Sereine
The servants walked in silence through the stillness of the palace, passing beneath the torches that lined the stone walls. Their shadows trailed behind them, long and bending, like dark companions reluctant to let go. The only sounds were the soft scuff of their slippers on the cold floor and the distant crackle of burning pitch.
Sereine followed them at a distance, her steps hesitant. She tried to close the gap, to reach the one she sought, but her hesitation stood between her and whatever had brought her here in the first place. It was a wall she could not climb, a weight she could not set down.
She continued to follow Eileen, who walked slowly, a few paces ahead. Sereine watched her—not as a servant watches a mistress, but as a drowning woman watches a rope. Eileen was her choice. Her only choice.
Suddenly, Eileen stopped. She turned, her robes swirling around her ankles, and fixed her eyes on Sereine.
"What do you want, girl? Why are you following me?"
Sereine stood there. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. She was mute, before anything else. But there was something greater than her muteness that held her back—something heavier, something that had no name.
Eileen's gaze did not waver. "Speak. I know you can talk—unless I am blind."
Sereine said nothing. Her hands clenched at her sides, then released.
Eileen sighed. "What? Not here? Fine. Keep following me. I will pretend I don't see you."
She turned and walked on, her steps measured, unhurried. Sereine followed, her heart pounding in her throat.
Eileen walked through the corridor until she reached her chamber. She pushed the door open and left it ajar, the gap like an unspoken invitation.
Sereine stood just behind her, before the open door. She had no choice but to enter. She stepped inside, leaving her honor behind her on the threshold. She closed the door quietly, then looked at Eileen, who had settled into a chair by the window. The evening light fell across her face, softening the lines of age and sorrow.
Eileen said, " Wine? Perhaps it will free your voice."
Sereine said, " there is no need, I will speak."
Eileen's eyebrow rose slightly. "Speak up then, tell me what you have to say. Why are you following an old woman like me? What do you want from me?"
Sereine looked around the room. Her eyes moved over the tapestries, the carved wood, the small bed in the corner. She walked slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of a table, then turned back to Eileen.
"How did you know I was pretending to be mute?"
Eileen said, "Have you ever seen one? One who can't speak?."
Sereine said, "No."
Eileen said, "That explains much. A mute — you can tell from the eyes. He is lost. He has no will to speak. But you — when I look into your eyes, I see words swimming there. Then, after a moment, they drown. You have a desire to speak. A mute finds that exhausting."
Sereine said, "How do you know?"
Eileen said, "My son was mute. he is dead now. He will be waiting for me somewhere. so that we may finally speak."
Sereine said, "I'm sorry."
Eileen said, "Save your sorrow for something else. Tell me why you are following me. What do you want?"
Sereine said, "I heard everything in the garden. Everything about your past. About that thing that blinds men."
Eileen smiled. A faint, knowing smile. "Blinds whom? Who do you want to blind, girl? I think the man who has not seen your beauty is already blind."
Sereine said, "Can you help me get that medicine?"
Eileen said, "It is poison, not medicine. But why do you need it? From what I know, you are an outsider. You have no one."
Sereine said, "About your past—I want to know one thing. What caused your fall?"
Eileen's smile faded. She looked at the floor, her tired eyes growing distant. She whispered in a quiet voice, "Because I was a woman playing in the field of men. And when we lose the battle, everyone looks for someone to blame. That one was me."
Sereine said, "What do you think about returning to the battlefield? But this time will be a woman's battle—a women's war."
Eileen said, "What do you mean? What battle will you fight other than your battle with laundry?"
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Sereine said, "The battle for the throne."
Eileen looked at her for a long moment. "throne! Who are you, girl? And what do you mean by saying 'the throne'?"
Sereine said, "I am just someone the sea brought to an unknown fate in an unknown place. I used to live elsewhere. It was not different from this palace—but not in the servants' quarters. In the princesses' quarters."
Eileen said, "You say you're a princess. So, what does that make me? A queen?”
Sereine said, "I will tell you who I am. But you must put your faith in a woman like me. perhaps you will return to your true place."
Eileen looked at the ground, her tired eyes lowering. She whispered in a quiet voice, "A mute servant playing this game? There must be a reason for that."
She raised her head. "Who are you, speak?"
Sereine said, "Swear you will say nothing."
Eileen said, "I am no longer in a place that allows me to say something. anything...I have no loyalty to anyone. I shall put my trust in you. Your voice has become clear. You are indeed what you claim. I promise you I will say nothing. I will become mute too."
Sereine said, "Good. Let us then speak in your field. My real name is Sereine. That is my name. Not Klara. I am not a servant. I am a princess—the second heir to the kingdom of Salter. I am the sister of Marcus, King of the Six Seas."
Eileen said, "You tell me you're the sister of the King of the Six Seas, but what are you doing here?"
Sereine said, " Will you help me? Will you risk your life?"
Eileen said, "I will. I have nothing to lose. The fall was hard. I cannot imagine anything harder than it. Death is not but a reunion between me and my son in a place where I can hear his voice."
Sereine said, "Good. Now you will help me with one things. First, you will bring me that poison."
Eileen said, "Who is the poor man?"
Sereine said, "Don't worry about that, just focus on the poison."
Eileen said, "Is this your goal?"
Eileen said, "Wait. And what will you do?"
Sereine said, "I will convince myself."
Then she left, heading toward her room.
The Watchers
In Ironfield, war was not everything. It was only a part of it. The true war was the daily bread.
In the mines—the source of Ironfield's wealth, its pride, its symbol. The mines where men descended into the earth and did not always return. The mines whose ore fed the forges, whose forges fed the armies, whose armies fed the kingdom.
But the mines were not Ironfield's only symbol. Religion was also a symbol. And it was the Eyes of God.
There, inside the great temple of the Watchers of the Earth, was a vast temple of iron painted with gold. The iron walls rose high—their surfaces hammered smooth, then gilded until they gleamed like amber beneath the torchlight. The ceiling arched above like the ribcage of some great beast, and at its apex was a large window—round, unblinking—cut in the shape of one great eye. Through it, sunlight entered and fell in a single column upon the great Offering Table below. The table was long, iron, its surface worn smooth by centuries of hands placing offerings upon it—coins, tools, small carvings, letters, the things of the common people—each placed with a prayer, each whispered into the silence.
The Eyes of God was the religion of the Lands of the Rocks for centuries. But Salter was an exception. It was a new kingdom—just a land rich in resources and people who had dedicated their lives to the sea and its riches. And one of them was an orphan boy who was a trader in the Free Sea. He bought and sold, but he had a dream. With him, the kingdom rose in a short period from the ruins of a dead kingdom to one of the strongest kingdoms in the Lands of the Rocks.
But this young man did not attribute this rise to himself. He attributed it to the sea. Because it was like a miracle, and they believed that the sea was the one who performed the miracle. So they took it as a spiritual path.
But in the rest of the kingdoms of the Lands of the Rocks, the old religion was the foundation. And the temple servants were called the Watchers.
In Ironfield, their role was oversight and mediation. And one of their oversight duties was to watch over the throne.
In the Hall of Kings, the air was cold—not the cold of winter, but the cold of stone that has never known warmth. The hall was vast. Its walls were lined with the tombs of kings—iron sarcophagi, each carved with the face of the ruler within, each bearing the burning helmet of Ironfield upon its lid. Torches burned in iron sconces along the walls, their flames steady and still, as if the hall itself refused to let them flicker.
The two Watchers stood before Gerald's tomb. Their eyes were closed. Their hands were clasped before them—fingers interlaced, knuckles resting against their chests. Their robes were simple—grey, rough-spun wool, without ornament or color. On their shoulders, the eye of God was embroidered in faded gold thread.
They stood in silence. Their breathing was slow—measured, deliberate. The kind of breathing that comes from years of practice, from years of standing before tombs and altars and the dead.
One of them broke the silence. His voice was soft—not a whisper, but close. The voice of a man who had learned to speak in sacred places. "It is sad," he said. His head tilted slightly—his eyes still closed. "How the good always go first."
The other turned his head—slowly, his eyes still closed. His lips moved, but his face remained still. "It does not matter who goes first. It is not a race. Everyone has an arrival time." He paused. His hands tightened once—just once—then loosened. "But the journey is long. And full of desires and temptations. Few of us keep a clear path."
The first Watcher opened his eyes. He looked at Gerald's tomb—at the carved face upon the lid. Then his eyes closed again. "What do you think of this so-called William?" He paused. His brow furrowed—just slightly. "He proved that Gerald appointed him as his successor. But what is he doing now?" His voice hardened. "He is dragging us into war under the pretext of revenge. Is this what God wants?"
The other Watcher shook his head slowly—left, right, left. His eyes remained closed.
"I spoke to him about that before." His voice was calm—level. "Do you know what he said?"
The first Watcher waited. His hands shifted—unclasping, then reclasping. "He said: 'How can we act with disregard while the body of the one who led us with sincerity has his grave and funeral desecrated?'"
The second Watcher paused. His head tilted—as if listening to something beyond the stone walls. "He said this is not about revenge." His voice dropped. "But about setting things right. It is a debt—not upon him, but upon the kingdom of Ironfield." He opened his eyes. He looked at Gerald's tomb—at the iron, at the carved face, at the dust that had settled in the crevices.
"I saw that his words carried enough of the pain of reality." He paused. His jaw tightened. "And sometimes in our journey, we must take the dark path—and hope that God will understand."
The other said, his voice quiet, "We will hope."
After their visit to Gerald's tomb, they left. Each holding the other's hand—fingers interlaced. Their eyes were closed. They walked with slow, measured steps—their free hands extended before them, touching the walls, the tombs, the edges of the hall.
As the faithful must do—trust and faith are everything.
But faith in reality tells us that nothing exists without something.