Outside the banks of the River Mazz, far from the inhabited lands where roads grew sparse and human voices faded, there stood a solitary farmhouse amid the silence, surrounded by tall grass and wooden pens weary from years of use.
Before it stood a stranger. He wore a long cloak that covered his head carefully, so that his face remained half-hidden beneath the shadows. He stood quietly, feeding one of the small lambs, patting its head with gentle fingers. Until the wooden door of the house opened with slight violence.
An old man came out, his face weathered by sun and long labor, gripping a wooden cane worn thin from frequent use. He stepped forward cautiously and said in a rough voice, "Who are you, stranger?"
The man turned slowly. He looked first at the cane, then at the old man, and said with light mockery, "A wooden cane. Really."
The farmer's face darkened further. He tightened his grip on the cane. "Speak, stranger. Who are you?"
The man stepped closer, his voice growing quieter. "Have you seen a human child in these parts?"
The old man furrowed his brows in bewilderment. "A human child? Is that the best you have?"
The stranger said directly, "He has a strange black birthmark on his neck."
The old man paused for a second, then said quickly, "I have seen no child with such markings. I am far from the path of men, and farther from the path of children. Only me and my sheep."
The stranger raised his eyes toward the sheep, which were eating quietly. Then he said in a strange voice, cold in an uncomfortable way, "Soon enough you'll be alone on this farm. It seems your sheep were swallowed by the darkness."
Then he turned and left.
The old man raised his voice behind him. "Who are you?"
The stranger did not look back. He only waved his hand in the air and said, "Count me as one of you."
The man shouted in anger and confusion, "What is that supposed to mean?"
But the stranger did not answer. He continued on his way, searching for the child that someone else was searching for.
Inside the silent palace of Izzadar, King Meriel sat in the palace library. The place was steeped in the scent of old paper and heavy wood. Before a long table, military manuscripts were stacked—maps, defensive plans, old names of wars whose warriors had long since died. But Meriel's eyes were not truly reading. He was searching for something else. A solution. Hope. Anything that might bring his sons back.
A guard entered and bowed at once. "My king, one of Valkryn's falcons landed here carrying a letter.
Meriel raised his head slowly, weariness clear in his eyes. "Give it to me."
The guard approached, placed the letter in his hand, and left in silence. Meriel opened the letter quickly and began to read. But he did not finish the first line. Condolences from Sam. His features hardened. His hand clenched around the paper until it crumpled. Then he said in a low voice, full of certainty, "My children are alive. Both of them. And I will find them, even if it means uniting the kingdoms and entering into endless wars."
Outside the palace walls, Gerald was leaving, accompanied by William the Lame. William, with his usual iron cane, struggled with difficulty to mount his horse, muttering faint, irritated words whenever he missed his footing.
Far away, in the largest of the kingdoms and the darkest, a place not even the eyes of the gods watch, lay the kingdom of Thornholl—the kingdom of the blind King Robert Thorn. The man who had lived his entire life without sight, yet had fathered many children so that he might see the world through them. Nine children. And three wives. He loved them all and divided his love among them justly—or so he believed.
Inside his chamber, the king lay upon his bed, his eyes covered with black cloth for months, clinging to a single hope: that one day he would remove the cloth and see again. His daughter Sara Holl entered as she did every day, carrying the remedy—the treatment that Robert clung to as a drowning man clings to driftwood. He knew her at once from the fall of her footsteps and from her usual silence.
"Come closer. Did you bring the remedy?" he said in a quiet voice.
"Yes, Father. I did," Sara said. She approached and placed the remedy into his drink. But when Robert took her hand, he paused. He smiled a small smile. "You are trembling. Why?"
She did not answer. She only handed him the drink and turned to leave.
Outside, three children were waiting for her. Samuel Thorns, Brandon Thorns, and Fred Thorns—the king's eldest sons.
Fred looked at her with a malicious smile. He placed his cane upon her shoulder and said, "You are following your mother's steps. Do you know that she used to sneak around like that—that whore? She sneaked into the men's rooms and she gave birth to you in that way. That is why they call you the King's Sin."
Sara was small, but her eyes blazed with anger. Without hesitation, she snatched his cane and pushed his foot hard. Fred fell down the stairs, tumbling to the bottom. He shouted in anger, then raised his head toward his brothers. "Seize that little whore!"
But Sara was faster. She outran them and climbed upward, but they pursued her until they cornered her inside one of the chambers. The brothers seized her. Fred bent down and picked up a knife near the hearth. He gripped her neck cruelly and carved a small triangle.
"From today, your name shall be: the keep Whore," he said with a light laugh.
Sara ran, weeping, tears mingling with pain. She descended the stairs quickly, passing before the king's chamber.
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Inside the chamber, Robert sat. Beside him, Elia was dictating a letter to King Meriel—a letter bearing apology and consolation. He had realized that he had been harsh to a father who had lost his son. And though he was convinced he had not been wrong, he did not hesitate to apologize. He handed the letter to Elia and said, "See to it."
Elia left the room, but her first concern wasn't ensuring the message was delivered. Her focus was different. She set the paper aside and followed the scent of fear and defeat—something not strange, rather familiar.
In one of Thornholl's dark corridors, the air was cold and stagnant. The stone walls seeped ancient moisture, and from somewhere far away came the sound of dripping water—regular, like a pulse that would not die.
Sara sat, holding her knees and pulling them to her chest. Her head sank between them. On her neck, the triangle scar still bled, a thin red thread sliding slowly toward her collarbone. She wept silently—no sobs, no sounds, only a trembling in her shoulders. Her face was hidden, her whole body curled in on itself as if she were trying to disappear.
Then she felt fingers touching her neck.
She did not know where they came from. She heard no footsteps, only a touch—cold, on the scar itself. She raised her head quickly, fear filling her eyes, and looked up.
There, in the darkness, stood Elia.
She was standing, smiling, sucking her finger slowly.
Sara looked at the finger. It was covered with her blood.
Elia was sucking her blood.
Sara was confused. She breathed rapidly and said, "Why did you do that?"
Elia lowered her finger and said, "You have so much pain. Sharing a drop of it with someone... it will make the pain less."
Sara did not understand. Why would someone suck her blood to feel with her? She stared at Elia's fingers, at her lips, at the blood that had already disappeared.
Elia stood there, looking at Sara. She did not come closer.
"Do you feel anger?" Elia asked.
"A little," said Sara.
"What does anger feel like from the inside? I can only see it on your face. but no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I can't understand what's happening inside."
"Why do you not feel anger sometimes?"
Elia moved her head slowly, as if considering the question.
Sara said, "It is not a feeling. I think it is a desire. Unattainable."
"What is your desire?"
"I want them all to die. I do not know how, or when. Just... die, especially my father. he's the reason I became an outsider."
Elia approached quietly. Her steps were light, soundless. She stood before Sara and extended her finger, placing it gently on Sara's head, on her hair.
"Even if they die, they will not die here," she said. "You will spend your whole life thinking, and hurting, and wanting. In this case, no one will die except you."
"Then what do I do? I do not like them. I do not like this place."
"Leave. Simply. And forget everything. That is the only way they die—that they have no part in your life, your new one."
"I have never thought of leaving. The outside is dangerous. And dark."
"There is not only Thornholl. There are other kingdoms, where light overcomes darkness, and where your fears will disappear."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you shared your pain with me, I shared a solution to your problem that will make the pain go away from both of us."
Sara rose slowly. Her knees trembled. She looked at Elia, at her calm face, at her eyes.
"Thank you," she said.
Then she ran. Her small footsteps quickened down the corridor. She moved away, her sound echoing—bare feet on cold stone.
Elia remained standing. She watched the darkness that swallowed her. Then she extended her finger and looked at it. It still bore a faint trace of blood. She smiled and walked in the opposite direction.
Morning came, but even the morning here was black—so much so that the darkness of the sky was reflected in the eyes of the gods themselves, making them darker and more watchful.
That morning, King Robert descended to the dining hall, feeling the familiar stairs and stepping with accustomed caution. At the long table, his nine children had arrived before him, sitting in their places, waiting for their father without their mothers, as usual.
Robert entered and sat in his place. Then he said quietly, "Eat."
The children began to eat. As for him, he did not touch the food. He only sat, silent, listening. The sound of spoons. The scraping of plates. The small laughs. The sounds of chewing. All of it was enough for him. That was his world—the world he had grown accustomed to seeing without eyes.
But this day was different. When it ended, he rose with unusual speed and climbed the stairs with evident excitement, feeling the walls with his hand as though bidding them farewell. As though his steps were saying: This is the last time I will feel for you. The last time I will need you. This is the day—the day he would see.
He entered his chamber and sat waiting, his heart full of fearful hope.
Then Sara entered, sneaking in as usual. He smiled at once and said, laughing, "There will be no sense in sneaking in the future, because I will be able to see you while you are doing it."
Sara approached. In her hand, the drink. But her fingers were more steadfast than usual. She placed the remedy inside it, then extended the cup to him.
He took it from her. And before he drank, he said, "Do not leave. I want you to be the first thing my eyes see."
Sara stopped. She stood in her place, silent.
Robert drank. Then he raised his hand toward the black cloth and began to remove it slowly, inch by inch, until it finally fell.
His eyes remained closed for a moment. Then he tried to open them, slowly.
At first, he saw only mist—faint shapes, intermingling colors. Then everything began to clear, little by little, until before him appeared the features of his daughter.
Sara.
He raised his trembling hand and touched her face, as though memorizing it for the first time.
But Sara carried no love, no joy, not even tears. She carried a knife and one bloody smile.
The knife was hidden behind her back. And in one moment, she lunged at him, plunging the knife into his neck with all her strength.
Robert's eyes widened. He fell backward onto the bed. Blood began to pour warm, so profusely that the king exhaled his last breath.
As for Sara, she dipped her finger in his blood and sucked it while covering his eyes with her other hand.
in the end, Robert had waited to see the world...But he saw his end.
Hours passed without screaming, without weeping, without chaos. The palace remained quiet, as it had always been.
And in the evening, the nine children gathered around the dinner table, waiting, as was their custom. But this time, the absent one was not only the king, but even Sara. Nevertheless, they did not care much. Their entire concern was for King Robert. He was late, more than usual.
Until the children began to eat in silence, so that he would not hear them.
Then the door opened.
Robert entered, standing, in good health no blood, no stab wounds, he was healed, as if he had been reborn.
Everyone stopped. Spoons froze.
He said quietly, "Eating in silence will not help you. I can see now."
The children exchanged shocked glances. This was a secret they had never thought their father would achieve. Robert approached and sat beneath their astonished stares. Then he said with complete coldness, "Eat. The food will get cold."
Twelve days earlier, on the opposite side of the Wall, beyond the Forbidden Wood, outside the kingdom of Merleith, one of the Normens lay upon the grass wearing a long cloak. His hands were behind his head, looking toward the sky, counting the eyes of the gods. One, two, three... Then he stopped.
One of the eyes moved.
Something unnatural. Blackness began to gather inside it, as though it were about to burst. Then suddenly, a thick blackness emerged from it and fell toward the ground.
The Normen rose at once, curiosity filling him, and ran after it. Until he reached it. But what he saw made him freeze.
One of his own kind had exploded. He hid quickly and began to watch.
Then he saw a small child passing by him, heading toward Lake Elindor.
But his attention was not on the child. Rather, on the shadow—that black thing. It was approaching another child. Then it touched him and disappeared.
But when the child ran, the Normen noticed something strange. His shadow was moving in an unnatural way.
There, he understood the truth. That creature had not disappeared. Rather, it had become part of the child.