Morning opened its doors to the palace windows. Light crept in slowly, touching the damp stones, flowing across the floors as if it did not wish to disturb anyone.
Marcus was awake. He sat alone in the Deep Council, sullen, his lips pressed together. He turned one of the sea stones in his hand. Smooth, dark, it spun between his fingers, stopped, then spun again. His thumb traced its surface, over and over, the motion slow and deliberate—the motion of a man who had been waiting too long.
Until the council doors opened. The Sea Knights entered, escorting the five councillors.
Marcus looked at them quietly. His fingers stopped turning the stone. His eyes moved from face to face, cold, unblinking. Then he said, "Must I knock on every one of your doors for you to come and perform your duty?"
"But, Your Grace, it is still early," one of them said. The man's hands spread slightly, as if to soften the words.
"We are in a time of war." Marcus's voice was calm, but something smouldered beneath it. His jaw tightened. "Most wars occur at early hours. Come. Let everyone take their seat. We have already wasted time bringing you here."
They sat. The chairs let out a faint creak. The council was vast and circular, its walls tiled with black coral that seemed to drink the light. Shadows pooled in the corners like standing water.
"You are prominent families here in Salter." Marcus looked at them one by one, his fingers still turning the stone—spin, stop, spin. "In times of war, that will not affect your standing. But for the common folk, war is like a whirlpool. It swallows everything they own."
Lord Brian of House Grimmer leaned forward, his hands folded on the table. His shoulders were squared, his chin lifted—the posture of a man who believed he already knew the answer. "I do not think Salter's people will face a problem. Salter will endure. The sea feeds its people, and the Sisters guard its shores. Let Thornholl bring its war. We have fought worse upon these waters."
Marcus placed the stone on the table, rolling it slowly beneath his palm. "When I enter my kingdom, I see no welcome or gratitude from the people. I think they await the simplest things to blame me." He paused, his hand flattening over the stone. "I must beware of this side. There are those who wait for their turn on the ladder, and wish to climb at my expense."
Frederick of House Cyril spread his hands, his expression carefully neutral—the face of a man who had learned to hide behind courtesy. "There are no hidden intentions among us, Your Grace. We all stand by you. But perhaps you could take a wife and children... to break the ladder from the start."
"I will not break the ladder. and I will not fall from it either." Marcus stopped rolling the stone. His hand lifted and rested flat on the map before him. "If I wished to secure my place with heirs, I would have already fallen."
"As you wish, Your Grace."
"We are not here for that, in any case."
Marcus unfolded a map. It spread across the table, its edges curling. He had drawn lines on it in black ink—the kingdoms, the mountains, the seas. His finger traced one line, then another, his movements precise, unhurried.
"I think you already know where the battle will fall for us."
"The water," one of them said.
"Indeed." Marcus ran his finger across the map, the nail scraping softly against the parchment. "I have spoken with King Robert. However strong he may seem, he has a fatal weak point here." His finger stopped. Pressed. "At his back. At his kingdom's back. It is difficult to protect. Not only is it a shallow, dark waterway. But they say that place is cursed. And Robert believes it is the kingdom's curse."
He paused. His finger was fixed on a point. His eyes lifted, moving across their faces.
"Therefore, our responsibility in the War of the Kings is to guard his rear. The valley is wide. We will fill it with our ships."
"But, my lord, who has ships to attack Thornholl's rear?" Frederick asked, his brow furrowing.
"Meriel. He has few crippled ships. They should not pose a problem for us. But they are a problem for Thornholl." Marcus withdrew his finger and straightened. "If the rear gate is opened in any way, and Meriel and his men enter... the kingdom will fall. And it will become difficult to defend." He tilted his head. "What do you think?"
The councillors looked at one another. Eyes met, then slid away.
"The task seems simple. How many ships will go to battle?" one asked, his fingers tapping once on the table.
Marcus refolded the map slowly, his hands moving with deliberate care. "Since we possess most of this continent's ships, we will take only half. Fifty ships. We will wait for our enemy to make the first move, and if they do, we will be the first to know. We will then pursue them. And we have them surrounded here." He pressed the folded map flat. "And we end their ships and their miserable lives."
"And what will we reap if we win this war?" the council member asked, leaning forward. "There must be a reason for waging war in the first place."
Marcus said in a calm voice, "Isn't the participation of the five kings in one war reason enough? If I withdraw, it will be an incomplete war, and that would be shameful on my part."
Marcus looked at him for a long moment. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Forgive me, did I say five? I apologize. I mean four. One has already fallen."
Silence. The stone lay still on the table. No one touched it.
"As for your question, there is no winner in war." Marcus's voice was low, tired, certain. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking. "And we do not enter a war for benefits. But for balance. The continent needs balance. There is no normal life unless we bring down the enemy. Or we will live in perpetual anticipation. The continent cannot live forever waiting for the next war."
Marcus looked around the table. His eyes moved slowly, from face to face, holding each gaze for a breath.
"So we will end this one."
Sam was in his chamber, trapped. He leaned on his bed, looking at the stuffed falcons hanging on his walls. Their wings were spread. Their glass eyes stared into emptiness. He looked at them quietly. He did not move. His hands lay limp at his sides, his fingers occasionally twitching, as though they wanted to reach for something that was not there.
Outside his chamber, two guards stood. They had sworn to protect him. Now they detained him. They waited, at any moment, for a harsher order against him.
Kormel came. She stood before the guards. Her back was straight, her chin lifted. Her voice was steady, but her hands were clasped tightly before her, the knuckles pale.
"I want to speak with him."
They let her enter.
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Kormel stood in the doorway. Sam did not pay her any attention. He still looked at the falcons. His head did not turn.
"Did you want me to go mad?" Kormel asked, her voice low, unsteady. She stepped into the room, her footsteps slow, as though the floor might give way.
Sam smiled, a faint smile. His lips curved, but his eyes remained on the falcons. "I only wanted some of your madness."
"I was never mad. The things you gave me... they are what made me lose myself and my memory." Her voice cracked. She pressed a hand to her chest. "Do you know what I felt during that time? Nothing. I felt nothing. I remembered nothing. I was nothing."
Sam rose. He looked at her now. His movement was slow, deliberate, as though he were rising from deep water. "The fact that you don't remember—that is something I envy you for, my sister."
"Remember what? Tell me."
"Believe me, nothing is worth it. Sometimes the mind protects you, making you forget. And if the mind refuses to do that, then medicine will." He paused, his hand rising and falling in a small gesture. "That's what I thought. I thought I was protecting you from your past. The past will never work in your favor."
She looked at him angrily, her fists tightening at her sides. Her whole body was rigid, trembling. "I remember some things of my past. Father brought you here. You and your mother. He sheltered you. Fed you. Considered you his son."
Sam smiled, a mocking smile. He tilted his head, as though savoring a private joke. "Though you were nothing but a bastard. And your mother was only exploiting Father's grief after Mother's death."
"I always love your kind words." Sam's voice was light, almost playful. He rubbed his hands slowly, as if washing them. "Call me lunatic, call me crazy, but I find your words delightful."
He paused. His hands stopped moving. His eyes grew darker.
"It seems you're determined to know. No problem, I'll tell you. Do you know something? Your father used to pray for a son. But your mother gave birth to you instead of a male heir. Huge disappointment." He walked now, pacing the room slowly, the light from the window sliding over his face. "After her death and her grand funeral in the kingdom... I was watching the funeral from the stable. Covered in filth and anger."
He stopped at the window and looked outside, his reflection faint in the glass. His hand rose and pressed against the frame.
"Everyone was looking at your mother's coffin. But the noble King Allen... was looking for my mother. He found her. And brought us back to the palace. That was the first time I saw him. But I felt nothing for him."
He turned toward her, his eyes dark. His hand dropped from the window.
"I thought I was only in the palace to clean. Or to be exploited. But one day he summoned me. He said: 'You are my bastard—huge praise. But you are male, luckily for you. If you behave well, I can give you my name.'"
He took a step toward her.
"Your father saw everyone as his tools. And my mother was no longer a useful tool. So, what did he decide to do? Yes. He killed her. And threw her body in a distant place. To this day I have not found it."
"How can you say this?" Kormel's voice trembled. She took a step back, her hand rising to her throat.
"She is the one who did not care for my name. Or where I came from." Sam looked at her directly, his eyes unblinking. "She is the only one who saw me as I am. Your father killed my mother only because she was no longer useful. Who knows—he may have killed your mother too."
"Father would never do such a thing. He loved Mother." Her voice broke on the last word.
"Really? Your mother died after she lost her ability to bear children." Sam's head tilted. "I looked into it. Do you think your honorable father wouldn't do it?"
Kormel sat on the chair, staring ahead. Her hands lay in her lap, lifeless. "Impossible," she said. Then she looked at Sam. Her eyes were wet. "Did you kill him? Did you kill Father?"
Sam smiled and looked at the window. His expression was distant, unreadable. "I killed him, no. I did not. But a kingdom's crown has sharp edges. I realized that day when I crowned him with it."
He paused. The silence in the room was heavy. His hand rose and touched his own brow, then fell.
"Your father. That day your mind began to deny what was around it. But I was trying to bring you back to yourself." He looked at her. "You seem well now. I am happy for you, sister."
Kormel rose, her face pale. Her legs were unsteady, but she forced them to hold. "If this is true, you are no different from him."
"That wouldn't surprise me."
"Be ready when the time comes," she said. Then she left. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Rodric drove the cart at noon. He seemed tired. Sweat soaked his shirt, darkening the fabric at his back. The horse slowed, its head hanging low. The road was long and winding, surrounded by rocks and low trees.
From behind, Rob said, "Have we not reached our destination yet?"
"With this turtle cart, we will not arrive until a week from now, or perhaps more," Rodric said, not turning. His hands were loose on the reins.
"My backside hurts."
"At least you still have one. I have lost feeling in my backside." Rodric shifted on the seat, wincing.
"Can you stop? Nature calls."
Rodric stopped the cart. The horse halted with a grateful snort. "Hurry. I will not wait long for you." Then he ordered one of the guards to accompany Rob.
At that moment, Rodric dozed off. His head dropped. He woke. Dropped again. His chin touched his chest, then jerked up. Until the voice of one of the children in the back woke him.
"Rodric! Rodric!"
He woke and turned. The guard who had been in the cart was dead. An arrow was embedded in his chest. Blood ran over the wood, pooling in the grain.
"What happened?"
Then a teenage girl appeared behind the cart. She pointed her arrow at the children. Her face was serious. Her bow was drawn. Her arms were steady, but her eyes—her eyes were young.
"You really do not want to do that, kid."
The young sister surprised him from the side. She pointed her arrow at his head. "Move your head a little and you will lose it."
Rodric smiled, his golden teeth flashing. His hands rose slowly, palms open. "Why are you doing this? We are just travellers."
"Wonderful. We rob travellers," the girl said. Then she called: "Brown!"
A child came. He seemed only ten years old. He searched inside the cart, his small hands moving quickly, took out food, then searched Rodric's side.
"Gold. They have gold."
"No more maggots from now on," the girl said.
Brown laughed. "They also have meat." He climbed down, carrying the meat with him, and left.
The girl in the back smiled. "Come on."
But there was something behind her. A faint noise. The girl turned and released her arrow. It struck the other guard, who was returning with Rob. The guard fell.
When she turned back, she found Brown held by Rodric. He had placed a knife at the boy's neck. His golden teeth were still showing, but his eyes had changed.
The girl's hands trembled. But the bow was still drawn.
Rodric smiled. His golden teeth gleamed. "I will not let you go yet. There is still more gold for you."
The girl called for her sister. But her sister did not answer. Her voice rose, cracked.
She leaned down and saw her sister lying in blood. She looked at Rodric in terror.
"I am scared, sister." Brown was crying. He wet himself. His small body shook.
"Do not kill my brother. Kill me instead," the girl said. Her voice was thin, desperate.
Rodric looked at her, his smile gone. His face was flat, empty. "Who do you think I am, to kill you and let the child watch his sisters die?"
He slaughtered the child. His movement was swift, clean. Blood sprayed. The children in the cart were terrified. The youngest was crying.
Rodric quickly went to the girl. She was still shocked, her eyes wide, unmoving. He cut her throat.
Then Rodric looked at Rob, who stood frozen beside the dead guard. "Do you see what stopping costs us every time? Come on. Get in. We must continue the road."
He mounted the cart. One of the children was still crying.
"Stop crying, boy. They were going to kill you."
"They were only children like us," one of them said.
Rodric took up the reins and clicked his tongue. "What kind of children kill two men in cold blood?"
Rodric tightened his grip on the reins. His knuckles paled.
"Besides, I have a mission. A man with nothing to lose is dangerous. But a man with a mission is even more dangerous."
He continued on the road, whistling.
In Ironfield, Brandon—Gerald's son—had not left his chamber for days, since he learned that his father had died. The door was closed. Silence from within. No one entered. No one left.
William was preparing to go to Izzadar. He was grim, his eyes moving slowly. He arranged his belongings with trembling hands—folding, unfolding, folding again. He knew he would avenge everyone. Not because of power. Not because of anything but this: the harder the blow upon iron, the louder the ring. That was Ironfield's logic, which he had embraced. And that was what guided him now.
As he prepared to leave, a messenger came. The man could not raise his head. His shoulders were hunched, his hands clasped before him.
"There is something you must see, my lord."
William followed the messenger. They arrived before Ironfield's palace. There was a black coffin. Iron surrounded it. Engraved upon it was the emblem of the burning helmet.
William limped. He knelt, despite the pain. His bad leg dragged, but he forced it down. He opened the coffin.
He saw Gerald's body. It was still well preserved. But without a head.
There was only a head of woven cloth. It bore Gerald's features, distorted. The stitches were rough, as if its maker had been in a hurry. And there was a letter on Gerald's chest.
William took it. His fingers were unsteady. The handwriting was trained:
"His head was hard as iron. But it corroded as iron corrodes. Forgive us. And... please appreciate our efforts. We did our best."
William held the letter. He looked at the coffin, at the body of the man who had carried him from the rubble, who had taught him to be a man, who had entrusted him with his son.
He said nothing.
The wind passed. It touched the iron. It cooled William's face. The letter trembled in his hand.
There was something in his eyes. Not tears. Not anger. It was something else. Something unlike him.
Something like a promise.