Sereine
Late at night in the Kingdom of Izzadar, within the high walls of the palace, Sereine stood in the kitchen alongside the other maidservants.
The kitchen was vast, its ceilings low. The stone walls were coated with a thin layer of grease and smoke that had accumulated over years. Copper pots hung above the hearth—some gleaming, others blackened from use. The smell of old stew and burnt bread clung to the air, mingling with the scent of cold ash. The fire in the hearth was faint, leaning toward embers. Its orange light flickered across the walls.
The maidservants sat around the long wooden table, chatting together. They spoke of love, of things of that sort. Their voices were low, overlapping, laughing from time to time. One rested her elbow on the table and waved her fingers in the air as she told her tale. Another hid her face between her hands and giggled. A third stared at the ceiling, dreaming.
For them, it was just ordinary gossip. Words that passed. For Sereine, it was useless chatter.
Sereine finished her dinner. Her plate was nearly empty. She washed her dish. The water in the basin was cold. She ran her hands under it, dried them on a coarse cloth. And as she was leaving, one of the maidservants turned toward her.
"Where are you going?" the maidservant asked, her tone sharp. She leaned back in her chair, one arm draped over the backrest, her chin lifting.
Sereine did not reply. She continued walking toward the corridor.
"I did not know you were deaf as well," the maidservant said. Her voice rose slightly, and she tilted her head, eyes narrowing.
Sereine stopped. She turned and looked at her. Her face was blank, but her fingers curled around the edge of her dress.
"Look at these dishes," said the maidservant, gesturing with her chin toward the pile. Her hand waved dismissively. "You will wash all of them. Not just your own dish. That is how things work here." She paused, her lip curling. "If you do not like it, say something."
Sereine did not speak. She stood, glancing at her, silent. Her chest rose and fell slowly.
"Nothing. Good. Now wash the dishes." The maidservant turned back to her companions, a small, satisfied smile on her lips.
One of the maids—an elderly woman—set her cup down. The sound was soft but deliberate. She said in a somewhat calm tone, "Leave her alone." She looked at the younger maidservant, her eyes steady. "You can wash your dish yourself. Just because she doesn't talk doesn't mean you can treat her however you like."
Sereine did not care. She rolled up her sleeves—slowly, methodically—and sat by the basin. She began to wash the dishes. She was alone in the kitchen. Sweat clung to her forehead. Water stained her dress. The sound of dishes clashing against one another echoed in the emptiness.
She continued—plate after plate, the pots, the spoons, the knives—until she stacked the clean dishes aside. Her hands reddened from the cold water. Her shoulders ached. Her back was stiff.
Her features were sullen. And as she walked back to her chamber, she looked at the walls around her and sighed. The breath left her body slowly, as though it weighed more than it should. Her steps slowed. She walked in emptiness. She asked herself questions. What am I doing here? What have I done so far? And what will I do in the future?
She thought as she wiped her wet hand on her clothes.
When she reached her chamber, she entered and closed the door. She walked quietly and sat on the bed. She picked up the pillow, placed her head upon it, and screamed as loud as she could—over and over. The sound was muffled in the fabric. Her body shook with each cry. Outside, the raven fluttered again.
Afterwards, she changed her clothes and lay down. Her body was heavy on the mattress.
Until someone knocked on the door.
Sereine froze. Her hand stopped mid-motion. Who would knock on her door in the middle of this night? Had someone heard her?
She opened the door hesitantly. Her fingers trembled on the handle.
There stood the old woman—the one who had brought her here on the first day.
The old woman said nothing. She only looked at her. She raised her hand in greeting. Then she extended it. Her fingers were thin, veined, unsteady.
There was a paper—folded, small.
Sereine was confused. She took the paper and closed the door quickly. Her hands trembled. She approached the source of light and opened the letter cautiously.
It was a short letter:
"Where love fails, steel will serve. From the Dead Sea, the living will enter through the western gate. In time of war, your first act will be to welcome them, the old woman will tell you when the time comes."
Sereine turned the letter over. There was nothing else. No name. No seal.
She stood for a moment, her eyes moving over the words. Then she swallowed the letter quickly, chewing the paper with difficulty until it disappeared.
Meriel
They say war reveals a person's true nature. Meriel knew that. That was why he chose to walk this path. He was tired of playing by their rules. Now he would play by his own.
In the war council, Meriel and Layla stood together. Beside them stood three men of Izzadar. They had fought enough wars to make them stand face to face with their king.
The hall was cold. The stone walls were bare save for old banners. On the table, a vast map was spread out, its edges curled, the lines drawn in ink. Candles were scattered at the edges, their light dancing on faces, on scars, on eyes.
Commander Gandry was there. An old man, seasoned in strategy. He had also been a seasoned fighter. But war had stripped him of his sword, and stripped him of his manhood. He had become a eunuch. Yet his decisions still carried enough manhood. He stood, his shoulders stooped, but his eyes steady.
Beside him stood Commander Brenzo. A short man, old as well, but he could still fight as he did in his youth. Yet his voice had grown weaker. He had not preserved his youth. He gripped the table's edge with his hand, his fingers twisted. He breathed with slight difficulty.
Their third was Commander Moron. He had a strong and commanding presence. He had been a fierce fighter in the War of the Brave. But he could no longer set foot on battlefields due to his many traumas. He stood upright despite everything. His chest was broad, but his hands trembled from time to time.
They were men close to Meriel. They had fought beside him, for him. They had been strong and fierce. But now they stood beside him as incomplete men.
Meriel looked right at Gandry, Brenzo, then left at Moron. His eyes moved slowly over each face, reading the lines, the scars, the years.
He saw doubtful men. Men who had not been touched by doubt before when they followed him.
Meriel placed his hand on the table. The map shifted slightly beneath his palm. He said quietly, "Do you know why you are here? You have fought for this kingdom for decades. Now the kingdom asks for another stand from men who have already stood many times."
Silence dominated the room.
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Gandry looked at Meriel, then returned his gaze forward. His jaw tightened. He said, his voice flat, "We cannot stand again. The kingdom broke us. Just as it broke everyone."
"What exactly are you saying?" Meriel asked. His hand pressed harder on the table.
"Look at me." Gandry lifted his head. His eyes were dry, tired. "What do you see? Yes, I am old. But even an old man can fight. But when he looks at what he is fighting for, it must be something worth it."
He paused, his fingers curling against his thigh. "For me, and for all Izzadarians, there is nothing left to make us fight again."
"Do you mean the situation of the kingdom? Or the cities?" Meriel's voice was quiet but edged. "Yes, they are stagnant. But I have recently restored relations with two kingdoms—Salter and Valkryn. That would restore things to their normal course. No more hunger. No more shortage of resources. This kingdom will live again. And I, as its king, will stand. And I will bring back everyone who still has a sense of duty toward this place that was the home of their fathers, grandfathers, and great-grandfathers."
He straightened. "They will follow me to the battlefield, If I call, they will come."
Moron said, his voice low and steady, "When we were strong before, we fought beside you. We sacrificed everything we had. One sacrificed his manhood—" he gestured toward Gandry, "—another his voice."
He touched his own throat. "But after that, we did not hear a word from you. Like we are merely tools used by the Kingdom when needed. But since we aged—since we became weak—you never visited us once. You never checked on us." His hands trembled at his sides. "Until now. Until a time of war."
Meriel looked at Moron with anger. His eyes blazed. He stood upright, his shoulders squaring. "Before, when we fought side by side, what was our motto? Do you even remember? It was: Duty binds us. death breaks us. War is our duty. peace is our death. That is what those words meant."
His voice rose. "I too lost things. Do you think the king is protected from your sufferings? No. He faces harsher suffering. I lost my wife. My sons. My brother. I lost my people's trust." His hand struck his chest. "We all stand here incomplete. And no one is protected from life's blows."
Commander Brenzo said in his hoarse voice, his hand rising weakly from the table, "Do not mind them, Meriel. Age has affected their hearts. Made them soft." He coughed—a dry, rattling sound. "I think that in times of peace, the warrior truly dies." He looked at Meriel, his eyes watering. "Please, Meriel, speak of the matter. We will all be at your command as before."
"Good." Meriel nodded. "I want to tell you that this war is more necessary than the battles we fought against the Normens. Those were battles of greed. This is a battle of survival against the Kingdom of Darkness. We will fight there. To be or not to be."
He paused, his jaw setting. "Our ally is one—Ironfield, as usual. As for Thornholl, I am not certain of its allies. But I do not think they are foolish enough to take the dark side. Besides, I made sure to ease matters between us and restored relations. I will not say balanced, but the rivers flow in the right course." He looked at each of them. "I have summoned you here because of your rich history in wars and your courage. I want commanders beside me—not followers."
The old men said, their voices overlapping, "We are already with you."
Layla looked at Meriel. She interjected nervously—her hand touching his sleeve, her body leaning close. She whispered precisely in his ear.
"What do you mean?" Meriel asked, turning his head slightly.
Layla cleared her throat. She straightened, her hands clasping before her. She said in a slightly louder voice, "With all due respect to what they have offered back in the time—" she paused, her eyes moving over the three old men, "—I do not think they can play a leadership role again. They are far too old. And unstable."
Brenzo said mockingly in his hoarse voice, his lip curling, "You are the king's sister. You have aged well."
Layla looked at Meriel. Her chin lifted. "I'm sorry, but do you think this is the voice of a leader? This is a voice soldiers would laugh at."
She continued, stepping forward, her robes brushing the stone floor, "This kingdom has enjoyed a long period of peace. I think we must refresh ourselves and leave the past behind. Do you think men of this time would follow someone who they might doubt is even a man?" She gestured toward Gandry. "As for the other—" she turned to Moron, "—he trembles every time the word war, dead, or sword is mentioned."
The two old commanders were humiliated and angry. Gandry's face reddened. His hands, resting on the table, curled into fists. He looked at her, his voice tight.
"What do you suggest, then? Do you see any complete man to lead this war?"
Layla looked at Meriel. Her voice was calm, measured. "What about that man they used to call the Blood Commander? The one you used to hate?"
"That one?" Meriel's face twisted. "He is a shame." He paused. His hand rose and rubbed his jaw. "But I think he will serve the purpose. I will bury my pride and go to him myself." He turned to the old commanders. "She is right. You cannot lead the war again. But you can participate in it. What do you think?"
Gandry kept his eyes on the table, but his fingers curled slowly into loose fists, the unease settling into his shoulders like a weight. Across from him, Brenzo shifted in his seat, his breath uneven, his gaze drifting toward the door as if he wished to leave before more words fell. But Moron sat still—his hands still trembling slightly in his lap—yet his face carried a strange calm. Where the others looked wounded, he looked unburdened, as though the harsh truths spoken in that cold hall had, for the first time in years, given him permission not to pretend.
Moron said, his voice flat, his eyes meeting Meriel's, "He died a long time ago."
Meriel looked at Layla, then at Moron. His brow furrowed. "He left a son. They say the boy is brave. Strong. Loud as his father ever was." He paused, his fingers tapping once on the table. "His name, Frank... frank shame. That is him."
Meriel looked at Layla. His head tilted. "What do you think?"
"Good. How old is he?" Layla asked, her arms crossing.
Moron said, his voice quiet, "I think he is only sixteen years old."
"Let us see him first before we pass judgement," said Layla to Meriel. She touched his arm again, a light pressure.
Meriel looked at everyone. His hand struck the table—the sound sharp, final. He walked out. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor.
As he left, Gandry turned to Layla. His body moved slowly—the movement of a man who had long ago learned that haste was for the young. He did not step toward her. He only turned his head, his neck creaking with the motion. His eyes, sunken and dry, found hers and held them.
He said slowly, his voice low and rough—the voice of a man who had once commanded armies, now reduced to advice: "This isn't your place, and it never will be. It's just old man's advice."
Layla stopped. Her hand, which had been resting at her side, curled slowly—then released. Her chin lifted a fraction, the small motion of a woman swallowing something bitter. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, and let her eyes rest on Gandry's face. She did not blink. A faint smile touched her lips—not warm, not kind. She said nothing. She turned, her robes sweeping the stone, and walked as though the hall belonged to her. But as she passed through the doorway, her fingers rose and touched the frame—just once—before she was gone.
Rodric
Far from the cities of Izzadar, the cart sped along. Rodric's cart, with the children. Rodric shouted, "Ha! Ha!" and the horse ran as fast as it could. His voice was hoarse from shouting, but he kept on.
The cart was wooden, old, its wheels shaking with every stone. The six children sat in the back, gripping the edges. Their clothes were stained with dust. The air was cold on their faces. The road rose and fell. Rocks on either side. Scattered trees. The sky was overcast.
One of the boys said, his voice trembling with each bump, "What is happening? Why are you hurrying?"
Rodric his hand tight on the reins, "I must hurry. I am sick of your company. The sooner I am rid of you, the better."
Robert's children were worried. Rodric looked at their faces and laughed. The sound was loud, careless.
" It's a joke."
The cart sped on, bumping along the ground, shaking. The youngest child, Valbmor, was crying. His face was red. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Valbmor said, his voice cracking, " I will tell my father about you."
"I am not so sure about that, my friend." Rodric's lips curled.
As he sped along, the cart slowly came to a sudden stop. A wheel would no longer turn. Rodric stopped the cart and got down to inspect it. His boots hit the dirt with a soft thud.
"Why did you stop?" one of the children asked, leaning over the side.
"It's the wheel." Rodric waved a hand. "I will see to it."
Rodric bent down, inspecting the wheel. His fingers traced the rim. Until he heard a sound behind him. He rose slowly. His hand moved instinctively toward his side.
They were men. One of them aimed an arrow at his heart.
Rodric said slowly, his hands rising, palms open, "Easy, boy. You can take everything. But not my life."
One of Robert's children said, "What?" and climbed out to see.
They were six men, laughing. Their teeth were yellow. Their clothes were torn.
One of them said, stepping forward, " step away. It is our cart now."
"Right away." Rodric stepped back, his hands still raised. "Boys, get out now."
The six men approached slowly. One of them went to the wheel.
"What is wrong with it?" He kicked it.
"I was just trying to figure that out. But you came and what happened happened." Rodric's voice was calm. "I do not think there is anything to worry about. I can fix it."
"Move away. You and your children." The man spat. "You should be grateful we did not kill you or any of your slaves. I will fix it myself."
The man fixed it. The men mounted the cart. While the children and Rodric stood outside.
The cart drove off. Behind them, the men laughed. One of them still aimed an arrow. He shot it toward them.
Rodric and the boys took cover. Rodric's hand pushed Valbmor down, his body shielding the boy. Until the cart was gone.
Samuel looked at Rodric. His eyes were hard. "I thought you were strong. But you only show your strength in front of children."
"As I said—" Rodric's jaw tightened, "—I have a mission."
One of the children screamed. He was crying. It was Valbmor. The arrow had pierced his foot. Blood soaked through his shoe.
"No, no, no." Rodric's voice was hoarse. He hurried toward the boy.
"Do something! He is in pain!" said Samuel. His hands were shaking.
Valbmor lost consciousness from the severity of the pain. His small body went limp.
Rodric approached and sat down. His hands hovered over the boy's foot, trembling. "What do I do? What do I do?"
Rodric decided to pull out the arrow. His hand gripped the shaft. He pulled—slowly, steadily. Valbmor's body jerked. Rodric bandaged the wound with a strip of cloth torn from his own shirt. But it was a temporary solution.
Rodric carried the child for the rest of the journey. His arms ached. His back burned. The other children walked beside him. Their small feet scraped against the dirt. Rodric hoped to reach The Great Pale as soon as possible.
After hours of Valbmor's pain, his sweat, and the children's worry, Rodric finally arrived at the place.
The Great Pale.