Under the Eyes of God, from which the moonlight reflected in pale silver threads, Rodric stood. The forest around him was a living darkness, thick with old trees whose branches twisted together like the fingers of buried giants. Mist coiled low over the ground, sliding between roots and stones. Every few steps, the wind moved through the leaves, and the whole forest seemed to breathe.
He carried Valbmor. The child was unconscious, his head hanging limp, his arms dangling like dead weight. His breathing was shallow, each breath a faint rasp that barely stirred the cold air. The blood on the bandage had dried and turned brown, crusted at the edges where the arrow had torn through. Rodric could feel the boy's warmth fading, seeping out into the night.
Within his line of sight, beyond the dense trees, Rodric saw the high Wall. It loomed behind the forest. Massive stones. Grey. Stretching upward until they disappeared into the mist. The moonlight caught its surface in places, making it gleam like the hide of some ancient beast. It was close now. So close. But in the dark, with a dying child in his arms, it still felt impossibly far.
Rodric looked at the children. His golden teeth caught the light for only a moment. His jaw was tight, his eyes moving from face to face. "Do not worry. We have reached our destination. Now we must hurry to find someone who can help your brother."
His voice was steady, but his arms ached, and his legs had begun to tremble from the weight and the miles. The children said nothing. They only nodded, their small faces pale and streaked with dirt.
Rodric walked with the children. Their steps were heavy. Branches cracked beneath their feet. The leaves were damp and soft, rotting from the recent rains. The air was cold enough to turn their breath to fog. They moved in a tight cluster, the older boys pressing close to the younger ones, their eyes darting to every shadow.
Until he heard a voice from the forest. A quiet voice, almost swallowed by the wind.
"Stop."
Rodric stopped. His body went rigid. The children stopped. They were afraid, pressing close to Rodric's side, one of them clutching the hem of his coat. The forest seemed to close around them, the darkness thickening.
Rodric looked to his left. He glimpsed a figure emerging from the shadows. A long cloak covered him, dark and heavy, moving like water as he stepped over the roots. In his hand he carried a spear that caught the moonlight along its shaft. Small bells hung from its butt, though they made no sound as he moved. He approached slowly, his steps deliberate, the robe trailing behind him on the ground. He did not hurry. He did not need to.
When the figure reached their line of sight, he looked at each child thoughtfully, examining their faces one by one. His eyes lingered on their dirty cheeks, their trembling hands, their bare feet caked with mud. Then he looked at the child in Rodric's arms.
"Your kind either breeds too much or trades too much. I cannot tell which is worse." Broby's voice was calm, but it carried the cold edge of a man who had already judged the answer. He tilted his head slightly, the spear shifting in his grip.
For the first time, Rodric was terrified, as if he had seen a ghost. His hands tightened on the child. He could feel his own heartbeat in his throat. He knew this man. Or rather, he knew what men like this were capable of. The kind of man who spoke softly and killed without blinking.
"No, I am not that kind of man," said Rodric. His voice was tense. His free hand rose slightly, palm open, as if to ward off a blow. "I do not trade in children."
Broby watched him for a long moment. The silence stretched like a blade being drawn. His fingers tightened around the spear, then loosened. "I am not here to judge you. Do as you wish. The world is too filthy for one man to clean." He paused, his eyes moving to Samuel, the eldest. His gaze sharpened. "I am looking for a boy. The age of your eldest. Male. He has a black mark beneath his neck."
"No. I have not seen a child with those descriptions. Forgive me," Rodric said quickly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His hand pressed the child closer to his chest.
Samuel, the eldest boy, stepped forward slightly. His small fists clenched at his sides. His chin lifted. "There is. I know a boy who has something strange and black on his neck."
Broby turned his full attention to the boy. His expression was unreadable. His voice softened just enough to sound patient. "Are you telling the truth, boy?"
"Yes. I met him once." Samuel's voice was steady, though his hands trembled. "He is the son of Meriel, King of Izzadar. His name is Ned. He doesn't talk much. I've called him by many names that he doesn't like, but his real name is Ned. And I know his brother too—his name is Edd. Is that what you are looking for?"
Broby was silent for a moment. His fingers tightened and loosened around the spear. Then he nodded slowly. "Perhaps. Yes. In any case, thank you, boy. I hope you reach your destination safely. And grow well."
He looked at Rodric. His dark eyes were unreadable—two pits in the shadow of his hood. "Alright. I will be on my way. You may continue. But you must hurry. That child..." He glanced at Valbmor. "...he is too young to bear such a wound."
"Are you—" Rodric began, the words sharp with frustration.
Samuel interrupted him. His hand tugged at Rodric's sleeve. "Come, we must hurry."
Rodric looked at Samuel. His jaw tightened. "Alright."
Then he looked back at the man. But Broby had already vanished into the trees, as if the forest itself had swallowed him whole. The bells on his spear never made a sound.
In Izzadar, Meriel and his men stood before a house in the middle of the night. A house in the High Wall City. The streets were empty, their stones slick with dew. Doors closed. Windows dark. Only faint light came from a few homes, spilling through cracks in the shutters like the last breath of dying candles. The horses snorted softly, their hooves shifting on the cobbles.
The men knocked on the door. The sound was loud in the stillness, echoing down the narrow street. From inside, a woman shouted, "I am coming!"
The door swung open. The woman stood there, framed by the dim light of a single oil lamp behind her. She was in her forties. Her looks were tired, the lines deep around her mouth and eyes. She was annoyed by the men's knocking. She looked at them with anger, one hand braced against the doorframe as if ready to slam it shut.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"This is no hour for visitors."
"We are not guests, woman," said Meriel. His voice was calm, but there was a weight to it—the weight of a man who was not used to being refused.
"Then what? Thieves? Murderers?" She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing.
"Watch your mouth. You are speaking to the king himself," said one of the knights. He stepped forward, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His voice was sharp.
"King?" The woman let out a bitter laugh. Her hand tightened on the doorframe. "The last time a king knocked on my door in this particular time, he took my husband and he never returned. So yes. Thieves."
Meriel held up a hand to silence the knight. "I am sorry for your husband," he said. His voice was quieter now. "But this is the home we live in. If we do not protect it, what is the point of staying inside it? What is better? That war knocks on your doors? Or breaks it? We sacrifice men so that the rest may live, and every sacrifice comes by choice. Because we want to protect our loved ones."
The woman's expression did not soften. Her eyes were hard. "I lost my husband. He was a special man. But now he is dead. With all my love for him, I blame him for his death." She paused, her voice cracking. "Do you think men are the ones who suffer from wars? We are the ones who suffer. The mothers. The weak. We lose everything. We live while our loved ones die. I would rather die in battle than watch someone I love die in it." Her hand left the doorframe and pressed against her chest. "You call it sacrifice? I call it male vanity."
Behind her, the boy Frank was approaching. He carried his sword. The blade was old, nicked along the edge, but it was clean. He moved with the awkward confidence of youth, his steps too eager. His eyes were wide, fixed on the king.
"Who is there, Mother?" he asked, peering around her.
"Nothing, son." She did not take her eyes off Meriel. Her hand rose, as if to shield him. "It is just some beggars."
Frank looked over. He saw the knights beside the king—their armour, their swords. He approached and stood behind his mother. His grip tightened on his own weapon. His knuckles paled.
"You are the king," he said. His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Yes," said Meriel. His eyes moved over the boy—over the sword, over the too-eager stance.
"Are you looking for my father?"
"No, son. It seems we got the wrong door. Forgive us."
Meriel and his knights left, returning to the palace. The horses moved slowly, their hooves echoing on the stones. The streets were still empty. The houses leaned together as if sharing secrets.
Meriel said to his knights, his voice low, "I do not know why we are looking for a commander when I will be present in the war myself."
"The more commanders there are, my king, the stronger the army," said one of the knights. He glanced back at the house.
"Yes. But only when the commander is a true one. Not some old men or a boy still discovering his body." Meriel's voice was almost to himself.
"I know that boy, my king. He is not an ordinary boy. He is a version of his father."
And as they were riding back, the sound of running footsteps rose behind them. Frank came running, panting. His breath was ragged. Sweat glistened on his brow. He stood before them, chest heaving, his sword clutched in both hands as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.
"My king. Whatever brought you here—I am in. I am yours."
Meriel turned. His eyes narrowed. "Forgive me, boy. It was a mistake. Go back to your mother. Care for her. She has suffered enough."
"I cannot, my lord. I was born to fight. And I have been waiting my whole life for it. I inherited three things from my father. His bravery. His sword. And his great cock—forgive me, I mean... his great voice."
A silence fell. Meriel was surprised. His brow rose. The knight who knew Frank approached Meriel and spoke in a low voice. "He has a strange condition. He keeps saying strange things. But it is no hindrance."
"What is your name, boy?" said Meriel.
"Frank Shame. I know—I want to remove this name that I also inherited from my father. Alongside his bravery."
Meriel studied him for a long moment. His eyes moved over the boy's face, over the sword, over the desperate hope in his eyes. "I will give you a chance, boy. Gather ten criminal men. Rapists. Murderers. Convince them to steal the kingdom's gold. If you can do that, I will acknowledge you as a commander worthy of the title."
Frank's eyes went wide. His grip tightened on his sword. "Your command, Your Grace. I will do it at once. I will gather the bad men. And we will come to take your head and take over the rule—" He stopped. His face flushed. "Forgive me, I mean... we will come to steal the gold as they will think."
"Did you mean that?" said Meriel. His voice was flat.
"What?"
"Taking my head. Taking over the rule."
"No, Your Grace. A slip of the tongue." Frank lowered his head. His face was red.
"If you succeed somehow and become a commander beside me, choose your words carefully, boy." Meriel's voice was cold. "Men are not judged by intentions, but by what they hear."
Meriel and his men left. Frank stood in the street, his breath still ragged, watching them go. He was amazed, admiring the king's presence, and excited as well. His hand kept tightening and relaxing around the hilt of his father's sword.
Merleith
Beside the Summit Tree, Simon trained alone with his long spear. The spear moved with his body, a fluid, circular motion. The blade caught the light, flashing as it cut through the air. The spear did not resist. It obeyed certain commands—ancient and precise. Simon trained with his eyes closed. His body knew the movement. His muscles remembered.
The grass bent away from his feet with each step. The wind moved through the high branches above him. The sound of his breathing was slow, controlled—like a man listening to something far away.
But soon he opened his left eye. He saw Zohra approaching. She moved through the grass without sound, her silver hair catching the light. He closed his eye again and continued his training, the spear never faltering.
When Zohra came, she stood for minutes watching him. The spear cut through the air. Without a word. She just stood there, her hands folded before her, her expression unreadable.
Until Simon stopped. The spear came to rest at his side.
"What are you doing here, mother?" he asked. His voice was flat.
"Is that how you speak to me now?" said Zohra. Her head tilted slightly.
"Why? Is there something wrong with my way of speaking?"
"You used to call me little Zohra."
"Yes, I did. But Zohra is no longer little. She has made a decision. And our fates come from our decisions. And as people with great responsibilities, we accept our fates. Is that not so?" He turned the spear slightly, the tip catching a glint of light.
"I have accepted the consequences. I live with them every day. Do you think that is not bearing responsibility?" Her voice was quiet, but it carried an edge.
"I did not say that. I only called you by your name. The name represents what its bearer represents. Do you claim that is not your name? Then what is your true name?" Simon tilted his head, his eyes fixed on her. "In any case, why are you here, mother?"
"You suggested to the Nine that the child be exiled to the human world." She turned back to him, her gaze steady.
"Yes. Why? Do you think that is not fair?"
"No. But that is not a solution at all. Someone with that much power is better off growing up among us, than growing up among humans and leading their ambitions." She stepped closer, the grass rustling beneath her feet.
"Is that what you worry about? Humans?" Simon let out a short breath—not quite a laugh. "Do not trouble yourself. They will never unite. Even with him. That is how humans are. They do not want the Lake, or the power that comes from it. They are just curious people who desire things they know nothing about. Someone with that much power will unsettle their curiosity. And it may be the cause of their destruction." He let the spear rest against his shoulder.
"I do not think so," said Zohra. Her voice was firm.
Simon looked at her. "Why do you think we built the Wall? So that no human would enter our kingdom, and pick the fruit. And our lives with it. Is that not so? If the enemy is at least outside, we can defend our lives. And if we are defeated, at least we fought. Not when the enemy is within. That is more dangerous. You saw it with your own eyes, didn't you?"
He paused. The spear was in his hand. The grass moved around his feet. The wind lifted a few silver strands of her hair.
"Besides, he will not be exiled alone. His mother will accompany him as well. And ensure that he never takes the side of humans. That is your responsibility. That is your fate. Deal with it as the Normens have done for centuries."
Simon turned away and began his training again. The spear moved once more in its silent, deadly rhythm. Zohra stood there for a moment longer, watching him. Her hands were still folded before her. Then she turned and walked back the way she had come.