The salt kingdom. Damp and briny, where the sea mist clings to the stones as though it were part of them, and where humidity never leaves the walls, not even on the hottest of days. The air itself tasted of salt—heavy, wet, ancient—and every breath felt like swallowing the sea.
Inside the corridors of High Tide Keep, in one of the libraries overlooking the raging coast, the windows stood open to the wind, letting in the sound of waves crashing against the rocks far below. Books lined the walls, their spines dark with age, their pages swollen from the damp. The room smelled of old leather and salt spray.
Marcus, King of the Six Seas, sat in his wide wooden chair as though lounging upon a temporary throne. Both feet rested upon the desk, crossed at the ankles. His fingers moved lazily, fidgeting with small sea stones—smooth, dark, polished by the waves—turning them over in his hands like thoughts waiting to settle. His eyes were half-lidded, his breathing slow. He was waiting for someone.
And indeed, the wait was not long. The door opened.
In came his old assistant. His steps were slow, his back bent, his hands clasped before him. Behind him, two sea knights, their heavy cloaks still carrying the scent of the waves, water beading on the fabric and leaving dark trails on the stone floor.
Marcus raised his head slowly. His eyes found the old man first, then the knights, then returned to the old man. He straightened slightly in his seat, his feet sliding from the desk. He looked at the old man with strange curiosity before asking, "Do you know how to swim?"
The old man was flustered. His mouth opened and closed. His hands twisted together. He said in his usual quavering voice, "No, my lord. I have always preferred dry land."
Marcus rose slowly. The chair scraped against the stone. He walked toward the high window of the keep, the sea stones still turning in his hand. He stood there, his back to the old man, looking down upon the kingdom—to its bottom, to the narrow, damp alleys, the houses stacked upon one another as though afraid of falling into the sea. The waves crashed white against the black rocks below.
Then he said quietly, without turning, "I have climbed so high in this world that I have forgotten what the bottom looked like."
He paused a moment, his fingers tightening around the stones. Then added in a lower voice, "But whenever I forget, I look again... to remember."
He kept looking down, as though the past stood there, waiting in the alleys below.
Then he said, "In alleys like those, I used to live in a crumbling house—me, my mother, my father, my brother, and my little sister." A small smile crossed his face, but it was not a happy one. It pulled at the corner of his mouth like a scar. "I always resented that house. But I never thought it resented me back."
He was silent a moment, his breath fogging the glass. Then he continued. "One night, the ceiling was wobbling as usual. The dampness had sucked the strength from it. But I thought it was like any other night—moving with the strong winds and the passing of carts."
He lowered his head slightly, his eyes fixed on some distant place beyond the glass. "But I was not drowning in my dreams. What I thought was a dream turned out to be real."
He squeezed one of the sea stones in his fist, the knuckles whitening. "A large pillar fell from the ceiling. Suddenly."
He said with terrifying coldness, "I found myself covering my sister's body while the pillar fell far away."
His hand stopped moving.
"But my brother's screaming told me it was not far enough."
He finally turned toward the old man, his eyes empty of any remorse—pale as sea foam, and just as cold. "My brother was in pain—the pillar had fallen on his foot. I approached slowly. The whole house was moving by then. I did not hesitate. I did not tremble."
Marcus's voice grew colder, each word dropping like a stone into still water. "I took my sister's hand. And left my father, my mother, and my brother."
Silence.
"Until the whole house fell on top of them."
The old man trembled without realizing it. His hands shook at his sides, his breath coming short. As for Marcus, he smiled—a slow, terrible smile.
"At first I doubted. But with time, I realized what saved me and what saved my sister." He stepped closer, his boots soft on the stone, and said in a steady tone, "I am a person who does not hesitate. I have no mercy for anyone when the gods themselves have removed their mercy from you. Who am I to stand against their will?"
Then he continued, "They say mercy on the battlefield is treason. And I hate treason."
The old man swallowed his saliva with difficulty. His throat bobbed. Then he said hesitantly, his voice barely a whisper, "What do you mean, my lord? What treason are you speaking of?"
Marcus looked at him for a long moment. The sea stones clicked softly in his palm. Then he said with terrifying calm, "Take him out."
The old man froze. "My lord?"
Marcus said without blinking, "Prepare him for the last ship."
The knights seized the old man by the arms, their grips hard as iron. They began to drag him away while his bewildered voice echoed behind them, bouncing off the stone walls and the rows of ancient books.
"My lord! My lord, please! What have I done?!"
The door slammed shut.
As for Marcus, he left the library quietly, as though nothing had happened. His footsteps faded down the corridor, and the only sound left was the crash of the waves far below.
Inside the dining hall, his sister Sereine was seated. Her skin pale and pure, untouched by the sun. Her beauty hidden from nearly the entire kingdom. Even the servants permitted to see her were few—a dozen at most, all sworn to silence. Marcus had ensured that. He made her his most important secret, his weakness and his strength—the only one no one knew.
She sat at the long table, her hands folded in her lap, her food untouched before her. The hall was quiet, the windows draped with thin white curtains that stirred with the sea breeze.
She stood at the sight of him, her chair scraping back. But Marcus gestured for her to sit, his hand rising and falling gently, and said with a smile, "Sit. Eat. You must preserve your health."
She sat, her movements graceful, her eyes never leaving his face. Then she said quietly, "I heard that this morning you arrested Ser George."
Marcus lowered himself into the chair across from her. He reached for a piece of bread, tore it slowly, and began eating calmly. Then he said, "That is true."
She said, "What exactly did he do?"
He raised his gaze to her, his jaw working slowly as he chewed. Then he said, as though speaking of the weather, "He committed treason against me and against my people. He questioned my integrity. He showed pity to the enemy. I hate when someone claims honor on the battlefield, my dear sister."
Then he continued, "He was sending letters of conspiracy to someone in Ironfield. We do not yet know who that person is, but we know it is not that fool Gerald. He is far too stupid for that."
He paused, then smiled at her—a smile that did not warm his eyes. "But everything will become clear in the future. And all of this will be thanks to you, my dear sister."
She looked at him with clear bewilderment, her brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"
Marcus smiled more. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "The sea has swallowed many things here. But I will not allow it to swallow your beauty." Then he sat up straight, his expression shifting to something harder. "I will send you to the kingdom of Izzadar."
Silence fell.
"I will get you into the palace my own way. You will be the beautiful maid, Klara."
Then he said, as though explaining a clear future, "And you will ensnare King Meriel. You will comfort him. You will cook for him. You will make him drown in love for you. That's not difficult for your beauty, my sister." He smiled a cold smile, his teeth showing. "You will marry him as planned. And bear him children as also planned. That will make the kingdom of Izzadar ours by proxy. The next time we see each other, we will be kings, not just brother and sister."
Then he said lightly, reaching for his wine, "Thank God I kept the traitor George far away from you."
Sereine did not hesitate, not for a moment. Her eyes met his without flinching. She said directly, "I will do it."
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Marcus raised his eyebrow in genuine surprise. His hand paused halfway to his cup. Then he laughed lightly—a sound of approval. "Well said, Lady of Izzadar. Honor is being on top, no matter how or when. But top."
Sereine grew somewhat serious. Then she said, "You did not hesitate at all to protect me. And I will not hesitate to trust you."
Marcus rose from his chair. He approached her slowly, his footsteps soft. He bent and kissed her head—a brief touch, almost reverent. Then he straightened and walked toward the door.
So she said quietly, "But what exactly do you want from the kingdom of Izzadar?"
Marcus paused at the threshold. He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp against the light from the corridor. He smiled as he was leaving. "It already has a high keep. I like high keeps."
Then he left.
The guards accompanied him to the coast. The wind was fierce, whipping the cloaks of his men, carrying the smell of salt and fish and tar. Beneath the heavy sound of the waves and the creaking of taut ropes, the Tide Horn echoed throughout the kingdom—a low, mournful sound that seemed to rise from the sea itself.
A sound everyone knew—children, women, elders. All who heard it understood one thing: a public trial.
The people began to gather at the harbor, their faces eager, their voices rising in excited murmurs. In Salter, that was not so much a terrifying thing as it was a form of entertainment. And Marcus knew that well, and exploited it. For the people always needed something to fill their emptiness, even if the price was a human soul.
Marcus reached the harbor first, as always, and boarded the Last Ship—his favorite vessel. Its black sails hung heavy in the wind, its hull dark and scarred. A ship that never returned empty.
Shortly after, the knights arrived, holding the old man George bound. His clothes wet with sweat, his eyes full of terror. His grey hair was disheveled, his face pale. He was shouting, resisting, his voice cracking. "I am innocent! I am no traitor! Let me speak to the king!"
Marcus stood at the bow of the ship, the wind playing with his hair. His hands rested on the rail, his eyes fixed on the old man. Then he looked at him and said with terrifying calm, "The sea will decide that."
He paused, then added, "And if you are truly one of us, you will trust in its will."
George trembled more, but no one answered. The crowd watched in silence now, their earlier excitement dulled by the weight of the moment. The knights seized him and placed him in a small boat riddled with tiny holes. A boat that did not sink quickly, but slowly, as though the sea itself took pleasure in it. They bound him with a thick rope, but one that could be cut.
Then Marcus threw a knife into the boat. It landed with a thud, the blade glinting. And he said quietly, "For a fair trial."
The ship sailed, leaving the boat behind. But before departing, the men threw pig entrails and blood around the boat—dark tendrils spreading through the water—to attract the sharks.
The ship moved away slowly, its black sails filling with wind. George gripped the knife, his hands shaking, trying to cut the rope. But his trembling hands barely obeyed him. The knife slipped, cutting his palm, and he cried out. And the water began to seep into the boat, little by little. It grew heavier, and heavier, and heavier.
He kept cutting the rope like a madman until it finally snapped. He jumped directly into the sea and began swimming with whatever strength remained in him. His arms flailed, his legs kicked, his breath came in ragged gasps.
But beside him, the sharks swam quietly, their fins cutting the surface, as though they already knew the end.
He swam, giving everything he had, but to no avail, as though he were swimming in place. The water was cold, so cold it burned. His movements slowed. His head dipped below the surface, then rose again.
Then, in a single moment, a shark struck and pulled him under.
He vanished without resistance, without a sound. Only disturbed circles of water. Then nothing.
One of the knights stood upon the ship and raised his voice high, carrying over the waves. "The trial is over. He is guilty."
The crowd erupted.
Far away, in the hottest regions of the Lands of the Rocks, inside the kingdom of Valkryn—the Wild Falcon—in the northern part, inside one of the famous public taverns, the air was thick with smoke and laughter. Men were toasting the harvest, spending coin, drinking, laughing. Whores moved between the tables, their dresses low, their smiles practiced. Stories echoed like every night. And lies were more abundant than truth.
But there was only one truth that everyone could speak of without fear: Thomas the One-Armed. A local legend. The only man said to have killed three Normens with only one hand.
The door opened.
A mysterious man entered, wearing a long cloak that hung heavy on his frame, concealing his only arm entirely. The hood was pulled low, shadowing his face. He entered in silence, his boots soft on the wooden floor. He found an empty table in the corner and sat. Then he said quietly, "Watermelon juice."
Silence fell for a second—just a second. Then glances began to turn toward him, one by one, surreptitious and quick.
One of the men whispered, leaning toward his companion, "That is him... that is Thomas the One-Armed."
Another said, with a mix of fear and admiration, "They say he does not drink alcohol because he does not want to speak of it—the king's men are everywhere, and the king himself is searching for him."
Another man laughed lightly, shaking his head, and said, "Though we know him, we would rather lose part of our harvest than part of our heads."
The man finished his juice in long, slow swallows. He set the cup down with a soft thud. Then he stood, adjusted his cloak, and left without a single word.
In the heart of the kingdom, inside the palace, upon the throne of the High Falcon, King Sam sat. Before him, the dining table, spread with food. And below the steps, another table—smaller, lower. Around it sat his mother and his sister Kormel.
Sam ate slowly, his movements deliberate. His eyes moved from his plate to his mother from time to time, then a smile would cross his face—a strange smile, unreadable. But the mother ate in silence, her eyes fixed on the table, her hands barely moving. She did not look up. She did not speak. As though she feared looking at anything.
Kormel raised her head and looked at Sam with clear irritation. "Is it so necessary for her to eat at the same table as me?"
Sam looked at her. The smile remained. Then he said, "How dare you speak like that before our mother?"
Kormel rose nervously, her chair scraping against the stone. She said before leaving, "You lunatic."
She left the hall, her footsteps echoing. As for Sam, he kept smiling, then he turned to his mother and said with feigned gentleness, "Forgive her, Mother. She is always angry. But that does not mean she hates you."
The mother did not raise her head, did not look at him, did not say anything. She only kept staring at the table. Her hands lay motionless in her lap.
Sam grew bored and sighed. Then he said, "In any case, I have finished my meal. I will go to the council. No doubt the kingdom's masters have gathered."
He descended from his place, his footsteps light on the steps. He approached his mother and kissed her head—a brief, mechanical touch. Then he wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb and left.
Inside the council chamber, the eight ministers were assembled, sitting in precise hierarchy. The Master of Agriculture, the Master of Trade, the Master of Relations, the Master of Entertainment, the Master of Coins, the Master of War, the Master of the Keep, and the Master of Whores—as King Sam had named him.
They were speaking among themselves quietly, respectfully, even with something of their usual affection. Their voices rose and fell like the murmur of bees. But the moment Sam entered, silence fell suddenly. Every voice stopped. Every hand stilled. They rose as one.
He looked at them, then smiled his suspicious smile, and sat. As for them, they remained standing, their heads bowed slightly.
Until he gestured with his hand. "Sit."
They sat at once, their chairs scraping in unison. Sam sat upright and placed his hands upon the table, fingers spread. Then he said, "The harvest season has passed. We are waiting for good news from you, Lord Raglock."
The Master of Agriculture stood quickly, his chair nearly tipping. He was a round man with ruddy cheeks and hands that had known soil. He said, "We have observed a rise in this year's harvest. We have a significant surplus that we can trade with all four kingdoms. And if anything remains, we can send it to The Great Pale, my lord."
Sam smiled and said, "Good. Our kingdom stands on the generosity of its land."
Then he added, "I want the kingdoms that have good relations with us to have enough food. I want them to feel our favor upon them. And we will try to return that favor twofold."
Then his tone changed slightly. His eyes narrowed. "Regarding the kingdom of Izzadar—we will not give their merchants a single onion until King Meriel breaks his back to me."
He paused, letting the words settle. Then Sam continued, tapping his fingers upon the wooden table with light taps, like a man thinking of a game rather than governing a kingdom. "Master of Relations, send a falcon to the kingdom of Izzadar bearing my condolences. That will push him to concede somewhat."
He leaned back slightly. Satisfaction appeared on his face before he continued. "The old man told me they will hold a funeral. I think King Meriel has surrendered to the reality of life."
Then he smiled a small smile. Cold. Calculated. "This is good. We need their crafts, and they need our food."
He raised his finger slightly, as if remembering something important. "Tell him in the letter that I look forward to restoring relations provided that he apologizes for what he said previously. And leave the final decision to him."
He paused for a second, then said in a tone carrying something of mockery, "I avoided meeting him at The Great Pale for a moment like this."
The Master of Relations bowed his head quickly. "As you command, my lord."
Sam let his eyes pass over the ministers one by one until his eyes stopped at the Master of War. His smile faded slightly, and his voice grew more serious. "Have you found the One-Armed Man?"
The Master stood at once. A broad-shouldered man, bearing old wound marks near his neck, his voice rough as if war still lived in his throat. He said, "Our men have spread throughout all the kingdoms. Their ears are in every tavern. He is drawing near, my lord. Soon he will be within your grasp."
Sam nodded slowly. Then he said, "Motivate the soldiers. Motivation is everything. I need that fighter by my side."
Silence fell for a moment. Then Sam turned toward the Master of Whores—a thin man, neat in appearance, always trying to seem less tense than he was. His fingers were laced together on the table, but they fidgeted.
Sam rose from his place and said without looking at anyone, "Come with me."
Inside the king's chamber, Sam sat upon his great chair, crossed one leg over the other, then looked at the Master for a long time. The room was dim, lit only by a few candles that cast long shadows on the walls.
Before saying, "Do you know why I appointed you as a master in my keep, even though it might defile it?"
The man swallowed his saliva and said quickly, "I know, my lord."
Sam tilted his head slightly. "The whores..."
Then he laughed lightly. "Tell your women to move their asses more. I need to find her as soon as possible."
He leaned closer. "There is no better way than the chatter of women to find my future wife."
The Master grew more tense and said quickly, "We have searched throughout the entire kingdom of Salter. In every tavern. We ask every person. But we have not found the woman you want, my lord. She is a ghost."
The smile vanished from Sam's face completely. It fell away like a mask slipping. "It is no surprise that your wife cannot bear children."
He leaned forward. His voice became low, quiet in a terrifying way. "She cannot even pretend to be a mother. Next time, I will not settle for your wife's tongue. I will take her life and throw her corpse to my falcons."
The Master raised his head quickly. His face went completely pale. "I will find her, my lord. She will be yours soon."
The Master hurried out, so fast that he collided with the Master of Relations at the door, without even apologizing. The two men stumbled apart, then continued on their way.
At the top of the tower, the Master of Relations stood. The cold wind struck his cloak, making it snap behind him like a banner. The sky was grey, heavy with the promise of rain. He took out the letter—small, tightly rolled—and tied it to the falcon's foot with careful fingers. He patted its head lightly, then released it.
The falcon flew high above the sky of Valkryn, crossing the golden fields, then over the dense forests of Inkiet, until the walls of Izzadar began to appear. High. Heavy. As though they did not guard a kingdom, but guarded an ancient fear.
But what caught the falcon's attention first was not the wall.
It was the crowd.
Outside the walls, a whole people gathered, silent. They stood in rows that stretched as far as the eye could see, their faces turned toward the pyre. And in the center, the funeral of the king's two sons.
Meriel stood among the people. His features pale, his eyes sunken with exhaustion, as though sleep had abandoned him days ago. His shoulders were bowed, his hands hanging at his sides. In his hands were the toys of Edd and Ned. Two small things, but they were heavier than his hammer, and heavier than the burdens of his people.
At the top of the platform, the burning pyres were stacked, arranged with care—dry wood, oil-soaked cloth, and kindling. And beside them, a tall iron rod, waiting for the lightning to strike.
But there was no corpse. Only two toys.
Meriel climbed the steps slowly, and each step seemed heavier than the last. The wood creaked beneath his weight. He stopped before the pyre and looked at the two toys for a long time, as though they might answer, as though they might move. His fingers tightened around them.
Then, without hesitation, he placed them inside the wood. He descended slowly and stood beside his brother. The entire crowd was in majestic silence, waiting.
For in Izzadar, the people do not light the funerals. The lightning decides. If it strikes, then the god has accepted the dead. And if it does not, then that means something no one dares to speak.
Moments passed. Heavy.
Then light split the sky. A tremendous bolt of lightning descended with terrifying speed. It struck the iron rod directly, and the pyre ignited. The fire rose quickly, devouring the wood, swallowing the smoke toward the sky. The crowd gasped as one.
But inside Meriel, something else was burning. Only one thought: My children are gone... without my seeing them go.
The people kept watching the fire beneath the grey sky and the frowning weather. The flames reflected in their eyes, in their tears, in their silence. But Meriel could not bear it. He turned and parted the crowd in silence, avoiding the eyes of the people.
Cold drops began to fall upon his skin. But they, in a strange way, were warm upon his heart. Then suddenly, the light rain turned into a storm. The wind howled. The rain fell in sheets.
Meriel turned and froze in place.
The pyre had gone out.
In a single moment, he ran at once, his boots splashing through the mud. He climbed the steps, two at a time, and bent down quickly. His trembling hands searched through the ash—through the wet, smoking remains. His breath came fast. His heart pounded.
Then he stopped.
The two toys. Unchanged. The fire had not touched them. Their paint was intact. Their wood was whole. As though it had refused to consume them.
Meriel raised the two toys high.
At first, an incomprehensible silence fell. The people stared, unable to understand. Then one voice began. Then another. Then another. Until it turned into shouting—shouting of hope. The hope of an entire kingdom.
The rain fell harder, but no one moved. The king stood before them, holding the unburned toys, and the people roared.
Ten days before
In one of the forests near the River Mazz, a shepherd was leading his sheep toward the water, as was his custom. The morning was quiet, the air cool, the only sound the bleating of the flock and the soft pads of their hooves on the earth.
But before the sheep could reach the river, they stopped. They froze. Their heads lifted, their ears twitched.
The water was black.
A blackness his eyes had never seen before, as though night had melted inside it. The surface was still, too still, reflecting nothing.
He rushed to pull the sheep away, his staff raised. "Stay back!"
But one of the small lambs was standing near something—something he could not see clearly. Its small body was bent, its tongue moving.
The shepherd approached cautiously, his steps careful on the muddy bank. Then he bent down slightly, his eyes narrowing.
The lamb was licking the face of a child.
A small child, his body covered in mud, his clothes torn, as though the river had just spat him out. His chest rose and fell slowly. His skin was pale, almost grey.
He drew closer and placed his ear upon the child's chest.
Then his eyes widened.
The heart was beating, strongly. But with a strange rhythm. A beat he had never heard before—too slow, too deep, like the beating of a drum from somewhere far away.
And the child was reborn.