Layla
In Sereine's chamber, Meriel was still standing in his place, frozen. His eyes were fixed on the bed—on the rumpled sheets, on the imprint of bodies that had been there moments before. His hands hung at his sides, fingers slightly curled, as though they had forgotten what they were supposed to hold. Questions poured through his mind—questions he had no answers for. They circled and collided, giving him no rest.
Layla stood there, watching him. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her shoulders drawn up. Her eyes carried disgust and denial, as they always did when she looked at him. She raised a finger toward Meriel, the gesture sharp as a blade.
She said, "What did you do?"
Meriel did not look at her. His voice was hollow. "I don't know."
Layla said, stepping closer, her voice rising, "Meriel—tell me, what happened here? Why are you in that girl's room?"
Meriel said, his eyes still fixed on the bed, "I wasn't here." He paused, his brow furrowing. "What—no. I was in my room, thinking about what's coming. I was holding a cup of wine. I think I dozed off, or something like that. And when I opened my eyes, I was here." He turned his hands over, staring at them as though they belonged to someone else. "What exactly I was doing, I don't know. Believe me, Layla."
Layla looked at him. Her jaw was tight. She said, "Don't come near me. Since her death, I couldn't figure out who you really are." She paused, her voice dropping. "Who are you really? Why did you do it? Why did you assault that poor girl?"
Meriel said, his voice cracking, "I'm telling you—I don't know what happened. Why do you keep blaming me for everything?"
Layla, shaking her head slowly, "I'm not blaming you, Meriel. I'm showing you that your actions will not pass." She took a step back, putting distance between them. "You have always been the noble one before the people. But I know you, Meriel. You are cruel. And that girl—what was her crime? Why did you do that to her?"
Meriel said, his voice rising now, his hands opening wide, "You're still blaming me? My sons are gone. My sons! You blamed me. when my brother died in front of me—his eyes were looking at me—you blamed me. And now I tell you this is not me, and you still find a way to blame me again, at the expense of a girl who means nothing to you or us."
Layla, her eyes narrowing, her voice cold and steady, "She is the girl who saved my life. When you were playing your foolish games, she saved a life—a life you had torn apart. And now you play the victim." She stepped forward again, her finger pointing at his chest. "Anyone with clear eyes would realize who the victim is here. And it is certainly not you. Why can't you see that too?"
Meriel looked at the ground. Something shifted in his expression—a thought forming. He looked at Layla and said, "I know she put something in my wine. She deceived me. And she deceived you." His voice hardened. "I will drive her out of here."
Layla said, her voice sharp as a whip, "You will do nothing. I will not let you destroy more lives." She moved to stand between him and the door, her body blocking his path. "That girl you ruined her life. A girl like her, in a place that shows no mercy, will die. And I will not let the women who saved me die." She paused, her breath coming hard. "And now listen to me—get out of my way and out of that girl's way. You have done enough damage to her."
Meriel said, his voice bitter, "You trust an outsider over your own brother?"
Layla said, her voice dropping to something almost like a plea, "Don't play the victim, Meriel. Don't. Please. Get out. Go to your war, or anything—just go."
Meriel walked out of the room. His steps were heavy, quickening with each stride. He went outside the palace and took a deep breath. The cold air hit his face, and he stood there for a moment, his chest rising and falling.
As for Layla, she remained there in the room. She turned toward the window and took a breath of her own. Beside her, on the windowsill, there was a seagull. It stood there, cleaning its wings with its beak, oblivious to everything.
Layla returned inside. She stopped for a moment. Then she began to smell that strange scent again—strange, but familiar.
Sereine
In the open garden, Eileen was beside Sereine. Sereine was beside a tree, vomiting. Her body convulsed with each heave, her hand pressed against the bark for support. Eileen looked around, then at Sereine.
Eileen said, "Was it that bad?"
Sereine said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her voice hoarse, "You know nothing about me. I'm not vomiting because I'm disgusted by what happened. I'm vomiting because I'm disgusted with myself."
Eileen said, reaching out a hand but not touching her, "Get up, girl. The act itself doesn't really matter, no matter how vile or low it is. If the world leaves us no choice, we leave ourselves no choice either."
Sereine said, turning away, "Just go. I need to be alone."
Eileen said, withdrawing her hand, "I'll go anyway. We shouldn't raise suspicion."
In the garden, Sereine sat looking at a tree in front of her. She clenched her fingers tightly, her nails digging into her palms. Layla came and stood beside her in silence. Sereine did not look at her. She kept looking at the tree.
Layla said, her voice quiet, "What are you thinking about?"
Sereine looked at Layla and said, "I'm thinking about where this will end."
Layla said, "Will you accept an apology from me? If yes, I'm ready to apologize to you all night."
Sereine said, "Does an apology fix anything? Does it restore? Does it heal?"
Layla said, "No."
Sereine said, nodding slowly, "Yes, And that is what I hate this world. It makes important things worthless and drags them toward nothingness."
Layla said, "Do you—"
Sereine said, cutting her off, "I don't want to talk about it."
Layla said, "Fine. I won't say anything about it. But I have a different question." She paused, her eyes fixed on Sereine's face. "That perfume you wear—where did you get it?"
Sereine said, her body stiffening slightly, "Why are you asking this now?"
Layla said, "It belonged to Meriel's wife. Her name was Maria. Where did you get it?"
Sereine said, "I'm stupid. I put it on while I was cleaning his room. I found it, and I liked it, and I said—why not put on a spray?"
Layla said, "But why does it smell stronger on Meriel's clothes than on yours?"
Sereine said, "I don't know. You should ask him."
Layla said, "I don't know either. But everything will become clear with time." She paused, her voice dropping. "I am grateful that you saved my life. But if you, in some way, planned this—I will bring you down. Despite everything, I will not let anyone take from me the last thing I have left of the world."
Sereine said, "Leave me. Please."
Layla left. She left Sereine sitting alone in her place throughout the night.
Seventeen Days Later
Izzadar: The War Council
Meriel
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Meriel stood as though he had been carved from the very stone of his kingdom. His shoulders were squared, his back straight, his hands resting at his sides with the stillness of a man who had made peace with what was coming.
Beside him stood William. He was more ready still. His iron cane was planted firmly before him, both hands resting on its head, his weight shifted slightly to favor his lame leg. His eyes were sharp, cutting through the dimness of the hall like shards of flint.
William turned to face Meriel. His gaze was level, unwavering. "Is the king ready?"
Meriel said, his chin lifting a fraction, "He is. And his men as well."
William said, nodding once, a curt, military gesture. "Good. Then let it begin. I set out first. With the ships."
Meriel said, stepping closer, his boots echoing on the stone floor. "Yes.And I march three days after you."
William said, his fingers tightening on the cane. "Yes. That is everything. We chose the long road—but the safe one."
Meriel said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "So, you're leaving now."
William said, " The ships are ready. The captains and the men as well."
Meriel paused. He looked at William—at the cane, at the leg, at the man who had become. "What about you, William?"
William smiled, "I think I am ready. What about you, Meriel?" He tilted his head slightly, a faint, dry smile touching his lips. "I think I heard that you fight with a hammer. But I see you training only with a sword."
Meriel said, his hand rising to touch the pommel of the sword at his hip. "Indeed. I was to the hammer. But in time of peace, my hand grew weaker. And age has no mercy on me." He paused, his fingers curling around the leather grip. "But no worry's. My skill with the sword is no less than with the hammer—perhaps faster."
William said, "Good." He straightened, his weight shifting back onto both feet. "But remember—patience is what will make us win. Not enthusiasm. Not strength. Not courage. Patience. And completing one another."
William In a calm tone, "If—"
Meriel interrupted, knowing what he was going to say, Meriel rejected that possibility. "We will win, and then we will meet as winners, with Robert's head in my hands."
William extended his hand in turn. His grip was firm, the grip of a man who had learned to hold on to what mattered. "Yes, you are right, We will meet. One way or another."
And while they stood there, in the warmth of that shared determination, the moment shattered.
A guard burst into the council. His voice was loud, broken, the voice of a man who had run too far and too fast. "They've breached the palace! They've breached the palace, Your Grace!"
Meriel turned sharply. His hand dropped to his sword. "Who breached the palace?"
The guard said, his chest heaving, his words tumbling over each other. "Thieves, my lord. But we caught them."
Meriel and William exchanged a look. Then they followed the guard.
When Meriel emerged into the outer courtyard of the palace, within the outer walls, the guards had surrounded a group of men. They stood in a tight cluster, their postures wary, their eyes darting. The torchlight caught their faces—hard faces, the faces of men who had done hard things. Men who looked upon the world as something to be taken, not earned.
Meriel advanced. His steps were measured, unhurried. He stopped before them.
"Who are you?"
One of them stepped forward. He was young—still a youth, really, with a face that had not yet settled into its final shape. His eyes, however, were old. They had seen things they should not have seen. He looked at Meriel without flinching.
"This is me, my king. I did what you commanded. I gathered the ten men." He gestured toward the group behind him. "They are thieves and rapists. And I would be grateful to be part of this war. It has always been my dream."
Meriel said, his head tilting slightly. "How did you do it? How did you convince them?"
Frank said, a flicker of something—pride, perhaps—crossing his face. "You told me to choose my words wisely, my king. So I chose them, Wisely."
Meriel said, turning to the guards, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Take the rest of the men to the cells."
Then he stepped closer to Frank. He drew his sword—slowly, deliberately—and the blade caught the torchlight. The young man did not flinch. He did not step back. He did not even blink.
Meriel said, his voice ringing across the courtyard. "I appoint you." A pause. "Leader of the men of Izzadar." A pause. "You will stand where the arrows fall first. You will speak, and a thousand throats will answer. You will walk, and men will follow — not because they must. Because they will." He stepped closer. "Brave...Fierce...Rise. You have succeeded."
Frank rose. He did not speak. He was stunned—frozen in place for a moment, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide. Then he straightened, and something hardened in his face. Something that had not been there before.
Behind them, William said, his voice quiet, "I will get some sleep until dawn. I do not think I will find much of it on the ship."
The hours passed. Meriel did not sleep. He sat in his chamber, staring at nothing, his mind turning over the coming war like a man turning a stone in his hands—examining every angle, every crack, every weakness.
William slept.
And when dawn came, William rose. He dressed. He prepared his cane. Then he went to stand before the mirror.
He stopped there.
He looked at himself—at the man in the glass, at the armor, at the iron cane. Then his eyes drifted down to his foot. The damaged one. It was trembling. A small, involuntary tremor that he could not control.
William closed his eyes. He breathed. Slowly, deeply, evenly. The tremor slowed. Then stopped.
He opened his eyes. He left the room.
He walked through the corridor, his cane tapping a steady rhythm on the stone. Meriel was already there, waiting at the palace exit. His guards stood around him like a wall of iron.
Meriel said, "Are you ready?"
William said, "Yes."
Then Meriel accompanied him to the western edge of the kingdom. They passed through the walls together. The sky was still dark, but it was lit by torches—dozens of them—carried by the soldiers of Ironfield. The ships waited beyond, dark shapes against the darker water.
The old captain came forward. He looked at William.
"Shall we go, My lord?"
William said, "Tell the men to board."
The captain shouted. His voice carried across the shore. The soldiers of Ironfield—eager, restless—climbed aboard the ships. Their boots thudded on the wooden decks. Their voices rose in a low murmur of anticipation.
William stood beside the ship. Meriel stood beside him.
Meriel said, "Then we meet in the dark lands."
William said, "I hope so." He paused, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Then he turned to Meriel, and there was something in his face that had not been there before—something open, something unguarded. "But if we do not—Meriel—if one of us is swallowed by the darkness, I want you to know: I see you as an honorable man. And it has been a pleasure to know you. After everything Gerald told me about you, I discovered he did not exaggerate. Not one word. He supported you."
He paused. His voice dropped lower.
"I never had a brother. Never had anyone. And you—you still have much. Believe me—when you set out, Meriel—say farewell to Layla. She is a woman who loves you. Who fears for you. Do not let foolish things repeat themselves. and one last thing: if I don't survive, tell Rob to be brave like his father once was."
Meriel looked at William. His expression did not change, but something shifted behind his eyes. He said, his voice low, "Gerald was right about you. You are worthy of trust, But you can tell Rob that yourself."
William With a final smile, "Now I must go—before the sun rises."
William
William climbed aboard the ship with difficulty. His lame leg made each step a small battle. But he did not stop. He did not ask for help. William said in a low voice, "I thought the sand was the worst."
On the flagship—the Ship of the Lame, as it was called—he stood at the bow. The old captain stood beside him. The ship pulled away from the shore, the ropes creaking, the sails filling with wind.
William looked at the captain. "Do you think the sea will stand on your side, Captain?"
The captain said, his eyes on the water, "It abandoned us long ago. But here I am—riding its waves again."
William said, "You did not answer my question. Has fear made you forget?"
The captain said, "No, my lord. But your question—only you can answer it."
William, "Well said."
The ships set out. Twenty-five of them. They moved through a great fog, the shore of the Rocks' Lands fading behind them. William emerged from the cabin, the captain beside him. The waves were violent. William walked with difficulty, his cane slipping on the wet deck. He grabbed the ship's rail to steady himself.
The captain said, "Are you sure, my lord?"
William With confidence, "Yes."
The captain said, "Passing there is difficult. And there are men of Marcus the Wretched."
William tries to balance on the ship, "Good. We pass through there still."
The captain said, "If you say so."
They continued through the oceanic plateaus, trying to avoid the rocks and the violent waves.
Marcus
In Salter, Marcus was in his chamber, sleeping. Until someone knocked on his door. One of the guards.
Marcus woke. He opened the door and looked at the guard. "Is there a reason you knock at this hour, guard?"
The guard looked at Marcus with tension. "There is, indeed, my lord. Ships—ships passed through the plateaus. Our men saw them."
Marcus looked at the ground. He laughed—a light laugh, the laugh of a man who had just found what he was looking for. "I want you to ring the war bells now. Let the sea hear that we are coming."
The guard went. The bell rang in the harbor. The ships were already ready—waiting. The men came out. The captains too.
Marcus, at that moment, headed to the harbor. He descended the stairs quickly, his boots striking the stone. He stopped beside one of the houses, watching his ships and his men.
He smiled. Then he descended the stairs to his ship and boarded. The captain was already there. Marcus stood before him. "Your face is clean."
The captain said, "I saw the Sea Sisters as I was commanded, I did not think the sea could fix everything. But it did, Now I am a believer."
Marcus said, "Good. Now let us see what it will do in our war. Are the ships ready?"
The captain said, "Yes, my lord. Fifty ships—all ready to control the sea again."
Marcus asks, "What about the other half? Is he ready too?"
The captain said, "Yes, my lord, they are just waiting for our ships to set sail."
Marcus said, "Good. Let's see how strong the walls of izzadar are, Now let's go after the enemy ships."
The captain said, "But, my lord—will we not wait for the blessing of the Sea Sisters?"
Marcus said, "Have you gone mad? This is war. We need only the blessing of our men. The sea will recognize its masters."
The captain said, "My lord, I wanted to ask you something."
Marcus said, "What?"
The captain said, "Why did the ships of Izzadar take the plateaus we control? Why the long detour?"
Marcus said, "Meriel is now a man driven by revenge. He thought by doing this he would avoid us. But when he reaches the big valley behind the walls of Thornholl, we will trap him there. And with our many ships against his crippled ones—it is better that he be a skilled swimmer."
Marcus looked at the captain, his eyes burning with excitement. "Come on, don't keep the ships waiting any longer."
And so the ships of Salter set out. Toward the war.