Broby
Outside the banks of the River Mazz, far from the inhabited lands where roads grew sparse and human voices faded, there stood a solitary farmhouse amid the silence. It was a humble structure, its wooden walls grey with age, its roof patched with moss and old thatch. Around it stretched tall grass that swayed with the wind, and wooden pens weary from years of use, their rails splintered and leaning.
Before it stood a stranger. He wore a long cloak that covered his head carefully, so that his face remained half-hidden beneath the shadows. The hem of the cloak was wet with dew, and his boots were caked with mud from the road. He stood quietly, feeding one of the small lambs, patting its head with gentle fingers. The lamb nuzzled against his hand, unafraid.
Until the wooden door of the house opened with slight violence. The hinges protested, and the door banged against the wall.
An old man came out, his face weathered by sun and long labor, deep lines carved into his skin like dry riverbeds. His back was bent, and he gripped a wooden cane worn thin from frequent use. His eyes narrowed as he studied the stranger, his grip tightening on the cane. He stepped forward cautiously and said in a rough voice, "Who are you, stranger?"
The man turned slowly. His movements were unhurried, almost lazy. He looked first at the cane—at the worn handle, the cracked wood—then at the old man's face. A faint smile crossed his lips, and he said with light mockery, "A wooden cane. Really."
The farmer's face darkened further. He took another step forward, planting the cane firmly in the earth. "Speak, stranger. Who are you?"
The man stepped closer, his voice growing quieter, as though sharing a secret. "Have you seen a human child in these parts?"
The old man furrowed his brows in bewilderment. His head tilted slightly. "A human child? Is that the best you have?"
The stranger said directly, "He has a strange black birthmark on his neck."
The old man paused for a second. His eyes flickered—just for a moment, just enough. Then he said quickly, "I have seen no child with such markings. I am far from the path of men, and farther from the path of children. Only me and my sheep."
The stranger raised his eyes toward the sheep, which were eating quietly in their pens, oblivious to the tension in the air. Then he said in a strange voice, cold in an uncomfortable way, "Soon enough you'll be alone on this farm. It seems your sheep were swallowed by the darkness."
Then he turned and left.
The old man raised his voice behind him, stepping forward. "Who are you?"
The stranger did not look back. He only waved his hand in the air—a lazy, dismissive gesture—and said, "Count me as one of you."
The man shouted in anger and confusion, "What is that supposed to mean?"
But the stranger did not answer. He continued on his way, his cloak billowing behind him, searching for the child that someone else was searching for.
Meriel
Inside the silent palace of Izzadar, King Meriel sat in the palace library. The place was steeped in the scent of old paper and heavy wood. Tall shelves rose around him like ancient guardians, their books dark with age. Before him on a long table, military manuscripts were stacked—maps with frayed edges, defensive plans, old names of wars whose warriors had long since died.
But Meriel's eyes were not truly reading.
His gaze moved over the pages without seeing them, his fingers turning pages he did not absorb. He was searching for something else. A solution. Hope. Anything that might bring his sons back. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows across his haggard face.
A guard entered and bowed at once, his armor creaking. "My king, one of Valcryn's falcons landed here carrying a letter."
Meriel raised his head slowly, weariness clear in his eyes—dark circles beneath them, his skin pale. He extended his hand. "Give it to me."
The guard approached, placed the letter in his hand, and left in silence. The door closed with a soft click.
Meriel opened the letter quickly, his fingers breaking the seal. He began to read. But he did not finish the first line.
Condolences from Sam.
His features hardened. His jaw tightened. His hand clenched around the paper until it crumpled, the sound loud in the quiet library. Then he said in a low voice, full of certainty, "My children are alive. Both of them. And I will find them, even if it means uniting the kingdoms and entering into endless wars."
He rose from the table, the chair scraping against the stone. The crumpled letter fell from his hand and rolled across the floor.
Outside the palace walls, the morning was grey and cold. Gerald was leaving, accompanied by William the Lame. The horses stood ready, their breath steaming in the chill air.
William, with his usual iron cane, struggled with difficulty to mount his horse. His foot slipped from the stirrup once, then twice. He muttered faint, irritated words under his breath, his knuckles white around the cane. The horse shifted impatiently, and William shot it a dark look.
Gerald watched from his own mount, a faint smile on his lips. "Do you need assistance, William?"
William finally managed to pull himself into the saddle, settling with as much dignity as he could muster. "No, my lord. The horse and I have simply not yet agreed on who is in charge."
Sara
Far away, in the largest of the kingdoms and the darkest, a place not even the eyes of the gods watch, lay the kingdom of Thornholl—the kingdom of the blind King Robert Thorn. The man who had lived his entire life without sight, yet had fathered many children so that he might see the world through them. Nine children. And three wives. He loved them all and divided his love among them justly—or so he believed.
The palace was a sprawling thing of black stone and iron, its towers rising like thorns against the perpetually grey sky. Inside, the corridors were cold, the windows narrow, the light scarce. The air smelled of old stone and something faintly sweet—the remedy that was prepared daily for the king.
Inside his chamber, the king lay upon his bed, his eyes covered with black cloth for months. The cloth was tied carefully behind his head, a constant reminder of his affliction. He clung to a single hope: that one day he would remove the cloth and see again.
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His daughter Sara Holl entered as she did every day, carrying the remedy—the treatment that Robert clung to as a drowning man clings to driftwood. Her footsteps were soft, hesitant. He knew her at once from the fall of her footsteps and from her usual silence.
"Come closer. Did you bring the medicine?" he said in a quiet voice, tilting his head toward the sound.
"Yes, Father. I did," Sara said. She approached and placed the remedy into his drink, her movements careful. But when Robert took her hand, he paused. His fingers closed around her wrist—gently, but firmly.
He smiled a small smile. "You are trembling. Why?"
She did not answer. She only handed him the drink and turned to leave.
Outside, three children were waiting for her. Samuel Thorns, Rob Thorns, and Fred Thorns—the king's eldest sons. They stood in the corridor, their shadows long against the stone.
Fred looked at her with a malicious smile. He was the tallest, the cruelest, his eyes glittering with something dark. He placed his cane upon her shoulder, pressing down. "You are following your mother's steps. Do you know that she used to sneak around like that—that whore? She sneaked into the men's rooms and she gave birth to you in that way. That is why they call you the King's Sin."
Sara was small, but her eyes blazed with anger. Her small hands curled into fists at her sides. Without hesitation, she snatched his cane and pushed his foot hard.
Fred lost his balance. His arms flailed. He fell down the stairs, tumbling end over end, his body striking the stone steps with sickening thuds. He landed at the bottom in a heap, groaning.
He shouted in anger, his voice echoing up the stairwell, "Seize that little whore!"
But Sara was faster. She turned and ran, her small feet pounding on the stone. She climbed upward, taking the steps two at a time. But they pursued her—Samuel and Brandon, their longer legs closing the distance—until they cornered her inside one of the chambers.
The brothers seized her. Their hands were rough, their grips cruel. She struggled, but she was too small.
Fred appeared in the doorway, limping, his face twisted with fury. He bent down and picked up a knife near the hearth. The blade glinted in the firelight. He approached slowly, savoring her fear. He gripped her neck cruelly, his fingers digging into her skin.
And he carved a small triangle.
The blade bit deep. Blood welled up, running down her neck in thin red lines. She screamed, but a hand covered her mouth.
"From today, your name shall be: the Keep Whore, exactly like your mother" he said with a light laugh.
Then he released her.
Sara ran, weeping, tears mingling with pain. She descended the stairs quickly, her vision blurred, passing before the king's chamber without stopping.
Inside the chamber, Robert sat upright. Beside him, Elia was dictating a letter to King Meriel—a letter bearing apology and consolation. He had realized that he had been harsh to a father who had lost his son. And though he was convinced he had not been wrong, he did not hesitate to apologize.
His voice was low, measured. "Say to him... that I spoke in haste, and that I regret the weight of my words. Tell him that a father's grief is sacred, and I would not add to it."
Elia's hand moved across the parchment, the quill scratching softly. When it was done, Robert handed the letter to Elia and said, "See to it."
Elia left the room, but her first concern wasn't ensuring the message was delivered. Her focus was different. She set the paper aside on a nearby table and walked through the corridors, her steps silent.
She followed the scent of fear and defeat—something not strange, rather familiar.
In one of Thornholl's dark corridors, the air was cold and stagnant. The stone walls seeped ancient moisture, glistening faintly in the torchlight. From somewhere far away came the sound of dripping water—regular, like a pulse that would not die.
Sara sat, holding her knees and pulling them to her chest. Her head sank between them. On her neck, the triangle scar still bled, a thin red thread sliding slowly toward her collarbone. She wept silently—no sobs, no sounds, only a trembling in her shoulders. Her face was hidden, her whole body curled in on itself as if she were trying to disappear.
Then she felt fingers touching her neck.
She did not know where they came from. She heard no footsteps, only a touch—cold, on the scar itself. She raised her head quickly, fear filling her eyes, and looked up.
There, in the darkness, stood Elia.
She was standing, smiling, sucking her finger slowly.
Sara looked at the finger. It was covered with her blood.
Elia was sucking her blood.
Sara was confused. Her breath came rapidly, her chest rising and falling. She said, "Why did you do that?"
Elia lowered her finger and said, "You have so much pain. Sharing a drop of it with someone... it will make the pain less."
Sara did not understand. Why would someone suck her blood to feel with her? She stared at Elia's fingers, at her lips, at the blood that had already disappeared.
Elia stood there, looking at Sara. She did not come closer.
"Do you feel anger?" Elia asked.
"A little," said Sara.
"What does anger feel like from the inside? I can only see it on your face. But no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I can't understand what's happening inside."
"Why do you not feel anger sometimes?"
Elia moved her head slowly, as if considering the question. The torchlight flickered across her face.
Sara said, "It is not a feeling. I think it is a desire. Unattainable."
"What is your desire?"
"I want them all to die. I do not know how, or when. Just... die. Especially my father. He's the reason I became an outsider."
Elia approached quietly. Her steps were light, soundless, as though she did not touch the ground at all. She stood before Sara and extended her finger, placing it gently on Sara's head, on her hair.
"Even if they die, they will not die here," she said. "You will spend your whole life thinking, and hurting, and wanting. In this case, no one will die except you."
"Then what do I do? I do not like them. I do not like this place."
"Leave. Simply. And forget everything. That is the only way they die—that they have no part in your life, your new one."
"I have never thought of leaving. The outside is dangerous. And dark."
"There is not only Thornholl. There are other kingdoms, where light overcomes darkness, and where your fears will disappear."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you shared your pain with me, I shared a solution to your problem that will make the pain go away from both of us."
Sara rose slowly. Her knees trembled. She looked at Elia, at her calm face, at her eyes—dark and unreadable.
"Thank you," she said.
Then she ran. Her small footsteps quickened down the corridor. She moved away, her sound echoing—bare feet on cold stone.
Elia remained standing. She watched the darkness that swallowed her. Then she extended her finger and looked at it. It still bore a faint trace of blood. She smiled and walked in the opposite direction.
Robert
Morning came, but even the morning here was black—so much so that the darkness of the sky was reflected in the eyes of the gods themselves, making them darker and more watchful. The clouds hung low over the towers, heavy with unshed rain.
That morning, King Robert descended to the dining hall, feeling the familiar stairs and stepping with accustomed caution. His hand traced the wall, each step measured. At the long table, his nine children had arrived before him, sitting in their places, waiting for their father without their mothers, as usual.
Robert entered and sat in his place. The chair creaked beneath him. Then he said quietly, "Eat."
The children began to eat. The sounds of their meal filled the hall—the scrape of utensils, the clink of cups. As for him, he did not touch the food. He only sat, silent, listening. The sound of spoons. The scraping of plates. The small laughs. The sounds of chewing. All of it was enough for him. That was his world—the world he had grown accustomed to seeing without eyes.
But this day was different. When it ended, he rose with unusual speed and climbed the stairs with evident excitement, feeling the walls with his hand as though bidding them farewell. As though his steps were saying: This is the last time I will feel for you. The last time I will need you. This is the day—the day he would see.
He entered his chamber and sat waiting, his heart full of fearful hope. His hands rested on his knees, his fingers tapping restlessly.
Then Sara entered, sneaking in as usual. He smiled at once and said, laughing, "There will be no sense in sneaking in the future, because I will be able to see you while you are doing it."
Sara approached. In her hand, the drink. But her fingers were more steadfast than usual. No trembling. No hesitation. She placed the remedy inside it, then extended the cup to him.
He took it from her. And before he drank, he said, "Do not leave. I want you to be the first thing my eyes see."
Sara stopped. She stood in her place, silent. Her hands hung at her sides.
Robert drank.
Then he raised his hand toward the black cloth and began to remove it slowly, inch by inch, until it finally fell. The cloth drifted to the floor.
His eyes remained closed for a moment. Then he tried to open them, slowly.
At first, he saw only mist—faint shapes, intermingling colors. Then everything began to clear, little by little, until before him appeared the features of his daughter.
Sara.
He raised his trembling hand and touched her face, as though memorizing it for the first time. His fingers traced her cheek, her jaw, her brow. Tears welled in his newly opened eyes.
But Sara carried no love, no joy, not even tears.
She carried a knife and one bloody smile.
The knife was hidden behind her back. And in one moment, she lunged at him, plunging the knife into his neck with all her strength. The blade sank deep, meeting flesh and sinew.
Robert's eyes widened. His mouth opened, but no sound came. He fell backward onto the bed, his body convulsing. Blood began to pour warm, so profusely that the king exhaled his last breath.
As for Sara, she dipped her finger in his blood and sucked it while covering his eyes with her other hand.
In the end, Robert had waited to see the world... but he saw his end.
Rober/t
Hours passed without screaming, without weeping, without chaos. The palace remained quiet, as it had always been.
And in the evening, the nine children gathered around the dinner table, waiting, as was their custom. The candles burned low. The food steamed untouched.
But this time, the absent one was not only the king, but even Sara. Nevertheless, they did not care much. Their entire concern was for King Robert. He was late, more than usual.
The children began to eat in silence, so that he would not hear them. Their spoons moved quietly, their voices were hushed.
Then the door opened.
Robert entered, standing, in good health—no blood, no stab wounds, he was healed, as if he had been reborn. His steps were steady. His eyes were open.
Everyone stopped. Spoons froze halfway to open mouths.
He said quietly, "Eating in silence will not help you. I can see now."
The children exchanged shocked glances. This was a secret they had never thought their father would achieve. Robert approached and sat beneath their astonished stares. Then he said with complete coldness, "Eat. The food will get cold."
Twelve days earlier, on the opposite side of The Great Pale, beyond the Forbidden Wood, outside the kingdom of Merleith, one of the Normens lay upon the grass wearing a long cloak. His hands were behind his head, his pointed ears relaxed. He was looking toward the sky, counting the eyes of the gods. One, two, three... Then he stopped.
One of the eyes moved.
Something unnatural. Blackness began to gather inside it, swirling like ink in water. Then suddenly, a thick blackness emerged from it and fell toward the ground—a streak of darkness against the pale sky.
The Normen rose at once, curiosity filling him, and ran after it. His feet were swift, silent on the grass. He followed the falling darkness until he reached it. But what he saw made him freeze.
One of his own kind had exploded.
The body was scattered across the ground in pieces. White uniform torn and bloodied. The Normen hid quickly behind a tree and began to watch, his breath held.
Then he saw a small child passing by him, heading toward Lake Elindor. The child's steps were unsteady, confused.
But his attention was not on the child. Rather, on the shadow—that black thing. It was approaching another child. Then it touched him and disappeared.
But when the child ran, the Normen noticed something strange. His shadow was moving in an unnatural way—lagging behind, then catching up, then moving on its own.
There, he understood the truth. That creature had not disappeared. Rather, it had become part of the child.