William
In the corridors of Izzadar, where the clamour never ceased, the striking of iron echoed in the air. The sounds of labour were clear, and the smell of coal and heat flowed from every door. William the Lame walked with his cane, two guards beside him, looking for a craftsman's workshop. His bad leg dragged behind him, each step a small, deliberate negotiation with the stone floor. His eyes moved from door to door, reading the signs, the sounds, the smells.
There was one with two large doors, catching the eye because of the long queue before it. Men waited their turn, carrying things they wanted repaired or blueprints for things they wanted made. Some leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Others sat on the ground, backs against the stone, eyes half-closed. The queue stretched down the alley like a slow-moving river of need.
William went to the end of the line. His guards followed. One of them stepped forward, his hand rising to push the nearest man aside.
"Move. Make way. the king needs to pass."
William's cane came down—not hard, but firm—against the guard's boot. "Brave man. Calm down." His voice was quiet, but it carried. The men in the queue turned their heads. "We can wait like they do."
"But you are a king," the guard said, his brow furrowing. His hand fell back to his side. " your time is more valuable than theirs."
William turned his head slowly. His one good eye found the guard's face and held it. "All time is the same." He gestured with his chin toward the waiting men. "The coming war—it is our war. Not my war alone. Leave the people to get what they came for."
The guard stepped back. His shoulders lowered. He stood beside William in the line, his hands clasped before him.
The line moved slowly. William did not complain. He watched the men ahead of him—their worn hands, their tired faces, the way they clutched their broken tools like dying birds. When his turn came, he entered the workshop.
Inside, the heat struck him first. Then the smell—coal, iron, sweat, and something sweet and sharp that he recognized but did not name. The walls were lined with works hanging on hooks: swords, shields, tools, everything carefully arranged. The forge glowed orange in the corner. Sparks flew like fireflies.
The blacksmith looked up. His arms were thick, his hands scarred, his face smeared with soot. "You are popular here," said William.
The blacksmith wiped his hands on his apron. His eyes moved over William—the cane, the limp, the fine cloth of his cloak. "Yes. What should I call you? Lord? Or what? Who are you?"
William stepped closer. His cane tapped once on the stone floor. "I am just a customer here. With big troubles for you, if you like trouble."
The blacksmith stopped working. His hammer rested on the anvil. He looked at William—really looked. "Say what you have. Let's see how much trouble you have."
William reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around a cloth. He pulled it out and unfolded it—slowly, deliberately—and showed it to the blacksmith. Inside lay a dark, sticky substance, gleaming like wet coal.
"What is this?" The blacksmith leaned forward. His nose wrinkled.
"It is something we extract from the mines in Ironfield."
The blacksmith's hand rose. He touched it—just the tip of his finger—then pulled back. "I have never seen anything like it."
"Good. Because I made sure of that."
"What exactly do you want from me?" The blacksmith's eyes narrowed.
William folded the cloth back. His fingers were slow, careful. "I have a large quantity of this material. It is sticky and flammable. If you set fire to it, it will stay alight for a long time." He paused. "Wonderful, is it not?"
"I think so, yes. But what do I do with it?"
"A large shipment of it will come to you. Before that, I want you to make me a hundred large-sized arrows—the kind that might pierce a wall, that might shatter ships. And I want the arrowhead to be completely coated with this material." He tilted his head. "Is that suitable? Can you do it?"
"Do you have enough money for all this?" The blacksmith crossed his arms.
William reached into his cloak and pulled out a small pouch. He placed it on the anvil. The coins inside clinked. "Take this. An advance. After completing the hundred arrows, I will give you the full price of your hard work." He extended his hand. "Do we have an agreement?"
The blacksmith looked at the pouch. Then at William's hand. Then at William's face. He wiped his palm on his apron and took it. "Yes. When do you want these arrows to be ready?"
"As soon as possible. Twenty days at most."
"That is enough." He nodded once. "Alright. I will work on them."
"Farewell. Good luck with your work."
William turned. His cane struck the ground. The two guards fell in behind him. The blacksmith watched them go—his hand still resting on the pouch, his eyes narrowed.
Zohra
Outside Merleith's tall and pointed walls, Zohra stood. Beside her were the six children. They moved nervously, their eyes darting, their hands clutching at each other's sleeves. One of them—the eldest—held the youngest's arm, his fingers wrapped tight around his brother's wrist. The guards stood upright. Beside them, one held a large handcart. Inside it, Edd slept. Calm. Immersed in his long sleep. His chest rose and fell slowly, and the green cloth on his forehead stirred with each breath.
Simon stood before the gate. His spear rested at his side. His eyes were fixed on Zohra.
Zohra carried a bag of silver. The currency humans dealt with in their world. The coins shifted inside the bag with each movement—a soft, clinking sound.
Simon said, "Keep that small thing at your hands. Humans outside kill each other for it." He paused. His fingers tightened on the spear. "Do you think they would not kill us for the Lake?" He paused again. His head tilted. "Farewell, Zohra. I hope this is the last time I utter this name."
"Did you hate me all this time?" said Zohra. Her voice was steady, but her hand gripped the silver bag tighter.
"No. I hold no hatred toward you." Simon's voice was flat. "But I have two eyes—their work is to judge before they see. The first time I saw you, I passed my judgement: you are not suitable in the Hall of Lords. That was my judgement." He paused. His grip on the spear loosened, then tightened again. "But you defied expectations. You are not suitable as a Normen in the first place."
Zohra gathered the six children. She looked at each of them—at their pale faces, at their trembling hands. Then she left. They walked beside the guards and Edd's cart, through the Forbidden Forest, until they reached the pit. It was an underground passage beneath the Wall, guarded by the largest number of Normen guards.
Samuel looked at the darkness through it. His hand reached out and touched the stone frame. He tried to break the barrier of fear for his younger siblings—his jaw was set, his shoulders squared. "What is this?"
"It is a passage that goes under the Wall," said Zohra. "It connects our worlds—your world and mine. The Normens built it to exile people like us." She paused. "And like your father."
"My father?" Samuel turned to face her. His brow furrowed. "What do you mean by that? And how did you build the Wall? Brave men built the Wall."
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"If brave men built the Wall, why would they have repeatedly risked their lives to cross it?" Zohra's voice was quiet. She did not wait for an answer.
One of the guards said, "You may go."
Zohra looked at the guard. Her eyes held his for a moment. Then she took Edd's cart and entered the tunnel. The children followed—one by one, their small feet scraping against the stone. She placed a cover over her head, hiding her ears and hair. She was leaving her world. She was entering her new one.
Meriel
The great Blacksmiths' Square was full. Not full like a market, but full like a room where a verdict is about to be read. The wooden stalls stood along the edges, but their owners had abandoned them. The goods remained on display—swords, pots, horseshoes, iron fittings—but no one looked at them now. They were props in a larger scene. Everyone had come for one thing.
They knew their king had decided to speak. And they had decided not to forgive him.
The crowd moved in slow currents. Men with folded arms. Women with children on their hips. Old men who had seen too many kings and too many promises. They did not stand like people waiting to be persuaded. They stood like people preparing to judge.
Voices rose and fell, overlapping, colliding in the air like swords.
"Whatever he says, nothing justifies his failure." A man in the front row spat on the ground.
"Even if he weeps." A woman shifted her child to her other hip.
"Even if he begs." An old man's hands tightened on his cane.
The words passed from mouth to mouth, gathering weight. Anger lived in the square like a physical thing. It pressed against the stone walls. It hung in the smoke from the chimneys. It sat on every shoulder. They had carried their anger for so long that it had become a companion. Now they held it tight, ready to hurl it at the man who had once been their hammer, their pride, their king.
Above, on the wooden platform, the guards stood rigid. Their faces were masks. Their hands rested on their weapons, but their eyes betrayed them—nervous, flicking across the crowd, counting. They knew how quickly a crowd could turn.
Meriel's place was ready. Bare wood. No banners. No decorations. Only a single platform, raised above the sea of faces. It looked less like a stage and more like a scaffold.
Meriel emerged from the Blacksmiths' Gate.
The moment he appeared, the murmur changed. It did not stop. It lowered, like a beast shifting in the dark, watching its prey approach. The sound of his boots on the stone was lost beneath the noise.
He walked with steady steps. His broad shoulders were squared. His hammer was not on his back this time. He carried nothing but himself. Beside him walked Layla. Her face was pale. Her hands were clasped before her, and her fingers twisted together—tightening, releasing, tightening again. Behind them, William the Lame moved with his cane. Each strike of the iron tip against the stone was like a slow heartbeat.
The crowd parted for them. Reluctantly. A narrow path opened, then closed behind them like water.
At the base of the platform, Layla stopped. Her hand rose—just slightly—as if she might touch Meriel's arm. Then it fell back to her side. William stopped beside her. His cane was planted. His one good eye was fixed on Meriel.
Layla did not move. She stood there, her chin raised, her eyes glistening. She was not crying. Not yet. But something in her face said: You must do this alone.
William leaned on his cane. He whispered, low enough that only the three of them could hear: "Remember. It is the people's speech. Not yours."
Meriel nodded once. Then he climbed.
Each step up the wooden platform sounded louder than it should have. The crowd began to quiet—not out of respect, but out of anticipation. They wanted to hear him falter. They wanted to see the cracks.
When Meriel reached the top, he turned and faced them.
The view stole something from him.
He had seen crowds before. He had stood before armies. But this was different. These were not soldiers. These were the people he had failed—their faces drawn with hunger, their clothes worn, their eyes hard with disappointment. They looked at him not as subjects look at a king, but as people look at a man who broke a promise.
The silence stretched. It pressed against his chest.
Meriel opened his mouth. The words he had rehearsed were gone. They had fled, leaving only the truth.
He said in a low voice, "... I have failed you."
No one heard him.
The crowd remained still. A few in the front rows frowned, cupping their ears. A man leaned toward his neighbor. "What did he say?"
He repeated it, louder this time. "I have failed you."
Still not enough.
Then he drew a breath and shouted it, his voice cracking through the cold air like a hammer on stone:
"I HAVE FAILED YOU!"
The echo rolled across the square and died.
Silence fell. Complete. The kind of silence that only comes after a confession.
Meriel stood there, his chest rising and falling. He could feel the weight of their eyes. Thousands of them. Each one a judgement.
"I let my pride become a barrier between you and a piece of bread." His voice was raw now, stripped of ceremony. "That is shameful. But here I am, standing before you nonetheless."
He paused. His eyes moved across the faces—reading them, counting them.
"All I have are some words of apology. But my apology will not bring back your fathers. Your mothers. Your sons."
His voice caught on the next words. He forced them out.
"Or my sons."
The effect was immediate. The crowd stirred. A ripple of anger moved through them—quick and hot. A man in the third row threw his arms wide. "His sons?" he shouted. "He still speaks of his sons!"
Others joined. Their voices rose like flame.
Meriel raised his hand—not to silence them, but to hold them still. His palm was open. His fingers spread. And then he shouted, louder than he had ever shouted in his life:
"Saying my sons—I mean YOU!"
The words struck the crowd like a stone into still water.
"The sons of Izzadar! The sons I swore to protect before I knew what an oath meant—what it means to you!"
The shouting stopped. Faces that had been twisted with anger now turned to something else—not forgiveness, but listening. A woman's hand rose to her mouth. An old man's cane wobbled beneath him.
"It is something sacred." Meriel's voice dropped, but it carried. "More than blood. It is the bond between me and you. It is what keeps our walls high. And our homes protected. And makes something of harmony between us."
He stepped to the edge of the platform—close enough that the front rows could see the sweat on his brow, the veins in his neck. His hands gripped the wooden rail.
"I know all of you." He pointed. His finger moved across the crowd, touching face after face. "You. You. You. All of you. I know you. You are my sons by oath."
A woman in the crowd covered her mouth with her hand. Tears ran between her fingers. An old man lowered his head. His shoulders shook.
Meriel paused. He was breathing hard.
"A man errs. And regrets. Then apologises." His voice softened. "I am not here to apologise. I am here to give a promise. From a father to his sons."
He stepped back. He opened his arms—wide, empty, offering nothing but himself.
"I promise you that I will be a good father." The words came slowly, deliberately. "And what good father eats fine meals while his sons struggle even to find bread? I promise you that I will eat what you eat. I will feel what you feel. And I will fight what you fear."
The silence was different now. It was not hostile. It was listening.
"And I, Meriel, know what you fear—that your days will become the same. All suffering after suffering."
He gripped the edge of the platform. His knuckles were white.
"I will do my utmost to make your days the same. But not in suffering. In pleasure."
For a moment, something moved through the crowd—a murmur, low and uncertain. The anger was still there, but it had shifted. It was no longer aimed at him alone. It was waiting to see what he would do with it.
"But now, I stand before you to announce something else."
He drew a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, heavier.
"War is coming."
The words fell like a stone into deep water. A child in the crowd began to cry. Its mother pressed its face to her shoulder.
"And we cannot win it unless there is a reason to fight. I have one." He paused. "No. I have thousands of reasons. And you too have the same number."
He looked at them—at the blacksmiths, the carpenters, the masons, the mothers, the old men, the children holding their parents' hands.
"We are all one. When war beats upon our walls, we go out together. We fight together. We triumph together. That is what a kingdom means. That is what a people means."
His voice rose, gaining strength with each word. His hand struck his chest.
"I will not force anyone to fight with me. And if I must, I will go out alone to defend you. Because I gave a promise—to protect you. To protect my sons."
He stopped. The crowd was still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then Meriel lowered his voice. For the first time, it broke.
"But I fear that alone I will not be enough. Without you, I am not a king. And I do not have the strength to fight."
He opened his hands before them. Palms up. Empty.
"So I ask you, men of Izzadar, to stand with me. With your king. One hand—a hand that knows how to make swords, knows how to use them."
He fell silent.
The silence that followed was deeper than any before. It was a silence of held breath, of unspoken things, of a kingdom standing at the edge of something and not yet knowing which way it would fall.
Meriel stood there, waiting. He did not move. His hands remained open at his sides. His chest rose and fell. His eyes moved across the crowd—slowly, deliberately—meeting every gaze.
That was the most silent moment the Kingdom of Craft had ever known. Long. Heavy. As if the air itself had frozen above the square.
Then—the chanting began.
One voice at first. Thin. Uncertain. An old man in the back, his fist raised, his voice cracking.
"Long live the king!"
A pause. The crowd stirred.
Then another voice. A woman's. Stronger. "Long live the king!"
Then another. And another. The sound built—not as a roar, but as a wave gathering force, rolling through the crowd, lifting heads, opening mouths, filling the square with a noise that was not anger anymore.
"Long live the king!"
"Long live the king!"
They shouted until their throats burned. They raised their fists. They wept. They reached toward the platform as if touching him might make the promise real. A blacksmith lifted his hammer above his head. A woman threw her apron into the air. Children climbed on their fathers' shoulders, their small hands waving.
Meriel did not smile. He did not raise his hand. He stood there only—watching, feeling the weight of every voice settle into his bones like iron cooling in water. His eyes moved over the sea of faces. His jaw was tight. His hands, still open at his sides, trembled—just slightly.
And somewhere at the edge of the crowd, William leaned on his cane, watching. His one good eye was fixed on Meriel. His lips were pressed together. He did not smile. But something in his face had changed—something soft, something almost like pride.
Beside him, Layla's hand was pressed to her mouth. Tears fell freely now, running down her cheeks, between her fingers. Her shoulders shook. She did not try to stop them.
They had not won the war.
But they had won the people.
And that was the first battle.