In Salter, Marcus's arrival was not loud. It was quiet, as if it were not the arrival of a king at all, but a secret whispered between stone and shadow.
He entered through one of the small gates on the kingdom's outskirts, the iron groaning low as it opened. His guards surrounded him, their heavy cloaks still damp with sea mist. There was no reception. No crowds. No banners snapping in the wind.
In Salter, Marcus was not famous. He was not beloved among the common folk. He was merely a king performing his role, and the people let him pass without awe. They walked beside him, around him, their eyes sliding over him as if he were a shadow among shadows. And perhaps he preferred it that way.
But he was surrounded by guards, not out of fear, but because the road he walked was not the road to the palace. He was not going to sit a throne this day.
He went to the orphanage.
He entered, and the cold of the sea could not follow him through that door. The little ones were running about, their bare feet slapping the worn stone. They knew this man. Here, he was not a king. He was something else. He was "Uncle Marcus."
"I have brought you a gift from Thornholl," said Marcus, his voice low and warm as he patted their heads. His palm lingered on each small skull as if he were counting them, his fingers moving gently through their hair. "I think you will like it."
The children jumped and shouted, their thin voices tangling together. Their small hands reached up, tugging at his cloak, his sleeves. "Uncle Marcus is the best! Uncle Marcus is the best!"
Marcus smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes. His lips curved, but his gaze remained distant—fixed on something beyond the children, beyond the walls. Then he looked at the woman in charge of the children, his expression hardening by a fraction. His shoulders straightened, the warmth draining from his posture.
"Has she come here?"
"Not yet, my lord," the woman replied, her hands clasped tightly before her. She bowed her head slightly, her fingers twisting together.
"Alright." He nodded, already moving. His boots echoed on the stone floor. "When she comes, I will be in the room. Waiting for her."
"Of course, my lord."
Marcus headed to one of the rooms in the orphanage. He entered, closed the door behind him, and the latch fell into place with a sound like a promise.
Miles beyond the cities of Thornholl, Rodric Golden Teeth drove a cart through the darkening road. He whistled a light, broken tune, the notes scattering like dry leaves. The sound mingled with the creaking of the wheels and the low moan of the wind through the dead trees.
In the back of the cart, the six children rode, their small bodies huddled together for warmth. Their arms were wrapped around each other, their chins tucked against their chests. Beside them sat two knights. One was cleaning his sword, passing the cloth over the blade slowly, steadily, as if the weapon were a living thing that needed soothing. The other was asleep, his head jolting with every pothole in the road, mouth half-open, breath rattling.
Rodric looked back. Repeatedly. Over and over, his golden teeth catching the last light like small coins. His neck twisted, his eyes scanning the children, the guards, the road behind them.
He stopped the cart. The horse stamped once and fell still.
"I think we should camp here tonight," Rodric said, turning in his seat to face the guards. His hand rested on the back of the seat, fingers drumming once.
"Why? What happened?" one of them asked, his hand moving instinctively to his sword hilt. His body tensed, his eyes narrowing.
"Nothing." Rodric raised a hand, palm open, as if to calm a nervous animal. "I know it's always been dark, but we're out of Thornholl now. So if The road has become dark here. we must be cautious. and do not worry—I have stopped the cart in the right spot. Stay with the boys. I will light the fire first."
Rodric stepped out. His boots hit the ground with a soft thud. The others remained in the cart, their faces pale smudges in the gathering dark.
He gathered firewood, his arms wrapping around the dry branches, and prepared the hearth. He lit the fire swiftly, his hands moving with practiced ease. The flames caught the dry wood and rose, throwing long, dancing shadows against the trees. The light played upon their faces, turning them into masks.
When the guards came out, one of them looked at the fire and said, "Was this fire here already?"
Rodric stood with his hands on his hips, his smile wide. "No. I lit it. Here it is. Please, take a seat. Come on, boys."
One of the guards looked at him, then at the fire, then back at him. His brow furrowed slightly, then smoothed. "Great work."
Rodric froze in place. His smile faltered. His hands, which had been resting on his hips, dropped slowly to his sides. He did not know what to say. The words seemed to strike him like a stone between the eyes.
The guard frowned. "What is it?"
"Nothing...just." Rodric's smile returned, but it was softer now, almost sad. His voice dropped, quieter than before. " gratitude. I'm not the right person for it, but anyway... thank you. sit down."
"Since you have already taken care of everything," the guard said, turning toward the cart, "I will bring tonight's share of meat from the cart."
"Go ahead." Rodric lowered himself to a log near the fire, his body settling heavily. "I will sit with the children."
The other guard was with the boys, who were warming their small hands over the flames. They were shivering still. The cold had crept into their bones, and the fire could not chase it all away.
Rodric sat smiling as he watched the fire and the children battling the mosquitoes. Rob smacked his own face hard, the sound sharp in the quiet, and said, "There are too bloody many mosquitoes here. Must we truly stay in this place?"
Rodric laughed mockingly, the sound sharp and bright. "First time in the middle of nowhere... hah?"
Rodric looked at Rob and said, "We are out in the open. There is no place in the open that is free of mosquitoes. Get nearer the fire—mayhaps they'll leave you."
As Rodric spoke, he was scratching his own feet, his fingers digging at the skin. He eyed the guards. Rodric said to them, "Might I ask you a question?"
One of them said, "Go ahead. Ask."
Rodric said, "The Night Ravens—what part do they play in Thornholl? Are they of any account?"
The guard said with a sneer, his lip curling, "Of account? No, not bloody likely. They're a pack of wildlings who fancy themselves important. Why do you ask?"
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Rodric, rubbing his foot again, said, "Nothing really."
The guard said, looking at Rodric's foot, "What's wrong? Why do you scratch your feet so much? Is it the mosquitoes?"
Rodric lowered his breeches a little, revealing the skin, and said, "No, not that."
The guard said, "Then what is it?"
Rodric gave no answer. He turned back to the children.
One of Robert's children looked up, his face thin and drawn. His small hands were extended toward the fire. "I feel cold. This fire is not enough."
"Did you miss your old chimney, hah? Be grateful for what you have, boy." Rodric leaned forward, the firelight carving his features into something wolfish. His golden teeth glinted. "There are no more walls to protect you or maids to serve you. Things are different now. We make do with what we have."
He paused, letting the crackle of the fire fill the silence. Then he said, "But if the fire is not enough... let us try stories. I will recite a tale for you."
The guard came back, carrying skewers of meat. He distributed them, the meat still dripping. Each person took their skewer. They sat. They seemed interested in what Rodric had to say.
"Heat your meat well," Rodric said, turning his own skewer slowly over the flames. His wrist rotated with practiced ease. "Do not eat it raw. Or you will vomit in the cart."
Then he stood. Everyone was looking at him. The fire traced shadows across his face, and for a moment he looked like something out of an old tale.
"Alright. Tonight's story... it is not an ordinary story. Because it has not happened yet."
He paused. His head tilted, his eyes moving from face to face.
"So it is like a prophecy. Do you know what a prophecy is? Never mind. I will tell you."
He sat down again, took his skewer, and began to roast it over the fire, the fat hissing as it fell.
"The prophecy," Rodric said, "is a promise. Made by something older than men. Older than their gods. And it was not given to us—not yet."
He turned the skewer slowly over the fire. The meat hissed. The children did not eat. They watched him.
"The ones who are superior to us. The ones who built The Great Pale to keep us out."
"Normens," Samuel whispered. "But they are not the ones who built The Great Pale."
Rodric nodded slowly. His eyes stayed on the fire. "Really? They built it, boy. They know what comes. They have always known. That is why they always guard the lake. That is why they fear us. Not because we are many. Not because we are strong." He pulled the skewer from the fire and looked at the meat. "Because one of us will walk into their Lake."
"And what happens then?" asked the smallest boy. His voice was thin, trembling.
"Then the world breaks." Rodric bit into the meat. Chewed. His jaw worked slowly. "Not the world of men. The world itself. The way things are. The way things must be. A man goes into the water as a man." He swallowed. "And he comes out as nothing."
Silence. The fire spat. Somewhere in the dark, a branch cracked.
"They fear nothing?" Samuel frowned, his brow furrowing. "How can you fear nothing?"
Rodric laughed. A short, dry sound. "You can fear nothing, boy. When nothing is all that is left."
He looked at Samuel then. The firelight carved his face into something older than his years. His golden teeth were still, his smile gone.
"But they do not fear nothing. They fear him. The one who becomes nothing. The one who breaks the logic of the world. They called it—the Illogical." He paused, his voice dropping. "That is what they call him. In their tongue. In their books. The Illogical."
"Is he good?" Samuel asked. "Or evil?"
Rodric stared at the fire. His fingers tightened on the skewer. "I do not know. I do not think he knows either." He turned the skewer in his hand. "But men with great power are always mad. Or they become mad. It makes no difference."
"Could it be you?" Samuel said.
The fire cracked.
Rodric did not look at him. He looked at the flames. He looked at them for a long time. His jaw worked once, then stilled.
"No," he said while he scratches his foot again. "I am a logical man. And this nothingness—they said its name begins with the letter 'A.' Which means it's not me. Unless I change my name."
"What is his name? His full name?"
"I do not know."
"Will he be good or evil?"
Rodric finally looked at him. His golden teeth caught the light. There was no smile in them now.
"You think I made the prophecy, boy? I did not. I only know what it says." He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "And it says this: if it happens that one of you is the Illogical... choose carefully. Because I have seen good men die in the morning. And evil men live to see the sun set. Evil always wins."
Samuel opened his mouth. "How do you know all this?"
"Eat," Rodric said. He gestured with the skewer. "We have a long road."
The children ate.
The fire burned.
And somewhere in the dark, the prophecy waited.
Back in the orphanage room, Marcus was leaning on Wave's thigh—one of the three Sea Sisters. He lay quietly, his eyes closed, his breath slow. Wave stroked his head, her fingers moving slowly, steadily, as if she were smoothing the edges of a wound.
"It was hard for you to play the simple man, wasn't it?" she said, her voice soft as water over stone.
Marcus's eyes remained closed. "The hard part is not playing the simple man." He opened his eyes, and they were grey and cold as the winter sea. "It is when you see simple men playing your part."
Wave's fingers paused on his brow. "So you will not join their game?"
"I must take a side." He lifted a hand and caught her fingers, stilling them. His grip was firm, but not rough. "I must exploit these tense times. It is the season for reaping free fruits."
Wave looked down at him, her expression unreadable. Her head tilted slightly. "Then why did you come here? To think? You could think on your ship, with the sea and your maps."
Marcus turned his head slightly, pressing his cheek against her knee. His eyes closed again. "Because I wanted to see you."
" see me...to talk about what?." She pulled her hand free and framed his face, her palms pressing against his cheeks, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Your little games with the kings."
He was silent for a moment, something softening behind the grey. His hand rose and covered hers. " No, I'm here to see you.."
"What do you see Then.?"
"The only thing that makes me forget everything."
Wave's lips parted, but she did not smile. Her eyes searched his face. "You say that, but your eyes are already there."
"Then bring them back." His voice was quieter now—less king, more man.
She leaned down, her wet hair falling around them like a curtain, and kissed him. It was slow, unhurried, as if time itself had paused to let them breathe. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his.
"Do you know what I risk to come here?" she whispered.
"I know." He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
"Then stop talking about the world." Her voice broke just slightly. "We have only this hour. And I will not share it with a king. I came here to be with a man."
Marcus looked at her for a long moment, the mask of the ruler slipping away. "Okay, you're right. Let the fucking world burn for an hour."
She kissed him again, deeper this time, and he pulled her down beside him. They lay together in the narrow bed, tangled and quiet, the sounds of the orphanage faint beyond the walls.
When she finally spoke again, her head resting on his chest, her voice was small. "What did you bring me from Thornholl?"
Marcus shifted, reaching for a box on the floor. His fingers closed around it. "Here. Take it."
"What does the box contain?"
"There is only one way to know."
Wave opened the box. Inside was a black thorn. Small. Shiny. It caught the light and held it.
"It is from Thornholl," said Marcus, his hand moving to her hair, his fingers threading through the strands. "You can put it in your hair. And if you ever feel that someone is bothering you... put it in his neck."
"Does that include you?" She looked up at him, the thorn glinting between her fingers.
Marcus smiled, but there was no cruelty in it. "Do not waste it on someone like me. Because that will not keep me away from you."
"Why?"
"I do not know." He looked at her, truly looked. His eyes were no longer cold. "It is just a strange feeling. That I cannot do that."
"Do you love me?"
Marcus was silent for a long moment, his fingers threading through her hair. Then he said, "Apparently... yes. What about you?"
"Certainly." She closed her hand around the thorn and kissed him again.
Layla was in her chamber. She sat on the chair, her body still, her eyes fixed on the bed. In her hand was a toy. An old toy, worn at the edges. A toy that had belonged to Gerald. Her fingers moved over it slowly, tracing its shape.
Meriel entered. He moved slowly, as if the air itself resisted him. His steps were heavy on the stone. He approached and knelt before her, lowering his head until his brow touched hers.
She was crying, the tears silent and hot.
"There is no time for tears, sister," he said, his voice low and rough.
"Forgive me for what I said." Layla's voice was small, but it did not waver. Her hand tightened on the toy. "You are not responsible for his death. He was foolish."
Meriel laughed, a light, broken sound. His shoulders shook once. "No, he wasn't. He's just too kind for this world. Watch your words. Perhaps he can hear you."
"Did you not say he was dead?"
"I no longer truly know anything now." Meriel pulled back slightly, meeting her eyes. His gaze was steady, but there was something wild behind it. "Would you believe me if I told you that I spoke to one of my sons through another person?"
"I'd say you've gone mad or something like that."
"The good thing about a madman is that he believes what he sees. And so do I. I will cling to what I have seen until I find them. Until then, I will not die."
He looked toward the window, at the dim grey light pressing against the glass. His jaw tightened.
"So I will make sure to stay alive. And I will make sure to kill everyone who shattered us. One by one."
Layla drew closer, her fingers closing around the toy. Her head lifted, and her eyes met his. "I am with you on this, brother. Whoever caused all this for us will pay a double price."