Gerald
Outside the Kingdom of Ironfield, the Kingdom of solid steel and iron stone, King Gerald crossed through the Gate of Broken Swords, seated atop his horse with the calm heaviness of a man long accustomed to burdens that never truly left his shoulders.
Beside him rode William the Lame, his right hand, his shadow in war. Behind them followed the guards of Ironfield beneath the white banners of their house—a burning iron helm, the symbol of a kingdom that believed steel remembered every wound.
The roads trembled beneath the rhythm of hammers. Blacksmiths struck heated iron with relentless force. Molten sparks flew through the air like furious stars, and swords cooled inside barrels of water with violent hissing sounds.
Gerald rode slowly, his posture straight, yet his eyes carried something heavier than kingship. His people watched him. Some bowed. Some merely stared.
Until his horse slowed, then stopped.
Gerald turned. William had halted behind him, silent, his good eye fixed upon a ruined house standing crooked beside the road—broken wood, collapsed stone, a roof half-swallowed by time. William's expression hardened strangely. Not sadness. Not anger. But recognition. As though memory itself had reached forward and gripped his throat.
Gerald looked at him, a shadow of pity crossing his face, then said softly, "Come, William... We are blocking the road."
William blinked once, as though dragged violently back into the present. He moved his horse forward slowly, yet his eyes lingered, still trapped there at that ruined house.
When they reached the castle gates, Gerald pulled on the reins and turned toward William. "I will head to the Hall of Kings."
William adjusted himself awkwardly upon his saddle, his crippled leg clearly bothering him, then replied with a polite nod, "Very well. I shall go inside first."
Gerald frowned lightly, then shook his head. "No." His tone grew quieter. "Come with me."
Together they entered the Hall of Kings, the resting place of Gerald's ancestors. Cold iron tombs stood proudly in rows—massive, silent, imposing. Even death looked noble here.
Gerald stopped before his father's grave. His jaw tightened. Slowly, he stepped closer, bent down, and rested his forehead against the cold iron. Then he whispered in a low voice filled with reverence, "We are the iron that never rust."
William stood behind him, watching in silence. Then he awkwardly lowered himself using his iron cane, his injured leg trembling slightly beneath him. He leaned forward, touched the tomb with his forehead, then slowly stood once more. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Only silence lingered between iron and memory.
Then Gerald exhaled quietly and looked toward William, his eyes distant, as though staring into years long buried. "He had two friends..." Gerald's lips curved into a tired smile, a smile carrying more ache than warmth. "He loved them more than he loved me."
He lowered his gaze. "I was young when he died. Too young. And too weak to carry his legacy." His jaw tightened again. "One of his dear friends ruled in my place... until I came of age."
Then his expression darkened. "But the moment that crown touched his head... that iron crown rusted his mind." His eyes sharpened. "In his eyes... I was merely a weak child standing between him and his madness."
William remained silent, listening carefully.
Gerald stepped closer to the grave. "As for Meriel's father... he was the king of Izzadar. He was my father's second friend, and the least favored friend, because of his obligations to his kingdom."
His expression softened. "He was different. If he had not taken me in... protected me... placed me among his own..." He paused, his throat tightening briefly. "I would not have survived. In a world of men's greed, I was nothing. But he and his children, Meriel and Layla, made me something. They made me a man of principles."
His face relaxed slightly, not into happiness, but into memory. "I lived among them. Ate among them. Slept among them. And let the gods bear witness... for the first time... I slept safely."
A faint laugh escaped him, short and quiet. "Layla loved The Great Pale. We used to play there endlessly. And Meriel..." He shook his head lightly. "Meriel was something else. So serious... even as a child. But overly emotional. When others said, 'You do not belong here,' Meriel would throw them out. And I would stay."
Gerald turned toward William fully now, his expression becoming heavier. "When I returned to claim my kingdom... back then Meriel was behind me like a shield or a hammer. Something so powerful. I knew that day. That was the power. The power of brotherhood."
"As I entered and retrieved my crown, there under the rubble of the house, I saw a child. Crying. Weak. Trapped." His eyes lowered. "I climbed from my horse... and pulled him out. I saw it. I saw weakness in his eyes."
Then a small smile appeared. "But do you know what else I saw?" He stepped closer and placed a firm hand upon William's shoulder. "Safety. He felt safe. The same way I once felt."
His voice lowered. "If something ever happens to me..." His eyes locked onto William's. "Be that friend. The one who makes my son feel safe. That..." His grip tightened slightly. "Is your duty. And your debt."
William lowered his head, emotion quietly crossing his face. Then he replied with unwavering seriousness, "I will protect your son on my life." His gaze rose. "But protecting him... will never feel right... unless I protect his father first."
kormel
Outside the walls of Valkryn Castle, above the colossal wooden gates, a body swayed beneath the wind—Sam's false mother, hanging by the neck, lifeless. Her skin was pale beneath the gray sky, and the corpse looked as though it had remained there for days. Crows fought viciously over her flesh, their wings beating wildly, their sharp cries tearing through the cold air like accusations no one dared voice aloud.
Inside the palace, Kormel sat before a mirror of polished silver, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, her expression calm, almost bored. Behind her stood one of the servants, carefully brushing her long hair. Kormel raised her hand, running delicate fingers through the strands, her brows furrowed slightly in thought. Then she said quietly, "It seems I should cut some of it..."
She tilted her head slightly. "What do you think?"
The servant smiled softly, a little nervous, yet honest. "As you wish, my lady..." Her hands slowed against the brush. "But I think... it looks better this way."
Kormel touched her hair once more, studying her reflection. Then she nodded faintly, a small satisfied expression appearing on her face. "Then I shall keep it this way."
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Kormel raised her head and looked at the maid. "May I ask you something else?"
The maid said, "Go ahead and ask."
Kormel asked, "Am I okay?"
The maid looked directly into Kormel's eyes and said, "Why do you say that? Of course you're fine."
Kormel said, "But I don't feel that way. I feel empty, like I have no personality or memories. Am I strong, impulsive, weak, or what? I only remember simple, random things like the smell of books and the warm voice of a man reading. So how am I okay?"
The maid said, "You remember something? That's good. That means you're getting better. You're fine. It's just a scar, and with time all scars will fade. Don't worry. You will get better."
Meanwhile, Kormel looked at the maid with more questions. But suddenly, noise erupted through the palace—heavy, loud enough to shake silence from the walls. Kormel's expression changed immediately, annoyance and curiosity mixing. She rose from her seat without hesitation.
The servant stepped back nervously. Kormel had already begun walking, following the sound with quick, sharp steps, until she reached the Throne Hall and stopped.
King Sam sat upon the throne, relaxed, confident, one arm resting lazily against the armrest, his expression unreadable. Before him stood a giant of a man, his body looking broad enough to tear stone apart. A cloak covered his shoulders, his lone arm thick with scars. And in that hand, he carried something.
The king's guard's head.
Without warning, the man threw it. It rolled violently across the floor, stopping directly before the throne, at Sam's feet. The hall froze. Guards carried their swords hesitantly, for the king had forbidden them to approach.
Sam, however, did not even flinch. Slowly, he raised one foot and placed it atop the guard's head. Then he leaned forward slightly, a dangerous curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
"So..." A faint smile touched his lips. "You are Thomas the One-armed man."
Thomas lifted his gaze toward the king, his expression hard, sharp—a man clearly unused to fear. His voice carried open threat: "I heard you were looking for me." He tilted his head faintly. "So I thought... why not save you the trouble?"
Kormel stepped forward instantly. Her face was not wearing fear or surprise, but rather she felt excited inside this castle for the first time. "How dare you invade the king's castle?"
Then suddenly she turned toward the guards, her finger pointing furiously toward Thomas. Her voice echoed through the hall: "Guards! Cut off his only arm... and shove it up his ass!"
The guards hesitated, hands moving toward swords, until Sam suddenly rose slightly from his throne, his expression darkening. "No one moves!"
Silence, immediate. He turned toward his sister, clearly irritated. "Do you even know who this is?" He gestured toward Thomas. "This... the man who killed Normens... with one hand."
Kormel stared, still furious, then approached Sam, leaning closer, her brows narrowed. "Even so, you fool. How can you allow someone... to violate the sanctity of the castle?"
Sam sighed, clearly restraining himself. "He is not just someone, and why do you care? You clearly hate me, and even more you hate this castle. What's wrong with you, sister?."
But Kormel ignored him completely. She descended the throne stairs, straight toward Thomas. The difference in size between them was almost absurd, yet she did not hesitate. She stood directly before him, lifted one finger, and pressed it lightly against his stomach. Then she said coldly, "Kneel."
Thomas blinked, then laughed quietly. Slowly, he looked toward Sam, then the guards. A crooked smile appeared on his face. "She clearly has more balls than all of you."
His expression hardened again. "Even if every bone in my back breaks..." His hand lowered toward the sword at his waist. "I bow to no one." Then he glanced toward her. "Especially kings."
The hall tensed. Hands moved toward weapons. Sam stood immediately, his voice sharp: "Guards! What are you waiting for? Escort my sister back to her chambers." His face tightened with irritation. "It seems she hasn't finished her nap, And don't forget to give her her medicine."
Kormel immediately struggled, eyes blazing with rage. "You spoiled flea! How dare you send your dogs after me?!" Her voice faded slowly as the guards dragged her away.
Thomas
Thomas merely watched, amused. Meanwhile, Sam pressed two fingers against his forehead, clearly exhausted. Then he looked back toward Thomas, calm once again.
"So... you truly killed Normens?" His eyes narrowed. "But how? With one arm, one hand Seriously, how.?"
Thomas slowly gripped his sword and pulled it halfway free, steel gleaming beneath torchlight. Then he pointed it toward the throne. "Your man had two, but look how he ended up. The sword..." His expression remained cold. "...only needs one hand, and good enough to swing it."
Sam smiled, actually smiled. Then he slowly raised both hands. "No. No... I am not your enemy." A grin stretched across his face. "I am your savior."
He leaned forward, voice softer now, almost persuasive. "Ask for anything. Gold. Land. Women. Anything." A pause. Then he looked toward Thomas's remaining arm, a strange smile crossing his face. "You will find it... within reach of your one hand."
Thomas narrowed his eyes, suspicion clear across his expression. "And what do you want in return?" A beat of silence. Then a mocking smile. "You want me to become one of your obedient dogs?"
Sam chuckled lightly, relaxed once again. "I already have plenty of those." Then his tone shifted, more serious. "I need a man. A knight." His eyes sharpened. "Someone exactly like you."
Thomas's expression hardened instantly. "I have no time for your games, boy." His sword lowered. "I came for one reason." He stepped closer, slow, threatening. "Stay away from me." His gaze darkened. "And if you do not... I will leave your body sitting on that throne... but headless."
The guards shifted nervously, whispering among themselves. "How dare he speak to the king like that..."
Thomas glanced down toward the severed head beneath Sam's foot, then smirked. "One more thing... Your Majesty." He pointed subtly toward the dead guard. "That man beneath your foot... he defended this hall with his life... Look at what he got in return." A pause, then cold amusement. "Good thing he never saw how it ended."
Thomas turned, beginning to leave. Then Sam shouted behind him, "One game!"
Thomas stopped and slowly turned back.
Sam raised a single finger, his expression unreadable now. "Just one game. And I will never interfere in your path again." He leaned back into his throne. "Come with me to Thornholl next week. Be my champion... in the Neverwood." A faint smile. "If you win... I will stay out of your way. Forever. And you may ask for whatever you wish."
Sam tilted his head slightly. "Think about it."
Thomas stood silently for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, without a single word, he turned and left the hall.
Robert
Far away, in the Land of Thorned Crows, the kingdom of Thornholl, where cold winds dragged through stone corridors like whispers of old punishments, inside the royal training grounds, the eight sons of King Robert stood in a long line. Wooden swords were clenched in their hands, expressions swollen with arrogance—the kind of arrogance born from growing beneath a crown.
Before them stood the royal swordsman, a broad-shouldered man, scarred, calm, the sort of man who had forgotten how many broken bones he had seen. His task was simple: train the king's sons. Or rather, survive them.
The eight boys stood confidently, straight-backed, smirking. Until the eldest son stepped forward, wooden sword raised, a smug grin crossing his face. "Well?" He lifted the blade lazily. "What are you cowards waiting for?"
The swordsman smiled, not offended, not threatened, merely entertained. Then, without warning, he moved—fast, too fast. The wooden blade cracked loudly against the eldest boy's wrist. A cry escaped him instantly before another strike landed, then another, and another.
The training ground exploded into chaos. Wooden swords swung wildly. Children shouted. Dust rose. Yet every strike failed. The swordsman parried effortlessly, like a man brushing away flies. Every child received a lesson. A bruise. A humiliation.
Before long, pain began replacing confidence. Samuel Thorns stepped forward, his face red with anger. "How dare you strike the king's sons?"
The swordsman spun his wooden sword lazily between his fingers, a grin spreading across his scarred face. "Your father gave me this task himself." He shrugged. "And I'm enjoying my duty so far..."
Fred stepped forward, still rubbing his head, his expression bitter. "He ordered you to train us." His jaw tightened. "But if he sees you hurt his children... he will have you executed." Then a smug smile. "Do not think you will escape punishment. He can see now."
The swordsman paused, brows lifting slightly. "Oh..." His smile widened. "That explains things." He looked toward the boys again. "So he finally saw... how weak you all are."
The boys stiffened, anger replacing embarrassment. The swordsman rested the wooden blade upon his shoulder. "And besides... he never told me to teach you swordsmanship." He smiled again, cruel this time. "He told me to teach you... how to take a hit."
He stepped closer, voice calmer. "In the end... the one who learns to take a hit... is the only one capable of returning it."
Then—CRACK. The wooden sword landed directly atop Fred's head. The boy cried out instantly, fury overtaking him. The others rushed forward together, swinging wildly, shouting, trying desperately to overwhelm him. But to no avail. The swordsman moved effortlessly, sidestepping, blocking, punishing mistakes. Again, and again, and again.
By the dark morning, not a single child had landed one clean strike.
Above, from one of the palace windows, King Robert watched, silent. Beside him stood the palace advisor, hands folded respectfully. Robert's expression remained unreadable. Then he spoke quietly, "Perhaps blindness..." He exhaled softly. "Was mercy after all."
The advisor turned slightly, confused.
Robert continued, "Eight children. Not one of them... has a future." He lowered his head slightly. "They are a disappointment. To me. And to this kingdom." A bitter smile touched his lips. "They say the Thorns are deadly thorns lodged in an enemy's throat." A pause. His expression hardened. "But these children... they are thorns in the kingdom's own throat."
The advisor swallowed quietly, then answered carefully, "They are still children, my king. All men pass through moments of weakness."
Robert tilted his head slightly, then replied coldly, "A moment of weakness... in what is coming... is an execution sentence upon this kingdom."
Silence followed, only wind against stone. Then Robert spoke again, "Have the invitations been sent?"
The advisor nodded immediately. "They are already on their way, my king."
Robert smiled faintly. Good. His fingers tapped softly against the windowsill. "Next week... on time like every year... but the games will take a different form." A shadow crossed his expression. "One that will make kingdoms... fear even speaking my name."
Far away, in the brighter lands of the Rocks, in the Kingdom of Salter, near the quiet side of the sea, the hidden shore shielded by massive cliffs where free goods were smuggled into Izzadar, King Marcus stood upon wet sand. Beside him stood his sister Sereine. Nearby, a merchant, alongside two Sea Knights standing guard.
The sea wind pulled gently at Sereine's hair. Marcus stood before her, hands behind his back, expression unreadable. Then finally he smiled faintly. "So... you will have a kingdom of your own now." His gaze drifted briefly toward the sea. "No more smell of fish."
Sereine smiled softly, trying to hide nervousness. "I will send you letters."
Immediately, Marcus's expression changed. The warmth vanished. His eyes sharpened. "Never." His voice became colder. "A letter... is merely an invitation for them to find you."
He stepped closer, then softened slightly. "But..." A faint smile. "You may send one... when it bears your seal." He looked directly into her eyes. "Queen of Izzadar."
Sereine smiled nervously, but determination remained. "I will make you proud. I promise."
Marcus leaned down and kissed her forehead, then stepped away, without excess emotion, without lingering.
The Sea Knights moved after him, but Marcus raised his hand immediately. "You are on the wrong side." He nodded toward Sereine. "You are supposed to be hers. For my sister."
His gaze darkened toward the merchant. "I do not trust merchants. They sell anything for gold." A pause. "Even loyalty."
Then he turned and walked away alone, the waves crashing behind him. His voice was barely audible beneath the sea wind, yet strange, clear, almost obsessive. "Higher... higher... I will not stop... until I reach the highest thing imaginable."
A faint smile crossed his face. "They say all men... no matter how high they rise... end inside a pit. Buried beneath dirt."
He looked toward the horizon, eyes calm, cold. "But at least... I will never see it. Not like you did, dear brother."