Holland
The air inside the walls of Valkryn was heavy, suffocating, as if it were mud clinging to the lungs. The smell of sweat, hunger, and fear mingled into a single cloud floating above the crowds packed into the narrow courtyards. Men with pale faces fought over scraps of bread—their fingers clawing at each other, their voices hoarse with desperation. Women screamed at their children, their hands pulling at sleeves and hair. Children cried without cease, their small faces streaked with dirt and tears. The guards stood helpless, their spears wavering above the heads as the sounds of quarrels rose from every direction.
Inside, behind those thick walls adorned with the engravings of ancestors, silence reigned supreme. Cold marble corridors reflected Holland's slow footsteps as he walked aimlessly. His eyes were open but saw nothing, fixed on an invisible point in the void. His hands trembled involuntarily—fingers curling and uncurling at his sides—and his steps were irregular, as though his feet remembered a path his mind had forgotten.
His feet stopped before a door of heavy oak, carved with the ancient family crest. Holland raised his fist and knocked hard—three consecutive knocks that made the old wood shudder. He did not wait for an answer.
The door opened to Kormel. Her black hair fell over her shoulders, and her eyes carried a silent question as she saw her uncle's state. Her hand rested on the door's edge—fingers curling lightly around the wood.
Holland entered without permission, passing her to the middle of the room. He stopped there, his back to her, his shoulders hunched like a man carrying a mountain on his back. He turned slowly, and in his eyes were heavy clouds of exhaustion.
He said, his voice cracking: "I can't."
He paused a moment. His throat moved as he swallowed. Then he added: "I have been hiding my entire life. Behind books, behind walls, behind what I thought was knowledge."
He raised his hand and ran it roughly over his face—from brow to jaw—like someone trying to wake himself from a nightmare. His palm scraped against stubble he had forgotten to shave.
"I read of wars. Of kings. I thought ink would make me a ruler. But the pressure grows. Every moment." His hand fell to his side. He looked at her directly for the first time. "I am a weak man, Kormel."
Kormel stepped forward one step. Her soft shoes made a faint sound on the marble floor. She stopped within arm's reach and crossed her arms slowly over her chest.
"What exactly is the problem, Uncle?" she asked—her voice calm yet sharp as a knife's edge. Her head tilted slightly. "Why do you call yourself weak?"
Holland moved toward the window. His fingers gripped its heavy curtain and pulled it aside slightly. He looked at the chaos outside—the crowds, the guards, the screaming—then let the curtain fall as if the sight burned his eyes. He turned to her.
"The city is starving. And I never cared what happened beyond these walls. I am not suited for the throne. I am not suited to rule."
He paused. He took a deep breath—his chest rising, then falling. Then he stepped two paces toward her.
"You, Kormel..." His voice caught. He cleared his throat and continued: "You are Allen's daughter. You lived with the man who killed your father. You lived with him while he tried to drive you mad."
His voice trembled at the last word. His hand rose and pressed against his chest.
"You are the one suited to rule. Over both of them. Over the fate of the people, and over the fate of your brother."
Kormel raised her eyebrow slowly. She took another step forward until she was an arm's length from him. Her chin lifted a fraction.
"You want me to rule the kingdom in your place."
Holland nodded. His shoulders dropped—as if the admission had cost him something physical.
"Yes. And I will stay by your side. As before."
Kormel turned toward the large mirror hanging on the wall. She looked at her reflection—at the face she had inherited from her father. Her fingers rose and touched her own cheek, tracing the line of her jaw.
"Are you certain I would be better?"
Holland's voice came from behind her—low, but steady for the first time.
"The fact that Sam tried to drive you mad... means he knew you were more deserving than him."
She turned to him slowly. A cold gleam lived in her eyes. Her lips curved—not a smile, but something close.
"Okay, uncle, I'll do it. Not for him, not for me, but for you."
She walked to the small table where a water pitcher and silver cups sat. Her hand reached for the pitcher, poured herself a cup. She raised it to her lips slowly—deliberately—and drank. When she lowered it, she set it down with a soft sound against the wood.
"Only with your help, I will try to make things right. The fate of the people after what that bastard did." She paused. Her voice dropped. "And as for his fate... it was already decided the day I set him free."
Kormel sat in the chair near the window. Her back was straight as a marble pillar. Her hands folded in her lap.
"As someone who has surrounded himself with knowledge for years—what would you suggest to me, Uncle?"
Holland sighed deeply. He sat on the edge of the bed opposite her, his fingers interlocking and unlocking nervously in his lap—over and over, the knuckles whitening and releasing.
"The war is already decided. Our absence from it will leave us weakest. We must solve the problem of Thornholl's men at our walls." He raised his eyes to the ceiling—as if reading from his memory, from something written above him. "They are taking over the place, causing a great chaos in all of the kingdom. We have already received complaints from the people."
He lowered his eyes to look directly at her.
"If we don't act, there will be consequences."
Kormel leaned forward. Her elbows rested on her knees, her chin on her clasped hands. Her eyes did not leave his.
"Then we must find solutions as soon as possible."
"Yes, we should."
Holland's reply came as a weary whisper. His hands fell still in his lap for the first time.
Ben
On the dirt road stretching between Thornholl and Valkryn, the sun poured its gold upon the dry earth. An old wooden cart swayed with every stone in the road, its wheels emitting a continuous creaking that cut through the silence of the distance. Six women sat in the cart's rear bed, their faces shielded by faded cloths from the road's dust. Their shoulders pressed together. Their hands clutched the cart's wooden sides each time it lurched. Around the cart walked no fewer than fifteen boys of varying ages—their steps tired, their clothes stained with travel dust, but their eyes alert. Some of them walked with their hands dangling; others kept one hand on the cart's rim as if afraid of being left behind.
At the front of the cart sat the driver on the raised wooden seat. His rough hands gripped the horses' reins—the rope red against his palms. Beside him sat Ben of the Golden Pen, the short-statured dwarf. And on his small lap sat his youngest son—three years old—clutching a dry piece of bread, gnawing at it with his small baby teeth.
Throughout the journey, the driver kept glancing at Ben. Long sidelong looks. His eyes narrowed, then widened. His head tilted slightly, then straightened. His fingers shifted on the reins—restless. Ben noticed these looks. He felt their prickle creeping beneath his skin. He bit his lower lip. Then he turned to the driver.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
"Say it."
His voice was sharp as a coin striking stone. His hand rested flat on the book in his lap.
"Do not make it stranger than it is."
The driver looked at him directly. His eyes scanned Ben's body from head to toe—slowly, openly.
"You're a dwarf."
Ben raised his eyebrows slowly, deliberately. His head tilted. "Is that why you have been staring at me this whole road?"
He smiled a wide smile that revealed his teeth. His hand lifted from the book and gestured once in the air.
"I'm a dwarf, yes."
The driver burst into a strange laugh—a laugh that started in his belly and escaped his mouth like an animal fleeing. His whole body shook with it. The reins jumped in his hands.
"Why laughing?"
Ben asked. The smile was still on his face, but frozen at the edges. His hand returned to the book.
The driver wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "Nothing. I find it amusing, is all. When did you stop growing?"
Ben sat upright as much as his stature allowed. He squared his shoulders. His chin lifted.
"I'm not alone in this. All men have things that stopped growing."
He pointed a finger at the driver—sharp, accusing.
"One's height. Another's mind."
He paused. Then he smiled a meaningful smile. His golden tooth caught the light.
"While there are those whose manhood stopped growing. That's what I find amusing."
The driver smiled and shook his head. His shoulders shook once with a quiet laugh. "Don't take things so seriously. I'm just talking. The road is long and boring."
"Then tolerate my share of talking. And we will get along."
"Fine."
Silence fell for several minutes. Broken only by the creaking of wheels, the thud of hooves on dirt, and the faint whispers of the women in the back. Then the driver looked toward Ben again—this time toward the back where the women and children sat. His chin jerked in that direction.
"Are all those your children?"
"Yes."
The driver studied the faces in the back one by one. His eyes moved slowly over each small form. Then he looked at Ben—astonished. His eyebrow rose.
"And the women in the back. Your wives?"
"Yes."
The driver began laughing again. This time a deeper laugh that shook the wooden seat beneath them. His hand slapped his knee.
Ben looked at him with feigned patience. "What now?"
The driver said, trying to catch his breath: "Never in my life did I think I would envy a dwarf."
He shook his head slowly.
"You have done well. But tell me—how did you convince them?"
Ben looked at his older sons walking beside the cart. His gaze lingered on them—one, then the next. Then he returned his gaze to the driver. He smiled the smile of a man who knows a secret no one else does.
"Unlike you, my body did not grow as it should." He paused. He picked up a piece of cloth and wiped his young son's forehead—gently, slowly. "But unlike you, one thing never stopped growing."
He turned to the driver and winked.
"Being a dwarf isn't so bad after all."
The driver sighed deeply. His gaze fixed on the distant horizon. His hands loosened on the reins.
"I wish I had been born a dwarf."
Ben looked at him, his smile widening. Then the driver suddenly said: "Listen, stranger—"
Ben cut him off. He raised a warning finger—small, but steady.
"One word about me being a dwarf—I will have these boys throw you from the cart. We will finish the road in peace."
The driver raised his hands in surrender. The reins slid loosely through his fingers.
"No... I wanted to ask, how did they allow you to leave Thornholl with your family? As far as I know, that's not something permitted in these times."
Ben smiled and shrugged. His shoulder moved under his cloak.
"No. It is not. But I am a lucky man."
He paused. He looked at his small hand—at the short fingers, at the palm. Then he added:
"I mean, lucky half man. I can keep my wealth and my legacy safe."
"Life is strange." The driver said.
Silence returned once more—longer this time. Broken only by the sound of wind sweeping over the dry fields stretching to the horizon.
Rodric
In a distant place, where the borders of the kingdoms of Izzadar and Ironfield met, and where wild grass and open plains met with them, Rodric sat beneath an ancient massive oak tree, its protruding roots surrounding him like giant fingers. Sunlight spilled through the leaves, painting patches of light on his face and body.
He held a sharp knife, its blade reflecting the sun's rays with every movement. Between his fingers, a ripe red apple turned slowly, and the blade sank into its skin in one continuous, unbroken ribbon. Slice after slice, he cut the apple and raised it to his mouth, chewing slowly while lying on his back beside the huge trunk.
When he finished the apple, he tossed the core far into the grass. He turned toward the tree trunk, raised his knife, and began carving into it. Slow, deliberate movements, the blade slicing the bark in fine lines. He paused now and then to examine his work, then continued.
He was absorbed in his carving when the sound of footsteps broke the silence. Voices of men, several horses, the heavy thud of hooves on dry earth.
Rodric spun around quickly, his entire body shifting from relaxation to tension in a single moment. He cast a quick glance around, then hid the knife under his thigh, leaned his back against the tree, and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, let his body go slack, and let his head tilt slightly onto his shoulder like someone dozing.
The footsteps drew closer. The sounds of leather straps rubbing against armor, heavy footfalls on the grass.
"You, wake up. We want to ask you something." A rough voice, accompanied by a foot shoving him hard.
Rodric opened his eyes with deliberate slowness, raising his hand before his face as if shielding his eyes from the light. He looked downward, avoiding their faces.
"Ask." His voice was devoid of any emotion.
The three knights sensed something odd. They stood before him in half-circles, their long shadows stretching over him. Why wouldn't this man look at them?
"Have you seen a boy about this tall?" one of them said, raising his hand to indicate an approximate height. "He has a birthmark under his neck and dark black hair."
Rodric shook his head slowly without raising his eyes. "No. I do not see things as you do." He smiled a strange smile. "I threw myself into the depths of darkness, I risked everything to show that I don't prefer the sea and it has never served my interests, and here I am again in nowhere, just trying to get some sleep, only to find myself once more surrounded by the children of the sea."
One of the knights looked at his companion and raised his eyebrows in bewilderment. "He seems like a madman. Let's search elsewhere."
The first knight turned to leave, but the third grabbed his arm. "Wait." He stepped closer to Rodric. "Didn't you see that?"
"What?"
"His teeth. They're gold."
The third knight stepped even closer, until he stood directly over Rodric, his shadow covering his face. "Show me your teeth, you."
Rodric raised his head slowly but did not look at him, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon behind the knight. "My teeth. They remind you of something? A nightmare, perhaps."
The knight placed his hand on his sword's hilt, his fingers wrapping around it slowly. "Show me. Or I will pull them out with this sword."
Rodric sighed a slow, theatrical sigh. "If you insist..."
He smiled.
A slow smile that widened until it revealed two full rows of golden teeth gleaming under the slanting sunlight.
The knight stepped back. "You—the slave!" He exchanged glances with his two companions. "What are you doing here?"
Rodric rose to his feet slowly, like a cat preparing to strike, his movements fluid and calculated. "Since you've gotten to know me and my teeth, I'm guessing you know I've made it clear. I don't like the sea or anything that comes from it."
He stretched his arms out to the sides as if presenting himself to the world.
"There on the ship called Garbra—strange name, isn't it?" He paused, then added with a smile, "Anyway, there on the ship they were wearing blue armor, the same one you're wearing now? Before I turn everything red, I remember that." He stepped closer to them. "And whatever is churning in your small minds right now, violence is not the answer." He paused, then added with a smile: "I haven't seen that child. So go now, I need to finish my nap."
One of the knights said, his voice rising with anger: "You killed the ship's crew, yet never punished for it!" He gestured toward his sword. "We will make sure to carry out God's justice before his eyes."
Rodric smiled—this time a different smile, wider and more cruel. "God's justice is carried out only by Him. And you are nothing but followers of the devil himself. Marcus, isn't it?"
The knight replied in a defensive tone: "We follow the Sisters."
"How so?" Rodric asked sarcastically, tilting his head. "And do you search for the child by their order as well?" He shook his head slowly. "The Sisters have always chosen the sea to pass their judgment, not the sword." He raised his chin slightly, his eyes narrowing. "You are just monsters like me. You use the sword and blood to deliver judgment. So do I, but I do it better."
Rodric moved in a single instant. He grabbed his knife from beneath his thigh and kicked off the tree trunk with enough force to propel him forward—and one of the knights found himself stabbed in the neck, the blade sinking into flesh with shocking ease, blood pouring warm over Rodric's madly smiling face.
But his rush was too blind. He felt his feet slipping, lost his balance, and one of the two remaining knights slammed him to the ground. His body hit the grass, but he didn't stop. He rolled, leaped to his feet, his knife now in his right hand, covered in blood.
He lunged at the two remaining knights.
The movement was fast, violent, savage. This was what Rodric was—a monster in a man's body. Cutting, stabbing, twisting, blood spraying in every direction. The green grass drank the dark red blood, and the beautiful quiet place turned into a killing ground.
When it was over, one of the knights was still alive, lying on his back, his blood flowing from a wound in his chest with every faltering breath. Rodric approached him slowly, the knife dangling from his hand, blood dripping from its edges.
He stopped beside him, then bent down. The knight closed his eyes, awaiting the end.
But Rodric did not stab him.
He set the knife aside and began searching the dying man's pockets. His blood-stained fingers pulled out a small pouch of silver. "I don't know what's so important about that child." His voice was calm, as if discussing the weather. "But I too have an important mission. I made a vow to myself not to waver in it, whatever the circumstances."
He raised the pouch before his eyes, shook it to hear the sound of the coins, then tied it to his belt. He stood, picked up his knife from the ground, and cast one last look at the three scattered corpses.
Rodric left the place. He was limping, dragging his right leg behind him with difficulty, blood covering his body and staining his torn clothes. In his hand, he carried a handful of blood-stained silver, the coins glinting through the red film whenever the sunlight passed over them.
As he left, Rodric said, "I need a damn horse."
Behind him, the clean place had become a bloody stage, and the wind carried the scent of death across the open plains.