Outside one of the rooms thick with hardened guards, Previn the old man—one of the servants—stood waiting for leave to enter. His back was bent, his hands clasped before him, his breath shallow. He knocked on the door. Soft knocks, so faint they nearly disappeared into the silence of the stone corridors.
No answer came.
He waited. His fingers twisted together. Then he knocked again, barely louder than the first.
Still nothing.
Until he was forced to summon his trembling voice, his throat working as though the words had to be dragged up from some deep place: "My lord… may I enter?"
Only moments passed before the answer came from within. He opened the door slowly, the old hinges groaning as if they too feared the man inside.
Inside, King Sam stood before a tall mirror, adjusting his crown, upon which sat the golden sigil of a hawk. His reflection alone filled the chamber—his hair carefully groomed, his sharp features carrying that kind of confidence which brushes against vanity and settles there. He did not turn. His fingers moved over the crown, tilting it slightly to the left, then to the right, then back again.
Without turning, he said in a low voice, still adjusting his crown: "Stay back, old man. My mirror is not for everyone."
Previn bowed quickly, lowering his head until it nearly touched the floor. "As you command, my lord."
Sam continued adjusting his crown for several more moments, as though the chamber contained no one but himself. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft sound of his fingers against the metal.
Then he said coldly: "What do you want? Are the horses ready?"
Previn raised his head slightly, though he dared not look directly at the king. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, on the stones, on anything safe. "The horses are ready, my lord, but I suggest you offer condolences to King Meriel before you leave. That might keep the peace between you for a time."
Sam stopped.
His hands fell from the crown. Then he stepped back slowly, one foot after the other, as if retreating from an invisible adversary. He sat upon the bed, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. He crossed one leg over the other, his hands folding in his lap, before saying with a small smile that did not reach his eyes: "I fear age has touched you, old man. Why should I seek peace with him? He is the one whose kingdom is crumbling, not me. He is the one who should beg me to restore peace between the two kingdoms. And the last thing the king of Izzadar will need right now is condolences."
He leaned back, the smile widening. Then he continued with a light laugh: "He is likely still dreaming that his boy is alive somewhere, somehow. And my condolences would be to him like an arrow piercing the heart. I would like to be the one to loose that arrow—but that would make Kormel scream again, and though she is my dear sister, I truly hate her screaming."
Previn took two small steps forward, his voice more submissive than before: "Forgive me, my lord. I did not see it that way."
But Sam stopped suddenly.
His smile vanished. He stared at the old man's reflection in the mirror—stared hard, as though seeing something there that displeased him. Then said with sudden coldness: "Get out, old man. Now. And when we get to Valkryn, put down your position and enjoy what's left of your life. You have become too old."
Previn was immediately flustered. His hands rose and fell in small, helpless gestures. "Ah… as you command, my lord."
He hurried out, his footsteps uneven on the stone. And the moment the door closed, Sam rose. He crossed the room in three quick strides. He seized a cup from the table—silver, heavy, still half-full of wine. Then hurled it directly at the mirror, shattering it completely. Glass rained down upon the floor, and a thousand fractured reflections scattered across the stones.
He said with strange calm: "Time to go."
As The Great Pale received the sunlight, it was also bidding farewell to the kings. The blind king departed amid a darkness he had long since befriended, his steps guided by no one, his face turned toward a sky he could not see. Marcus left after finishing his business, his men riding in tight formation around him. And Sam set out with the first threads of dawn, accompanied by the largest retinue among the kings—banners snapping in the wind, horses snorting, armor gleaming.
As for Meriel and Gerald, they remained.
Meriel had stood atop The Great Pale through the entire night.
He had not slept.
He had not sat.
Only watched the forest. The forest that had swallowed his son. His eyes never left it, as though the mere act of watching might return what had been taken. His hands rested on the cold stone, his cloak hanging limp in the still air, his face turned toward the dark line of trees like a man waiting for something that would never come.
Until a servant approached. A man with a bent back, his spine curved as though the weight of his years had finally crushed him. His footsteps were soft, hesitant, as though he feared disturbing the king's vigil.
A voice even more bent than his body. He said fearfully: "My lord… your other son. He is not in his room."
Meriel turned quickly. The movement was sharp, almost violent. "Did you search throughout The Great Pale?" His voice carried hope, thin and frayed at the edges. "I think he is hiding somewhere. He has always done that when fear takes hold of him."
The servant lowered his head further, his chin nearly touching his chest. He said in a hesitant voice: "I am afraid you are wrong, my lord. We have searched everywhere, but we did not find him. However, one of the servant children saw him boarding a cart as it was leaving The Great Pale."
Silence fell.
A brief silence, but heavy. The kind of silence that presses down on a man's chest until he cannot breathe.
Then Meriel said with suppressed anger, his voice low and dangerous: "How do you call yourselves the guardians of The Great Pale when you have allowed two of the king's own children to slip beyond the gates?"
The hunchbacked old man trembled and said quickly: "I am sorry, my lord. I am only charged with bearing news."
Meriel approached him slowly.
His face was pale.
His eyes weary.
Then he said: "It seems bearing news has affected your back." His voice was quiet now, but no less terrible. "Have you spread the news among the guards?"
The man trembled more: "I wanted to tell you first."
Meriel closed his eyes for a moment. His chest rose and fell slowly. Frustration alone would have been enough to crush any man. He remained silent. Then he said in a low voice, with feigned courtesy hiding behind his anger: "Go now. Spread the news among the guards. Tell them to prepare the horses by the dozen. The greater the number, the greater the chance of finding him. He cannot have gone far."
Minutes did not pass. Soon the guards assembled. The horses were ready, their breath steaming in the cold morning air. The saddles were strapped tight, leather creaking as men mounted. And the two kings rode at the forefront, their cloaks dark against the grey sky.
Then they set out.
Across the rugged land of Mazz. Through stone passages, forests, and narrow roads. The hooves beat a steady rhythm on the hard earth. They searched every thicket, every stream, every shadow that might hide a frightened boy. But without any trace.
One day passed. Then another. Then another.
The riders grew silent. Their faces, once alert, now sagged with exhaustion. And weariness began to settle upon faces. And hope slowly faded. And within The Great Pale, the guards began to whisper among themselves: "Perhaps he is dead!" "Perhaps a bear devoured him!" "Or wolves cornered him!"
As for Gerald, he did not leave his brother. He sat beside him—at night, in the day, on the road, at the campfires. Accompanied him the whole time. And in those heavy days, he did not abandon him for a single moment.
On the morning of the ninth day, inside the dining hall, all were gathered. Yet the place seemed empty despite their number. The long table was spread with food—bread, cheese, cold meat, fruit—but no one reached for it with any appetite. The torches burned low in their sconces, and the windows let in only a pale, watery light.
Meriel looked pale. Weak. Eating without interest. His hand moved mechanically from plate to mouth, but his eyes wandered over the table, seeing nothing. His jaw worked slowly, as though even chewing required more effort than he had left.
As for Gerald, he too was lost in thought. His fork pushed a piece of bread around his plate, round and round, never lifting it to his lips.
Until the food servant approached. The man stepped softly, his head bowed, his hands clasped before him.
Gerald looked at him with irritation, his brow furrowing: "You have already brought everything. What do you want?"
But before the servant could speak, a soft, courteous voice came from behind: "Not everything, my lord."
Then came the sound of a cane striking the floor. A step. Then another. The rhythm was slow, deliberate, confident.
Gerald recognized the man from the very first step behind the door.
He said at once: "Enter, William."
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William of the Iron Cane entered. He was young of feature despite his dignity—his face unlined, but his eyes carried the weight of a man twice his age. He walked with the aid of a cane of black iron, its tip clicking against the stone with each step. His eyes carried the calm of a man who thinks more than he speaks.
He stopped at the end of the table. Meriel looked at him, his gaze slow to focus. William bowed slightly and said: "Forgive me for spoiling your meal, my lords."
Gerald looked at him in surprise, his brows rising: "Why are you here?"
William raised his eyes toward Meriel. He studied his condition for a moment—the pallor of his skin, the hollowness of his cheeks, the emptiness behind his eyes. Then he said quietly: "You have been absent too long, my lord. That has set some tongues moving with vigor within the castle of Ironfield. I came to ensure your well-being. The Great Pale is the most dangerous place in the kingdoms, my lord."
Gerald smiled a small smile: "You are always worried. But nothing has happened. Look, I am whole, beside my brother."
William said: "Praise the gods."
Then Gerald gestured toward him and said to Meriel: "Let me introduce you to my Iron Cane, my right hand—William Narsow."
Meriel looked at him briefly, his eyes traveling from the young face to the iron cane, then back again. Then he said: "He seems very young. Welcome, Ser William. You must suffer while keeping company with my brother."
William answered without hesitation, a faint smile touching his lips: "Not at all, my king. On the contrary, I find it quite amusing."
And Gerald laughed loudly. A short, heavy laugh that seemed strange amidst that gloomy atmosphere. It echoed off the stone walls and died just as quickly. But it soon vanished. His features turned to complete seriousness, and he wiped his mouth with a white cloth and said: "To be frank, you have come to the right place. We need you for something, William."
William stood straight, gripping his iron cane firmly with both hands. Then he said quietly, as if he already knew what would be asked of him: "Excuse me, my lord. But you are not in the right place, my lord. Both of you."
Silence fell.
Gerald raised an eyebrow slightly. As for Meriel, he lifted his gaze toward him for the first time since the meal began. Something stirred in his eyes—not anger, not yet, but attention.
William continued in a quiet voice, but his words were harsh enough to leave their mark: "The castle has their demons, just as they have their walls. And when authority is absent, the demons begin to emerge."
He paused for a moment, his fingers tapping once against the iron of his cane. Then continued with clear respect: "With all my respect, I know that King Meriel has lost his sons, and I can scarcely imagine how he must feel toward that. But your presence here will serve nothing. We must return to the kingdom and let the gods do their work."
He raised his eyes directly toward Meriel. And said with a quietness that was not without frankness: "You may have lost two sons, my lord… but you have thousands of sons who look to you for protection. You as well, Lord Gerald."
The words were heavy. Harsh. But they were logical.
And for the first time in days, Meriel seemed to lack the strength to oppose anything. He remained silent. His eyes fixed on the table, on his half-eaten food, on the bread that had grown cold. Then he finally surrendered to the voice of reason. And decided to return to the kingdom.
As for Gerald, he decided to accompany him. William refused at first—his lips pressed into a thin line, his head shaking slowly. But he could not stop him. So he contented himself with riding beside them.
They crossed the River Mazz—the same river that had swallowed Ned, though none of them knew it then. Then the plateaus of the Dead Marsh. A grey, choking land, where even the wind seemed to walk with caution, as though afraid of disturbing something buried beneath the earth.
Then they passed near the ruins of the kingdom of Everleav. The only kingdom in human history said to have defeated the Normens in the famous Battle of Eternity. The stones were broken, the towers fallen, but something of their majesty remained—a memory etched into the very bones of the land.
And the people say that its folk were the ones who built The Great Pale.
The Great Pale that no Normen has ever crossed. Not because they could not—but because they fear that Everleav might come back to life once more.
The road was long. Heavy. And it took half a full day. Until at last, the kingdom of Izzadar appeared. The Land of Gods. The Light of the Rocks' Lands. The gatekeepers lowered the drawbridge, the chains groaning in protest. And the two kings entered.
Accompanied by banners bearing the image of the hammer under the mercy of thunder.
But the kingdom was not well.
It was in its worst state. Political tension gnawed at it slowly, like a rat working on a beam. Between Salter and Valkryn—Valkryn, possessor of the largest farmlands, and Salter, monopolizer of the sea's riches and treasures. Even fish had refused to enter the gates of Izzadar. And Ironfield had become nearly the sole source of trade. Though it too was a kingdom of import. As for Thornholl, only an ancient document kept it bound to the kingdom, forcing both sides to trade despite their enmity.
The common folk looked angry. This was a city of craftsmen, but one cannot eat one's craft.
Faces were pale. Cheeks hollow. And the glances directed at Meriel were not comfortable. They were full of a hatred boiling beneath the surface, like magma beneath thin stone. The rumors had arrived before the king. The people knew of the two children. And fear began to grow among them. Fear that the king would be consumed by his sons and forget his people.
When they reached the royal palace half a day's journey, the gate was open, as though opening its arms to receive its master.
And there stood Meriel's sister. Beneath the light of night, her figure framed by the torches that flanked the entrance. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but she stood straight.
Gerald dismounted first from his horse. His boots hit the ground with a heavy thud. Then he approached her and embraced her tightly, his arms wrapping around her as though she might break if he let go. "It has been a long time since I last saw you, little sister."
She smiled, despite the clear worry upon her features—a smile that trembled at the edges. Then Meriel stepped forward. He moved slowly, as though each step cost him something. He embraced her. And the moment he did, she began to weep. Her body shook against his, and her hands clutched at the back of his cloak.
She embraced him in turn tightly and said: "You must find them at any cost, or I will not forgive you."
But Meriel did not answer. He only went inside, his steps heavy on the stone.
As for her, she continued weeping, her sobs echoing in the quiet courtyard. From a distance, William watched the scene from atop his horse, which was itself agitated—stamping and snorting, its breath misting in the night air. His expression was strange, difficult to read. His hands held the reins loosely, but his eyes were fixed on the woman.
Until she noticed his gaze. She lifted her head, her tears still wet on her cheeks, and looked at him. For a moment, their eyes met. Then she left silently, disappearing into the shadows of the palace.
William dismounted from his horse. He landed lightly, despite the iron cane. He patted its neck, his fingers stroking the coarse hair. Then kissed it lightly and said: "I know. Sometimes I find you cleverer than humans themselves. Unfortunately, you cannot speak."
Then he entered the palace.
The servants received King Meriel with tears that seemed more feigned than they should be—their faces contorted with grief they did not feel, their voices rising in wails that rang hollow against the stone. They accompanied him to his chambers, their hands fluttering about him like nervous birds.
As for William, he went directly to the castle library. And disappeared amid the silence of the shelves and the noise of books.
The next morning, the palace was loud. Servants moving in every direction, their footsteps rapid on the stone, their voices hushed but urgent. As though they had woken from a long slumber and now sought to make up for lost time.
Breakfast was lavish. A table full of fish, salads, and drinks—the silver gleaming, the bread still warm, the fruit arranged in careful pyramids. Meriel was the first to sit. His sister sat beside him. Then Gerald.
As for William, he stood behind Gerald in silence. His cane was planted before him, both hands resting on its head. His eyes moved slowly over the table, over the food, over the servants.
Until he suddenly stepped forward. He took the knife—the one meant for the fish—and cut a small piece. Ate it. He chewed slowly, deliberately, his eyes half-closing as he tasted. Then he took a little of Gerald's drink and drank it, tilting his head back slightly.
All this beneath Meriel's gaze, who seemed to be fighting a small urge to smile. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he held them still.
But the time was not right. William said quietly: "Safe to eat."
Meriel looked at him in astonishment and said: "Do you suspect the food I serve, brother?"
Gerald gestured with his hand toward William and said: "He claims to be the one who holds the reins."
Meriel looked at William. The latter said, moving his hands politely: "It is not about you, my lord. You are not the one who made the food, are you?"
Gerald said with a smile: "Do not trouble yourself, brother. He does the same in Ironfield."
Meriel said with light sarcasm, leaning back in his chair: "Will you not taste our food as well?"
William hesitated a little. His fingers tightened on the cane. Then he said: "Don't worry, my lord. I have already done so. Safe to eat."
Meriel froze for a second. His eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying to decide whether he had heard correctly. Then he turned toward Gerald and said: "Does he read you bedtime stories as well?"
Gerald quickly cleared his throat, his face coloring slightly, and said: "No. I will not allow you to insult me before my sister. I know how to read."
And they continued with breakfast. While Layla remained silent throughout the meal, her eyes fixed on her plate, her food untouched. Her hands lay in her lap, still as stone.
After breakfast ended, Meriel rose silently. He said nothing. He only left the hall with heavy steps, as though each step drained something from him. The corridors were long and cold, and his footsteps echoed in the emptiness.
He went directly to the children's chamber.
He opened the door slowly, the hinges creaking like the cry of something small and wounded.
The silence inside was painful.
The beds were made. The covers as they had been left—smooth, unwrinkled, waiting. And the toys still in their places, as if the chamber refused to acknowledge their absence. A wooden horse. A small shield. A ball of worn leather.
Meriel approached one of the beds. He sat down slowly, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Then he reached out his hand toward one of the small toys—the wooden horse, its paint chipped, its legs scuffed. He picked it up. He stared at it for a long time.
As if it might give him an answer. Or turn back time.
But the door opened behind him.
William entered. He paused at the threshold for a moment, his cane silent against the floor, before saying in a courteous voice: "Forgive me, my lord. My words will seem somehow harsh, but I suggest you hold a funeral for both your sons in front of your people."
Meriel's head rose suddenly. Anger appeared in his eyes at once, blazing like a fire catching dry grass. And he said sharply: "They are alive. Why in the hells of the Rocks would I hold a funeral for them?"
William remained calm. As if he had expected the outburst—had braced for it, absorbed it, and moved past it. Then he said in his measured voice: "It is not the eyes of the gods alone that watch you, my lord. There are eyes all across the kingdom. And those eyes burn with fire the moment we are speaking now."
He took a small step forward, the cane clicking once against the floor. And continued: "On our way to the castle, they made it clear. Under these wretched conditions, your focus on the children will be a convincing reason for them to rise against you."
He paused for a moment. Then said in a lighter tone: "This is merely a suggestion, made because you are Gerald's brother. In truth, this was not my concern. You are free to do as you will."
He turned to leave. But before he stepped out, he stopped. Then he turned halfway, his profile sharp in the light from the corridor.
"Ah. One more thing." His voice was casual now, almost idle. "How many guards are stationed at The Great Pale? And how many gates, exactly?"
Meriel looked at him in astonishment. Then he said: "Fifteen thousand men. Twenty gates. Why?"
William shook his head slowly. Then he said: "Do you not find it strange that fifteen thousand men are enough to guard twenty gates… from the danger that threatens humanity, yet they failed to prevent a king's son from slipping out to the Forbidden Wood? I don't mean anything specific, but the question here is necessary."
Then he left.
And closed the door quietly behind him.
As for Meriel, he remained sitting in his place. His hand still held his son's toy. But the shock was clear on his face—his eyes wide, his jaw slack, his breath shallow.
William's words had done enough. They forced him to think. Of possibilities he had not wanted to consider.
Betrayal. Negligence. Or something worse.
Hours passed. And he remained inside the chamber. Barely moving. The light through the window shifted from pale morning to grey afternoon to the deep gold of evening. Still he sat, the wooden horse turning over and over in his hands.
Until he finally made his decision.
At midnight, he went directly to Gerald's chamber. The corridors were dark, lit only by the occasional torch. His footsteps were quiet, purposeful. And he entered without knocking.
The door swung open.
Gerald was lying upon his bed, propped up on one elbow. And beside him, upon a wooden chair, sat William, holding an open book. His cane leaned against the chair's arm. The scene seemed ridiculously suspicious—the two of them frozen mid-motion, caught in some private ritual.
Gerald lifted his head quickly. His eyes widened. Then he said with evident embarrassment: "Get out. We shall discuss matters of the kingdom tomorrow."
But Meriel entered with a faint smile—for the first time in days, a real smile, small but genuine. And said: "Tomorrow I shall hold a false funeral for the children. I only wanted you to know. Do not argue with me about it."
Then he turned to leave. But before he stepped out, he stopped at the door. He looked at the book. Then he said: "What was the story?"
Gerald was slightly flustered. His mouth opened and closed. He said, mumbling: "What story?"
Meriel said: "Forget it."
Then he paused for a moment. And looked at the cover. And said: "Everleav: The Rise of The Great Pale."
Then he added with a faint smile: "An interesting story."
And he left, pulling the door closed behind him.
Beneath the light of the eyes of the gods, on the opposite side of the forest, inside the kingdom of the Normens—or as they call it: Merleith—the world was different.
One of the Normens sat among a group of children. Her silver hair flowing over her shoulders like moonlight made solid. Her features were calm, beautiful in an uncommon way—too perfect, too still, like a statue given breath. And her pointed ears gave her a different bearing from humans, a mark of something older, something other.
Her name was Zohra.
She sat surrounded by children of her own kind, their faces upturned toward her, their eyes wide with attention. Telling them stories. Stories of history. Stories of war. Stories of humans.
One of the children suddenly raised a hand, his small fingers trembling with eagerness, and asked: "Why do humans keep fighting us?"
Zohra smiled. A small smile, carrying something of pity. Then she said: "Humans have always possessed the worst traits—greed, cunning—but fear always stood in their way."
She paused for a moment, her eyes drifting to the trees beyond the clearing. Then she continued: "Despite their greed to seize the lake, they knew they lacked purpose."
The children watched her with great attention, their small bodies leaning forward. So she continued: "Each of them had his own purpose. And their fear made us come out of the forest to fight them. We were forced to remind them of their place."
Then she gestured with her hand toward the outside: "They would gather before The Great Pale to make it easier for them to flee when things went wrong. The Great Pale that we built for them to keep them within their borders."
She lowered her voice slightly: "But they would stand before it, crowded together, and sound a horn calling us to war—with thousands of their strong men."
Then she smiled lightly: "We would send only dozens of our loyal soldiers, and the matter would end quickly, with most of them back behind The Great Pale."
And she continued quietly: "We protect the lake from their greed. We do not take pleasure in harming them. But we are forced to do it."
Suddenly, one of the Normens approached quickly. Her features disturbed. Something rare. Very rare. Her steps were rapid, unsteady—a thing almost unheard of among their kind.
She bent slightly, her breath coming fast, and said: "There is a problem."
Zohra stopped. She froze.
The word "problem" alone felt like a thunderclap. Because it was not among the words her people used.
It was a human word. A foreign word.
She rose at once. And left, the children's eyes following her.
In the Forbidden Wood, there were eight guards. Their white uniforms were spotless, their spears were long, and their faces were masks of calm. But their spears pointed toward a child.
He was not natural.
His eyes pure white. Glowing. And his whole body radiated a strange yellow light, pulsing like a heartbeat, illuminating the trees around him.
The child stood among them. Confused. Afraid. His hands raised before him as though he did not recognize them. It was Edd.
Zohra stopped at the edge of the clearing. Shock after shock crossed her face. Her usual calm shattered, piece by piece. A new feeling crept into her—a feeling she had never known before.
Fear.
Then she whispered: "He is the Chosen One…"
She paused. She looked at him again, her eyes tracing the light that poured from him. "…And he is human."
Edd was looking at his hands. His breath came fast, his chest rising and falling. And he was saying in fear: "What is happening to me?"
Then repeating it, his voice rising: "What is happening to me?"
One of the guards approached cautiously. Each step careful, measured. He reached out and took Edd by the arm—a gentle grip, meant to steady, to calm.
But in a moment, Edd seized the guard.
And suddenly his body turned to fragments upon the ground. Scattered like dust. The white uniform collapsed, empty. The spear clattered to the earth.
Zohra stepped back. Her hand rose to her face. And she said in a low voice: "It cannot be."
As for Edd, he understood nothing. He looked at his hands—those hands that had just unmade a living being—and kept repeating in a frightened voice: "Where is my brother?"
Beneath the weight of terror, the feet of the guards, once steady, began to tremble. Their spears wavered. Their breath quickened. Edd looked at their feet. And saw something familiar. Fear.
Then he lowered his gaze to his own feet.
But they were not trembling.
They were steady.
Strong.
As though something inside him…
Invincible.