Kormel
The throne hall of Valkryn was suffocating. Its high stone walls, adorned with faded banners, bounced breaths and voices back until they merged into one continuous noise. Narrow windows let in columns of dusty daylight, revealing thousands of particles suspended above the crowd.
They were hemmed in by rows of guards—heavy shields, raised spears, eyes empty of expression. But their voices did not quiet. Each one wanted to be heard. Each one wanted to speak of the fear creeping into their bones in these moments of war.
Not everyone was allowed to enter.
Only those whose suffering was visible—backs bent under loss, faces cracked by harsh days—entered, standing in a restless crowd, pushing toward the throne.
And upon that raised stone throne sat Kormel.
Her back was straight as a knife's edge. Her eyes never stopped moving—face to face, hand to mouth, reading the crowd like a ledger. Her fingers clenched and relaxed on the armrests—clench, release, clench, release. She was trying to hear them all at once while they blurred into one—the same words, the same faces, the same despair.
One stepped forward.
A farmer. His trousers were stained with mud to the knees. His hands were cracked like dry ground. He walked hunched—not from age, but from a life spent close to the soil. He stopped where the guard indicated and raised his eyes to her. His fingers twisted together before him—nervous, restless.
Kormel leaned forward. Her shoulders shifted. "Say what you came to say. I am listening."
He took another step. The guard's spear rose—the tip catching the torchlight. He stopped. Looked at the spear. Then back at her. His throat moved as he swallowed.
"I am an ordinary man." His voice was rough. His hand rose and wiped his mouth. "I eat what I make. I wear what I make. I am not a great farmer or merchant. Just a man with some sheep and a small piece of land." He swallowed again. His fingers tightened at his sides. "I live outside these walls. I do not care what happens inside them."
He raised a finger, pointing at her—the finger trembling. "But you must care about outside the walls. I am also one of Valkryn's people. I was born here. Raised here. I intend to die here."
"Keep it short," the guard cut in, stepping forward, his hand tightening on the spear. "You are not the only one with demands."
The farmer did not turn. His eyes stayed on Kormel. His jaw tightened. "These soldiers—I have never seen them before. Yesterday they sneaked into my place." He paused. His voice dropped. His hand fell to his side. "And stole one of my sheep."
Kormel's grip loosened on the armrest. Her fingers spread flat against the stone.
"Perhaps that means nothing to you." His voice cracked. His eyes glistened. "But it is life and death to me."
Kormel shifted in her seat. Discomfort crossed her features—her brow furrowed, her lips pressed thin—but her voice held steady. "I am sorry. But sorrow will not bring back your sheep." She paused. Her hand rose and gestured once—a small, tired wave. "I will make sure you do not lose more. I have formed the People's Unit. It will patrol inside and outside the walls. Order will return. Thornholl's soldiers will be brought under control." She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "We only ask for patience. We are at war. War requires sacrifices."
The farmer shook his head—left, right, left. His lips trembled. His hands balled into fists at his sides. The guards pushed him back—their palms against his shoulders. He resisted. His feet dug into the stone. His final cry tore through the hall as they dragged him away:
"I am fighting my own war too! Where is the king? I want to see the king!"
His voice lingered after the crowd swallowed him.
Kormel said without turning, her hand rising to signal the next: "Next."
A woman stepped forward. She walked with confident strides—head raised, shoulders back. She stopped before the throne. Her hands were clasped before her—but loosely, as if she refused to appear nervous.
"This is no request or reproach." Her voice was clear, defiant. Her chin lifted. "It is a question." She paused. Her eyes fixed on Kormel's face. "Where is King Sam?"
"Sam is attending to other matters." Kormel's reply came quickly. Her hand waved once—dismissive. "I am here to hear you."
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The woman studied her—long, slow. Her head tilted. Her eyes narrowed. Then: "If that is true, I will tell you my problem. I hope you understand—not judge."
She raised her chin. Her hands unclasped and fell to her sides. "I own a pleasure house. I will not be ashamed to say it. Nor will I lower my head." She stepped forward. The guard did not stop her. "Thornholl's men are human beasts. There must be order. They cannot do as they please. My women can no longer bear the abuse."
Kormel met her eyes without blinking. Her hand returned to the armrest. "I will not base my position on prior judgment because of your identity. Everyone does what helps them survive." Her right hand clenched slowly on the stone. "As regent, I must protect the interests of Valkryn's people—whatever their kind. I will assign special guards to places like yours."
She paused. Her voice dropped. She leaned forward slightly. "And do not worry. Soon those men will leave. They are here for war—not residence. Only days."
The woman looked at her. Her head bowed—slightly, deliberately. "Thank you, my lady."
She turned and was swallowed by the crowd.
Kormel was preparing for the next when movement caught her eye. Her head turned—just a fraction.
Holland.
The masked one. He walked slowly—cautious, like a man crossing a rope bridge over an abyss. His dark cloak covered half his face. His eyes carried a heavy anxiety—darting left, right, left. His hand gripped his cane tightly.
He reached the throne. Stopped beside her. Stood. His free hand hung at his side—still.
Kormel did not turn her head fully. Her eyes moved to him from the corner. "What are you doing here? I thought you said this wasn't your place."
"I still believe that." His voice was low. His hand tightened on the cane—knuckles paling. "But what kind of man abandons his niece in such a time?" He turned to look at her. "It is my responsibility. Even if I cannot sit on this throne—I will stand beside it. Beside you."
"Are you sure, Uncle?"
"It doesn't matter." He shook his head slowly. His shoulders dropped. "I dragged you into this. I crawled out of the ashes and overthrew your brother's rule—only to hide and throw the burden on you." His hand gripped the cane harder. "What an uncle I am."
Kormel looked at him for a long moment. Her fingers, resting on the armrest, stilled. Something softened in her eyes—just for an instant.
"But here you are. Not hiding." She turned back to the crowd. Her hand rose. "Next."
Zohra
The old wooden cart creaked across the dry earth beyond the wall. Zohra held the reins with steady hands—her fingers wrapped tight around the leather. Her eyes scanned the horizon—left, right, left.
Beside her, Edd lay unconscious. His head swayed with every jolt. His lips moved—fragmented words about blood, about skulls, about things only he could see. His hands twitched against his chest.
Behind them, the wounded Valbmor sat wrapped in blood-stained cloth. His eyes were half-closed—conscious enough to suffer in silence. His hand pressed weakly against his wound.
And at the back, Robert's children walked.
Five boys. Small feet dragging. Samuel led them—slightly faster steps, his shoulders squared. The others—Brandon, Cyril, Julius, Gary—dragged behind, faces pale, clothes stained. Their arms hung limp at their sides.
Brandon grabbed Samuel's shoulder. His fingers dug in. "Tell her we're tired."
Samuel looked at his brother. Then at the others. Then walked to the cart. His steps were heavy.
"We're tired." His voice was weak. He leaned against the cart's edge. "We want to rest."
Zohra did not turn. Her hands tightened on the reins. "Stopping beside the wall isn't wise. But I'll find a place nearby." She paused. Her eyes moved to him briefly. "Do you know where we are? This is your world."
"Our world isn't like this." Samuel said. His hand dropped from the cart. "Our world is dark. Even there, we know nothing. We barely leave the palace."
"Keep walking."
Zohra urged the horse forward. Her eyes moved ceaselessly—searching for shelter.
After minutes, Valbmor returned to her. His steps were slow. His hand still pressed to his wound.
"Why did our father send us here?" His voice carried confusion. His brow furrowed. "Does he hate us now?"
"You are here not because of your father." Zohra's eyes moved to Edd. Her jaw tightened. "But because of him."
"What do you mean?" Valbmor's hand fell from his wound. He stepped closer.
"Your father is one of us. One who changes faces. That's why you see him in your father's form." She paused. Her fingers flexed on the reins. "They are the Faceless. Your father most likely died. Blood is essential in the replacement."
"I don't believe you." Valbmor shook his head violently—his whole body swaying. "My father did not die. He is the one who sent us."
Zohra turned for a moment. Her gaze moved to the boys at the back. "Are those all your siblings? All males?"
"Yes." Valbmor said. His hands clenched at his sides. "I still have two other brothers—Fred and Robert. And Sara."
"Sara?" Zohra raised an eyebrow. Her head tilted. "Female?"
"Yes. The only one. I wonder where she is." His voice dropped.
Zohra glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Then returned to the road. Suddenly, she raised her hand. Pointed ahead. Her arm was steady.
"I see a house."
"Can we rest there?" Valbmor asked. He stepped forward.
"We'll see. If there's no human inside—we'll try."
They reached the house. Doors and windows wide open—swaying with the wind. Small. Wooden. Paint peeling. Roof tilting like a tired man.
Zohra stopped the cart. Her hand pulled back on the reins. She turned to the boys. "Stay here. Watch the cart."
She dismounted slowly. Her hand moved to the knife at her waist—fingers wrapping around the hilt. She stepped toward the open door. Her steps were slow—deliberate.
Inside—chaotic. Overturned chairs. A broken table. Pots scattered. But strangely—no one. Neither living nor dead.
She came out. Her hand rose and gestured.
They entered.
They tidied the place as best they could. Returned chairs—hands gripping the wood. Gathered pots—fingers scraping the floor. Threw debris into a corner. Then sat. Their bodies dropped heavily.
Zohra sat by the window—her eyes on the road behind them. Her back pressed against the wall. Edd lay in a corner—murmurs faded to whispers. His fingers still twitching. Valbmor leaned against the wall, pressing his wound—his jaw tight.
The boys huddled together. Their arms wrapped around their knees. Their eyes heavy with exhaustion.
They had made the place theirs—at least for one night.