He approached him quietly, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Then—cut off his head. With a single strike.
The head tumbled into the grass. The body stood for a moment, then collapsed.
The rider said as he wiped his blade on the dead man's cloak: "You talk too much. It's no surprise Salter wants your head with your tongue still inside."
Then the men set off after Ned.
As for Ned... he was running mindlessly.
His lungs burned. His legs screamed. Branches tore at his arms and face. The world blurred past him—trees, rocks, sky, all smeared together. He did not look back. He could not look back.
Until the road ended.
He stopped suddenly, his boots skidding on the loose stones. In front of him, a steep cliff. And below—a violent river. Its waters struck the rocks as if trying to shatter them, sending spray high into the air.
He turned around.
The riders surrounded him. Five men on horseback, their faces hidden by their hoods, their hands on their weapons. One of them dismounted and took a step toward him, his hand outstretched. "Easy, young one," he said in a falsely calm voice. "Let us return you to your father."
But Ned's eyes fell on something inside one of the bags hanging from a saddle. The merchant's head. Blood still dripping from the severed neck, staining the leather.
In that moment—he did not hesitate.
He jumped.
The riders quickly approached the edge. They looked down, their horses snorting nervously. But—nothing. Only the deadly current, white and black and merciless.
One of them said, swallowing hard: "Oh God. I think King Meriel must grieve twice."
Then they left the place.
The great hall of The Great Pale's eastern castle was a cavern of grey stone and old timber, its high beams lost in shadow. Long tables stretched across the floor, scarred by generations of knives and cups. The windows were narrow slits, permitting only thin blades of pale morning light to fall upon the stone. The air smelled of cold ash and stale wine.
Marcus sat alone at the head of one table, his plate before him piled with bread, salted fish, and eggs. His fingers moved with deliberate slowness, tearing the bread into precise pieces, dipping them into the yolk, lifting them to his mouth. He chewed as if each bite required calculation.
The old assistant approached from the side, his footsteps soft on the flagstones. He stopped at a respectful distance, clasped his hands before him, and inclined his head. "His head has been cut off, my lord." His voice was low, careful, each word placed like a stone in a wall. "He won't be able to talk again."
Marcus did not look up. His hand reached for the cup of wine, fingers wrapping around the stem, lifting it slowly. "Good." The word came flat, without satisfaction. "Give the men some silver."
The assistant hesitated. His weight shifted from one foot to the other. His fingers twisted together, then released. "There is other news, my lord." He paused, his eyes dropping to the floor. "Our men saw the second child of the king in the forest, but he jumped into the big river of Mazz, and it is impossible for him to remain alive."
Marcus stopped eating.
The bread remained suspended in his hand, dripping yolk onto the plate. Slowly—very slowly—he raised his head. His eyes narrowed, and something cold moved behind them, like a shadow passing beneath ice. "Search for the child everywhere." Each word was measured, deliberate. "He is alive."
The assistant's brow furrowed. He tilted his head, his lips parting slightly before he found the courage to speak. "How do you seem so confident?"
Marcus set the bread down. He wiped his fingers on the linen napkin, one finger at a time, before setting it aside. Then he looked directly at the man, and his gaze was steady as the tide. "Have you ever seen anyone come out of the Forbidden Wood before?"
The assistant swallowed. The sound was audible in the silence. He shook his head slowly. "No, my lord."
Marcus leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. "Exactly."
He reached for his wine again, but he did not drink. He swirled the dark liquid in the cup, watching it climb the sides and fall back. His eyes were distant, calculating, as though he were reading something written in the depths of the wine.
"Send riders along the riverbanks." His voice was quiet, almost conversational. "Both sides. And send word to the fishing villages downstream. If a child washes up—alive or dead—I want to know before anyone else does."
The assistant bowed. "As you command, my lord."
He turned to leave, but stopped when Marcus spoke again.
"And burn the body."
The assistant looked back. "The merchant's, my lord?"
Marcus did not look up. "Whoever finds it first will ask questions." He took a slow sip of wine. "Questions have a way of becoming stories. And stories..." He set the cup down with a soft click. "...have a way of becoming truth."