Izzadar
Two Days After the Ships Departed
In the Midnight, The city wore the darkness like a second skin. In the alleys, torches guttered in iron brackets, their flames bending to a wind that carried the smell of rain and rust and something older—fear, perhaps, or the memory of fear. Soldiers stood in their armor. Not the ceremonial armor of parades, but the working armor of men who expected to bleed. The leather was stained. The iron was dented. The straps had been tightened so many times that the holes were worn into ovals.
Some men bid farewell to their families. Their wives held their hands too long. Their children clung to their legs. Their mothers pressed dry kisses to their cheeks and whispered words that no one else could hear—words that had been whispered by mothers to sons since the first war, and would be whispered until the last.
Others had no one. They stood apart. They checked their swords. They checked them again. They stared at the walls of their homes as if memorizing them, as if the walls might change while they were gone, as if the walls might forget them.
No one sang. No one laughed. The only sounds were the soft clink of armor, the shuffle of boots on wet stone, and the low murmur of prayers that had no god to hear them.
Sereine
The Palace Kitchen
Eileen sat on a low chair near the fire. A basket of garlic rested in her lap—plump white heads, their papery skins already beginning to split. Her fingers worked methodically. Peel. Toss. Reach. Peel. Toss. Reach. The skins fell around her feet like small, discarded wings.
Her shoulders were hunched. Her eyes were tired. She was not that old—not truly—but the kitchen fire had carved lines into her face that the years had not yet earned. She had been beautiful once. She still was, in a way, if you looked past the weariness. But no one looked. The kitchen was not a place for looking.
Sereine sat beside her.
She was silent, as always. Her hands moved over a pile of carrots, the knife cutting in even, mechanical strokes. The orange discs piled up on the cutting board like small coins. Her face was pale. Not the pale of illness—though that too—but the pale of something deeper. The pale of a woman who had stopped eating. The pale of a woman who had stopped sleeping. The pale of a woman who was carrying something she had not yet named.
Eileen glanced at her. A long, searching look. She had been watching Sereine for days. She had seen the way her hands trembled when she thought no one was looking. She had seen the way she pressed her palm to her stomach when she thought the apron would hide it. She had seen the way she flinched at certain smells—meat, mostly, and the sharp tang of wine.
Eileen set the garlic down. She leaned closer, her voice low, meant only for the two of them.
"What is wrong with you? Are you all right?"
Sereine did not speak. The other servants were too close—within hearing, within watching. She only moved her head—a small, slow shake. But that did not extinguish the flame of worry in Eileen's chest. It only made it burn brighter.
Then Sereine stopped cutting.
Her hand went to her stomach. Her fingers splayed wide, pressing, as if she could hold something in. Then her body convulsed. She doubled over—and vomited onto the floor.
The sound was wet and violent. It cut through the kitchen noise like a knife through cloth.
Eileen was on her feet in an instant. Her hands found Sereine's shoulders, gripping them, holding her up while her body heaved and heaved again. The other servants stopped. Their hands froze mid-motion. Their eyes turned—quick, sharp, curious. Whispers passed between them. They did not bother to hide them.
Eileen looked up. Her voice cut through the murmuring like a blade.
"What are you doing standing there? Go back to your work. The king is waiting for his dinner."
They obeyed—slowly, reluctantly, their eyes lingering. But they obeyed. The kitchen resumed its rhythm. The knives resumed their cutting. The pots resumed their clanging. But the whispers did not stop. They only went underground.
Eileen pulled Sereine upright with difficulty. Her arms wrapped around her, supporting her weight. Sereine's body was light—too light—and it trembled against her.
"Go. Wash yourself. And rest. It seems you are carrying more than you can bear."
She leaned closer. Her lips brushed Sereine's ear. She whispered one word—a title, a revelation.
Sereine's face went white. Her hand flew to her stomach. Her fingers spread wide, pressing, as if she could feel what had just been named. As if she could feel the shape of it. As if she could feel the future pressing back.
Eileen pulled back. Her eyes were steady.
"Go now."
Sereine left. Her steps were uneven. She disappeared into the corridor, and her door closed behind her with a soft click.
Eileen stood alone in the kitchen for a moment. Then she knelt and wiped the floor with a rag. Her hands were shaking. She did not know why.
Meriel
The Dining Hall
After a few moments, dinner was served.
The long table was laid with silver and steam and the smell of roasted meat. Candles burned in tall iron holders, their flames steady in the still air. The hall was quiet—the kind of quiet that comes before words, the kind of quiet that has weight.
Meriel sat at the head.
His hand rested on the table, his fingers curled loosely. His eyes were fixed on the plate before him—on the meat, on the vegetables, on the small pool of sauce that had gathered at the edge. He had not touched it. He had not moved. He sat as still as a man who had forgotten how to be alive.
Layla sat across from him.
Her hands were in her lap. She looked at the plates as they were set down, one by one—the servants' hands moving in and out of her vision like birds. She said nothing. She did not eat. She did not reach for her wine.
The servants left. The door closed. The hall became still—the kind of stillness that comes before words.
Layla picked up her knife and fork. She cut a piece of meat. The blade pressed through the fibers with a soft, wet sound. She lifted it to her mouth and began to eat.
Meriel did the same.
Their utensils clicked against the plates in quiet rhythm. Click. Click. Click. It was the only sound in the hall. It was almost peaceful. It was almost normal.
Then Layla stopped. She set her knife down. She looked at Meriel.
"Are you really going?"
Meriel looked at her—calmly. He wiped his mouth with a cloth and set it aside.
"It is my war. If I do not go, who will?"
Layla said, her brow furrowing, "Aren't there two leaders to get this done?"
Meriel said, "That boy—yes. He is one of the leaders. But the army does not know them. They means nothing to them. I am the king. Have you forgotten?" He paused. His jaw tightened. "It is the only way I can avenge Gerald's death."
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Layla said, leaning forward slightly, her voice softer, " You are right. But let me go with you. He was my brother too."
Meriel said, shaking his head once, "Have you ever fought in a war before? No. Besides, if you go too—who will stay? Who will carry the hammer's banner?"
Layla said, her fingers tightening on the edge of the table, "Are you leaving tonight?"
Meriel said, his eyes dropping to his plate, "This is our last dinner."
Layla said, her voice catching, "Don't say that. As if you won't come back."
Meriel said, looking up at her, "That is not what I meant. But do not worry—I will win. And I will bring that wretch's head and place it here at our next dinner."
Layla looked at him quietly. Then she said, "I want to tell you something."
Meriel said, setting his hand flat on the table, "Tell me, then, sister."
Layla said, her eyes steady on his, "William. Do you trust him?"
Meriel said, his head tilting slightly, "Why? Do you have any doubts about him?"
Layla said, "He is far too kind."
Meriel said, his lips curving faintly, "And is that a bad thing? Do not worry, sister. His kindness seems logical—especially knowing that Gerald was the one who raised him from childhood."
Layla said, her voice careful, "Even so—I find him strange. I hope you win the war, and that my doubts are just justified worry."
Meriel said, "Do not worry. We will win."
He wiped his mouth and set the cloth aside. He looked at her.
"Will you forgive me, before I go to war—"
Layla said, cutting him off gently, "I am not the one who should forgive you. Besides, I no longer know who is right anymore."
Meriel said, leaning forward, his voice lower now, "I will go to war, and I do not want the curse of what I did to follow me. So I wrote a letter of apology. I know it is worthless—it will not erase my actions. But I believe I meant nothing by it. I had no ill intent. Just—give her this letter."
Layla said, taking the letter from his hand, "Fine. I will give it to her."
Meriel rose. His chair scraped against the stone. He stood still for a moment, looking at her.
"Well then—I have finished my dinner. I think it is time. I will set out."
Layla rose too. Her hands rested on the table. She said, "Win, brother."
Meriel said, his head tilting, "Do I have any other choice?"
He looked at her from across the length of the table—from the last chair to the first. His voice was quieter now.
"Wish me luck, sister."
Layla said, her voice firm, "I will."
Then he left. The door closed behind him. Layla stood alone in the hall.
She looked at the table—at the two plates, at the two chairs, at the letter in her hand. Then she sat back down. She did not eat. She did not cry. She simply sat, in the silence, in the candlelight, and waited for the sound of the front gate to tell her he was gone.
Sereine's Door
After dinner, Layla went to Sereine's room.
The corridor was dark. The torches had burned low, and the shadows had grown long. She knocked on the door—three soft knocks.
Sereine did not open it fully.
She stood at the gap—her body blocking the entrance, her face half-hidden in shadow. The light from the corridor fell on her in a thin strip, illuminating one eye, one cheek, one corner of her mouth. She did not let Layla in.
Layla held up the letter. She spoke through the narrow opening.
"How are you?"
Sereine did not answer.
Layla said, her hand still holding the letter, "In any case—I have something for you. Meriel gave me this. I do not know what is written in it, and I have no intention of knowing. But know this: whatever it says, I will make things right. I will find a compensation that suits you."
Sereine took the letter. Her fingers closed around it. She said, her voice flat, "Is that all?"
Layla was about to answer—but she stopped.
She smelled something.
Her head turned. Behind Sereine, inside the room, there was a bucket. And a smell—sharp, sour, the smell of vomit that had not been emptied. And beneath that, another smell—faint, but unmistakable. The smell of a body that was no longer only its own.
Layla looked at Sereine. Then at her stomach. Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened.
She said slowly, "Yes."
Sereine did not move. Her hand tightened on the letter. Her face was still half-hidden in shadow, but Layla could see the way her jaw tightened, the way her throat worked, the way her eyes—the one eye that was visible—went hard.
Layla said nothing more. She turned and walked back down the corridor. Her footsteps were slow. Her hands were cold.
Behind her, the door closed.
Rober/t
Valkryn: The Throne Hall
It was always cold. The marble floors held the chill of the mountains, and the high windows let in drafts that no fire could warm. The torches on the walls burned steadily, but their light was thin, and the shadows they cast were long.
Robert stood before the throne.
He did not sit. He had not sat since he entered. He paced slowly, his boots echoing on the marble—step. Step. Step. The sound was patient. The sound was inevitable.
Before him, on the throne, sat Kormel.
She had taken it three days ago. She had not wanted it. But Holland had insisted—the people needed a face, a symbol, someone to look to while the kingdom held its breath. And she was Allen's daughter. She was the last of the line. She was the only one left.
Beside her stood Holland.
His mask was in place. His hands were clasped before him. His eyes—the only part of him that was visible—were fixed on Robert.
Robert stopped. He looked up at Kormel.
"Do not expect that you will pledge the oath and this will pass without consequences."
Kormel said, her hands resting on the armrests, her chin lifted, "What oath? I promised you nothing. And I will not sacrifice the men of Valkryn for an unknown endeavor."
Robert said, stepping forward, his voice carrying, "I already told you—it is not an unknown endeavor. It is humanity's endeavor. Since their existence. As long as unification has been humanity's endeavor—it is unknown to you. Then you will be an enemy to me. And an enemy to humanity's dream. Sam understood that. And he agreed to the alliance."
Kormel said, her eyes narrowing, "And do you see Sam here? Only I and my shadow are here. We are not here to give promises to kings. We are here to fulfill promises we already gave to our people. I do not see how our people benefit from this war."
Robert said, his voice hard, "Is this your final decision?"
Holland turned to Kormel. He leaned closer, his voice low, meant only for her.
"We have already entered the war, Kormel. If we do not emerge as victors, we will lose regardless. Do you not see the street below? The people are rising against us. Victory will calm them, besides the fact that our kingdom's relationship with Thornholl has been one of unwavering commitment for decades, Our breach of the commitment that fool made, will cost us dearly."
Kormel said, her jaw tight, "But we still do not know why that fool agreed on this war. Nothing good will come from his decisions."
Holland said, his hand resting on the back of her throne, "The people love him. And until now, they do not know he is not here. Now—I do not think this works in our favor. We must distract them with something. And war is the right thing for that. Besides—a madman like him, I do not think he will miss the war. And there, perhaps, he will meet his death. And we will announce that he died in battle."
Kormel looked at Holland. Her brow furrowed. "Are you sure?"
Holland said, his voice honest, "No. But I believe madness has limits. And war is the limit for everything a man claims."
Kormel looked at Robert. She straightened on the throne. Her voice was steady.
"Fine, then. We will participate."
Robert said, his head tilting, a cold smile touching his lips, "Now you speak. And as a reward for your trust—I promise you a crushing victory and many spoils."
Kormel said, "And if we lose?"
Robert said, "I do not lose."
Kormel said, "Good. But you should know something. Our army will have two commanders. And they will be in the back row—behind your soldiers."
Robert said, his smile unchanged, "It does not matter. In war, whoever protects his back well wins."
Holland stepped forward and, raising his finger, asked Robert, "What made you abandon your kingdom? Do you know the consequences of your action?"
Robert smiled and said, " Since we became allies, I will tell you. anyone here familiar with history, battles and wars?"
Holland said, "I know most of them."
Robert said, "If you claim to know, you'll know that Thornholl, since its existence, has never won a single battle within its walls. And as someone who doesn't believe in tradition, I thought, Why not do something different this time?"
Holland raised his voice until his conviction moved. "What about your people?"
Robert asked calmly, "What about them?"
Holland, "what will that mean to them when their king abandons them?"
Robert. "The people will be grateful to me because I brought the first victory. I broke the curse."
Hollande said, "Do you think this will work?"
Robert said, "I'll make it work."
He stood there, smiling—a cold smile. Then he turned and walked toward the door. His boots echoed on the marble. The sound was patient. The sound was inevitable.
Kormel watched him go. Her hands were trembling. She did not know why.
Ben
In the guesthouse, the atmosphere was silent.
The little children had been put to bed. The wives had gathered in the main room, their hands folded, their eyes down. The reception worker stood by the door, his hands behind his back.
Ben was preparing.
He put on his war cloak—a dark, heavy thing that had been made for a larger man. It hung past his knees. He adjusted it, frowning. Then he placed a dagger at his hip. The dagger was small, but it was sharp, and it was his.
He had agreed to go to war. But Robert had promised him ten knights to accompany him, to protect him in battle, and to leave him the space to write history as it should be written. It was an arrangement that suited Ben. He had no intention of fighting. He had every intention of watching.
Ben stood in the reception hall before his family.
He bid farewell to his wives. One by one. He kissed their hands. He kissed their foreheads. He told them he would return. He told them he would bring stories. He told them he loved them—each one, by name, so that none would feel forgotten.
Then he bid farewell to his sons.
He clasped their hands. He looked into their eyes. He told them to be strong. He told them to listen to their mothers. He told them he was proud of them—each one, by name, so that none would feel forgotten.
Then he turned to the reception worker.
"Good luck," the man said.
Ben said, turning to him, "Thank you."
Then he looked at his family. He straightened his small shoulders. He drew himself up to his full height—which was not much, but it was all he had.
"Why so quiet? Is this my funeral, held early? Let me disappoint you. I will not die there. I will come back. I have a reason. This family. All of it. That is reason enough."
He paused. He looked at Harold.
" May I call you Silver Pen. There are things that might happen here that are perhaps more exciting than the war itself. Write about them. And when I return, you can show me. Until then, I'm counting on you to protect the family while I'm gone."
He looked at them all.
"Now I must go. I must find my ten men—or I will have to defend myself. Farewell."
Then he left.
The door closed behind him. The guesthouse was silent. His family stood where he had left them. No one moved. No one spoke.