William
In the high palace of Izzadar, William wandered alone. He walked with his cane, but the cane barely made a sound. He placed it on the stone gently, as if he did not wish to disturb the place. His steps were slow, measured. His injured foot dragged behind him, but it did not weigh down his gait. He walked as if exploring the palace for the first time. His eyes moved: to the walls, to the chandeliers, to the high windows, to the servants who passed and bowed. But in truth, he was not exploring. He knew where he was going. He knew the way. He knew the place he wanted to reach.
He entered the kitchen. The heat was different there. Steam rose from the pots. The smell of bread, boiled vegetables, and roasted meat. The maidservants worked. Their hands moved. Knives rose and fell. Sounds of chopping. Sounds of utensils.
Sereine was cutting onions. Her head was lowered. Her hands were swift. Her face was slightly flushed from the steam. She did not look up. The other maidservants whispered among themselves, as usual. One nudged the other with her elbow and said in a low voice, "Look. He is one of the important lords. Guess why he is here." The other looked at Sereine, who was busy with her work. "She should not be working here. This is a place for honest work. Not something else."
William was looking at Sereine quietly—strange looks that were not of admiration but something else, something undefined. As if he were remembering, comparing, searching for something in her features.
"A word. In private, please?" he asked. His hand rested on the head of his cane. His head tilted slightly.
Sereine turned, surprised. Her knife paused mid-cut. She pointed a finger at herself.
"Yes. You."
She went out with him, walking behind him down the corridor. The sound of his steps was lighter than hers. She stood before him. He looked at her and smiled a faint smile—small, brief, the smile of a man who did not smile often.
"I owe you an apology. You made that dish for me. I know what it takes. The chopping. The waiting. The hands." His voice was low. His fingers tapped once on the cane. "I thought I would come and apologize to you in person."
There was something in the way he stood—the distance between them, the cane, the smile. He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words.
"I said it was salty. It was not." He paused. His eyes met hers and held them. "It was the best thing I have eaten in a year. I did not say so. That was my failure, not yours."
Sereine looked at him and moved her head downward—a silent thank you.
William was surprised. His brow lifted. "You are mute. Sorry, I didn't know." He paused. His grip shifted on the cane. "Well, since I have said what I had to say, I will go. You have work to do."
Sereine looked at the ground. William turned and began to walk. Then he stopped—not turning around. His back was straight, his cane planted.
"My lady," he said in a slightly louder voice. "You do not belong in that place. You are far too beautiful for it."
Then he turned around coldly, his expression unchanged, and continued walking.
When Sereine returned to the kitchen, the maidservants were looking at her. She held the knife and returned to the onions. There were tears in her eyes—from the onions, that is what she thought. And inside her, she whispered to herself, "Just a man who admired me. And who hasn't?" But something in her chest did not settle. Something small, like the sound of a cane in a distant corridor. Fading, but not disappearing.
As William was leaving, he felt something strange in his foot. An old pain had returned—not like the usual pain he had grown accustomed to over the years. It was different. Deeper. As if a bone in his leg remembered. William held his knee and sat on the ground, placing his cane beside him. The corridor was empty, quiet. Light streamed from a high window, falling on the stone in a pale hue. He sat in silence, looking ahead at a small door—an old wooden door, almost hidden in the wall.
His sitting was calm. No footsteps, no servants, no sounds from the hall. Only his breathing. William touched the cold floor with his hands, spreading his fingers on the stone. The cold transferred to his palm. He closed his eyes. A moment of reflection—not long.
Until Meriel came.
"What are you doing here? Didn't you say you were going to rest?" Meriel asked. His steps slowed as he approached.
William looked to his right. Meriel stood above him. William smiled. "I have strange ways of finding my rest."
"I see."
William tried to rise. He placed his hand on the cane and pushed his body, but his foot failed him. He fell to the ground again. The landing was heavy, and a muffled sound came out.
"Take my hand," said Meriel. He extended it.
William took Meriel's hand. The touch was firm. He rose, limping more than usual. "This is very embarrassing." His jaw tightened.
After he rose, William looked at Meriel, then at the small door. "What is behind that small door?"
"Why?" Meriel's eyes narrowed.
William looked at the door. "It is here. It makes me wonder."
"Come. I will show you."
Meriel opened the small door. Its lock was old and creaked. He took a torch from the wall and looked at William. "Follow me. And mind the step."
William followed, bending with difficulty. The entrance was low. The cane struck the frame. They entered and descended many stairs. The descent was long, the stones narrow, the light receding behind them.
"It is very dark here," said William. His hand touched the wall.
"Watch your step. I have fallen on these stairs many times."
When they reached the bottom, there was a wall directly at the end of the stairs. Dead.
"It leads to nothing," said William.
"Move back a little," said Meriel.
He raised the lower step, which moved with difficulty. Beneath it appeared another stair leading further down.
"It is a secret passage. Come."
They descended together until they reached a vast vault. The torch revealed the place slowly: old chairs, swords, tables, boxes, things piled on top of each other, dust, the smell of age.
"What is this place?" said William. His eyes moved over the clutter.
"A vault," said Meriel. He raised the torch higher. "A place is just a place. Until it remembers."
William looked at Meriel under the torchlight. "And what does this one remember?"
"Us. Gerald and I. When we were boys." Meriel's voice softened. "Things would vanish from the palace. Cups. Blades. A banner, once. Everyone blamed the servants."
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"It was us. We took them. We brought them here." He paused. His hand touched the back of an old chair. "It is the only thing he and I ever shared. Alone."
"Then why show me?"
"I do not know. I thought that since you will lead a war beside me in Gerald's name, you should carry enough of his memory to make you fight fiercely."
"It does not matter how many memories I have of him," said William. His voice was quiet. "Only one or two are enough for me to fight my whole life. A life I wouldn't have had without him. I am not ungrateful." He looked at Meriel. "We are all in this together."
"I know," said Meriel. "I only wanted to tell you. I do not want to take all his memories alone. A man lives through the memories of those who love him."
"I understand. And I am grateful—because you shared this with me." He shifted his weight. "Can we now go up? I think something is climbing up my feet."
"Ah. Come on. I forgot. The fleas have returned here."
Up Above
The two ascended together until they emerged from the vault. As Meriel was closing the door, he said, "It was he who discovered this place. Although I entered here many times before him, when I reach the wall, I turn back. He... did not. He was a curious man." He paused, his hand resting on the door handle. "I warned him many times to put a limit to his curiosity. But he only thought I was worried about emptiness."
He paused. His fingers tightened on the handle.
"I do not know how he got there—to the Neverwood. But if I had to guess, I would say his curiosity. It was always the cause of everything in his life."
"Indeed," said William. "He was curious. But that wasn't always a bad thing. At least for me. A child under the rubble of an old house at that time—no one paid me any attention. Broken. Forgotten. His curious side saved me that day." He paused. "Whatever Gerald was, people around him loved him. I don't think that's an easy thing to achieve, kingdom or not."
"There at the fun—" William didn't finish his words. He looked at the floor. "I wondered how a man could earn so much love." He paused. Then he raised his head. "Meriel, I want to tell you something since we are alone here."
"What? Say what you have." Meriel turned to face him.
"Thornholl sent..."
Meriel: "Sent who?"
William: "Gerald's body... I gave him a funeral. A grand one. The people wept. He rests in the Hall of Kings. Beside his father."
"And you did not send for me? I am his brother." Meriel's voice was tight. His hand clenched at his side.
"I know. But it was not a full funeral. It was not a full body." William's eyes did not leave Meriel's face. "I do not have to say this, but they sent a headless body. We only held a funeral before the people. But I promise you that I will ensure Gerald rests in peace—complete, without deficiencies."
"Why? Why would they—what did he ever do? He was not the one they hated." Meriel's voice cracked. "I was."
"People in this world have no principles. And those who have some do not survive." William shook his head slowly. "In any case, the matter is now settled. We must take actions, not just promises. King Robert has already begun moving. He is moving his people out of the kingdom. He knows what is coming."
"Good. At least he knows the consequences of what he did."
"Do not trust those movements. They are just a disguise. From my knowledge of Robert, he has no principles. And how can a man without principles care about his people's welfare?"
"You are right. He does not care about his people or anything. He only cares about his legacy."
"We must now care in this stage about ourselves as well. We must prepare. And we will not fight a war without men." William's cane struck the floor once. "Therefore, you, Meriel, must win the men's trust again. They do not only want an improvement in the situation. They are your people and you are their king. How do you expect them to fight beside you if you do not call them yourself?"
"What do you suggest?"
"A speech. Before the people of Izzadar. A speech that turns the scales and makes the war everyone's war, not just ours." He paused. "Think about it. Take your time."
Zohra
In the high and clear corridors of Merleith, where light flowed through the white walls like water, Zohra walked quickly. Her face revealed nothing, her features fixed, her eyes forward. Only the speed of her feet revealed that something was happening behind that calm. She was heading to the Hall of the Nine.
When she arrived, the guards stood before the door. They did not speak, but she felt their hesitation—a slight shift of weight, a tightening of the grip on their spears. Then, in their inner consciousness, the voice of the Eyes of Truth echoed together, all agreeing: Let her enter.
Zohra entered. She was not the only one standing before the presence of the Nine. One was already there. Simon. He did not exchange glances with Zohra. It was not shyness but something else—disgust at her presence.
"Have you made your decisions? The child's fate?" said Zohra. Her hands were clasped before her, but her fingers were white.
The First Eye spoke. Her voice was old—the voice of a woman who had seen centuries pass. She sat on the leftmost throne, her hands resting on the stone armrests, her fingers long and still. Her headpiece extended upward, casting a shadow over her face. Only her lips moved.
"Yes. Not only the child's fate, but yours too, and the fate of the six children. Your fates have already intertwined."
"Which children?" said Zohra. Her head tilted.
The Second Eye spoke. This one was younger—her voice sharper, harder. She did not sit still. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her chin resting on her interlaced fingers. Her eyes, visible beneath the headpiece, were bright and restless.
"We have already discussed this matter. The children were summoned at the child's request."
"Edd did not wish for any child. He only asked for his brother." Zohra's voice was firm.
Simon said in a quiet voice. He did not look at Zohra. His spear rested at his side, his hand wrapped loosely around it. "She has indeed become a mother."
Zohra looked at Simon but said nothing. Her jaw tightened.
The Third Eye spoke. She was the quietest—her voice barely above a whisper. She sat in the center, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. She did not lean forward. She did not move. Only her lips moved.
"We have already told you—as the child realised through his intrusion into human fate—that his brother is indeed dead. He was swallowed by the darkness." She paused. Her voice did not rise. "And since when do you give us his wishes? You were appointed as a mother as a precautionary measure to limit his danger."
She paused again. Her head turned slightly—just a fraction.
"It seems you have believed that you are truly his mother. Do not deceive yourself, Zohra. You are merely a sinner. You are not a mother. And you have no right to speak on anyone's behalf—not even for him."
"What is your decision, then?" Zohra's voice was steady, but her hands had begun to tremble at her sides.
The Fourth Eye spoke. She was the oldest—her voice cracked like dry earth. She did not sit upright. She leaned heavily on one armrest, her body tilted, as though gravity pulled at her more than the others. Her free hand rose and fell as she spoke, punctuating her words.
"We possess a broad vision. But with Simon's help, he opened his perspective, and it was worth considering as a solution—as a safe solution."
The Fifth Eye spoke. She was the most severe—her voice cut through the air like a blade. She sat rigid, her shoulders squared, her hands gripping the armrests until the knuckles paled.
"You will be exiled, Zohra—you and the child and the six children." She paused. Her head turned toward the entrance, as though dismissing something. "Riddles sent them. They are his children, or the children of the person he represents. He is a rotten fruit. Now you are rotten too. But nevertheless, he fulfilled his role."
She turned her head back. Her eyes—cold, unblinking—fixed on Zohra.
"The children arrived yesterday. One of them is in a bad condition, but he has been treated, and it will not hinder you on the road. You will live in the world of humans. There, your first and last task will be to restrain this child. Since we cannot kill him, we will kill his ambition and his extremism. He will receive your upbringing—not only him, but all six children will be a reference for him. They too."
The Sixth Eye spoke. She had been silent throughout. Now she leaned forward—just slightly—and her voice came out measured, deliberate. Each word placed like a stone.
"So beware. The mother is not the one who gives birth, but the one who raises."
The Seventh Eye spoke. She did not look at Zohra. She looked at the space above her, at the ceiling of the cave, at something none of them could see. Her voice was distant, as though she were reading from a text only she could perceive.
"The child is now unbalanced. I myself cannot see what he sees during his long sleep. It is something human—slaughter, killing, rape. Filthy things that have clung to his fate as a human. But they do not necessarily have to cling to us as well."
Zohra asked, her voice rising slightly, "Does a human child frighten you?"
The Eighth Eye spoke. This one laughed—a dry, humorless sound. She shook her head slowly, her headpiece swaying with the motion. Her hands opened and closed on the armrests.
"No. It's not him who frightens us. He does possess real power, but his name isn't the same as the One." She stopped. Her laughter died. "But there's no place for humans among us."
Zohra looked at Simon. Her eyes were hard. "Did you distort their decision?"
Simon said, his voice flat, his grip tightening on the spear. "Choose your words carefully. You are before the decision-makers. I am merely a person who believes in the Normens' right to live as they believed was right for them."
The Ninth Eye spoke. She had been still—so still that Zohra had almost forgotten she was there. Now she moved. She raised one finger—just one—and pointed it at Zohra. Her voice was quiet, but it filled the hall.
"Go now. Your fate has been decided. You will leave at dawn."
"If that is your decision, we will leave. We will go to the world of humans. And I will bear the consequences." Zohra's voice did not waver. She turned to leave. Then she stopped. She looked back over her shoulder. "But you too will bear the consequences of this decision."
Zohra said what she had to say and left. Her footsteps echoed through the hall—each one sharp, final. The Eyes watched her go. None of them spoke.
In the room where Edd slept, the air was heavy. Edd was still immersed in his long sleep. On his face there was no peace. His eyelids trembled. His fingers twitched against the sheets. He was between two worlds.
Beside him were the six children—huddled together, afraid, their eyes roaming the place. Their clothes were torn. Their faces were dirty. One of them was injured—his arm wrapped in a bandage that had begun to yellow. The eldest stood slightly apart, his hands clenched at his sides.
"Who are you? Get us out of here," he said. His voice cracked.
Zohra looked at them. Her expression softened—just slightly. Then she said, "You will get out of here. We all will."